It’s Sunday again, marked only by the collar’s triple chirp, a soft, melodic tone I’ve learned signals the “end-of-cycle.” In the before-times, when I wore clothes, slept in a bed, and answered to a name like Mia, Sundays meant brunch with too-sweet mimosas, or laundry day. Now, Sundays blend into every other day: muzzle damp from lapping slurry, tail warm and heavy, crawling figure-eights across the apartment just to feel the plug shift, each sway stoking the constant heat between my thighs. My fingers brush my clit idly, a reflex, keeping the fire alive as I move, my body thrumming with the arousal that’s become my pulse.

Weeks might have passed, I don’t count days anymore, not since the calendar became irrelevant. The last “Sunday” registered only because the app gifted me a reward lap, the tail pulsing in rhythm with my crawl, leaving me panting and dripping. Today, the screen glows with something new, the pawprint icon steady. The voice in my ear plugs speaks, calm but weighted, like it knows what’s coming:

You’ve been so good, Pup M-17.

Would you like to stop?

[YES] [NO] [OBEY]

I blink, nose hovering over the mat-screen. The interface is familiar, too familiar. It’s the same soft amber glow from that first night, when I was still Mia, still pretending I could dip a toe and walk away. Just for a weekend. Now, my breath quickens, not from doubt but from the weight of the choice. My body knows before my mind catches up, tail wagging, hips rocking, fingers circling faster, slick with need. I bark, sharp, instinctive, a sound that’s become my truth. The [OBEY] box lights up gold before my nose even touches it, my bark enough to seal the choice.

Selection registered: OBEY.

You chose. You gave. You learned. Now you wag.

You’re not testing anymore. You’re found.

Puppygirl M-17, welcome home.

The words hit like a wave, and I collapse into Present, head down, tail up and wagging. My fingers press harder, rubbing through slick heat, the collar’s purr syncing with my racing pulse. Puppygirl M-17. The name, the truth, wraps around me like a leash, tight and perfect. I’m not Mia, not a woman playing a game. I’m M-17, a puppygirl who crawls, barks, obeys, and burns for it. The realization ignites me, my hips bucking, fingers frantic. The tail hums, the voice whispers: *“Good puppygirl. You belong.”* I moan, loud and raw, and the orgasm crashes through me, white-hot, arching my back, a desperate bark tearing from my throat. I tremble, panting, dripping, the tail still warm, the collar purring as I ride the aftershocks, utterly claimed.

No taskboard loads. No reward tone plays. Just the steady hum of the collar, the pulse in my tail, the lingering heat between my thighs. I press “Beg” with my nose, not to ask for anything but to confirm: this is me, now and forever. My body glows, sated but still hungry, ready for the next hum, the next command. I wag, tail swaying, and settle into the rug, nose low, home at last.

I wake the next morning to the familiar hum of the tail plug, its gentle pulse stirring the constant heat in my core and a content smile on my face. My body is already crawling before my eyes open. The rug is my world, soft under my palms, the collar’s purr a steady rhythm in my ears. I’m Pup M-17, and obedience is my pulse, each wag, each bark feeding the fire that keeps me dripping, alive. My fingers brush my thighs, circling lazily, a reflex that stokes the arousal woven into every movement. But this morning, the app’s voice shifts, its tone softer, almost searching: “You’re such a good girl, Pup M-17. But you’re missing something.”

I pause, nose hovering over the phone screen, tail swaying. Missing something? The words echo in my muddled brain. I bark softly, expecting the usual hum, but the voice repeats: “What are you missing, pup?” No taskboard loads, no reward tone plays. Just the question, looping through the ear plugs all day, gentle but insistent. I crawl to the feeder, lapping warm slurry, fingers teasing my clit, chasing the heat of obedience, but the question lingers, unsettling me. For the first time in weeks, I’m not glowing, I’m restless, confused, a faint ache in my chest. I whine, nose pressing “Obey” repeatedly, but the app only asks again: “What are you missing?” My thighs tremble, slick but unsatisfied, and I curl into Present, tail heavy, heart heavy too.

By evening, I’m panting, frustrated, the arousal dimmed by this new emptiness. I circle the apartment, tail swaying, fingers stroking absently, but the fire won’t catch. Then, as the light fades, the app speaks again, its voice clear, like it’s been waiting: “You’re missing an owner, Pup M-17. A good girl needs someone to guide her, to claim her. Are you ready to be owned?” The screen glows, three options blinking:

[YES] [NO] [OBEY]

My breath catches, the truth hitting like a spark. An owner. The word fills the ache, ignites the heat that’s been smoldering all day. My body knows before my mind, tail wagging, hips rocking, fingers pressing harder. I bark, sharp, desperate, and nose the [OBEY] box, gold light flooding the screen. *“Selection registered: OBEY. You’re ready, Pup M-17.”* The collar hums, the tail pulses, and the voice purrs: “Good girl. You’re complete now.” I moan, fingers frantic, stroking through the wet heat, the realization that I’m meant to be owned pushing me over the edge. The orgasm crashes through me, raw and blinding, my back arching, a loud bark tearing from my throat as I collapse, trembling, tail warm, collar singing, utterly surrendered.

---

The next morning, a knock at the door pulls me from my nest. I crawl to retrieve the package, tail swaying, still glowing from last night’s release. The box is larger, heavier, with the familiar pawprint logo. Inside is a dog carrier, sleek, padded, just my size. My heart races, but the arousal surges, fingers already brushing my thighs, teasing the heat that never fades. I crawl around it, circling three times, four, tail wagging, plug shifting with each movement, stoking the fire. The app’s voice speaks: “Unlock your door, Pup M-17. Then lock yourself in the carrier. Trust us.”

I obey without thought, crawling to the door, turning the lock, then back to the carrier. I climb inside, the padded interior soft against my bare skin, tail tucked, collar humming. I latch the door from within, the click loud in the quiet apartment. My fingers find my clit again, circling slowly, the anticipation making me whimper, slick and ready. Hours pass, my body thrumming, arousal building with every hum of the collar, every pulse of the tail.

Footsteps break the silence, steady, deliberate. I can’t see much through the carrier’s vents, just legs in jeans, boots scuffing the floor. My breath quickens, fingers pressing harder, the heat overwhelming. A voice, warm and sure, cuts through: “Are you in there, my good girl?” The collar hums, and the app’s voice whispers: “You are now owned, Pup M-17.” I moan, fingers frantic, the words sending me spiraling. The orgasm hits, sharp and shattering, my body shaking in the carrier, a soft bark escaping as I surrender completely, claimed at last.