Skol

Ginger stuff gagged . . . from Futile Struggles, of course.

Within a few hours, panic set in. She started following me around, making those puppy dog eyes, begging to make me relent. She even stopped drinking from her water bowl. It was cute. My little bitch really thought she wasn’t going to cave.

She made it about sixteen hours before she started visibly squirming.

I gave her a choice. I was either going to take her into the backyard for a walk or I was going to make her piss herself. But, I warned her, if you piss yourself, I’m going to make you lick up every drop.

When phrased like that, even in her degraded state, the thought of someone seeing her naked outside, pissing like a housebroken pet, suddenly by comparison didn’t seem so bad.

As I attached the leash to her collar to take her outside, she started to whimper meekly. Begging me to take pity on her. Half hoping I wouldn’t.

“Stop whimpering, slut. Get moving.” I growled at her as I started to drag her outside.

Crawling behind me as I pulled her leash, she finally relented.