Lessons Learned
By Musuko

“Sit!”
	It should have been obvious to me. I should have known better. There’s only so much you can get away with when you’re sneaking under the radar of two titanic forces of this world.
	“Good boy!”
	The forces of justice, as they so laughably call themselves, are a dangerous lot when you are not so powerful yourself. And they’re sneaky. One might be able to keep a secret dungeon and cub-porn industry lurking out of their sight, if you’re careful. But try to sell a cub slave without knowing what you’re doing, and you’re liable to end up having to set your business ablaze and go into hiding.
	“Lie down!”
	Then, of course, there is the polar opposite force: the criminal world. Far greater power lies there, unbound by the taming gaze of the general public. Their finances are stronger, their reach is longer, and their eyes are more numerous. There might be great money in the black market for stolen high-tech kink toys, when the “legitimate” avenues to obtain them are restricted to discreet, wealthy deviants, but with that money comes risk.
	“Lie down!”
	I guess the message is: don’t piss off CKC.
	“Good boy!”
	I got off lightly. That is to say, I escaped. Barely. Not many can claim to have managed that. When CKC come for you, there’s little you can do unless you’re quick. I had luck on my side; when that sleek, black limo pulled up outside my shop, it was already burning, and I was already escaping one threat when theirs turned up. I was halfway into my car…
	“Speak!”
	“Mruff!”
	…and the puppy was already hogtied and gagged in the boot.
	“Good boy!”
	The puppy that had once been named Ethan. The puppy that had once been part of a pair. But Adam was now screaming and thrashing in some sadist’s private, soundproofed room somewhere. My payment for his body and soul was languishing in the evidence stores of a police station, and while the forces of justice and criminality were looking for me, I hid, alone with my puppy, in a tiny cottage deep in the lonely emptiness of the Scottish highlands.
	Were it not a forced situation, I’d say it was perfect.
	I patted my lap for the puppy, and he clambered awkwardly up into it; forelegs scrabbling at my knees, then heaving with a muffled grunt and getting his pudgy hindlegs up high enough to get purchase, before rolling his soft little ball of a body into my lap, sprawled on his back, his big eyes looking up at me with their constant worried tone. I gave him a little rub on the bare space of his tummy, and he flexed in an uncomfortable little squirm.
	“Lay still,” I said, tapping a fingertip against his nose, where it peeped out of the tip of his leather doggy muzzle. From within I heard the muffled grumbling noises as he groused around the fat rubber bulb filling his maw. I tapped his nose again. “Shush!”
	He settled down a little. But I suspected he knew what was coming. It had become a bit of a routine, once the initial fuss had died down. This was our relaxed time, late in the evening.
	Correction: my relaxed time. Perhaps not so much for puppy.
	I stroked my paw on his tummy, the pleasant prelude to what’s to come. He wiggled his arms and legs as he always did, as much as he could with the restrictions imposed on him; paws to elbows, feet to butt-cheeks, bound in place by sturdy leather sleeves and straps, turning this young, chubby little whelp cub into an unwilling quadruped. He tried to pull his thighs together, but I eased them apart ever so easily with just one paw.
	“Come on now, sweetie. Don’t resist.”
	His tears reminded me of those darker months, when the cottage did not yet feel like home, and the pangs of loss were hurting us both. My business was gone, my life was gone, my wealth, meagre though it might have been, was gone. And little Ethan, well, he had lost his Adam, his freedom, his dignity, and his childhood. I could sympathise. But that couldn’t change our situation.
	He raged and sobbed and pleaded, for days on end. Sometimes his sobbing was louder when he was alone than when I had him bound to the rustic oak furniture to be tortured. Beating him didn’t work. Cuddling him didn’t work. Starving him didn’t work.
	And then, one day, the miracle occurred. It was an ordinary morning. Ethan was bound hogtied, sat up on his knees, naked apart from his little metal chastity sheath, his ever-present collar, and his ring gag muzzle, and I was lounging in the ratty old armchair, nursing some cornflakes and trying to plan the day, whilst the television wittered on with some dull daytime fluff, and whilst Ethan had his nose in my crotchfur and my cockhead in the back of his throat. Not bobbing. Not sucking. Just training his throat. If he lifted up, my paw would be at the back of his head to hold him down. If he gagged, he just had to deal with it. His drool would dribble down my shaft, and his tears would join them soon afterwards. He hadn’t made much progress in two months of daily practice.
	The television ended up distracting me, and I think that’s what did it. Whilst I watched some strange-looking expert wax lyrical about antiques, my paw had wandered from its grip on the top of Ethan’s head; I had started rubbing behind his ear, like you would to a pet dog. I had no idea how long I had been doing it, but when my attention returned to Ethan, he had his eyes closed ever so peacefully, his nose was still buried deep in my crotch, and he was suckling gently, deepthroating like a pro, and making gentle, muffled, cooing noises. And thus, puppy Ethan was born.
	The tears brought me back to the present, because his gagged noises had distinctly become pleading attempts to speak. I gave a sharp swat to his nose. He knew better than to try and form words.
	I got to the task he knew was coming; my paw reached his little chastity device. He let out a wailing little sobbing noise. I closed my fingers around the little dial at the tip and turned it ninety degrees.
	Click.
	His little body tensed up completely, and the unhappy look in his eyes transformed to desperate, steely determination. I reached over him to pat his fat little rump, encouraging him to roll over onto his tummy and snuggle himself up into the crook of my arm. I wrapped him up in a cuddle and reclined back in the chair, preparing myself for an hour of radio entertainment.
	An hour in which my poor puppy would have to struggle with his self control, holding in a full bladder of pee, a whole day’s worth, with the flow stopper cap now disengaged on his catheter. The one hour of the day where I made him suffer like a puppy; lose control and be shamed and punished, or fidget in discomfort, unable to communicate beyond whimpers and movements the need that all puppies experience; the need to go outside and water a tree.
	Slowly, ever so slowly, this kind of treatment was wearing down his mind. His already weak independence was disappearing, his ability with language was withering, and he was regressing beautifully into a simple animal mindset. And above all, he was forgetting Adam. He was forgetting his lost normal life. And he was settling into this new role. My life was becoming easier. Slowly, though. Very slowly. Some days it was almost as if there was no progress at all, and he would never learn how to behave as my puppy.
	I think his failure of this night’s particular battle was my fault: I laughed a little too much at something on the radio, and it broke his concentration. The plaintive little whine of defeat danced in my ears as the hot feeling spread across my tummy fur. I didn’t respond in disgust; this was a common and expected occurrence. I just held him close, petting his back, letting his piss drain shamefully all over us. He started to sob. I petted behind his ear, and he settled down a little. Another tiny chip cut into his mind, another small reinforcement to the growing feeling that he’s helpless and powerless, even over his own bodily functions. Just a weak little puppy that needs his master’s control.
	I hooked my finger under his muzzle when it was all over, and make him meet my gaze. His expression was so thoroughly filled with shame and guilt that I struggled to stay firm.
	“You know the rules, puppy. If you make a mess, you have to clean it up.”
	I reached to the back of his head and released the clasp of his muzzle. I eased it away, and gently slid the drool-glistening red rubber from his maw. You’d never think that so much could fit in that little muzzle. He gasped breathlessly once it was free, then hissed and locked up when he closed his mouth too fast, cramping his jaw. I put my paw back on his head, giving him no rest. My pressure downwards was clear, and he knew what to do.
	He lowered his head, moans miserably, and started to lick his stinky pee out of my tummy fur.
	I closed my eyes and sighed. He had such an adorable little tongue. And it felt so sweet when it’s licking. It was infinitely more enjoyable with the knowledge that it belonged to such a young cub, who should by all rights be out playing on swings and seesaws, not licking piss from the crotchfur of a perverted adult panda. Nor should he be sucking cock, which comes soon after he’d finished bathing his tongue in piss and filling his stomach with it. I opened my eyes for this part; the conflicted look in his face is priceless; the shame at having lost control and pissing everywhere, the misery and frustration at being reduced from a normal cub to this animal, petlike state, the barely suppressed hatred of me for doing it…and then the reluctant comfort and enjoyment as his own submissive little lusts force him into enjoying all of it. And then, finally, the faint, tremulous whimpering that always arrives to tell me that all these feelings have made his little cock swell hard against the dull spikes and tight, constricting tube of his chastity device.
	I coated his tongue with my cum, and he slurped it all up, before resting his head on my thigh and panting softly. I rubbed my paw behind his ear. “Good boy.”

Dinner comes before bedtime for the puppy. It’s a ritual that took a while to perfect. The timing is perfect for inducing later helplessness. The meal itself is simple. Dog food. Plain, ordinary, supermarket dog food. The cheap, no-brand variety. He hated it at first, and he still hated it now. When I poured the sloppy blob of cheap meat scrapings and jelly into his little chromed dish on the kitchen floor, he recoiled from it and wrinkled his nose. But my stern expression warning of punishment soon drew him to it, snuffling at the glistening piles, and then holding his breath as he scooted his stubby forelegs apart to lower his muzzle into the food to wolf down hurried mouthfuls of it.
	I make sure to overfeed him. I like his chubby little body. It makes him look soft and shameful. I’ve fattened him up even more from when I obtained him. He gets two cans at breakfast, with no diaper change until he’s eaten it all. Two at lunch, another one in the evening, then a final can just before bed. The calorie count is far above what a little cub of his age should be eating, and it’s clear to me that he knows it. He knows what I’m doing to his body, and he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He doesn’t own it any more.
	His tongue lapped at the clean bowl, and he sat back on his rear, looking up at me with that sad puppy look again, meat juices on his muzzle, a sickened, disgusted look in his eyes. I patted his head and smiled encouragingly.
	“Good boy.”
	And offered up the gag of his muzzle once more. With a meek noise of reluctance he opened his mouth wide for it, and I grunted with the effort to squeeze its fat girth into his little mouth, before strapping the muzzle tightly in place. Another pat on his head, then I clipped his leash to his collar, and it’s time for bed.
	He waddled upstairs behind me, grunting through his nose with the effort of every step. I kept a firm tug on his leash, not letting him pause or slow down. Don’t let him think. He has to obey quickly. Thoughts are not his to have.
	There was just the one bedroom upstairs, and it’s mine. The puppy has a doggie bed in the corner if he’s good, a space in my bed snuggled up with me if he’s very good, and the cold bathroom floor with the window open if he’s naughty.
	I patted the changing table, and he looks up at me with a weary expression, panting a sigh out through his nose. The ritual is familiar to him, but still it happens every night. I order him up, and he’s forced to try and hop up onto it, be utterly unable to reach in his four-legged state, and fall clumsily back down.
	“Aww, does my little puppy need to be lifted up, hmm?” I cooed.
	He made a snuffling noise through his nose and looked down, whining, embarrassed.
	I hooked my paws under his forelegs and hefted him up.
	“Oof. Such a fat little puppy.” I patted his pudgy tummy once I had him laid down. Again, that embarrassed snuffling noise. He hates it, and he loves it.
	The air filled with the fragrant powdery scent of baby comfort as I opened the plastic container next to the changing table. There within lies stored the supplies my puppy needed for the night. Diapers, plastic pants, cosy sleeper suits, and adorable pink leather wrist and ankle restraints, with fluffy sheepskin lining.
	My puppy fidgets a little. This is the hardest part of his day, because this is the part he actually likes, and so it’s the part he has the hardest time reconciling with the feelings of revulsion and anger he should be feeling at his captivity.
	I stroked my fingertips over his little chastity, and he bleats into his gag. I chuckled.
	“Poor little baby puppy. Do you think I should let you out of this, hmm?”
	He hesitated. Once upon a time, he would have nodded, or tried to beg through the gag. He learned that lesson eventually. Now, he whimpers and snuffles, communicating his begging like a puppy should.
	“There’s a good puppy, nice and needy for me.” I gave his tender, plump balls a squeeze, enough to make him squeal and kick his hind legs. Then, time for the diaper.
	It was a thick, bulky affair. Just a standard diaper, but custom-ordered especially for my chubby little puppy. Cub-sized, but distinctly not cubby in thickness. This one is built for heavy use. My little puppy knows this.
	Because he’s come to learn that the last can of dog food he eats before bed is always laced with a heavy dose of powerful laxatives.
	He fretted and wiggled his legs. I can see his chastity bob as his little cock tries to flex and harden. I took hold of his “ankles”; the stumps of his bent over and leather-sleeved knees, and lifted his curvy little tush up off the padded surface, to slip the crinkly cotton underneath. I don’t waste time. The taping up has to be quick. The laxative doesn’t wait around.
	Next to go on are his plastic pants. Thick and rubbery, and incredibly noisy. The blush he wore after the first night I made him wear them was intense, and his begging for release from his chastity the next morning was the most pathetically needy I’d heard from him, before or since. He loves them. And he knows I know he loves them. So this step is long and drawn out.
	First, I shook them out into shape, laying it down next to him and smoothing the wrinkles out with my palm. He watched me, wide-eyed, staring. I turned them over and smoothed the other side.
	A soft, squeaky whimper from him.
	I lifted them up and readied them near his legs. He instantly repositioned them, aimed towards the opening of the garment. I motioned to slip them on him, but intentionally steered off course to miss. He whined into his gag and wriggled his legs, trying to catch the opening again. I moved them out of reach and tried again.
	Whoops. Missed again.
	My puppy sniffled in frustration.
	I relented on the third go, and slowly ease the thick, rustling plastic up his leg stumps and up over the wide bulge of his diapered butt, snapping the elasticised waistband in place over the curve of his tummy.
	The stifling, warm cocoon of that plastic is sure to make his diaper a swamp of sweaty, messy funk overnight.
	Then the sleeper. A sweet, baby blue for tonight, matching his body colour. A lovely fleece, it  was soft from regular washing, fluffy and cosy, sure to induce a cubby feeling in anyone. My little puppy’s mood transformed as I tugged it onto him and zipped it up. I lifted him from the table and cuddled him against my chest, his head on my shoulder, my arm under his thickly-padded butt, and I bobbed him in my embrace for a while, silently enjoying the intimacy more than I try to let on. And this is the one part of the day where he can quietly enjoy it too, without feeling my attention on him to shame him.
	I gave his cheek a little kiss, and the moment was over. “Time for bed, puppy.”
	The wrist and ankle cuffs fitted rather strangely, as my puppy didn’t actually have wrists or ankles in his current state. Instead, they were large enough to be fitted around the bases of his legs, at his shoulders and hips, with short, thin chains clipped between them, across his back and across the top rear of his padded tush, to ensure they couldn’t slip down. That same squirming, blushing expression inhabited his face as I work, and stayed there as I carried him over to my bed. He squealed happily into his gag. He would get to sleep with master tonight.
	I lay him on his back on the bed and stood in front of him to strip off. His eyes were on me, of course, and I watched the lust in them. The poor little puppy was a ball of desire after so many months locked in that little chastity. Even at his young age, it had built up. And as I passed my boxers down over the bulge of my cock, his gaze lingered, and I saw his muzzle bob as the telltale clue that he was sucking on the gag. I stroked my paw down over my tummy fur and framed my cock between my splayed fingers. A little whimper made its way past the gag, and I chuckled, satisfied.
	Hauling back the covers, I climbed naked into bed and lifted my puppy and settled him in alongside me. There, on the mattress, was a fabric strap running the length of the bed from head to foot, with a buckle near the head end. It was the work of moments to undo the buckle, separating the strap into two halves, which I could then thread through the chains between my puppy’s cuffs. With the buckle closed, the puppy was now loosely fixed to the bed, but securely all the same; he wouldn’t be wriggling out and crawling away during the night.
	Not that there seemed to be much risk of that; he was already pressed in under my arm, his nose buried in my armpit fur, each breath bathed with my musk. I ran my paw down across his soft, fleecy back, and pressed my paw against his bulging rump. The stumps of his arms kneaded and bumped against my chest, and he panted a soft noise under my arm. The laxatives wouldn’t take too long to take effect.

His noises of distress woke me in the dark of the early hours of the morning. I rolled onto my side to face him, my eyes still closed, head fogged with pleasant sleepiness, and rested my heavy paw on the curve of his tummy. His squealing intensified, and I smiled lazily. I curled my fingers to knead at the fleecy fabric, feeling his smooth skin beneath, then pressed down harder.
	A soft groan reached my ears, and I felt more than heard the shifting of plastic and the fretting wriggle of his hind legs against the bedding. I roamed my paw down, across his crotch, pressing down against the thick padding, feeling the faintest hardness of his chastised little member deep beneath, down the wide expanse of white plastic between his spread legs, and down over the warm patch just under his tail, where a squeeze of my paw could feel the weighty wetness of the soiled padding. I pressed harder, listening to my puppy whine in my ear, and felt the heat shift and spread under my paw, mushing up between his legs. I tried to imagine how it must feel to have that shameful, hot liquidy feeling smear over his chastised little member and aching little balls, knowing that his own lack of control put him in this state. I left my paw resting on his crotch, and nuzzled against the top of his head, drifting off to sleep again.

Morning shone through the curtains, and the room heated wonderfully in the early summer swelter. My puppy was asleep, huffing soft, audible breaths through his adorable little nose, peeping out from his muzzle. His smooth skin was sheened with sweat, where I could see it unhidden by his sleeper, and my own fur was damp with my own musk. I kicked the covers down to my ankles. The movement released the humid air of the bed, and the room’s scent gained the dirty tinge of the puppy’s soiled diaper.
	I idly stroked his tummy as I lay there, thinking. Another day of quiet privacy ahead. Another day of hiding. Just me and the puppy. As unplanned exiles go, there could be far worse. I watched him sleep for a while, admiring how calm and settled he looked. A complete contrast to how he was awake.
	I pawed myself a little, looking at that little face, thinking about painting it with something sticky. But another part of me wrestled away from the idea. Everything so far had been building towards a distinct conclusion; this is my baby, my puppy, and not my sex toy. I was a little concerned by this line of thinking, being so unlike anything I had enjoyed before meeting this little cub. But, as I lay there, looking at him sleep, I couldn’t help but feel it.
	Could I forgo stuffing my cock in his little body in order to enjoy him more as a puppy? As a baby?
	I thought back to his friend, the older boy. Shame I couldn’t get him back. Have one as a puppy, the other as a sex slave. Although, I did know where I sold him. He wouldn’t take that much tracking down…
	…visions of police cells stopped me on that thought, and I heaved myself up out of bed to start the day.
	He fretted adorably when I woke him, and his brow wrinkled in distress. For a moment I was puzzled, then I heard it; the soft hiss. I laughed, and his unhappiness increased. I patted his crotch.
	“I forgot to close your catheter, didn’t I puppy? Silly me.” I squeezed my paw, feeling the familiar feeling of wet, cloying diaper padding. The puppy shuddered and closed his eyes. What a tease it must be to his locked up little cock, getting bathed in such heat, massaged without feeling.
	I released him from the bed and carried him over to the changing table, ensuring my paw pressed firmly against his sagging rear. I could almost see him pouting through the muzzle as I stripped him out of the sleeper, out of the plastic pants, and down to the potently-pungent diaper.
	“You need to learn how to hold it in, puppy. I shouldn’t have to be changing you every morning, you know.” He let out a whine and wiggled his forelegs. He knew full well that his evening dinner ensured there was no way he could do as I asked. I watched his little ears blush. I could be so cruel sometimes.
	He flinched as I tore the tapes and pulled down the front of his diaper. The smell hit my nose, and I recoiled, only half acting. Phew. The puppy must have had it worse, forced to only breathe through his nose. I leant down, my mouth to his ear.
	“If you’re naughty today, I’ll put you to bed on the bathroom floor with this diaper as your pillow.”
	His eyes shot wide and he moaned into his gag. His messy little bottom lifted up off the stickiness of the diaper, and I could see his chastity twitch. Interesting!
	I took advantage of his motion, gripping his “ankles” and pulling him up. I snatched a wet wipe and got to work cleaning him up. It wasn’t a difficult job. Furless little whelps are perfect for being diapered. Smooth and wipe-clean. I paid extra attention to his little pucker, which winked at me as my fingertip stroked over it. His noises took on a particularly naughty tone, moaning softly through his gag. I knew he wanted to be fucked, perhaps to relieve just a little of his sexual frustration. And I decided right at that moment...
	…no more sex for this puppy. Starting now, he was my chaste, needy little abstinent puppy. I would find another to service my needs. And my puppy would watch from his doggy bed in the corner, wishing he could be part of the fun.
	Yes. That’s what I would do. That’s how I would make him truly feel like a little pet.
	I slid the messy diaper away and folded it with one paw, still holding his legs with the other. My foot pressed the bin’s pedal, and with one fluid motion I had dumped the diaper into it, and fetched a fresh one to slide in under his rear. He made a quizzical noise.
	“You’re staying diapered today, puppy. I don’t want you having any accidents.”
	It had the effect I had hoped for; a rather embarrassed, conflicted expression. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or upset. Hopefully, it was both.
	I lay his rear down into the clean, warm embrace of the diaper, and doused his little crotch in powder. He giggled into his muzzle, and I made him giggle again by tickling a claw against his balls. He batted his forelegs up at me, and I booped his nose with my finger.
	His diaper taped snugly into place, I lifted him down to the floor and settled him onto all fours. I walked out into the hallway.
	“Come!”
	And he followed, waddling in a way that looked awkward, walking on his knees and elbows, but with a speed and ease that told of just how long he had spent on all fours. I wondered if he could even walk normally on two legs at this point, in the unlikely event that I ever let him do that again.
	Watching him crawl down stairs was comical, and I let him go ahead of me for just that purpose. Seeing the rounded bulge of his tush thrust up towards me, waving about as he scrambled down the steps, well…that was a highlight of my day!
	Two cans of dogfood slop into his bowl, and he stared at it miserably while I unhooked his muzzle and eased the fat shaft of the dildo gag from his mouth. As per the ritual, he closed his mouth and winced, turning his head to rub his aching jaw against his shoulder. He looked up at me, chin trembling, eyes wide and glistening.
	“It’s no good trying to beg,” I said, doing my best not to look affected by his very powerful puppy expression. “You know you’ve got to eat it all, so you can grow up to be a big and strong puppy.”
	I paused, then smiled.
	“Well, big anyway.”
	I gave his tush a little tap with my foot, and he waddled forward to push his muzzle down into the glistening lumps of his breakfast. I watched intently as his delicate little tongue scooped up the first bite, and watched the pained expression as his tastebuds informed him of the revolting taste, and watched as he gulped down the morsel to feed his waiting stomach. Then, the resigned, unhappy look as he readied for the next bite, knowing that he would be swollen and overfull by the end of it, just like every morning. His unpleasant morning torture.
	I fried up bacon and eggs and let him smell it as I ate on the kitchen table next to him.
	I was well finished by the time he licked the last scraps away from his dish. His delight at my next move was a treat for me; I set my empty plate down on the floor in front of him and let him lap the tasty bacon grease from it.
	“Thank you!” he gasped, lifting his head up off the cleaned plate. He froze stiff, and his eyes opened wide in terror.
	My chair scraped ominously as I stood up. I let the silence linger. Then…I just sighed.
	He started to whimper, lowering his head to the floor, pressing his tail down against the bulge of his padded rear. He’d messed up and he knew it.
	I fetched the leash chain from the hook by the door and clipped it onto his collar. I tugged, and he followed without resistance. He knew not to be that foolish!
	Outside we went, into the gentle heat of the morning. The sunshine wafted down through the valley, and the scent of grass touched my nose. It was a lovely day. Not a soul in sight. Only the distant white specks of sheep, far at the other end of the valley, and the thin ribbon of the road, snaking down one hillside and up the other. I could see a small red car struggling up the hill. Nobody ever drove up the long dirt track that led from the road to my cottage. If they did, they would see me leading my diapered little puppy out towards the wooden shed on the opposite end of the small stone-walled courtyard my cottage sat within.
	His whimpers grew louder as we approached it. He knew full well what was coming. There were tears in his eyes. I tried not to let my hardon show, but there wasn’t much I could do to hide it, being still naked and having not dealt with my morning arousal. Damn it…the temptation to use him was already becoming unpleasant.
	The door creaked open, and the old incandescent blinked into life. It was a tool shed, old and dilapidated, with grime on the poured concrete floor, mould in the frame of the one dirty window, and dusty cobwebs in the breezy rafters.
	In the middle of the room hung a rusty chain.
	On the end of the chain was a clip.
	It was a simple punishment, but very cruel. The chain hung down to be level with my knees. The same height as my puppy’s collar when he was standing on all fours, as he was now.
	I led him to stand underneath the chain. His legs were trembling. He was crying, and his lip was shaking. It must have taken all his willpower to keep from pleading with forbidden words.
	I clipped the chain to the ring on his collar and let him go.
	And that was it. Just attached his collar.
	And left him there. I returned to the cottage.
	I turned on my laptop and tethered it up to my mobile phone, and out into the world wide web I wandered. I boiled the kettle to make tea. I left a window open to listen to the inevitable from my puppy.
	It might not seem like a punishment. All he had to do was stand there. But the hours would wear on. His limbs would begin to ache. He would try to shuffle about to relieve them. For a time, this would work. But more time would pass. He would get tired. He would get thirsty. He would want to lie down. But the chain would prevent him.
	That want would becoming a longing.
	Then a need.
	Then, finally, a torture.
	And four hours after leaving him there, a new record for his endurance to date, the plaintive wails of his sobbing, wordless pleas for mercy wafted across the courtyard, to please my ears as I sent out my exploratory emails in search of his Adam.
	I let another hour pass. I watched a few entertaining videos. I dealt with my nagging need. I got dressed.
	Another hour. There were chores to do to keep the house in order. He went quiet for a while, but the sobbing started up again ten minutes later.
	One more hour. The television entertained me.
	Finally, I snuck back across the courtyard, not wanting my puppy to hear me until the moment I pulled the door open. He blinked against the sunlight, and sniffled wetly to choke away a sob. He looked up at me with wet, pleading eyes.
	“Have you learned your lesson, puppy?”
	Once upon a time, he would have nodded. And the first time he suffered this punishment, he had done exactly that, and I had closed the door and left him for another two hours. He never repeated that mistake.
	“M-mruff!” he gasped.
	I walked over and crouched next to him. I unclipped his collar and held a paw under his chest, in case he might collapse.
	He didn’t collapse. What he did do shocked me.
	He leapt at me and thumped against my chest, his stumpy forelegs cupping at my sides. I teetered a little, then fell back onto my rear, barely catching my fall with one flung out arm. He buried his face into my chest and his little body wracked with sobs.
	“I’m sorry daddy, I didn’t mean to be bad! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Please don’t punish me again! Please don’t leave my on my own any more! I’ll be good! I’ll be a good puppy! I love you daddy!”
	And on and on it went like that. I sat still, letting him sob away his anguish. First stunned, then confused. Then…I couldn’t describe the feeling.
	I should have hauled him up right away to punish him again. He was speaking. In fact, he claimed he’d be good, whilst being the worst puppy possible by speaking his claims.
	But…I couldn’t do it. His words faded away, and only weak sobs remained, while his face still remained pressed against me, soaking a small wet patch in my tshirt.
	I lifted a paw and settled it on top of his head.
	“Who’s my puppy?” I said, almost a whisper.
	A loud sniffle. Then the faintest, quavering voice. “I am.”
	“Who’s my good boy?”
	“M-me.”
	“That’s right. You’re my puppy. You’re my good boy.”
	I felt him press more firmly against me, and I sat upright to free my supporting arm, wrapping it around him. I hugged him against my chest and squeezed, sighing, muddled in my own thoughts.
	“No more talking, okay? I’ll let you off just this once.”
	“K-kay. Ah!” He tensed up. “M-mruff!”
	I smiled against his shoulder, happy he couldn’t see. Damn adorable puppies.
	“Good boy.”
	I checked my watch. So many plans for the day. Much of the day already gone. And now…now I had this confusion to throw every plan into turmoil. I thought about Adam, and my waiting inbox. Perhaps there was hope there. Perhaps if I couldn’t be harsh with my puppy, I could with a returned slave boy. I kissed the top of Ethan’s head, and he cooed a small sigh, the sound of tension unwinding.
	“Let’s go back inside,” I whispered.
	“Mruff!”

We spent the evening as a picture of domestic bliss. He lay curled up at my feet while I watched television. He didn’t even look towards the screen, and I doubt he was listening. Every now and then he would nuzzle at my ankle, just quietly expressing his affection without demanding anything back. Eventually, I patted my lap and gave the command. Up. And he leapt into my lap without even struggling to make the height. He curled up against my tummy, silent, satisfied. I petted him. I let my mind wander. He was my puppy. I think he had learned that now.