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Sheila was a good pet. Or she tried to be, at least. Her Mistress was forever displeased with her for one reason or another, and she had the scars to prove it. The husky femme was utterly devoted to her vixen Mistress, but she always seemed to get more attention. Taller, plusher, thicker fur, softer, sexier... There was nothing she could do about any of it, but she did her best to try and blend into the background and let her Mistress take the spotlight. It did not, unfortunately, seem to work in the slightest. Of course, the fact that Sheila was fertile and her Mistress was not didn't help her cause

Fertile females were at a premium in the United States. Since the last war, the one that had caused furs to be made in the first place as a replacement fighting force, fertility was the coin of the realm for females. Sheila was fertile. Her Mistress was not.

That was the crux of the husky's problem, and her Mistress had the solution. Which was what had brought them to their current situation. Sheila lay on her back, her hind quarters curled up where her Mistress had her legs propped against the vixen's own, her canine spade cleanly presented to the fox, the husky's stomach aching slightly where the stitches from her recent surgery were being stretched. The vixen's spade hovered just above her own parted jaws, her tongue lightly tracing over its teardrop shape, the tip slipping into the Y of her Mistress's folds to gather up the musky honeydew of the fox's juices.

Then came the sharp sting of cold steel against her own spade. Sheila did her absolute best not to move but couldn't help a twitch of her legs. She made no sounds, though. She was a good pet. Her Mistress had commanded silence, so silent she was. Her fingers, however, curled tight against the vixen's hips, nails digging in through downy fur to bite against skin, her toes curling tight against her paw pads. It burned as the surgical steel cut through skin and nerve.

It was only a few moments, less than a minute, before the vixen reached back with a piece of bloody flesh. The husky nipped it from between the offering fingers, chewing lightly before swallowing. That was her clitoris. A little troublesome bundle of pleasure that gave her such joy despite her Mistress's wishes. Something that made her be a bad pet for her Mistress, wanting and enjoying the attention the males gave her instead of her Mistress.

The cold bite came again, and Sheila couldn't help but buck slightly, her legs kicking upward as her body strove to kick free, but her will to be a good pet overrode the urge. She relaxed back into her penitent pose, continuing to lick at the vixen's spaded sex, lapping it, french kissing it, loving it and laving it with all the attention it deserved. There was a harsh, hot-cold fire between her own legs. The scalpel dug through skin and tissue to cut away the troublesome flesh that so attracted attention away from the vixen.

The fox took that slow. Sheila knew she was enjoying every moment, every drop of blood, ever slight twitch and suppressed whine. Sheila was being a very good pet. Sheila was going to be the best pet for her Mistress. The pain didn't matter. The pain could and would be ignored. All that mattered was her Mistress and her Mistress's pleasure.

When fingers reached back with a rubbery ring of flesh between them, Sheila didn't hesitate to snatch at it, tug at it. The fingers didn't release it immediately, forcing her to bite off a bit, chew, swallow, then bite again. Slowly, she devoured the spade that had once decorated the space between her legs. She could feel the blood flowing to slick her stomach, but that would soon be rectified. She could feel the firey burn of her injured flesh, heightened by the drag of the vixen's finger claw against the open wound, but ignored it. There was only one thing that mattered, one person, and that person crouched in dominance above the husky.

Then came a surprise. A warm, acrid stream sprayed against the canine's face. She instantly and obediently spread her jaws and clasped her lips around the vixen's puffy sex. She let it fill her mouth, ballooning her cheeks, coating her tongue, before she started swallowing it down. Concentrating on that helped her to still the urge to thrash when the hot curling iron was rammed into her. She could hear the sizzle of cooking flesh, smell the scent of roast meat, and it actually made a rumble of hunger tingle her belly despite the pain-nausea that tickled at the back of her throat.

She heard the plug snap as it was pulled from the wall, the iron slowly cooling inside her, as she continued to lap and lick and tongue-fuck the vixen, still swallowing the seemingly endless stream of urine that filled her mouth again and again. She let her cheeks bulge every time, knowing that her Mistress expected it, expected her to taste and savor the flavor of the gift given to the pet. It was a taste of the vixen's will and of her ownership of the pet. Sheila was a good pet. She drank down every last drop the vixen had to give.

The husky couldn't help the twitch of her legs each time the needle bit into her, piercing one side of her ruined hole then the other, the drag of surgical thread almost ticklish as it pulled through flesh, the tug somewhat less so as the stitch was pulled tight. Each stitch took several tries to get right. The needle would prick and jab, stabbing into her, then pull back and seek out a new spot before ramming inward again until the vixen was satisfied on the placement.

At last, at long last, the vixen was satisfied and pulled away. Sheila gazed up lovingly at her Mistress as the fox crouched over her. She wasn't surprised when her Mistress pulled over a cooler and withdrew a plastic baggie. Within it was her womb and ovaries, that which gave her fertility, that which made her covetable and made males pay her more attention than was given to her Mistress. It was those undesirable body parts that had prompted their trip to Taiwan and the surgery that had left stitches on her stomach.

The fox ripped open the bag and held the raw, cooled organs in her hands, leaning down over the husky until their noses nearly touched, a wild, almost insane, light in her eyes.

"You will never," the vixen stated, "take attention from me again. You are no longer a she. You are an it. You are neither fertile nor female. With the destruction of this, you become a thing, not a person, not even a pet. You are nothing. Tell me."

"I am nothing," the husky repeated. She was a good pet.

"Open your mouth."

Sheila obediently spread her jaws wide and was unsurprised when she felt her own former organ pressed between them. She waited, though, for the order she knew was coming. When it did, she bit down viciously, ripping, tearing, carnivore teeth shredding tender internal flesh. Her Mistress bent down to take first one then the other ovary between her own teeth, crushing the fertile cluster of possible offspring with a juicy gush.

When the last bit had been devoured, the vixen stood and looked down at the prostrate husky, admiring her work.

"What are you?" the Mistress inquired.

"I am a thing," the pet answered readily. "I am your thing. I have and always will be yours. I am whatever you wish of me, Mistress."

The vixen pressed a paw to the husky's bloodied stomach then passed it to the canine's muzzle. Sheila licked and lapped happily. "You are, and always will be, mine. You are nothing but what I make of you."

"Yes, Mistress."

"You are nothing but what I tell you to be. You are worthless. Useless. You are nothing."

"Yes, Mistress." Sheila could not argue when the government-issued collar that marked her as fertile gave a soft bleep and feel free of her throat.

"I am the only person in your entire world who matters. You will do anything and everything I wish of you."

"Of course, Mistress. You are my world."

The vixen was pleased, Sheila could tell. She had done well. She ached in unspeakable ways, hurt and wounded and damaged, but she had pleased her Mistress. That was all that did and ever would matter.