An Evening at Frank's

My name is Robin. I am twenty-one years old, and I live in Glasgow.

Actually, my name is not Robin, but my native name is not easy to pronounce for English speakers, and thus I go by Robin. That is when I am a human. When I am dog, I am called Cassie.

Once a week, I travel to Milngavie, just north of Glasgow, to meet with my part-time owner, trainer, and unlikely friend, Frank, and become a dog for a few hours.

Before coming to Glasgow, I had no idea what pet play was, nor that one day I might be into it.

This is a story of one of my afternoons at Frank's.

-

I get off the bus that is already almost dark. It's only barely past 4pm, but December in Glasgow is brutal. Today, for a change, is not particularly cold, but clouds are low and the streetlights have been on for a while already. The 60A bus from Glasgow took longer than usual to reach Milngavie. I better rush or I'll be late.

Frank is in his thirties and lives in a small house on the west side of town. We met at a munch, or a local event for people who enjoy kink, and bonded over stories about Eastern Europe. He is half-Polish and has spent a lot of time at his grandparents when he was a kid, often travelling to the Baltics in vacation with his family.

Now on a career break -- he is an engineer -- he dreams of living in Spain. He lives alone and I sometimes wonder whether he is staying only because of me. Presumptuous, I know, but his house looks like he's about to move out any day. Boxes everywhere and very little décor. Maybe one day I'll knock on his door only to find him gone. The thought makes me shiver with sadness.

It takes me about seven minutes to walk from the bus stop to his house. Later, at night, he will drive me home, so I don't have to worry about travelling alone when it's dark. Well, darker.

We have our set of rules, which we discussed in advance and that we adhere to religiously. One of those rules is that I must knock at his door at a precise time, which we agreed upon in advance. Today, it's five minutes to five.

I am always a few minutes early, and the wait is quite embarrassing. I stand at the door, nervously looking at my mobile waiting for the time when I am allowed to buzz in. I wonder if neighbours noticed me. With time, I got good at timing my arrivals, but the first time I waited outside his door for almost half an hour.

16:54

I raise my hand and hover over the buzzer.

As soon as the last minute ticks by, I buzz. He must have been waiting for me because the door opens almost immediately.

"Hello Robin," he says jovially.

"Hello Frank."

His house smells of damp laundry and lavender spray. It's old, and despite Frank's obsession with scented sprays, the smell of dampness lives unabated. The entrance is small and cramped, divided in two by an awkwardly placed wooden cupboard and cluttered with outdoor shoes, raincoats, and waterproof hats. I move aside so that he can close the entry door behind us, and with it the last noise from the town is shut off.

For a moment, neither of us move. I am always extremely alert in these first instants because I am never quite sure, despite all our rituals, if I am facing Frank, the odd friend who lives in Milngavie, or Frank, my Owner. Sometimes it's difficult to tell the difference, but his silence is generally my clue. I take notice and start by taking off my shoes.

There is a designated pigeonhole in the cupboard for me to place my shoes, with my socks inside. It's a small cupboard, crooked and full of gears from Frank's actual dog, Leila, and I feel grateful for the space dedicated to my shoes. I leave my earrings, necklace, and bracelet in a chipped wooden bowl before removing the rest of my clothes. I am allowed to leave my nose piercing on. Everything else must go.

I take off my coat and hang to my personal hanger, neatly labelled Robin with a lovely yellow tag. Then I undo my belt and peel off my trouser before taking off my top. Lastly, my underwear, which I stuff in one of the pockets of my coat.

Naked, I look up, and he makes a small nod. I am ready.

Well, not quite.

Slowly, almost carefully, he draws open a drawer and picks one of the collars from a batch of ten or more that he has in store for me. They are obviously not the same that Leila uses, but it's a powerful gesture that they are stored in the same space.

He chooses one of my regular collars, made of Cordura and lined with a soft material that is gentle on my neck. I turn around and let me him secure it around my neck. Robin is momentarily on pause. I am Cassie now.

I kneel, as elegantly as I can, and go on my four. From this height I must tilt my neck to look at him. He pets me on my head and ruffles up my short hair before inviting me over to the living room.

"Come Cassie."

I follow.

The floor is carpeted and easy to walk on. I move slowly but eagerly, following him around to the sofa. There is a steamy mug on the coffee table, and even if I can't see the content, I suspect he has prepared himself tea. As usual, he has a small treat for me: a crumb of cheese that he hands me distractedly before sitting on the sofa.

I love cheese.

We have few rules that extend outside the realm of the play. One of these is that I cannot have cheese. Only when I am at his place. It's my treat, and I savour every bit with immense pleasure.

As I chew, Leila makes an appearance. She is old and frail, but still very beautiful. She comes towards me, and we greet, as we do most times, with a gentle sniff. She is only mildly interested in me, preferring to spend time on the sofa near Frank. She jumps up and puts her snout on his legs. I am not allowed on the sofa unless invited -- she earned her sofa spot with years of service, while I am just a new pup -- but I have my bed at his feet. It is not shared with Leila, and I suspect, although I never asked, that Frank must wash it weekly as it always feels fresh and has so far remained immune to the smell of damp.

I cuddle up in it and try to ignore the stinging pang of jealousy towards Leila as she is getting petted while I am ignored. It's a very difficult feeling to handle, being jealous of a dog, but also one that makes me feel a pleasure that I cannot describe.

My stomach grumble. I want another treat. I look up, trying to be inconspicuous and not too obvious in my intentions, but Frank is not looking at me.

The bag of cheese is on the coffee table. So close I can almost smell it.

I look at him again, but he seems lost in his own thoughts, his eyes staring at something at the other end of the room.

To get his attention, I move slightly, placing my chin onto his feet.

Nothing.

I know he doesn't like it when I'm needy, so I am careful not to cross the line. I bump gently his foot with my nose. Normally, he is barefoot around the house, and I know he enjoys having his feet licked, but today is wearing socks, and that barrier makes it impossible for me to pleasure him in any way and gain a treat in return. Defeated, I let out a weak whine and rest my chin on the floor.

"What's up Cassie?"

I whimper softly and bump his foot once more.

"No, I don't want to have my feet licked."

He has clearly seen through me. I shuffle in my bed and say nothing. Over time, I learned to communicate a great deal using simple "dog language", and I can now express basic emotions with whimpers, little barks, and other dog-inspired sounds. Often, not saying anything is equally as communicative.

My stomach growls again, and this time Frank must have heard it because he leans over and ask if I am hungry.

I immediately get up on all fours, wiggling my imaginary tail by gently twerking my butt. It's actually a deceptively difficult movement to master and took a surprising amount of effort and dedication to perfect.

"Oh yes, you are hungry!" Frank says, smiling.

"Let me feed Leila first, then I'll get you some food."

Another twitch of jealousy. In truth, I like it. My stomach really feels empty now, there is nothing like the prospect of imminent food to make hunger feel more acute, but I enjoy seeing old Leila -- bless her -- slowly getting off the couch to follow Frank to the kitchen. I hear the wet plop of her food being dropped into her bowl, and the satisfied growling as she wolfs down her portion.

Only when I am called, I join them in the kitchen.

"Come Cassie," Frank shouts.

I trot, saliva filling my mouth. I didn't have lunch, and my breakfast consisted of only one banana. As I come to the kitchen I slow down. There is no carpet, so I can't move as fast on the tiles without risking injury. Frank is at the counter, preparing my meal. I also have a bowl, identical to Leila's but with my name -- Cassie -- printed on the side.

I catch myself panting, looking up at my Owner as he chops some vegetables to add to my meal. Panting is one of those behaviours that didn't take much enforcement. I found myself instinctively doing it, and one that gives me a sense of internal soothing. I do it with my tongue slightly out, as if I have been running, and the extra saliva quickly starts dripping onto the floor.

"Cassie, don't be messy," Frank warns me.

But I don't listen, mostly because as a dog, I should not understand.

It's a tricky balance to strike, but we got pretty good at it. I generally don't follow verbal commands given in human tongue (aka English, in this case) and try to rely on his body movements instead. Sometimes, he tricks me, signalling something while saying out loud a different order.

Over time I learned to anticipate some of his moves and desires. We both agreed that it was the closest thing to a dog trying to understand human language. I am a human-dog trying to understand unspoken language.

Essential is letting the instinct surface. I really want to see what he is making, and even though I know he doesn't let Leila -- let alone me -- touch the counter, I block my rational thoughts and let my curiosity get the better of me. I get up onto my legs and place my front paws onto the counter, trying to peer over the edge of the bowl.

"Down!" he shouts.

I whimper and get down. I want food!

When he finally places the bowl of food in front of me, my heart sinks a little. was hoping for meat, but all I see is boiled barley, raw carrots, and steamed broccoli--no salt (bad for dogs!) and no seasoning at all.

I must make an effort to shut off my human taste buds and remember that I am a dog. Except for my cheese treats, I am generally not allowed tasty human food, but today I am truly out of luck. I dig my face into the bowl, trying to gulf down my portion in a show of appreciation. As usual, the portion is small, and in a matter of minutes I am licking the empty bowl, scraping up the last bits of my meagre meal.

I lick my lips clean and venture back in the living room. Leila is nowhere to be seen, probably in the garden or upstairs, but Frank is standing at the other end of the room holding a chew toy in his hand.

We are playing fetch!

He throws the toy at me, and I don't hesitate. It's cylindrical with bulbous ends, probably wanting to resemble a bone, and it bounces on the floor erratically before coming to a rest near the sofa. I jump on it and grab it with my teeth. I never used this toy before, and I'm surprised by the ridged texture and the unexpected heft when I lift it off the floor. It's rubbery -- probably silicone -- and has a velvety finish that makes it pleasant to carry with my mouth.

I trot towards Frank and drop the toy at his feet. The instinct would be to grab the toy back immediately, but I resist the urge and let him pick it up and throw it again. Immediately after the throw, he straightens the finger of his hand. It's a signal for me to wait. I had already moved but I freeze, waiting for his next command.

"Good Cassie," he says, patting me on the head as I feel a warm sense of pride.

"Go," he then orders vocally.

I leap forward and onto the toy. When I am about to reach it, already with my mouth open ready to grab it with my teeth, Frank shouts an order "Freeze!"

The sharpness of his voice makes me jump and I stop, centimetres from the toy, with my mouth open and my teeth bared. The position is not comfortable to hold. I have my weight forward and my arms, ahem... fore legs, bent. I suspect Frank ordered me to freeze precisely to put me to the test, but I try not to dwell on his motives and just obey. I can hear him walking slowly towards me.

"Good girl," he says.

I was hoping he would elaborate on the order, saying something that would allow me to move and switch to a more sustainable position, but he stays silent. I can feel my fore legs getting tired and I try to control my breathing, focusing on the room around me and ignoring the muscles getting tense and achy.

I focus on the toy and how the plastic is dented where I marked it with my teeth. I start to pant. My front paws hurt because of the pressure, the muscles in my fore legs hurt and start to shake, and I feel myself dribbling saliva on the carpet as I force myself to keep my mouth open, in the same position as it was in the instant when Frank told me to freeze.

I hear him say "Good girl" one more time - I am whining pathetically at this point - then finally he allows me to relax. He does it by making a "release" gesture, which he has to repeat twice before I pick up on it, but the second time, when I am sure of what I see -- his hand flat pointing to the floor -- I let myself collapse onto the carpet.

"You did so well," he says in his sweet voice, not exactly talking to me, as I am not supposed to understand the spoken language.

I roll on my back, exposing my belly and lifting my hind legs up, my paws curled and still trembling from the effort. I want him to scratch my belly and to cuddle me, and he does exactly that, softly first then more energetically, rubbing the skin around my navel until I purr, almost like a kitten would do. I love it.

When he moves his hand, I am unprepared. He pets me between my legs with the same soft scratching motion he just used on my belly, triggering a sense of pleasure and surprise. It tickles, but it also feels extremely good, as it is like being petted and masturbated all at once.

"You are so messy" he laughs, hinting at my wetness.

His movements become gradually more purposeful, with his fingers brushing my clit deliberately until I start panting once again.

I whimper softly as he touches more deeply, only to let out a disappointed whine when he suddenly stops.

I realize how effective the training has been when I find myself opening my mouth and sticking out my tongue without even thinking. It comes to me instinctively, to the point I am surprised by my own action, but I have only a fraction of a second to take in what's happening before he plunges his fingers into my mouth for me to clean. Feeling my taste on his hand sends electricity through my brain, and when I am done, he dries his fingers on my cheeks like he would do on a rag.

He points to the toy again, and I obediently pick it up, following him to the other side of the room, towards the fireplace.

I drop the toy at his feet and look up.

Once again, he leans over, picks up the toy, and tosses it across the room. This time, when I fetch it back, I sense that something is different. He is now sitting on the floor, cross-legged, his socks removed. I walk slowly, almost anticipating a command, but he remains motionless, watching me crawl toward him. I drop the toy at his feet. His bare soles are in front of me--strong, wide, powerful. I move closer and lower my head, delicately sniffing them. I had never licked someone's feet before meeting Frank, nor had I ever imagined I could derive so much pleasure from such a one-sided act. As usual, his feet smell clean, with only a hint of earthiness. The scent is subtle yet distinct, and every time I realize I have a category in my brain for 'the smell of Frank's feet,' a flutter of excitement stirs in my stomach.

The first lick is always small, almost tentative. I know what he likes, but I like to get there slowly, and I start from his toe before moving down to his arch. It's quite strenuous, bending my neck to lick his soles while I am on all fours, and I am soon back to the toes, which I know are his favourite spot. I start with the small one, sucking gently and moving my tongue around it. Once I reach his big toe, I move seamlessly to the other foot, repeating the dance back and forth multiple times, hovering with my tongue between his toes and enjoying his delighted moans as I massage him with my mouth.

Sometimes, he touches himself while I lick his feet, and I almost expect him to do it this time, too, but this time, he seems too intent on enjoying the experience, preferring to lean back and close his eyes, letting me play with his toes a little longer.

The signal for me to stop comes in the form of a wiggle of his toes. I immediately retract, saliva drooling from the corner of my mouth.

"Good girl," he says.

"Do you want a treat?"

I yap excitedly. Yes, yes, yes! Please. Excited as I am, I also see the first sign the play is about to end. He has switched back to human speech, and I feel Robin slowly starting to share ownership of my body with Cassie.

He moves his foot and wiggles his big toe. I think I know what he means but I am undecided. I wait for his approval, and he nods. I then position myself over his foot, my pussy firmly pressed onto his toes. The idea of touching myself with his foot still wet with my saliva makes melt with pleasure. I rock back and forth, seeking more contact, more friction, and as I do so he lifts his other foot, pressing it against my face. I moan.

I stick my tongue out, and as I do, he moves his foot so that I can take his toes into my mouth. I can't manage all five, but I try nonetheless, stretching my lips and jaw until it hurts.

I am now holding his foot with my hands--a distinctively human act--followed by another peculiarly human act: sucking on his foot as if I were giving it a blowjob. I can only move a few millimetres, of course, but it feels wonderful.

I am no longer Cassie now--I feel human again, and slightly embarrassed. It's much easier to degrade myself when I am a dog. But I have not had an orgasm for almost a month now (I'll write about orgasm control another time), and as I press my pussy against his foot, move purposedly to find contact between his toes and my clit, I want nothing more than to cum.

I must have a pleading expression on my face because Frank is nodding to me, already giving his approval for what he must know I am craving.

I never managed to make myself cum with his foot. But I am learning new things every day.

--

About two hours later, we are in the car, on our way back to Glasgow. The old Peugeot rattles, and the air conditioning doesn't work. I'm cold, but I'm also happy--mellow and exhausted. It's late, later than usual for a school night, but the transition back to Robin has been challenging this time, and the aftercare required to make me feel safe again has been more extensive.

I glance at Frank, focused on the road. He looks tired too, and I'm sure he'd rather be in bed than driving me back to Glasgow. I'm suddenly struck by the realization that I don't know his plans for the following day. Maybe this is the day he'll pack up his belongings and finally leave.

I want to ask, but I stop just before the words leave my mouth. After all, I'd rather sit with the uncertainty than risk hearing him confirm my fears.