Cynthia knew she was in trouble when she heard the front door open. She halted mid-paragraph, fingers frozen over the keyboard, her muscles tensing as though seized by a jolt of electricity.

“Happy birthday, darling!” Her husband called from downstairs. “Hope you’re ready for your present.”

Shit. Of course. How could Cynthia have forgotten? She and Max had talked about it just this morning, back when she’d still intended to spend most of the day in bed, ensconced in her sheets and snacks and stack of smutty books. But then came that email from her editor. And those notes on her latest draft. Which reminded her of the outline she hadn’t finished. And those invoices she still needed to send. The next thing she knew, Cynthia was at her desk again, completely absorbed in her work, hours flying by as she pruned sentences and untangled clauses, her earlier plans fading into the distant recesses of her mind.

Until now. Now, they were all she could think about as she listened to the heavy sounds of Max’s footsteps, her chest tightening with every heartbeat.

“Are you upstairs?” her husband asked.

Cynthia held her breath. If she didn’t answer, maybe he would assume she was out. Or asleep. Either way, it would give her the precious time she needed to finish this paragraph. Then she would go to him and continue their evening as planned. That was a reasonable compromise, wasn’t it?

The stairs creaked. “You’re not in the office are you?”

“Yes,” Cynthia squeaked, only to cringe and cover her mouth. It wasn’t fair, him using his hypnotist voice like that. Not when he knew she couldn’t resist it.

“I thought you were taking the weekend off,” he intoned, his shadow spilling beneath the crack in the doorframe, filling the cluttered room with his presence.

“I-I’m almost done,” Cynthia protested, long legs crossing and uncrossing beneath her desk. “Just one more paragraph, I swear.”

“That wasn’t we agreed on last night. Do you remember?”

Her slender throat ticked as she swallowed. “Yes.”

“Are you sure? Why don’t you remind me?”

The chastised author swiveled in her chair, blushing and fidgeting with a dark lock of hair. God, what was wrong with her? She was Cynthia Morgan, for Chrissake—she’d written multiple books, hosted several sold-out readings, had been interviewed by not one, but two literary publications of note, all before reaching the age of 30. Yet here she was, listening to her husband talk as if she was a misbehaving child, and getting hopelessly, horrendously turned on by it.

“I-I…” She exhaled, trying to center herself. “I promised not to do any work today.”

“What else?”

Oh no. Oh God. “I told you if…if I end up breaking that promise, then you should…um…” Her face burned, her fingers trembling as they tugged at her sweater sleeves. “You should punish me. B-But that was last night!” she quickly added. “I, um, I didn’t know Marcy would send me her notes so soon. And you know I don’t like to keep her waiting. Besides, the sooner I finish this draft, the sooner I can work on that psychology of literature piece we’ve been talking about. You were the one who said I should try expanding into non-fiction, remember? If I push a little now, I’ll have so much more time to really dig into the research and free up my schedule for those interviews and…”

Her voice trailed off. Max wasn’t behind the door anymore. Cynthia wasn’t sure when he’d left, but she felt his absence now, a hollow quickly filled with a mixture of regret and relief. She sighed, turning back to her computer, fully aware that she was being unreasonable. After all, this whole birthday weekend had been her idea from the beginning. She was the one who’d set everything up, who’d cleared her schedule and muted her phone, who’d instructed her husband on exactly what she wanted and exactly how she should be treated. If she knew what was good for her, she would be at Max’s side now, happily relinquishing her cares and concerns, indulging in the desires she’d been deferring for months.

But that was the problem: she didn’t know what was good for her. Not for Cynthia Morgan, the human animal; only for Cynthia Morgan, the successful author. Even now, she could feel herself rationalizing her abandoned leisure, her eyes already gliding back to the computer screen, narrowing her world into the space between one word and the next. She’d been too greedy, asking for a whole weekend of rest. Who needed that much relaxation anyway? There was so much that could be done in that time, so many pages and projects demanding her attention. Besides, wasn’t it kind of egotistical, making such a big deal about her birthday? It wasn’t like she led a particularly trying existence, at least not to the degree that maintaining it for another year counted as an achievement. Completing a new draft of her novel though—now that was something worth celebrating, something she could…

The door behind her creaked open.

Cynthia’s shoulders jumped, but she didn’t turn. She was paralyzed, caught between an unshakeable dedication to her work, and the dark, forbidden desires unfurling as her husband drew near.

“Darling.” Max was using that voice again, so low and compelling and dangerous. “Look at me.”

Cynthia bit her lip. She wanted to heed his call. To honor what she had promised, both to him and to herself. But once she did, she knew there’d be no going back. The moment she gave in, the second she yielded to temptation, she would be completely under Max’s control, unable to escape no matter how hard she tried. Their experiments with hypnosis had proven this all too well. She was too submissive, too suggestible, too perverted and pathetic to resist him. Cynthia the author may have lofty ideals and ambitions, but Cynthia the animal longed to be freed from such burdens, to be reduced to a simpler, lesser being, a creature of instinct and obedience, tamed and brought to heel at the feet of a stern, loving Superior.

Master. Owner. The man standing behind her right now. The cruel conductor of her twisted dreams. She couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not until she finished this paragraph. Then…then she would…finally—

“Look at me, pet. Now.” Max’s fingers snapped.

The sound reverberated through Cynthia’s mind, rippling down her shoulders into the growing heat beneath her belly. She sighed, her hands sliding limp from the desk, her eyes temporarily unfocusing as she turned, obeying her Master’s command. The instant she blinked, the world regained its sharpness, bringing with it the realization of what had just occurred. She opened her mouth to object, only to find it hanging open, dumb with shock, her voice suddenly stolen by what her wide eyes beheld.

Her Master was standing before her, silhouetted in the light from the open door. His tall, broad form filled her vision, his white work shirt stretched taut across the dark contours of his body, a muscular map guiding her eyes down the rolled-up sleeves and powerful lines of his forearms, to the clenched fist wrapped in a glittering chain, its silver links dangling towards the floor, ending in a simple leather collar that swung slowly, hypnotically from side to side.

Several seconds passed before Cynthia could speak again. “But…my draft…” she whined, her voice already taking on the pitiful notes of a pleading hound.

“It can wait,” Max stated simply. “Come to me.”

“I…uh…” Cynthia struggled to think, to resist, to pull her gaze from the demeaning symbol as it swayed back and forth. She’d chosen the collar herself years ago, back when her fantasies were still freshly exposed, raw and ravenous and longing to be realized. Her Master had suggested something softer, a smooth violet band with a shining pendant at the end, marking its wearer as prized, pampered, and protected. Cynthia the author would’ve found it cute. But Cynthia the animal was a different beast.

She was awakening now, in the darkest depths of the author’s heart. With every pulse in her veins, the delicious poison spread, seeping into her skin and flooding her brain, dissolving all thoughts of work, of dreams or plans or goals, of anything beyond sating the wicked hunger at her core. Her eyelids fluttered, her body swaying slightly as she rose from her chair, taking her first languid steps towards surrender.

“That’s right, my pet,” her Master purred. “That’s a good girl.”

Good girl. The phrase throbbed in her chest, her pussy, her mind. Its echo rippled over her skin, alighting it with feeling, with want, with tingling sparks that sharpened her senses and drew her nipples to stiff points, straining to be held, to be pinched and pulled and licked and bit. Suddenly, the thick fabric of her sweater felt unbearable, suffocating. This would not do. The fire desired oxygen. Demanded release. With fumbling hands, the dazed woman began shedding the shell of her outer self, exposing the naked, vulnerable creature within, blushing and shivering and longing to be claimed. With every article discarded, the stubborn protests of her intellect dimmed, until they were nothing but a fleeting whisper, inaudible beneath the hot, rushing tides of her blood and breath.

“Yes.” Her owner’s grin was savage, triumphant. “You remember what you are.”

She did. Bit by bit. And the more the animal remembered, the more the author forgot. The words that had filled her head all day were slipping away, dripping out of her with every step, drooling from her lips and trickling down her thighs. The growing emptiness in her skull made her dizzy, and she soon found herself unable to remain upright, her balance wobbling until she was forced to sink to her knees, crawling the rest of the way past binders and papers and machines she no longer recognized. The enlightened world held no meaning to her now. Only the shadow of her Superior could give her purpose.

She was before him now, kneeling at his feet, her eyes still fixed on the leather hoop as it swung lazily before her, a wicked serpent mesmerizing its prey, drawing her closer to blissful oblivion.

“Very good, pet.” Her Owner chuckled. “Now: submit.”

His pet obeyed without hesitation, her training easily overpowering her feeble mind. She sat up on her haunches, front paws pulling her long hair back behind her head, exposing her neck in a sign of meek surrender. There she waited, her glazed eyes staring at nothing, unworthy of meeting her Superior’s gaze. She bit back a moan as his hands inspected her body, caressing her cheek and thumbing her lips, manly fingers sliding down her throat to cup a possessive fistful of soft, supple flesh. How long she remained there was impossible to say. It didn’t matter. She would hold this position forever if commanded. Or at least until her burning thighs finally gave out, forcing her to collapse into the puddle of arousal she’d been leaking onto the floor.

Fortunately, her Master took pity on his property. With a smirk, he curled his fingers around her chin, gently tipping her head up before wrapping the leather collar around her throat, the band tightening until she could feel its rough edges bite into her skin. The sensation sent her heart fluttering, her insides clenching ecstatically, seized with the joy of being claimed, of being owned completely by the one who had tamed her.

Her Superior wasted no time exerting his authority. Roughly, he yanked her leash toward him, a startled gasp escaping her lips as her face was suddenly pressed against the tent of his trousers, the stiff flesh beneath throbbing and seething against her. She panted, open-mouthed with want, her empty head spinning as it was filled with her Superior’s scent, his warmth, his power. A strangled cry escaped her throat. Her tongue scraped uselessly at the fabric, wetting it with her pathetic, sticky saliva. She needed to taste him, to take him, to please him, to worship the rod that had broken her brain, to offer her insides to its sublime instruction.

“That’s my girl,” her Master chuckled. “That’s my birthday bitch. You love your Owner’s cock, don’t you?”

She did. More than anything. More than her dignity. Her pride. Her safety. Whimpering, she reached for the belt above her eyes, trembling fingers struggling to pull it apart, to unleash the dark, magnificent beast she had sworn herself to and…

Smack! Her Owner’s hand snapped across her cheek, stars of pain exploding as she was knocked to the side, spittle stringing freely from her shocked, open lips.

“Bad girl!” The phrase sent a sharp jolt down her spine. “You know better than that.”

She did. Of course she did. But she’d transgressed anyway, without hesitation or thought. This was why brainless mutts like her needed a Master; why he was right to discipline her so; why she now lowered her head to the floor in submission, groveling at the points of his shoes, her naked hips raised high behind her, offering her ass to any further rebukes.

For a while, her Owner said nothing. The room lapsed into silence, save for the shuddering, high-pitched mewling of her breath. The clinking of his belt abruptly cut through her whining, flooding her veins with fear and arousal, her toes curling and pussy clenching as she anticipated the just punishment to come.

But then surprisingly, she felt a leather toe slide beneath her chin, gently lifting her head upward. She yielded to its guidance, and saw with a shock that her Owner’s rigid cock was now towering over her, thick and naked and glorious, a beacon of masculine might dominating her vision. She felt it beckon to her, demanding to be served, offering the deepest pleasure possible in return. But she did not move from her place. She may have been a dumb mutt, but she’d learned her lesson. She waited, silently, obediently, excruciatingly.

Finally, her Owner sighed. “Oh, alright. Go ahead, pet.”

With a happy yip of thanks, she leapt up at her Superior’s crotch, pressing her face against his powerful member, nuzzling and slobbering over every hot, throbbing inch. Her every sense was consumed by him, his sweet musk filling her nostrils, his delectable taste singing against her tongue, his beautiful veins dancing before her eyes, his overwhelming heat slapping and sliding against her cheeks.

“I do so love spoiling you,” he mused before grasping the back of her hair, forcing her open mouth to swallow the monstrous length of him, her pupils rolling behind fluttering eyelids as her throat bulged around his girth. “But then again, it is your birthday after all.”

His pet let out a grateful gluk, slurping with hedonistic abandon as she began bobbing her head on his cock, thrilling at every excited pulse and twitch against her soft, supplicating tongue. Eventually, her efforts were rewarded, hot spurts of her Superior’s seed coating her unworthy mouth, warming her from the inside as she swallowed in great, greedy gulps.

She gasped as her Owner withdrew, tongue lolling from her open mouth to show she’d been a good girl, happily taking all that was given to her. Her Master chuckled, ruffled her hair, and permitted her to lick up the dribbling remnants as he said:

“You know, I still have to punish you, pet. That was the promise I made to my wife. And it’s one I intend to keep.”

His pet let out a dreamy murmur, still kissing and lapping the last traces of his cum, too blissfully puppy-brained to process what he was telling her. Still, when she felt a tug on her leash, she understood what was expected. She broke away from her treat, allowing her Master to maneuver her to his side, keeping pace as he slowly led her out of the office towards the bedroom.

“But don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll have plenty of time for more fun. After all, the weekend is only beginning.” He looked down at her with an affectionate smile. “Happy birthday pet.”

She couldn’t agree more.