You check back over your shoulder, and sure enough, he’s still following you. You can hear him panting, and the occasional whine. You’d seen him earlier in the leather bar, dressed in nothing beyond a skank jock, blowing some rough looking guy off in a corner, but once you’d left to walk the several blocks home to your apartment, he’d slipped out after you, and had been following you since. A couple of times you’d turned around and yelled at him, or thrown a bottle, and while he backed off for a bit, he still persisted.
A gay guy playing pup is following me home–you couldn’t make this shit up. Maybe it was just his thing or something? The guy hadn’t even put on any clothes–he was just wearing that same jock, ass naked. Luckily the streets were deserted, and the few people around didn’t give either of you a second glance. Odd how some things can start to seem normal. He just isn’t your type though, and while the persistence is flattering, you get into your building, make sure he stays locked out, and head up to your apartment, happy to be alone–at least until you hear scratching at your door, and a familiar whine behind it.
You check the peephole, and there he is. How in the hell did he get in the building and find your apartment? Still, you’re worried that someone might see him outside your door–and the last thing you want is the building supervisors on your case, and so you open the door a crack. He refuses to leave. In fact, he just seems thrilled to see you, and licks your face when you lean in too close, trying to shoo him away. He’s making such a racket that you eventually just let him in, rather than risk being seen with him in the hallway.
He bounds around the room, barking and panting, jumping up on you and nearly knocking you to the floor, rubbing his face against your crotch. You try to tell him no, but your cock is saying different, and he knows it. Relenting once more, you let your cock out of your jeans and he starts sucking on it–finally calming down once you feed him a load of cum. However, he refuses to drop the act, and when you try to force him to leave, he barks and whines outside your door loud enough to wake the entire floor, and you let him back in again. Worried he might take the pup thing too far and piss right on the carpet, you make him use the toilet, which he does begrudgingly, and then, exhausted, you head to bed. After much effort expended in keeping him out, you eventually let him up and under the covers with you, where he spends the whole night hogging the bed.
When morning comes, you hope that you can finally put an end to this ridiculous charade, but several things happen which complicate matters. First, you realize that if you force him out during the day you will be sure to be noticed by your neighbors, and second, you see that something new has appeared on the pup in the course of the night–a leather dog collar with a tag hanging from the D-ring with your name and phone number on it. As soon as you read it, it’s like a strange veil lifts from your mind, and you realize that of course this is your pup–Spike. How could you have forgotten that? And while forcing him to leave would be impossible, you also realize that you have no real desire to make him leave. After all…where would he go?
He eats the human food you give him, though he refuses to use his hands. He presents his ass to you regularly, whining and begging until you relent and fuck him. By the end of the day, you’re fucking him rather willingly, and at night, you make him beg for your cock, like a proper pup should. This shift is just obvious enough to be noticeable, and yet too slow to be worrying, but that evening, he refuses to settle down, and instead is pawing and barking at the door, like he wants to leave, but you no longer want to see him go. Still, he grows louder and more insistent, and unable to stand it, you open the door and let him out–but he doesn’t bolt. He stays in the hallway, bounding and barking…and you realize that now he wants you to follow him.
And with that, you realize that you don’t know where you are. This isn’t…this isn’t your home, or your stuff. What are you even doing here? You throw on some of the clothes around–they aren’t yours but they’ll have to do, leave the apartment and head for the elevator with your pup, and out of the building, onto the city street. It’s the middle of the night and the streets are dead, the pup takes off at a run heading south, and you shout at him, racing to keep up. His path zigs and zags a bit, but you neither lose him nor have much of a sense of where you’re both going. The apartments turn slummier, and messier, and things begin to look a bit more familiar to you. Your pup eventually stops in front of an old tenement and waits for you to catch up. Your pup noses a lose brick–you move it and find a pair of keys, one that opens the door, and the other that opens the door to a rundown studio apartment–home.
You feel safe here–comfortable. It smells like your brand of cigarettes, and you recognize the filthy clothes strewn around the room as yours, and smell your musk. Spike is happy to be home too, and you reward him with a fuck for being smart enough to lead you here. Still, looking at the clock, it’s almost time to get to work at the construction site…right? Something about all of this still feels off, but you pull on a nasty jock, a pair of camo pants, and a white wifebeater stained brown with sweat, and take a whiff of your pits, feeling your cock harden at the stench. Looking around for your wallet, you find an empty, ornate glass bottle on the table, along with a note:
Follow your master home, and you will be his forever.
Have him follow you home, and he will take your place.
You have no idea what to make of it, but luckily pup knows where your wallet is, and brings it to you, happy to finally have the master he’d always wanted.
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