Connoisseur Of Man-Dogs

Kik ladyrene7

The stage lights were uncomfortably warm, casting long shadows across the black-box theater. Trevor, usually the sharpest wit in the group, stood center stage for the final suggestion of the night.

"Give me a relationship and a setting!" the moderator shouted.

"A man and his prize-winning golden retriever at a dog show!" a voice barked from the dark.

Trevor didn’t hesitate. He dropped to all fours, his spine curving into a fluid, submissive arch. He didn't just crouch; he transformed. His tongue lolled out, and he looked up at Will—his best friend and scene partner—with an intensity that felt startlingly real.

"Show me those teeth, Buddy," Will said, leaning into the bit.

Trevor tilted his head, letting out a soft, rhythmic pant. When Will reached down to "check his form," Trevor didn't just act; he leaned his entire weight against Will’s leg, nuzzling into his palm. Then, caught in a surge of sudden, primal affection, Trevor lunged upward and swiped his tongue firmly across Will’s cheek. The audience roared, but Trevor felt a strange, quiet peace. No lines to memorize, no social anxiety—just the simple, devoted service to the man standing above him.

Over the next two weeks, the "dog bit" stopped being a gag. Trevor began shoehorning it into every rehearsal, refining the role with unsettling detail.

• The Space Mission Sketch: Trevor, playing the Co-Pilot, abandoned his chair to curl up in a tight ball on Will’s boots. When Will "commanded" him to check the sensors, Trevor crawled across the floor on his belly, whimpering until Will patted his head.

• The Dinner Party: While the rest of the troupe did high-brow accents, Trevor sat on his haunches behind Will’s chair. He didn't speak a word; he simply rested his chin on Will’s knee, gazing up with wide, unblinking eyes, begging for "scraps."

• The Heist: Instead of cracking the safe, Trevor "scented" the guards. When the scene grew tense, he retreated to Will’s side, licking Will's hand frantically to "comfort" him, his tongue warm and persistent against Will's skin.

The rest of the group—Marcus, Leo, and Sam—were losing their patience. During a break, Marcus hissed, "Will, talk to him. He’s spent forty minutes sniffing your pockets. It’s getting weird."

Will found Trevor in the dressing room after a rehearsal where Trevor had refused to stand up for the entire two-hour block. Trevor was currently sitting on a rug in the corner, his knees tucked to his chest, head tilted.

"Trev, we need to talk," Will said, closing the door. "The guys are weirded out. You’re a great actor, but the dog thing... you’re taking it too far. You're not even talking anymore."

Trevor didn't stand. He shifted onto his hands and knees, crawling slowly until he reached Will’s feet. He looked up, his expression devoid of his usual snark.

"I don't want to talk, Will," Trevor whispered, his voice low and vibrating. "When I'm your dog, the world makes sense. I don't have to be 'Trevor.' I just have to be yours."

To Will’s shock, Trevor leaned up, bracing his forearms against Will’s chest like a dog greeting its master. He let out a small, needy whine and began to lick Will’s jawline—slow, deliberate strokes that were far too earnest for a comedy sketch.

Will opened his mouth to protest, to tell Trevor he was being ridiculous. But as Trevor’s tongue swiped against his skin and those pleading eyes locked onto his, Will felt a surge of something he hadn't expected: Authority. He liked the weight of Trevor against him. He liked the absolute, uncomplicated devotion.

"You really want this?" Will asked, his voice dropping an octave, becoming firmer, more territorial. "You want to go home and stay on the floor? No more acting, just... being mine?"

Trevor’s breath hitched. He dropped his head, baring the back of his neck in a silent, submissive "yes." He let out a soft "woof," the sound vibrating in his chest, and gave Will’s hand one last, lingering lick.

Will reached down, gripping the back of Trevor’s neck firmly. "Then get your leash, Trevor. We’re going home."

The following is a clip from an MTV fat show that aired in the 2000s. (Forgetting the name)

In the cutthroat world of professional hockey, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were legends for all the wrong reasons. Their rivalry wasn’t just intense—it was volcanic. Shane, the captain for the Montreal Metros, had a reputation for body checks that could shatter bones and egos alike. Ilya, the lightning-fast Captain for the Boston Raiders, was a scoring machine with a smirk that could provoke a saint. They’d clashed in countless games: Shane’s hits sending Ilya sprawling, Ilya’s goals humiliating Shane’s team. Off the ice, their trash-talking filled headlines, with Shane calling Ilya a “prima donna” and Ilya retorting that Shane was “all bark, no bite.”

It all boiled over during the playoffs. In Game 7, Shane delivered a thunderous check that left Ilya dazed on the ice. The Bruins won, but Ilya seethed with rage. After the game, in the dimly lit bowels of the arena, Ilya cornered Shane in the hallway. “You think you’re tough, Hollander?You hit like a child,” Ilya spat, his Russian accent thick with fury.

Shane laughed, towering over him. “And you skate like one. Always yapping, never backing it up. Maybe you need to learn some obedience, Rozanov. Like a good little dog.”

The words hung in the air, charged with something unexpected. Ilya’s eyes flashed—not with anger, but intrigue. Shane, sensing the shift, pressed his advantage. “Yeah, that’s it. Bark for me, Ilya. Show me you’re not all talk.”

What started as a taunt escalated into a dare. Back at Shane’s hotel room that night, fueled by adrenaline and whiskey, Shane convinced Ilya to play along. “Get on your knees,” Shane commanded, his voice low and authoritative. Ilya hesitated, but the thrill of submission—of turning their rivalry into something intimate and twisted—won out. He dropped to all fours, mimicking a dog’s whimper. Shane clipped a makeshift collar from his belt around Ilya’s neck, leading him around the room. “Good boy,” Shane murmured, scratching behind Ilya’s ears. To Ilya’s shock, he felt a rush like nothing on the ice—a mix of humiliation and ecstasy that made his pulse race. After that fateful night in the hotel room, Shane and Ilya’s private ritual evolved into something far more elaborate—a full-fledged game of dominance and submission, disguised as dog training. Shane, ever the enforcer, took to his role as “master” with the same intensity he brought to the ice, turning their encounters into structured sessions that blurred the line between play and obsession. Ilya, the once-arrogant sniper, discovered a profound thrill in surrendering, his body and mind craving the structure and rewards of behaving like a loyal hound.

It always started the same way: in the privacy of Shane’s upscale apartment or a discreet hotel suite after a grueling game. Shane would lock the door, dim the lights, and pull out the collar—a real one now, black leather with a silver tag engraved “Ilya’.” Ilya would strip down to nothing, his athletic frame glistening from the post-game shower, and kneel at Shane’s feet. “Sit,” Shane would command, his voice firm but laced with anticipation. Ilya obeyed instantly, dropping to all fours, his back straight, eyes locked on Shane’s with a mix of defiance and eagerness.

The training began with basics, echoing real dog obedience classes Shane had researched online for authenticity. “Heel,” Shane would say, clipping a leash to the collar and leading Ilya around the room. Ilya crawled beside him, matching Shane’s pace, his knees scraping the carpet as he learned to stay close without pulling. If he lagged or veered off, Shane delivered a sharp tug or a light swat on the flank—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting and remind Ilya of his place. “Good boy,” Shane praised when Ilya got it right, tossing a treat—a small piece of chocolate or a protein bar bite—onto the floor for Ilya to lap up with his tongue, no hands allowed.

Tricks came next, escalating the literal dog-like behavior. Shane taught Ilya to “roll over,” where he’d lie on his back, exposing his belly for Shane to rub, Ilya’s breath quickening at the vulnerability. “Shake,” Shane ordered, and Ilya would lift a “paw”—his hand—balancing precariously on three limbs while Shane gripped it firmly. The favorite was “fetch”: Shane tossed a hockey puck or a balled-up sock across the room, and Ilya scampered after it on all fours, retrieving it in his mouth and dropping it at Shane’s feet. Panting from the exertion, Ilya would nuzzle Shane’s leg, whining softly for approval. Shane rewarded him with head scratches, his fingers tangling in Ilya’s sweat-dampened hair, or by allowing Ilya to rest his head in Shane’s lap.

But the ritual’s core was the licking—intimate, submissive acts that sealed their bond. After a successful trick, Shane would pat his thigh and say, “Come here, pup.” Ilya crawled forward, pressing his face against Shane’s cheek or neck, his tongue darting out in long, deliberate licks. It started playful, like a dog’s affectionate greeting, but grew more fervent: Ilya lapping at Shane’s jawline, tracing the stubble, then moving to his lips in sloppy, wet kisses that left trails of saliva. Shane encouraged it, gripping the back of Ilya’s neck to guide him, murmuring, “That’s it, show me how much you love being my good dog.” Ilya reveled in it, the taste of Shane’s skin—salty from sweat, with hints of cologne—sending shivers through him. It was humiliating, yet exhilarating, a way for Ilya to express devotion without words.

Discipline was key, just like in real training. If Ilya broke character—say, by speaking instead of barking—Shane enforced “time-outs,” making Ilya sit in a corner on his haunches, nose to the wall, until he whimpered an apology. Rewards escalated too: after a perfect session, Shane might “walk” Ilya to the bed, where the role-play blurred into something more primal, with Ilya begging on his knees, tongue extended, before Shane allowed him release.

Ilya loved it. Behind closed doors, it became their secret ritual. In hotel rooms after games, Ilya would shed his tough-guy facade. He’d fetch Shane’s gloves on command, nuzzle against his leg, and beg for treats—sometimes literal, sometimes metaphorical. Shane, the dominant rival, reveled in the control, turning their hatred into a bond of power play. “Who’s my loyal pup?”

Months passed, the rivalry simmering publicly while their secret flourished. Then came the All-Star Game, under the bright lights of the arena, with thousands watching and cameras rolling. Shane and Ilya were on opposite teams, trading barbs during warm-ups. But as they lined up for a face-off, something snapped in Ilya. The arena was electric, the crowd roaring under the blinding lights. Shane and Ilya were on opposite teams, as always, trading heated glares during warm-ups. In the second period, play stopped briefly after a whistle, both men skating toward center ice for the next face-off. They came to a stop inches apart, helmets off for a moment as they waited for the linesman, the cameras zooming in on their intense staredown.

Ilya’s heart pounded—not from the game, but from the secret burning between them. He couldn’t hold it back any longer. With the entire hockey world watching, Ilya leaned in fast, cupped the back of Shane’s neck with one gloved hand to hold him steady, and dragged his tongue in a slow, unmistakable lick up Shane’s cheek—from jaw to temple.

The crowd erupted in a stunned roar, half laughter, half disbelief. Commentators lost it: “Did Rozanov just lick Hollander? What is happening out there?!”

Shane didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on Ilya’s, a dangerous smirk curling his lips. He wiped his cheek slowly with the back of his glove, voice low enough for only Ilya to hear: “Good boy.”

Love this scene from Ghost Dog: A Detective Tail (2003)

Zack Ward is such a good boy in this movie!!!

Aiden had always been a bit of a tinkerer with the mind—self-taught hypnosis from online tutorials, mostly for fun at parties or to help friends quit smoking. But when his rent doubled overnight thanks to his landlord Ray’s sudden greed, desperation kicked in. Ray was a burly guy in his forties, always barking orders about late payments and maintenance fees, with a no-nonsense attitude that made Aiden’s stomach twist. “Loyalty,” Aiden thought. That’s what he needed. If he could hypnotize Ray to be loyal to him, like a faithful friend, maybe the rent hikes would stop, and he’d get some breathing room in his cramped apartment.

One evening, Aiden invited Ray over under the pretense of discussing a leaky faucet. Ray grumbled but showed up, plopping down on the couch with a beer Aiden offered—laced with just enough sedative to make him pliable. As Ray’s eyes grew heavy, Aiden pulled out his pocket watch (cliché, but effective) and began the induction. “Relax, Ray. Deeper and deeper. You’re feeling so loyal to me now. Loyal like a… like a dog to its owner. You’ll do anything for me, won’t you? Loyal and obedient.”

The words slipped out wrong—Aiden meant “loyal friend,” but the dog analogy stuck in his mind from a video he’d watched earlier. When Ray’s eyes fluttered open, he blinked confusedly, then tilted his head, letting out a soft whine. “Woof?” Ray said, dropping to all fours on the floor.

Aiden stared, horrified. “Ray? What the—stand up, man!”

But Ray just panted happily, his tongue lolling out as he crawled over and nuzzled Aiden’s leg, tailbone wagging imaginary enthusiasm. “Arf! Arf!” He looked up with wide, adoring eyes, completely convinced he was a dog, and Aiden was his beloved master.

“Oh crap,” Aiden muttered, backing away. This wasn’t the plan. He tried snapping his fingers, the reversal trigger he’d practiced. “Wake up, Ray! Back to normal!”

Ray just barked louder, jumping up with paws on Aiden’s chest, his face inches away. Before Aiden could react, Ray lunged in with enthusiastic licks—wet, sloppy swipes across Aiden’s cheek, nose, and mouth. “Ray! Stop! Bad dog—er, bad Ray!” Aiden pushed at the larger man’s shoulders, but Ray was stronger, his “puppy” energy unstoppable. Lick after lick coated Aiden’s face in slobber, Ray’s eyes shining with pure, unfiltered joy, like a golden retriever reuniting with its owner after a long day.

“Gah! Enough!” Aiden sputtered, wiping his face with his sleeve, but Ray just yipped happily and went in for more, his rough tongue dragging over Aiden’s ear. Aiden stumbled back onto the couch, Ray following with relentless affection, pinning him down in a barrage of licks. It was gross, invasive, and weirdly endearing in its innocence—but mostly gross. “Okay, okay! Down, boy!”

Finally, Aiden managed to shove Ray off, who sat on his haunches, tail “wagging” by thumping his butt on the floor, looking expectant for a treat or pat.

Panting himself now, Aiden grabbed his hypnosis book from the shelf and frantically flipped through reversal techniques. He tried everything: counting backwards, clapping rhythms, even splashing water on Ray’s face. “Remember who you are! You’re Ray, the landlord! Rent collector extraordinaire!”

Ray just tilted his head, barked once, and fetched a nearby sock, dropping it at Aiden’s feet with a proud woof.

Hours passed in futile attempts. Aiden’s apartment echoed with barks and failed commands. By midnight, exhaustion set in. Ray curled up at Aiden’s feet, snoring contentedly like a loyal hound, his head resting on Aiden’s shoe.

Aiden stared down at him, wiping residual slobber from his cheek. No rent to pay anymore—Ray wouldn’t even remember the concept. The building was Ray’s, and now Ray was his. Sure, the face licks were messy, the slobber a nuisance, and he’d have to explain Ray’s “disappearance” somehow. But free rent? In this economy?