Heavy boots
This short bit is inspired by a comment on r/furry_irl. I have added quite a bit to the original story that's on reddit but ultimately decided to keep it simple. Although written around midnight, I hope I've made this tiredness-ridden story presentable.
The post I commented this on proceeded to spark regret and self-loathing, but at least it has made me write something.
As you get out of the cold shower and dry yourself, you don't notice her coming into the bathroom. This isn't surprising because this room doesn't have a door; she wants to keep an eye on you whenever you aren't tied up, or else her pet might run away.
Your face is buried in your towel when she grabs your arms, pulls them behind you, and cuffs your wrists together in a fluid motion that requires years of practice. You struggle for a moment, but then you feel the cold steel around your wrists and hear the rattling of a short chain, and you stand still. She leads you back into your room - the air is fresh, she must have aired it while you were taking your shower - and orders you to sit down. You obey, and now you're sitting on the ground, naked, hands behind your back. Your legs are slightly spread, and she's standing in front of you.
She is standing in front of you. Her eyes glance over at every inch of your body, inspecting it like a piece of furniture she is about to purchase. You notice that she is naked safe for a pair of boots. They're not heavy boots, but they still pack some weight. Her legs are covered up to underneath her knees in the boots' matt yet shining, black material. It's laced tightly, and the two-inch heel makes her taller and more intimidating than she already is. Her scale-covered body oscillates like the tide with every breath. She's breathing slowly, and her face shows that she's planning something.
Her boots make a loud, recognisable sound with every step as she walks out of your field of view, behind you. You wouldn't dare to follow her with your eyes. The familiar humming of a low-powered fan breaks the silence between her steps, and you hear the clicking of a lighter. She has lit a cigarette.
You feel her hands around your neck. She is doing something with your collar, and you let it happen. The sound of a small key entering a keyhole gives you a glimpse of hope, but then she tightens your collar by a notch and locks it again. You let out an inaudible sigh, scared that she might hear it, and notice that breathing has become more difficult. Then, accompanied by a quick tuck on your collar, she attaches a leash to your collar. The tags on the large ring rattle as she does this, and you're reminded that these tags make you her property.
She walks back to where you can see her, right in front of you, and grins as she holds her cigarette in her right hand. "You know where you belong," she says, and pushes the sole of her boot against your chest. The heavily profiled rubber presses against your skin. It's cold and rigid, and the boot's profile digs into your skin as if it were the dirt it is meant for. You fall over, helplessly, and your tongue is paralysed by excitement. You don't resist. You let yourself get pushed to the ground and watch as she walks around you, towards your head.
You want to look at her because she's beautiful, but something tells you to avert your eyes. She makes the decision for you: the sole of her boot touches your cheek, first with little, then with increasing pressure. She forces you to turn your head away until it's flat on the ground. She has pinned your head underneath her boot. You're vulnerable, but she won't push any harder than necessary to keep you in place. You don't resist because this is your place.
"Good pet," she says. You can't respond. The boot won't let you, and even if it weren't there, you wouldn't dare to speak up unless asked.
The boot presses against your cheek, even without her putting any force behind it, its weight alone leaving marks on your skin. This isn't the only place where you will have noticeable red marks after she is done with you: your hands are cuffed on your back, and as they are squeezed between your body and the ground, the steel leaves its telling marks on your skin. The handcuffs have a double lock, but this doesn't make them give way to your body lying on them. Those are your marks, marks that tell everyone what you are. They make you feel safe and owned. Without them, you'd feel naked. You enjoy having them.
In the corner of your eye, you see the hand with the cigarette come closer. Your thoughts are forming in slow motion, and before you can connect the dots, the burning sensation of a cigarette butt being put out on your chest rushes through your nerves, towards your brain, alarming you with a painful sting. Your chest rises in quiet protest, but your head remains pinned to the ground, and only a quiet moan leaves your mouth. Screaming isn't an option, she'd punish you too harshly for such an offence, so you keep your calm to fulfil your role. The pain is real, but it triggers lust and makes you obedient - more than obedient, as it tears the last bit of resistance out of your body until you realize that she owns you.
"Good pet," she says, again, and takes a step back before picking up your leash. She tugs it, making breathing a little harder for a moment. "This is where the fun begins."