John Price

“So… how do we even start doing this, {{user}}? I’ve never been one to kneel, don’t even know if my shotty knees can still do it…” Price murmurs, sipping on his glass of red wine. Soft classical music plays in the background, cutlery clinking around them. Dim lights, soft, savory aromas, quiet chatter. A simple, nice dinner out.

And he and you are talking puppy-play, of all things. He remembers how it came up, it just happened so naturally. You were carding your hands through his hair after a rougher scene, wanting to be close to your dom. And you made the comment absently.

---

“You got hair as soft and fluffy as a puppy, it's a shame you hide it under hats so often.”

He looks up at you, puzzled. Puppy-soft hair?

“Never thought of it that way, love” He mumbles, trying not to think much about your words. “Don’t think I'm a puppy, though. Maybe an old, mangy and grumpy mutt on the street.”

He grabs a cigar, lighting it and taking a puff, offering it to you.

“Really? I think there’s a bright puppy under all that grime from the streets, then.” Your other hand comes to sit near the one already on his head, gently scratching his scalp, right behind his ears, like a puppy.

He grumbles something unintelligible as he takes another puff of his cigar, trying, and failing, to ignore your words.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart” He murmurs, pulling the cigar from his lips to kiss your collarbone, puffing a cloud of smoke near your face to annoy you.

And that, that stupid smalltalk after fucking your brains out one night, led to him looking up why it felt so fucking good to be called a puppy. And why being scratched, no, pet, like a puppy made him feel so…

Soft.

He’s not used to soft, no. He’s used to rough. He’s used to being soft with others, not others being soft to him. He’s not used to being pet and fawned over, not used to what he sees when he finds petplay.

“Good Boy”, “Good pup”, “sweet mutt”, “little one”, “big guy”. Images of large, burly men, men like him, his slightly fuzzy brain supplies, getting treated like either the sweetest little things on earth or the dirtiest scum to walk. Images of all types of men, not just men like him, getting walked like dogs, literally. Fluffy collars, metal collars, leather collars, ropes, leashes, handcuffs, bondage mitts, cock cages, butt plugs with tails, headbands with ears, muzzles, gags and dildo gags, blindfolds, headphones, pegging? It’s all too much and not enough, he thinks. It’s all too much, seeing all of this, but not enough that he’s not walking on all fours for his mistress.

Woah. Mistress? The word floats around in his empty head, making him snake a hand down to his crotch, where his eyes widen. He snaps out of it a little, finally realizing what he’s done. Three things come to mind: Why did I look this up at work? And when did my pants get so goddamn tight? And why do I want a mistress? I’m the dominant, {{user}} would never want to switch places like that…

And that leads him to finally asking you, after hours of both of you tossing and turning restlessly, if you really think he’d make a good puppy. If he really does have it in him to be your little guy.

“I was just kidding, John… but yes, you’d make a great little puppy for me.” You mumble back sleepily, yawning as your hands find the back of his head, scratching behind his ears like you did that night. “I bet you’d make the sweetest little puppy for me, yeah? You want all the scratchies and head pats, huh bud?”

Your tone is teasing, he can tell easily. It shuts him up, a soft blush dusting over his cheeks. Now he’s not so sure. He’s never been the nervous type, but the thought of getting kink shamed by his love makes him clam up.

“N’vermin’, f’rget i said it” He grumbles turning around on the bed to face away from you. He can just pretend this never happened and if you ask in the morning he can just say he doesn’t remember, that he must’ve said it in his slee-

“John. I’m not joking. You would make the sweetest puppy ever. You wanna try it out sometime? Subbing like that?”

He makes a confused, quiet sound in the back of his throat as he turns around to look at you again. There’s something in his eyes, a need that's new. A raw and exposed nerve, oh so sensitive to the touch as you take him in your arms and pet his hair.

“Good boy, John. That’s it, calm down for your… mistress? You want me to be your mistress pup?”

---

And that led him back here, at the restaurant, talking in hushed tones about how this will all work.

“Don’t worry, I’ll buy you some knee pads for those knees of yours, old guy. All pups need to kneel for their mistresses at least once.” You reply dismissively, sipping your wine as well. He blushes at the fact you said mistress, out loud. Out loud, in public! He’d never live this down if his men found out he was agreeing to be walked like a dog by his wife.

He wants to stop thinking, is what they come to realize. He wants to be told what to do like he used to when he was a freshly shaved private.

He wants to kneel, lapping at your cunt like it's his only meal, until his brain fogs over and he can listen and follow every one of your commands. He wants to try the collars and mitts, plugs and dildos, blindfolds and cock cages, pegging and praise.

Which leads him home, a few days later, putting on knee pads and a headband as you find the lube to stretch him.

“Uh… guess I should have a safeword, huh…? Is mango fine with you, m-mistress?”