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Malcolm (by Mr Foxy Paws)

"Goodnight Frodo," said Malcolm, as he pulled up the covers and snuggled down in bed.

Frodo, Malcolm's dalmatian pup, curled up on the bedspread and rested his chin on the warm bump that was his master's body below the sheets. Being a pup, Frodo wasn't usually allowed to sleep on a bed because he was too frisky and kept his master awake at night, but they were both going on a camping trip the next day and his master had been in a good mood; the only condition, clearly spelled out, was that Frodo should go straight to sleep. He closed his eyes, listened to his master's breathing, and sighed contentedly as he let his mind wander. A camping trip, what fun! The great outdoors! Back to mother nature! Frodo recalled previous adventures with his master, such as when they had walked along the coast late one summer evening: the sun was setting, the waves lapped gently at the sand, the beach was deserted for miles, he and his master had played fetch with an old tennis ball, then they had snuggled in the dunes, yiffed and fell asleep side by side. The memories of the cool breeze ruffling his fursuit, and the warmth and ... taste ... of his master's cock flooded back and Frodo felt his pup-hood twitching to attention.

Frodo slipped off a mitt and held himself, enjoying the warmth and firmness of his swelling organ; an organ that hadn't seen service for over a week. He carefully lifted his head and looked up towards his master: fast asleep. Frodo stroked his cock, once; a timid, quiet, slow stroke. Pleasuring himself without permission was definitely not allowed; he had learned that the first week of being owned, receiving his first taste of the riding crop when his master caught him wanking in the shower. This time, however, Frodo didn't intend to reach climax; he was just gently coaxing himself. He recalled his master's cock, thick and sturdy; the slightly salty taste, the taut foreskin and impressive bell end, and the way it pulsed before delivering its creamy white gift.

"Frodo! Frodo, what are you doing?" The pup looked up, startled, as his master turned on the bedside light; he looked at his master, blinked, then looked down at his paw which was still guiltily clasping his very erect cock. And just in case there remained any doubt, he was thoroughly condemned when a small drop of precum oozed onto the duvet cover.

*

"Frodo, how could you? You were meant to be saving yourself for tomorrow. And, yeuch, look what you've done." Malcolm pointed to the dark, damp patch on the bed. "Bad, bad, dog. You can sleep in the kitchen tonight. Come on, you really should know better."

Frodo hung his head and padded after his master, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he headed over to a large, old tartan rug in the corner.

"No. No rug. No luxury. You can sleep on the floor tonight."

Frodo whimpered; he never managed to sleep on lino. He looked back at Malcolm with large, doleful eyes, then hung his head again.

"OK, OK, you can grab some paper from the recycling bin, if you must. But no rug. You're being punished for being a bad, bad dog. And absolutely no wanking, you hear?" Frodo nodded. "You promise? Because I could cuff you now, or put you in chastity. Do I need to do that, Frodo? Will you behave?" Frodo nodded again.

"Very well, go get some paper and get some sleep," said Malcolm. "And we can decide tomorrow whether you need any further punishment."

Frodo listened as his master's footsteps retreated upstairs, then folded up the tartan rug and laid it on the table. Next he opened a cupboard and removed a large pile of newspapers. His master hadn't put anything out in the recycling bin for a while, and Frodo was delighted to find an armful of tabloids and broadsheets. He took three or four, opened them up, and sniffed them. The smell of the ink and feel of the paper made his cock twitch. He laid the papers on the floor, where his rug had been, and adjusted them to an even depth that covered the lino in that area. Then he took another couple of newspapers, extracted the pages one by one, scrunched them up and dropped them on the floor. He held the last scrunched ball to his face, sniffed it, then bit and chewed a piece of it; then he licked it, and rubbed his muzzle into it, breathing deeply. Ah, wonderful, simple, but glorious newspaper! Frodo sat down on his nest of scrunched paper, leaned back against a cupboard, and patted some of the crumpled balls. He picked one up, held it with both paws, refolded it slightly, got into a kneeling position, then ran the paper up and down his thighs; up and down, up and down, and around his puppy ball sac and cock; and the next moment, he had wrapped the paper around his cock, lain back on the floor, spread his legs, and began wanking to climax. Fountains of creamy delight flew through the air, covering not just the sheets of newspaper but also his fursuit and the lino and cupboard doors. Exhausted, Frodo fell into a deep sleep.

*

Early next morning...

"Let's see. Collar on, collar locked. Mitts on, mitts locked. Chain on collar, chain locked. You never learn, do you Frodo? Wanking, without my permission, in the kitchen, and ... and such a mess as well. Well, I did warn you. Follow me to the study."

Frodo had little choice as his master tugged the chain and led him through the house to the downstairs study from where Malcolm ran his private business. One cabinet, a mahogany one in the corner, was always kept locked when Malcolm had visitors, so the fact that his master had opened it and removed a large hold-all could only mean one thing.

"Stand up, on your hind legs, Frodo. Paws behind your head. Do it now!" Malcolm ordered. Frodo did as he was told. "Now, we have a choice. Hmm. Maybe the crop." His owner removed a short crop, around three feet long, comprising a short handle, a tightly wound flexible body, and a short flap of leather at the end. He held it in his right hand, and made tutting noises as he used it to pat his left. "This, Frodo, will hurt me more than it hurts you."

Malcolm walked up to Frodo and ran the crop up the dalmatian pup's inner thighs. "Spread them," said Malcolm. Frodo obliged. "More!" said Malcolm. Frodo inched his rear paws further apart. Malcolm deftly placed the crop under his pet's genitals, lifting the limp cock. "Whose cock is this, huh? This little runt of a worm of a cock? Is it yours, pup?" Frodo shook his head. "No? Is it yours to hold and rub and play with, pup?" Frodo shook his head, even more quickly. "Maybe it's mine? Perhaps it's mine, to do with as I want? To give it pleasure or pain? Is it mine, pup?" Frodo nodded vigorously. "And these balls?" said his master, tapping them with the crop, "are they yours?" Frodo shook his head. "Mine?" said his master. Frodo nodded. "And your butt? Your little furry butt? Mine too?" Frodo nodded. "Good, well in that case I think you should bend over and hold your tail clear."

Frodo bent forwards, reached back and held his tail to one side. Without prompting, he opened his fursuit and exposed his creamy-white butt.

"Well, now, young pup. We have a choice. We could give you a butt plug, and I've been meaning to get you practised on the next size up. Fancy a butt plug for punishment?" A soft whimper, a quiver of the body, and a violent shake of the head said no. "Well, then, that just leaves a cropping, I guess. Count aloud, pup, count aloud."

Malcolm reached back, took aim, and then swiftly - but without too much venom - delivered his first strike, flat against Frodo's left cheek. "Woof!" Malcolm reached back and swished the right buttock. "Woof, woof!" counted Frodo. His master ran the crop over both buttocks, then up and down the moist crack that separated them, before delivering a rapid stream of three more strikes on each buttock. "How many's that?" "Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof." "And how many do you deserve?"

Frodo hesitated. He never knew how to answer that question. And simply shrugging would land him in chastity for a fortnight. He barked a series of very short woofs. Malcolm walked back in front of Frodo, set the crop under the dalmatians chin and lifted it. The master looked into his pup's eyes. "Don't. Misbehave. Again. You're on cock-bell and corner time for an hour."

Frodo breathed a sigh of relief, mopping his sweaty brow with a black-and-white spotted mitt. He waited patiently as his master fixed a bell around his cock and balls, to sound aloud if there were any movement, and then followed his master to one corner of the study. Keeping his paws on his head, and his fursuit open to expose his stinging backside, Frodo faced the wall. "Snout against the wall, Frodo, snout against the wall." Frodo shuffled forwards an inch or two, until his muzzle touched the paintwork.

"Right, Frodo. I'm off to buy some gas for our camping stove. I'll be an hour. You're to stay there, doing corner time, until I come back. Clear?"

Frodo, muzzle to the wall, nodded as much as he could in the circumstances.

*

An hour later...

"Really, Frodo, you should know better. Being a furry, one would think you know all about fur, right?"

Frodo was confused. His master had returned home after an hour, as promised, gone to the kitchen and then entered the study. The pup had a terrible feeling he'd been rumbled, even though he was in perfect corner-time position when Malcolm entered the study.

"So, if I take one little hair from your fursuit, and lay it on the cookie jar in the kitchen..."

Frodo held his breath. He had, indeed, been rumbled. He'd not been given any breakfast, what with the paper and cum episode, and lunchtime had been and gone, and he didn't think his master counted the cookies. No, but his master obviously left secret markers to tell whether things had been touched.

"We've more shopping, Frodo. I've got to go and get some supplies, from the mall. And you're coming with me."

Frodo, in his corner, stiffened slightly. Going to the mall? In his fursuit? He'd never done that, only dreamed of it. Dreams that, if he were to be honest, he loved but probably preferred to keep as dreams.

"Heel, boy."

Frodo didn't move.

"Corner time is over, Frodo. We're off to the mall. Me in jeans and T-shirt, and you in a fursuit. It's about time you mixed a little more in public."

*

"Right, here we are. I'll open the rear cage so that you can get out." Malcolm parked their estate car near the mall entrance, got out and opened the rear hatch. Frodo hesitated. He'd rarely been out in a fursuit with his master, except for meets, and the couple of times when they'd driven through the city he had got several strange looks and the odd wolf-whistle, but he'd never been to the mall. "Out, boy. Don't make me angry." Frodo hopped out of the car, hovering near the hatch and trying to avoid the curious gaze of passers-by. Malcolm shut and locked the car, took Frodo's chain, and led him towards the entrance. Pulled by the collar, and by instinct, Frodo followed his master. "Ah, perfect, a series of hooks for dog-owners to leave their beloved pets. How perfect, Frodo, isn't it?".

Click.

"And i'll just prop this sign up here. This, Frodo, young scallywag of a pup, is what happens when you cum on my duvet, wank off in the kitchen, then break corner-time to go and steal cookies. I'll be back in an hour. Or two. Perhaps even three. Enjoy."

Frodo turned and read the sign. "Never met a furry? Here's one to explore. Feel free to stroke, spank, wank or use as you please - just no permanent harm please. Malc."

Frodo sank down on his haunches.

A young mother wandered up, little girl in tow, and they stopped by Frodo who cocked his head and looked up at them. "Mummy, a doggy!" "Yes, dear, it looks like that." "Can I stroke it?" "Well, I ..." The little girl petted Frodo on the head, then stroked his sleek spotted coat. Frodo murred. "Good good doggy." The girl hugged Frodo, and kissed him on the cheek. "Here, have a sweetie." The little girl unwrapped a sweetie, held it out on her palm, and offered it to Frodo who lapped it from her hand. "Come on, darling, we have to go. Tch, whatever will these animal charities think of next."

Shortly afterwards, a short, fat, balding man appeared, read the sign and walked up to Frodo. "You thirsty, dog?" he asked. The pup looked up at him and blinked. "You thirsty, dog? You want a drink?". The pup shook his head. "I reckon you want a drink, dog," said the man. "Have one on me." Frodo looked on in disbelief as the man unzipped his black leather trousers, reached inside and pulled out a dick the size of a horse's cock. "I was goin' to the mall for a piss, but look what i've found, they've got piss pots outside now. Open up, boy, open up!". Frodo kept his muzzle closed. So far, he'd only declined a few sports that his master wanted to try. Well, not declined, as such. No pup could refuse what his master wanted, only express - delicate and politely and humbly express - a preference. Frodo had been persuaded, over a couple of years, to start butt-plug training, and to sixty-nine some other furs for the pleasure of yet more spectating furries, and to enter several parade and wanking and competitions (where you had to abstain from sex for at least two weeks and they measured and weighed each dog's cum to figure out which was most virile), but because Frodo had been so good in all other respects his master had promised that the young pup need never drink piss if that wasn't his thing. "No?" said the man, his bladder bursting. "Well, take it anyway," and he let forth a strong, warm stream of bitter-smelling urine over Frodo's face and up and down the length of his coat. Frodo felt his cock waking once again, stirring into life at the mere thrill of being used as a toilet for some fat bloke's piss. "Ha, ha. Doggy urinals. Love it", said the man, patting Frodo on the head and walking back to his car.

Twenty minutes later, a couple of youths approached. Frodo eyed them nervously. "Go on, then, Roger," said one of them. "You said you wanted to, I said you wouldn't dare, and you promised to switch tonight if you didn't." He couldn't be sure, but the speaker sounded gay and his partner - Roger - certainly carried himself in a certain manner. "Go on, I bet he's gagging for it."

Roger approached the dalmatian pup and squatted down beside him. "You OK pup?". Frodo inclined his head, yes. "Listen, boy, I ... I ... Well I said I wanted to wank you off ... Just because of the sign, you know. And you look such a young, strapping, fit dog. And now, if I don't, well I'm a top and I don't want to bottom to my friend. So would it be OK if I ..."

Roger let the sentence hang in the air between them; Frodo held his gaze with steady eyes, not sure what he wanted any more. Fundamentally, he wanted what his master wanted, which was what the sign offered to any and every passer-by. But being wanked in public, outside a mall? Then again, Roger had the most gorgeous crystal-blue eyes that twinkled beneath a rich, dark mop of hair. Barely perceptibly, and bating his breath, Frodo nodded a single yes. Roger reached down, between the dalmatian's legs, and searched for the pup's cock. "Darn, with you sitting like that, it's hard to find let alone grasp. Roll over, boy, roll over," and with a gentle nudge from Roger, Frodo rolled onto his back, his little pup mitts flopped in the air, his soft underbelly exposed, his dalmatian dog-hood red and vibrant, already threatening signs of precum. "Atta boy, Frodo. Good Frodo!" Roger tickled the pup under the chin, rubbed his tum a few times, then commenced wanking. A few shoppers stopped to watch, and they in turn were joined by more, until a crowd of a few dozen people stood and watched Frodo being stimulated. To Frodo, it was like a dream; fear and pleasure and humiliation and pleasure and tingling tingling fur.

Frodo waited patiently for another hour, generally having his fur coaxed, sometimes being prodded, and occasionally having people fumble around his tail hole to see what furries were really like back there. Finally, his master arrived back, laden with provisions.

*

"Ah, Frodo young pup, still here? You've been busy, I see. Oh, but what's that terrible smell? Ah, your coat is ... yellow and black in places. Somebody with a weak bladder, hey? No worries, there's a Jet Wash on the other side of the car park, and I packed you a spare fursuit, so we'll get you cleaned and furred up, and be on our way. I hope you've learned your lesson, little pup?"

Frodo nodded, waited for his master to unclip his chain, and trotted with him towards the Jet Wash, ready to be stripped naked and hosed down. It was getting to be a very long day...

*

Some time later that afternoon..

"I think this clearing will do," said Malcolm, as he led their way through some woods. They'd parked in the lay-by of a small country road, in the middle of nowhere, and been walking for about ten minutes. Malcolm was carrying most of the provisions, but had given Frodo a brown paper-bag of sandwiches to carry, its handles gripped in his maw. "Ah, bother, I've forgotten the beer Frodo. I need to go back to the car. You wait here, OK?"

Frodo settled down on the grass, dropping the bag of sandwiches by his side. The brown paper bag of sandwiches. The brown paper. Bag. Sandwiches. Paper. Sandwiches. Paper ...

Twenty minutes later, Malcolm returned to find a very guilty dalmatian pup sitting beside torn fragments of chewed brown paper and half-eaten sandwiches. "Frodo! Frodo, have you eaten the sandwiches?"

The little pup looked up at his master, hung his head, and nodded. He'd been caught, definitely red-pawed.

"You were hungry then?"

The young dalmatian, still holding his head low, nodded again.

"You still hungry?"

Frodo had barely eaten all day; in fact he'd had nothing since two stolen cookies just after lunch. He nodded, yes, he was still hungry.

Malcolm opened one of the other bags he'd previously carried to the clearing, and removed a packet of digestive biscuits. "Fancy a digestive, pup?" Frodo looked up and nodded, his tail wagging, his eyes sparkling.

"Just one thing, boy, these digestives, they can be a little bit dry. They're better when creamy." Malcolm unwrapped the red tube of biscuits, removed half a dozen of them, and laid them on the grass in front of Frodo. "You can eat the ones you cream, my little furry Frodo. Two spanks for each you miss, and you can eat the ones you cream. And that's an over-the-knee spanking with the big paddle. You've got, oh, five minutes should be enough."

Frodo looked down at the biscuits in front of him, and then back to his master. Seriously? He was supposed to wank on the biscuits, if he wanted to eat them?

"Four minutes and thirty seconds, boy. And heck you might need all that because you've already had your rocks off several times today. And if you don't cream any of the biscuits, you're sleeping outside the tent tonight."

Frodo stared down at the brown crumbly snacks in front of him.

"Four minutes, pup."

The thought of eating his own cum, eating his own creamy white cum off a biscuit, suddenly fired home and his little pup cock, forever seeking humiliation, quickly became swollen with a small drop of precum appearing at its head. Frodo picked up a biscuit and wiped his cock on it. One down, five to go.

"No touching the biscuits, boy. You'll just have to aim. Carefully."

Frodo knelt and held his cock over the second biscuit.

"Two minutes, thirty seconds."

Frodo rubbed and immediately his pup-hood fired a full load onto biscuit two. The young dog shuffled sideways and managed to cream some of the third biscuit. He shuffled further along just in time for another spurt to cover the fourth biscuit, and - rubbing and squeezing frantically - he managed to get some milky pup juice on the fifth biscuit before his cock ceased its work. Not thinking, he reached for the sixth biscuit and wiped his dick over it.

"Tch, I said no touching boy. That's a failure and a forfeit."

Frodo, impulsively, whined with disappointment. A genuine, sad, heart-felt, doggy whine. Enough to catch at his master's heart. Perhaps Malcolm had been too strict on young Frodo over the past twenty four hours. After all, the little dalmatian was still a pup, and it would be wrong to discipline all that frisky mischief out of him.

"OK, OK. You eat one biscuit, you get one spanking, and you get to sleep in the tent. Happy, boy?"

Frodo clapped his mitts together and yelped with excitement. Picking up a digestive, he licked clean the creamy topping then ate the biscuit. Not too bad. Not bad at all. A little oily, maybe, and salty, of course, but the crumbly biscuit complemented it well. Frodo worked his way through all six biscuits, then walked over and kneeled before his master.

"Over my knee, young Frodo, young scallywag."

Frodo climbed up and over his master's knee, opening his fursuit to expose his pair of round rosy buttocks, at the same time his allowing his cock to hang down between his master's legs. Malcolm, his human master, held out a red rubber bone which Frodo grasped between his teeth; every time he cried out and dropped the bone, he would receive another two swats - one for dropping the bone, and the other as punishment for crying out. He hated the red rubber bone; his own rubber play-bones were yellow or white, although his master had some blue ones for playing tug-of-bone with other furries, and there was a strange-looking green one fashioned into a butt-plug at one end ... but the red ones always related to punishment.

Malcolm caressed the puppy's cheeks, then dropped his hand down between the dalmatian's legs, fondled the dog's balls and squeezed his young canine cock. Frodo tensed in response. "No, Frodo, you've been punished enough. No more spanking tonight. Let's start afresh. You're a pup on the verge of full dog-hood. Somehow I don't think you're ever going to lose your mischievous streak, and really I don't think I'd want you to. But, you know, there are times when you should behave ... must behave ... and there are times when you can have fun. Do you understand?" Still laying across his master's knees, fursuit open to the cool breeze, Frodo nodded, a silvery tear wending from one eye down and around his muzzle. "In any case," continued Malcolm, "it's quite a long time since I've tasted dog cock, and if I'm not very much mistaken then I think you may be getting hard again."

With that, the master gently rolled his young pup back on to the soft grass, and - with the aid of a rising full moon - the master lowered his head to show that love flows both ways.

Frodo murred.

The End.