My stomach plunges with fear. Although nothing but simple obedience is expected of me, I still feel unprepared. I know I can’t compete with Phoebe. I also know I’ll have to be extra good following Tara’s outburst. Suddenly the pressure seems overwhelming. I whimper and press myself close to Phoebe, who gives my hand a friendly squeeze.
‘Come along, Saskia,’ my master says, smiling indulgently, ‘there’s a good girl.’ He holds out one of my chocolate treats and I nibble it gratefully from his hand, my submission enhanced by the fact that everyone is watching me. He delivers me to the handler and I peer up at him, telling him with my eyes what a good little doggy I’ll be for him. I lift one hand slightly and Mr Veith smiles, bending down to shake it. He strokes my head and then we’re off.
He leads me around the ring at a slower pace than Phoebe and I keep to his heel as I’m supposed to. I stop when he stops, turn when he turns and sit when I’m told to. He takes out one of his bone-shaped biscuits and holds it high over my head. I gaze up at it, knowing I mustn’t jump up and snatch it, however much I want to.
‘Good girl,’ he says at last, lowering the biscuit so I can have it. I was right; it’s gingerbread.
When I look over at the judges I see smiles on more than one face as they write. I don’t need to see my master to know I’ve done well.
Mr Veith takes me around the ring one final time and, while I’m not the exhibitionist Phoebe is, I sense that I’m putting on a good show. It’s over far too quickly and when I remember what comes next I start getting anxious. I try to hide my fear as Mr Veith leads me to the table and my master helps him lift me up on to it. He unclips the lead and I lift my head, happy not to need restraining like Tara. I am determined to make my master proud.
Mr Veith pats my head and I smile shyly, reassured by the silent praise. I jump when I first feel his hand on my naked back, but he strokes me gently and I soon relax into his unfamiliar touch. His hands explore every inch of exposed flesh, running along my back and up and down my arms and legs. He lifts my feet and strokes them, then peers at my hands. He takes his time with me, no doubt feeling somewhat cheated by Tara.
I flinch, ticklish, as he draws his fingers along my ribs. Then he deftly slides his hands underneath me, cupping my small breasts. A hot pulse surges through my body and I feel myself growing wet as he squeezes me gently. Then he releases me and I feel a hand at the base of my spine, pushing down.
‘Sit,’ he instructs.
I sink to my knees and he moves in front of me and positions me how he wants me: kneeling up, back arched, arms at my sides. I lower my eyes demurely as he palms my breasts again, this time brushing his thumbs slowly back and forth over the nipples. They respond immediately and I push aside my self-consciousness, giving in to the stimulation. He lingers, his continued touch a reward for my good behaviour. I moan softly when at last he stops and I hear my master chuckle softly.
‘Good girl,’ he whispers, appearing at my side and feeding me another bite of chocolate. The heavenly taste fills my mouth, a perfect counterpoint to the tingling in my body, the hot pulsing in my sex.
Now Mr Veith urges me back up on all fours again. I obey instantly, eager to please, keen for more. His right hand glides up the inside of my left thigh and I hold my breath as I wait for the touch I’m craving. I sense that nothing less than full surrender will satisfy my master and I’m determined not to let my inhibitions get the best of me. I want what Phoebe had.
He pats the inside of each thigh, urging my legs apart. I gasp as the exposure chills the dampness that must be obvious to him. With one finger he explores the delicate folds, as though coaxing open the petals of a flower. He traces the opening of my sex, teasing me beyond endurance. I can’t restrain a little moan of desire and my hips writhe, pleading, demanding.
‘Very good,’ he says, although whether he means my physical response or my general submission I have no idea. But he doesn’t give me much time to wonder before he finally slips a finger inside me. The sensation is electric after the painful wanting and I clench tightly around his finger. He reaches deep inside, sweeping around the soft walls and nudging against my cervix. It makes me gasp. My legs tremble with the effort of not collapsing and he steadies me with his left hand.
I steal a glance over at Phoebe and she looks as rapt as I’m sure I did when it was her turn. She catches me looking and gives me a lascivious wink. The thought steals into my mind that the two of us could get up to some fun games on our own – assuming our masters would allow it, of course.
Mr Veith slides his finger out and I protest with a whimper before realising it’s only so he can insert a second one. The penetration becomes rougher as he stretches me wide, manipulating me with clear expertise. At the same time he presses against my abdomen from the outside, as though trying to make his fingers meet on either side of my skin. I feel gorgeously invaded from every angle. I can’t escape and I don’t want to. Some part of me is vaguely aware of the rude display I’m making, grinding my hips wantonly as I am fondled before a room full of strangers. But I don’t care. All I want is more. Too much could never be enough.
The signs must be obvious to him because suddenly he directs all his attention to my sex, slipping his left hand down to tweak the tiny little bud that will make me lose control. Almost immediately I feel the rising tide of a powerful climax and it overtakes me like a wave, crashing over me and pulling me under. I cry out, lost somewhere between pleasure and pain.
Starbursts blink behind my eyes and the only sound is my breathing as I pant and gasp for air. From far away I hear words of praise but I’m adrift in a world of ecstasy and can’t make them out. Warm arms encircle me and I am lifted and then lowered to the floor, where it takes me a little while to remember how to make my arms and legs work. When I return to the fireplace I curl into a contented little ball, basking. Phoebe nuzzles me and kisses my cheek and I paw at her.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ comes the voice of Mr Veith some time later, ‘it would appear we have a tie.’
Phoebe and I share a smile at the murmurs of approval from the crowd. He calls us both to the centre of the ring and we go eagerly, sitting side by side at his feet. He gives each of us a treat and addresses the room.
‘I propose to add a new round to the competition. We’ve seen how the competitors interact with a handler. Now let’s see how they interact with each other.’
I see Phoebe’s eyes flash with mischief but before she can act, I do what I’ve been wanting to do all day: I pounce on her, knocking her flat on her back. She yelps in surprise but quickly recovers, rolling on to her front and preparing for the counterattack. I retreat a few steps and she launches herself at me, pinning me down and licking my face. I struggle beneath her, not with any real effort, and she eventually lets me up so we can trade places.
As we tussle my imagination goes wild and I fantasise that we’re outside in the garden, frolicking in the grass, in the sprinkler, in the mud, getting filthy. We wouldn’t be allowed back in the house then. Not without a bath. I can see us sitting together in a big metal tub on the patio, splashing in the soapsuds and the spray from the garden hose before being roughly towelled dry by our masters.
Someone tosses a foam toy into the ring and I grab it first, scampering away with Phoebe in hot pursuit. When she catches me she wrestles me to the floor and we tug it back and forth with our teeth, quickly reducing it to a scattering of fluff. I have never felt so free. By the time I finally capitulate and let her win, it’s no longer about the game. Or the show.
I’m too exhausted to resist when Phoebe finally pushes me down, breathing hard from more than just the physical exertion. She fixes me with her beautiful gaze and caresses my face, drawing her hands lightly down my throat and over my breasts. I tremble and urge her on with a look. She hesitates only a moment before obliging. My sex is begging for her touch.
Phoebe strokes my silky wetness and bends down, covering my mouth with hers. Her kisses taste like ginger. As we surrender to our mutual attraction, I hear her tag jingle against her collar like a bell.
I