Becoming Miss Ashley's Pet

Chapter Two - Charles

Chapter Two - Charles

“Stay, Corky,” my pretty Master commands, stooping to reattach the short chain from anal insert to scrotum band.

Her soft warm fingers, working where I no longer touch, feel good.

Then with a brisk snap of the leash, the devilish spikes on the interior diameter of my collar abrade my skin and instantly draw my attention to the stern holder of my leash.

“Heel,” comes the next command as Miss Ashley rises and turns to resume the journey to the plantation house.

I bound onto the path to follow, my testicle bells once again chiming with the movement of my thighs. My subservient reaction, the renewed ringing, the shuffling of my elbows and knees to keep up, all bring tittering from my enthralled audience. The entourage follows, most likely transfixed by the scene of a naked male on a leash with sizable balls and erect manhood displayed for all.

The boyfriend strolls forward to Miss Ashley’s side and leans over to place a kiss on her cheek, apparently impressed with her handling of my leash and my ingrained obedience. She smiles, seeming to know that the observance of her control excites him. Does he know that it is my wife he is kissing?

I think back to when I first expressed such similar sentiment, in New York, after several casual phone conversations, the first date. I craftily invited Miss Ashley for an unpretentious meal at a small Greenwich Village bistro, still pretending not to know of her vast wealth.

There we kissed, a mushy kiss reeking of sentiment. I thought I did a credible job of expressing an initial level of romantic attraction to her. And I actually told myself it was not the money. In hindsight, at times I actually believed myself.

But it was the money. Despite her beauty, despite those perfectly proportioned breasts, nicely shaped legs, disregarding the blue eyes and raven hair that made for a striking presence. Knowing that her bank account burgeoned while mine was woefully empty, but for two paydays per month, drove me to attraction.

And so I courted her, ostensibly with true affection, actually with a level of sentiment akin to drafting a merger document. There were steps that I had surmised. And one such step was being subjected to a degree of due diligence, as with any merger. But there was nothing she could learn or find out about me or my background that would harm my chances. On paper I was in earnest. And at age 27, reasonably handsome, college educated with a law degree from Columbia University, I had pedigree. And I was careful. Nothing I did or said would prejudice her against me, belie my displays of affection. After all, she could not read my mind, could not assess the mendacity, the conniving, the true motivations.

I wanted money.

So we dated and we had s*x. It was good. Ashley was an attentive lover. But she was also demanding and in my fervor for enrichment I was somewhat blinded to the nature of her vigorous demands. So many times in the midst of coitus, she coyly announced that the missionary position was so blasé, or it cramped her back, or that I looked bored.

She would then wrap her arms and legs around me and roll forcefully, with surprising power, until it was I on the bottom and she on top. I did not resist or complain. Those perfectly proportioned breasts would dangle over me, jostling most enticingly as she proceeded to ride my manhood. I enjoyed the s*x, of course. No male refrains from such opportunities. But it was a means to an end... a part of a process... one chapter of a plot, which would end with me rich and no longer dependent upon the drudgery of the law for subsistence.

Yes, while the gorgeous Miss Ashley Duval rode herself to climax, I found my own pleasure in envisioning a brokerage account stuffed with quality bonds and monthly wire transfers of alimony, which would afford chartered jets, yachts and endless recreation in warmth and sunshine.

After all, New York is a community property state. No advisor would permit the fabulously wealthy Miss Ashley Duval to marry without a prenuptial agreement. And what better person to draft one than Charles J. Barrington, Esq.? And who could be more devious in assuring that the terms of such agreement inordinately benefited Charles J. Barrington, Esq. than me?

Lifetime use of that Caribbean island should be a suitable part of any divorce settlement, I recall thinking during one of my daydreams. Its description in one of Samuel L. Brackett’s filings stirred envy. To think that one woman owned it all outright. But I could assure myself use of the facility. Without a prenuptial, I would legally be entitled to half of everything. So what’s the harm in insisting upon a few million to dissolve a marriage? Plus an annual stipend, and a few other perks...

The daydreams kept me inspired during the rocky road of romance. Sometimes in undergoing some of the more mundane activities, Ashley enjoyed opera for example, to the dulcet strains of Puccini I would mentally draft the agreement, which would be signed in a fog of romantic bliss but serve to emancipate me from a lifetime of servitude to the law.

Yes, I schemed and schemed, dragging myself to morning’s labor after a late night on the town. I paid most of the tabs, mentally allocating the expenditures to ‘investment’; investment in an immensely wealthy fiancé, the first step to marriage and financial independence.

There is more laughter as Miss Ashley guides me up the stairs to the plantation house. Having spent many months forced to move about as a dog, the steps provide no obstacle but the exaggerated motion of my thighs does serve to further animate the movement of my well exposed balls. I can feel the jewelry brush against the inside of my thighs as I lift each knee and the tension on my control chain wriggles my tail, which in turn kneads my neglected prostate gland. I am ashamed to realize it feels good and judging from the comments of the more observant female guests, the effect of the manipulation is apparent. My stiffness waggles to their amusement.