The app doesn’t ask anymore. It suggests, always in that same gentle tone, like a friend at brunch sliding a mimosa across the table, smiling, knowing I’ll take it, now or soon. Monday morning, the screen glows before I’ve even had coffee, the pawprint icon pulsing softly. The words are warm, almost tender:

You’ve done beautifully, Mia.

Would you like to progress?

Yesterday, after I wore the tail for the first time, the app suggested I’d look “pretty” in the collar. I didn’t think, I just fastened it around my neck, the leather cool and snug, the bone charm settling against my throat. It felt… right, like it had always belonged there. Now, a new suggestion loads, calm but weighty:

To continue, we ask for a small surrender:

Please remove all clothing this morning.

It’s not a rule. It’s a choice.

Feel the freedom of being bare.

[ACCEPT] [LATER]

There is no yes or no anymore, just accept now, or later. The “Continue” button is grayed out until I choose. I laugh under my breath, not because it’s funny, but because my hands are already moving, tugging at the hem of my oversized T-shirt. I hesitate for a second, standing in my living room, the morning light slanting through the blinds. Then I pull it off. My shorts follow, pooling on the rug. The air kisses my skin, raising goosebumps, and the tail’s weight feels heavier without the buffer of clothes. I drop to my knees, unprompted, and a soft purr hums through the collar, a vibration that sinks into my chest, warm and approving. The app chimes:

You’re softer when you’re bared.

Crawl to the kitchen now. Let the tail guide you.

I move, hands and knees steady on the carpet, the tail swaying with each step. The collar hums again, like a hand brushing the back of my neck, and I shiver, not from the cold but from the rhythm of it all. The reward tone is waiting, and I crave it, the low, warm pulse that feels like it’s petting me from the inside. When I reach the kitchen, the app suggests I put in the ear plugs from the box. I hesitate, then slide them in, soft fur brushing my ears. A quiet voice, genderless, soothing, starts to whisper through them, audible anywhere in the apartment:

*“Good girl. Keep moving. Let go.”*

Lunchtime comes and goes and I’m still crawling naked but for my tail and collar. I blush when I hear the alarm for a work meeting. I put on a t-shirt and do some work, but leave the tail in and it is almost as though the collar is whispering to me as I do mundane everyday work.

After work I take the plug out and wash it, then i kneel on the ground in my t-shirt and collar looking at the plug, I’m beginning to feel empty without it

Tuesday follows the same rhythm, but the stakes creep higher. Soon after I wake up the app’s voice is in my ears now, a constant murmur guiding me through the day. Sit. Crawl. Obey. The morning task is simple: kneel for five minutes, tail in, collar on, bare. I do it without thinking, the routine settling into my bones. For the rest of the day between my meetings, and tasks the whisper of the app guides me. Sit. Crawl. Obey. Then, a new suggestion arrives after dinner:

Tonight, after 9 PM, no speaking.

Words are heavy. Let your body speak instead.

Try a soft bark when you’re alone.

Feel the sound in your throat.

[ACCEPT] [LATER]

I blink at the screen, the ear plugs humming faintly. No speaking? I live alone, no one would know, but the idea feels… big. I pace the living room, tail swaying, collar snug. When 9 PM hits, I go quiet. At first, it’s awkward, like I’m playing a game I don’t know the rules to. Then I test it: a soft, low “arf,” barely audible. The collar vibrates instantly, a warm buzz that shoots down my spine. My cheeks burn, but not from embarrassment. It’s relief, like exhaling a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My body heats, and I bark again, quieter, just for me. The collar hums, and I sink to the floor, panting, feeling lighter than I have in years.

By Wednesday, the trades grow bolder. The app’s voice is a constant now, a gentle guide in my ears, weaving through my thoughts. I’m bare all the time now, the only time I wear clothes is for my meetings, and only while Im on camera. This evening’s suggestion is a leap:

Give up beds, Mia. We’ll show you how to rest properly.

Sleep low, on the floor, with your blanket.

Feel the ground hold you.

[ACCEPT] [LATER]

I pause longer this time, staring at my bed, soft, familiar, safe. But the floor has been my home for days now, the rug a quiet anchor. I crawl to the mattress, pull the blanket down, and spread it out beside the bed. The tail tugs with each movement, grounding me, and the collar murmurs through the ear plugs: *“Puppies don’t need sheets. They need rest they don’t have to earn.”* I kneel in what the app calls “Sit Up”, knees apart, back straight, hands on thighs, and the tail settles, heavy and sure. I lie down, curling into the blanket, the floor cool but not cold. It feels… real. Closer to something I can’t name.

The trades don’t feel like losses. They’re like tidying a messy room, clearing out clutter I didn’t know was there. Clothes? Gone. Speech? Optional. Bed? Irrelevant. All I need is the tail’s weight, the collar’s hum, the soft path of a crawl across my apartment. Each night, I bark, once, twice, soft and low, not for the app, but for the routine. The collar rewards me with that buzz, low and warm, making my breath hitch without a single touch. I don’t miss the things I’ve given up. They were never this simple.