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Message-ID: <37509asstr$1027545010@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: profnjax@aol.comnocrap (Profnjax)
Subject: {ASSM} Life in the Yard, Part 2 (MFmf/F/Dogs, Rape, Humil, Satire)
Date: Wed, 24 Jul 2002 17:10:10 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE:  Please accept my apology and pleas note.   I posted
what was actually Part 3 of Life in the Yard mislabeled in the subject line as
Part 2.  As you can see below, this is actually Part 2, correctly labeled as
such in the subject line of this post.  I also posted a Part 3 correctly
labeled as such in the subject line.  So altogether, there have been two
postings of Part 2 and two postings of Part 3, one correctly and incorrectly
labeled for each in the subject lines.  Regardless of the subject lines, all
four Parts are correctly identified by number in headings when you open the
parts, as you can see below. Again, I apologize for the slip ups in Parts 2 and
3 of the story and any confusion they may cause.  It is important to read the
Parts in the sequence they were written to understand the story.  It is a
stream-of-consciousness story in which the Parts were not intended to stand on
their own. 

<moderator's note: I think we caught the misposted part 2 and 3>

Life in the Yard
(MFmf/F/Dogs, Rape, Humil, Satire)
by Chris

Part 2

Well, here I am again.  Lizzie, remember me?  Back in from the yard.  Been
through some real life experiences out there that you wouldn't believe, believe
me.  

Does that make sense?  Well, give me a moment here to get readjusted.  

Let me just see where I left off before.  Oh yeah.  I was talking about
learning new stuff.  How, overall, that's what this story's about in the most
positive sense.

And it is.  That's true.  Got lots more stuff I've learned to tell you about
too.  But I don't want to get ahead of myself here.  

Talking about the positive value of new learning, doesn't mean that everything
was just hunky dory when I got to be a dog.  Life always has its challenges. 
So, just because I got to be a dog doesn't mean I haven't had difficulties. 
There are some pretty humiliating things about being a dog, as I'm sure you can
imagine, and I'll get to those.

But one simple positive thing about getting be a dog that I really didn't have
learn that much about is that  I got to stay around the house.  Out in the
yard, sure.  But still close by.

And not just out in the yard.  No.  A bit more positive than that.  There's
already a kennel out there. 
And not just any dog kennel.  Lancelot's and Gallahad's.  

Those are the family dogs I was talking about.  Brothers, actually.  Same age. 
Great Danes.  Though Lancelot is the dominant, alpha-dog, Gallahad's no runt by
any means.  

We got them as puppies from the same litter.  Now they're both huge.  And look
intimidating.  Can act dominating too. Barking and growling, so loud and deep. 
Jumping up so high on their hind legs.  

But they're very friendly, and they're family.  Well, as much as dogs can be
anyway.   

And that's one humiliating thing right there.  Just the fact that, even though
I had to work to earn it, my family put me out into the yard, into to the dogs'
kennel, to become their bitch.

I mean I helped raise them from little puppies.  Helped house train them, teach
them tricks.  We only got them three years ago, as I so fondly remember.  Just
about the time I returned to practicing law.    

Well, now, of course, I'm no longer practicing law and have been practicing
crawling on all fours.  But with my ankles bound to my thighs so I can't get
back up on my feet.  

As much as I hate the aching pain of it, I've got to admit it's quite clever. 
Something my devious son devised from one of my daughter's old padded bras. 
Wrap the straps right, twist and tie them, and there's your leg-foot binds,
while the bra cups become knee pads.

As I said, quite clever.  And perversely so, to be sure.  Cruel and kind at the
same time.  As degrading as it is to be crawling around on all fours like a
dog, there's just something extra-demeaning about being leg-bound and
knee-padded with your daughter's old bra.  And, I don't want to get too
negative here, but to have the contraption improvised by your son just makes it
all that more humiliating.

But, the upside was, after she saw what her brother did with her old bra, my
daughter got imaginative.  Inspired by her brother I guess.  Kind of a family
project, turning their mother into their pet.  A joint venture, both
collaborative and competitive, like siblings often do.  Giggling and arguing
just like they used to as younger kids.  Which is something I would have been
touched to watch them, if the object of their project wasn't to turn me into
the family dogs' bitch.  

But I digress.  Sounding so negative.  Stress, I guess.

My daughter's idea was use a pair of her old mittens to turn my hands into
paws.  Little mittens.  Kid's mittens.  Crimped my hands into cramped little
things hardly useful for anything.  Well, I could beg.  Paws up.  Classic form.
 But, what was most decisive--the collaborative aspect--was what I couldn't do.
 Especially unbind my legs.  

Of course, as humiliated as I felt, I appreciated the bra-cup knee-pads.  But
still . . .

Regardless, I was being turned into the family dog so what did I have to say? 
My kids listened to me even less than when thought of me as their mother.

Well, not really the family dog.  We already had two real dogs, the brothers,
Lancelot and Gallahad, who were the family dogs.  Their status was
well-established.  Mine was unstable and precarious.

Of course, my family was training me.  To mind.  Obey.  Perform tricks.  Stupid
pet tricks.

I hated being trained to perform tricks.  Begging.  Rolling over.  Fetching. 
All those pet tricks seemed stupid to me.  Not only was I their mother, I'd
been an attorney for God's sake.  But they trained me pretty good.

My own dog collar and leash helped with crawling and overall attitude.  They
put my own name on the tag on my collar. Well, in one of the more demeaning
diminutive forms anyway.  Not Elizabeth.  Lizzie.

They argued between that and Betsy.  But decided they liked Lizzie better as a
kind of taunting reminder of a former human status I had when they used to
tease me by calling me "Lezzie Lizzie."  Especially now that I was to be a
bitch to two male dogs.

Anyway, I was talking about training and attitude.  I guess something about
being called Lizzie, having a variation of my own, real, human name on my dog
tag got me acting uppity.  Well, uppity for a family pet anyway.  And I kept
talking.  Complaining mostly, but pleading too.  

About the collar and leash.  About having to crawl.  And being so slow when
Lancelot and Gallahad were chasing me.  

About being at the bottom of the food chain.  Having to resort to the toilet
bowl when the water bowl was empty.   

Not having my own bowls.  Not having my own blanket.  

Getting shoved out of the sheltered part of the kennel.  Having to share
everything with two dogs named after knights, who were not only bigger and
stronger than me, but didn't know shit about chivalry.

Having to deal with their stupid male rivalry, marking their territory and
property.  Both of them being horny all the time.  As if, other than eating and
drinking and pissing and shitting, competing and humping was all there was for
them to do in life.

You know, typical female complaints.  I mean, this was canine politics.  But,
as a former feminist, I was really surprised how much gender issues cross
species lines.

But I was being a real bitch about it.  Well, not a real one, but pretty uppity
for a pet.  

What can I say?  I was a former feminist attorney.  Argumentative temprament. 
This submissive bitch stuff was a tough adjustment.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yeah.  Training and attitude.  

Well, collar and leash.  That was the first step, after getting me to crawl.  

Actually, the collar and leash took two steps.  Choke collar and chain leash
first.  A swift yank and firm swipe.  That's all it took.  I shut up pretty
quick.  A week's worth of docility.  Kept my trap shut.  No more uppity crap. 
Got a leather collar and leash.  I was pretty proud.

Too proud, as it turns out.  And too loud too.  Oh, I'd been trained not talk
by then.  Nobody paid any attention to me unless I barked.  

Well, yelping, howling, whimpering and whining all worked too, in proper
circumstances.  But, when I wanted to call my family's attention to something I
was particularly happy or unhappy about, barking was the best way of getting
their attention.

It took a while for us to sort out my happy and unhappy barks, and, whichever,
whatever I was barking about.  But we finally got a crude yet workable system
established, my family and me.  

Nothing as sophisticated or well-articulated as I had become accustomed to as
an attorney of course.  But viable under the available circumstances. 

 I mean, day by day, I'm communicating much more with dogs than people.  My
family is very busy.  As the head of the firm, my husband spends a lot of hours
there.  So does his young lover on the partnership track.  And our children
have always been very involved in activities. So, there's so many other,
important things to do that they can't be spending that much time in the yard.

But, getting back to being too proud and loud, the problem with my barking came
about when I got fleas.  I was bothered by having fleas, to say the least.  Not
only did they itch, and in places I couldn't scratch, but they just made me
feel creepy and icky.  

I mean, fleas!  Really!

I was accustomed to being a clean, well-attired, well-groomed attorney.  
Bathing or showering at least once a day.  An extensive collection of expensive
designer business suits.  A selective, distinctive style of carefully coifed,
neatly trimmed hair on my head.  And, here I was, soiled and nude in the yard,
with fleas.  Please!

After a week in the kennel, I had fleas all over me, all the time.  Could
hardly sleep.  Was tormented perpetually throughout the day.

So I barked.  Loud and proud.  I was definitely too proud to put up with fleas.
 But I was not too proud to bark.  Especially about the fleas.  I barked a lot
about them.  And loud too.

Problem was, my family didn't know what I was barking about, and nothing was
done about it for the longest time.  The dogs sharing the kennel didn't care,
even if they knew what I was barking about.  They were accustomed to fleas. 
Had the dexterity and tenacity to deal with them that I did not.  And
generally, they just seemed to endure fleas better than I did.

OK.  So I was being prissy.  I just wasn't raised that way, where you can say,
'hey fleas? That's OK.'  Well, that's just not the way I was raised, or the way
I raised my own kids.

Yeah,  maybe I was being a baby about it.  But it was driving me crazy, all
those fleas.

Anyway, so there I was.  Barking about having fleas.  Barking a lot.  Nobody
knowing what I was barking about and not doing anything about it.  

I'd start barking and the two other dogs would join in.  A joyous communal,
kennel barkfest.  And everybody in my family would think it's just one of those
annoying, spurious, spontaneous, socially contagious dog things.  

Or, I'd start barking and the other two dogs would look at me and think that I
was stupid. That there was nothing worthwhile to be barking about.  So, they'd
stay quiet and try to ignore me.  So, my family would too.  Or, almost worse,
come out and curse and scold me for not being as well-behaved as the other two
dogs.

Well, it took a long time, but one day somebody in my family finally got a
clue.  Duuh!  And I'm the one put out in the yard!  

Anyway, my son was scratching me behind the ears and finally figured it out.  I
about went nuts with my happy barks, I was so overjoyed.  And then I started to
whimper.  Not a sad whimper, a happy one. Because I was so relieved and
overwhelmed, which got me crying.

Hey, I'm a girl.  Girls get like that.  Emotional.  Even girls who have to live
as dogs.  

Maybe especially them.  I used to try to be less emotional, seem more
professional, when I was an attorney.  And I had that stuffy, feminist-elitist
thing too. About not acting like a male stereotype of a female, but not like a
female stereotype of a male either.  Some undefinable,  inaccessible,
unbearable stiff and rigid thing stuck in between the two genders.

But, since I was put out in the yard . . .  Well, there's just not a whole lot
of opportunity for professional or feminist pursuits in the yard or kennel. 
So, pretty quickly, it just all came back, all the emotional stuff, full force,
when I began to live as a dog.

Of course, a big part of that is starting out not being all that happy about
having to live as a dog.  In fact, pretty depressed and distressed about it, to
tell the truth.  

But, if I'm being fair about the whole thing--looking at the big picture, you
know--I gotta say that living as a dog has its benefits.  Not all that many
mind you, especially for woman living as a dog.  But being unselfconsciously
emotional and able to freely express your emotions is a definite benefit.  

Of course, it helps to develop a good barking vocabulary.  With tonal
inflection and modulation.  And a fuller elaboration of yelps, howls, growls,
whimpers and whines.  You know, to really be able to more clearly and precisely
express your emotions.  

But hey, even without all that, you can be as emotional as you want.  The other
dogs don't care.

Well, that's not true.  They do.  They get all caught up in it too.  

But what do you care?  When dogs are getting all emotional out in the yard,
most people don't care. Unless they're too loud and get annoying. Or people are
worrying about getting attacked by them or something.  But generally people
just put up with barking and try to ignore it.  

So, out there with the dogs, you've got a lot of lattitude to get emotional. 
Let loose with all the attitude and just emote.  It's a fringe benefit of
yardlife, and might as well take advantage of it.

But fleas?  No advantage there whatsoever.  No benefit at all.  Get 'em?  Get
rid of 'em.  Simple as that.

Well, not really all that simple, as it turns out.  Letting people know you
have fleas, getting it communicated, can be pretty complicated, as I already
indicated.  

But even then, unless they take you to a vet, people knowing what to do about
fleas is another problem. They might think they know, but they really don't
know shit.

'Hey fleas? Sure.  Flea collar.'  

Wrong!  Flea collars are a fraud.  Cheap and easy, sure.  But totally
ineffective.  Complete rip off.  

Don't believe me?  Get some fleas and get a flea collar and put them on and try
it out sometime.  Tried that.  Trust me.  Live a night in my kennel and walk a
mile in my paws and all that.  

Ask your dog.  Flea collars don't work  Why do you think dogs with flea collars
keep scratching and chewing on themselves all the time?  Because they still
have fleas and they're still itching like crazy.

Anyway, we went through all that with the flea collars.  Had to wear one for a
week of ichorama before my family finally caught on.  Bought flea collars for
the other two dogs too.  They hated me.  Thought I was stupid for sending my
family out to get them flea collars.  Stared at me with utter contempt the
whole week.  Wouldn't speak to me, play with me.  Isolated.  Alienated. 
Totally shunned.

So I was out barking my head off again.  Took them a while, but my family
finally got the message.  Didn't feel comfortable about taking me to a vet. 
But tried the flea powder.  Yech!  Flea spray too.  Whew!  

Better about the fleas, both the powder and the spray, than those worthless
collars.  But hey, here is a woman accustomed to scented bath oils, body
powders and lotions, expensive perfumes and custom colognes.  Flea powder and
spray?  Ugh!  

Make you feel and smell like . . .  I don't know . . .  Like you're living in a
medicine cabinet or something . . .  Like a dog with a skin condition.  

The powder and spray work better than the collars.  And you don't itch as bad
as just living with fleas.  But both the powder and spray still make you smell
and feel lousy.  And they made me sneeze.

So, I was back out barking again.  Still stubbornly proud.  And damn loud. 
Mixed with some sneezy- wheezy whining and whimpering.  

But mostly I barked my head off.  And then they cut my hair off.

Yep.  That's right.  Chopped it right off.  Shaved me too.  Bald as a baby.  

Well not all my hair.  Just on my head.  Dogs like the other stuff.  More to
stick there snouts in and sniff. At least on me.  You know, down there.

But the hair on my head?  Cut and shaved.  Though not quite all of it.  

Left two long hunks on the sides.  Starting at the edge of the top of my head. 
A long to clop on each side to kind of flop down.  Over my real ears like furry
spaniel.  But otherwise my head is shaved completely bald.

I know.   It sounds hideous.  Looks ridiculous.  I was mortified at first. 

I mean I've always had very thick, lush, shiny hair.  Usually kept medium to
long.  Would wash and brush and comb it a lot.  Fiddle with it a lot.  Set and
curl it.  Color it.  Do all that stuff females do if they have any vanity.  

Now I'm an oddity.  To say the least.  I'd look like I'm a cancer patient if it
weren't for my two clop-flops.  My spaniel look.  Well, a mostly bald spaniel,
minus the snout.

You're right.  It's hideous.  Looks ridiculous.  But it's been an immense help
for the fleas on my head.

And it feels kind of cool.  Yeah, helps on hot days, especially when there's a
breeze, which is important when you live outside.  But not only that.  I mean
bald heads feel cool when they're touched.  People like to run their hands over
bald heads.  Rub them.  Almost can't help themselves.  So smooth and curiously
inviting.  And on the receiving end, being touched, is even cooler.  All
sensitive and tingly.  Mmm. 

So, yeah, the shaved bald head with the two clop-flop phony-furry spaniel ears
is hideous.  Looks ridiculous.  But it feels so cool that people like to touch
it and so you get touched more.  Rubbed and stroked and patted and petted on
the head.  And it feels nice.  Very sensitive.  Tingly.  Like I said.

So, all in all, I like my bald head.  Though I can do without the clop-flop
crap hanging on the sides. 

But my family finds the phony-furry spaniel ears amusing.  They're always using
them to steer and guide my head or get my attention.  So, if that's the price I
have to pay?  Well, why not?  No big deal, the phony-furry spaniel ears.  

Don't really make me look like a spaniel.  But hey, I don't have the rest of
the body fur either.  I'm still clumsy crawling on all fours.  Don't have a
snout (at least not yet).  And don't really look like a dog. Certainly not a
very attractive one, by dog standards.  I just act like one.

And yes, I used to be considered a very attractive woman.  And yes, I used to
love and tend to my hair.  So, don't I miss it?  Sure, I do.  When I think of
my former, fully human life indoors.  

But I'm outdoors now, living the life of a dog.  My family put me there, made
me act like this.  And, for all the negatives about that, I try to focus on the
positives.  And one of the major positives to the major negative of getting
your head shaved bald is it can feel real cool and people feel it a lot.  

And so that's that.  And there are a lot of other things to worry about, when
you're living as a dog, besides getting your head shaved weird with clop-flop
phony-furry spaniel ears      

Like no food or water except from a bowl.  A bowl on the floor or in the yard. 


There was the toilet bowl too, but don't get me started on that.  Oh, I know. 
Gross.  What can I say?  My kids are like most kids with their pets.  Don't
always remember to fill the bowls.  

Besides, Lancelot and Gallahad had first dibs on the bowls.  Food or water. 
They'd take turns.  I was last.  I was their bitch.  I had to wait.  

Didn't take me long to learn that.  That, even if I wasn't on a yard chain, I
was at the bottom of the food chain in our backyard.  Lancelot and Gallahad let
me know it pretty quick.  They may have been named after knights. But, hey,
they were dogs.  Male rivalry, sure, but no chivalry.  And I was their bitch.

And, speaking of rivalry without chivalry, food and water issues were nothing
compared to sex.  That was a real bitch.  Or rather, I wasn't a real bitch,
which was the problem.  

They worked it out between them, Lancelot and Gallahad.   Didn't consult me
much, of course.  

No choice between them.  Or even about whether I wanted it at all from either
of the brutes.  

Just crawling along.  Minding my own business.  Next thing I know there's a
snout in my snatch, sniffing away.  

Foreplay's for shit with dogs, I'll tell you that.  Sniff you and mount you and
that's about it.   Think you've got a crude lout in bed?  No prelim, no
built-up, just slam-bam-snore?  Try a goddamn dog.

And whining about having a headache?  Growling about the wrong time of the
month?  Nope.  Won't get you anywhere.  Barking up the wrong tree there.  These
are dogs. 

Oh, they'll paw you alright.  Like any male.  Claw you too, like some females I
know.  

Love bites?  You bet.  Gotta be real careful about that.  Gotta give an
aggressive male his due there.  He's decided he's gonna mount you, there's no
negotiating.  As a former feminist attorney, I had to learn that the hard way.

But hey, there's trade offs, too.  No negotiating, but some pretty good trade
offs, I gotta say.  

I mean, you gotta be careful about the teeth.  But, hey, that tongue?  Whoa
girl!  

Yeah, the snout in the snatch is annoying as hell.  But that tongue?  Long,
strong and tireless.  Absolutely tireless.  Have you yelping and howling
through spasms of multiple orgasms you could count in a math table.

Sure it's humiliating.  Sure it's degrading.  Sticks his wet snout in your
snatch and you want to wretch in disgust.  And then, next thing you know you
want to write a new chapter for The Joy of Sex, tell Sherri Hite she didn't
know the half of it.  Utterly humiliating and totally intoxicating, that
tongue.

But then there's the drool.  Gotta take the good with the bad, I guess.  But
that drool.  And that breath.  Ugh!  

Gonna be a bitch, you want to keep his snout around your snatch whenever
possible.  Wag that snatch around when you first feel that sniff coming on.  Or
even earlier, when you see that glazed, predatory look in their eye from across
the yard.  Spread those legs wide.  Lift that ass up and stick it out.  And
hunch that hairy snatch as high and hard and fast as you can.  Get that snout
in the snatch before he gets those paws on you.  That's the trick.  Slut pet
trick.  Old as whores among hounds.  Gonna be a bitch, be a witch bitch, with
plenty of tricks up your sleeve.  Well, between your legs.

And, for a quick trick, that's about all a girl's going for her being a bitch
to male dogs.  Dogs don't care about a pretty face or slim, shapely figure. 
Much less any of that coy, flirtatious small talk or thoughtful, loquacious
conversation.  

I mean, you know how it is with men.  They just meet you, or they're dating or
courting you, and they gaze in your eyes, tell you how pretty you are, looking
like they're actually listening to you, care what you think and have to say. 
Then they get you in bed, get some kind of commitment, and suddenly they're
more interested in what's between your legs than between your ears.  Care more
about cumming in your mouth than anything coming out it.  I mean, that's men
right?

Dogs?  No nice, attentive preliminaries, no courtship, no commitment.  They're
never much interested in anything about you but what's between your legs.  Even
more than men, dogs are pigs.
 
Don't even care all that much about your tits, unless they're puppy.  And that
hurts like hell, puppies sucking and biting your nipples, even with those
little puppy teeth.  

And you don't want to be fucking with puppies anyway.  Molestation issues
aside, they don't know shit about licking or fucking.  And even sucking on
those little puppy peters isn't worth the saliva invested.  Believe me.  Been
there, done that.  

Yeah, I know.  A puppy?  How could I?  

Well, damn it, I told you. I was a feminist attorney.  And it was a difficult
adjustment being a submissive bitch.  And I was getting sick and tired of
always being on the passive, receiving end and getting mounted and mauled.  

Fact is, when that puppy first arrived, it was the first time I wasn't last for
the bowls.  Even though the little guy was a male.  Kind of went to my head. 
So I gave him some head.  

Got pretty excited too.  The puppy I mean.  Well, me too.  I admit it.  Shit, I
started it.  

But he started pawing my cheeks.  Then came the clawing.  Then the nipping on
my ears and nose.  And, before I knew it, I was spurting blood before the pup
was spurting any jism.  

Not sure the tiny little pup even had anything to spurt yet.  But shit, he sure
did a number on my cheeks and nose.  Scratches didn't go away for a week.  And
the flies?  Much worse than usual.  And right up in my face all the time.  Ugh!

So the moral to that story I guess is don't do puppies.  They look so little
and cute.  And if they're a male and you're a female sick of being dominated by
adult male dogs, I admit those little yelping pups can be tempting.  But stay
away from them.  They'll get the best of you anyway.  

A bitch's a bitch.  And she's gotta learn her place.  I did.  Slow learner for
a lawyer, I guess.  But that pup taught me my place faster and better than my
first pop quiz in law school.  And, just in case my learning curve wasn't steep
enough, the pop quiz by the pup was followed by the final test by the two
adults dogs who'd been tutoring me up to my lippy little lapse with the puppy. 
And, let me tell you, that final test was one grueling, degrading ordeal.

To be continued in Part 3 . . .

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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