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It's 1956, and ordinary housewife Margaret Miller takes the opportunity to get closer to one of her neighbors. Of course, he's not all that he seems -- and with him in control, soon she isn't either...

In which we try our hands at a new genre! What genre? Why, mind control! This falls into the broad category of what Rechan refers to as "flexible consent," so, consider that a warning I guess? Mind control in the dawn of the Cold War :D Thanks as always to Max Coyote and Spudz for help in creating the final product. Wouldn't have been the same without them. At least, for some strange reason I keep thinking so...

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

"Typical all-American girl," by Rob Baird

---

No matter how it might've looked to the neighbors or even her husband, it didn't take much convincing for Margaret to accept Jack Brewer's invitation to coffee. Of course, Jack was sort of a friend of hers. They'd known each other ever since Margaret and Harold had moved to the subdivision.

He was a professor, and he taught psychology or something similar at the university. Margaret envied his students. In a suit, the wolfhound looked like a Hollywood actor: tall, slim, impeccably furred, and impossibly handsome. His voice was always smooth, never missing a beat. And he wanted to have her over for coffee!

The collie chose a nice, demure dress for it, though. There wasn't any point in giving people ideas. She didn't even really have them, herself. It was completely innocent, and she was a typical, all-American girl: a respectable woman, and devoted to her husband. Even if Harold could be a bit much to deal with, sometimes. His job with IBM was just stressful, she told herself -- it was also the only reason they could afford to live in the neighborhood.

Jack's brand-new Thunderbird was parked ostentatiously in the driveway, its chrome bumper glittering and the fabric top down in anticipation of a luxurious journey later. The car was much more than one would need just to get to the university... but then, Jack liked to show off.

For example, when she rang the door he was still wearing a full suit, and he bowed graciously. "Why, good afternoon, Mrs. Miller."

"Good afternoon," the collie answered, with a bright smile and a helpless wagging of her tail. The inside of his house was spotless and well-furnished. All of it was done in the most modern style -- though he didn't have a television, she saw. Rows and rows of books, instead, and a great big radio.

And a long piece of metal she took for an oar, at first, dominating an otherwise empty shelf. Jack saw her looking, and grinned. "It's part of a propeller," he explained.

"A propeller? From an airplane?"

"That's right. From my B-17." The wolfhound ran his fingers along the worn metal, which she now saw was nicked and well-used. "Our very last mission of the tour. April, 1945, and we were hit for the first time. I don't like to think of us as unlucky, though, considering what might've happened. After our belly-landing, I asked if I could keep one of the propeller blades instead of letting them scrap it, and they said 'yes.'"

"That's what you won your medal for, right?"

He smiled and nodded. "Yes. But let's not talk about me, Mrs. Miller. How have you been? Do I see you're growing blueberries?"

"I'm trying, yes." He sounded so genuinely interested -- in a way her husband never had been, although of course Hal indulged her gardening like she indulged his fishing. "Probably next year, I think."

"Certainly something to look forward to." He set out two cups, filling each in turn. "And you are truly a master of those roses. My Shannon... she tried, you know, but it never really was her forte. Milk and sugar?"

"Please." She offered a sympathetic look, for the mention of the wolfhound's wife -- who had passed away, evidently, shortly before Margaret had moved to the neighborhood. "How are your classes? How's school going?"

"Well, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about." With both cups of coffee poured, he skillfully carried the tray into the living room and sat it next to a small plate of cookies. Jack took a seat carefully, managing not to disturb a single crease of his suit. "What do you know about what I do, Mrs. Miller?"

"You're a professor at the university -- aren't you, Dr. Brewer?"

He smiled over a sip of his coffee, taken as black as his dark, intelligent eyes. "That's not exactly true. I work there, yes, but my employers are located elsewhere. In fact, I am an agent of the federal government."

She perked up her ears and tilted her head. "Do... do you mean the Federal Security Agency? Do you work for the office of Education? Or..." There were certainly more exciting options, for a handsome young canine such as he. "The Secret Service? The FBI?"

"That's a bit closer. I work to protect American interests against the threats of international communism and all others who would seek to do us harm."

"Communism!" It seemed unthinkable that there could be communists in a quiet, pleasant town like theirs -- even at the university. They were better than that, surely. "You don't think... here..."

Jack took another drink, his smile never wavering. "No, no. And please, don't worry -- I know that you're a loyal American citizen, and so is your husband. He served bravely in the war. This isn't about you being under suspicion at all. I was more curious if you might be interested in volunteering to help us."

"To... help you?"

"In conducting an experiment. It would be quite safe. You'd just let me take some notes on your behavior, that's all."

"Why... why me?"

"Well, you're more than just a pretty face, Mrs. Miller." When he said it, his dark eyebrows arched mirthfully -- and stayed there, when he saw how her ears twitched. "You're a smart, resourceful, all-American girl. Who better to tell us what we're doing right -- or wrong? I would trust you."

Margaret blushed beneath her fur at the compliment. "Well, I -- then I -- I'd be honored to help, then."

The wolfhound smiled, gently, and dipped his long muzzle towards a glass of water on the table. "Please -- a drink, then?" He was so graceful in everything he did, despite his imposing size. And his fur... his fur was so very lovely. "I don't want you to get thirsty."

She didn't think twice before reaching for the water, and taking a sip. "So when will we begin?"

"Soon," the wolfhound said. "Quite soon."

Margaret hadn't been thirsty, but now that he'd mentioned it the coffee did seem to have brought it out in her. She took another drink, and for some reason it seemed to go on for a very long time. The feeling of the cool water on her tongue lingered, all the way until the sip that followed. "What will we..."

The collie stopped talking. Her words seemed rather odd somehow -- like they were unnaturally light in her muzzle. Unexpectedly weightless. It had only been water, hadn't it? Nothing about the glass was unremarkable, or the taste, or the smell.

You're just being silly, she told herself. "What will you be taking notes on?"

The handsome young wolfhound folded his paws together, watching her. "Mostly just your thoughts, Maggie. Your reflections. Everything is alright, I hope? You look a little piqued."

"I'm... fine."

"Ah, good. I'm sure you are fine. Feeling very well. You look in very good health."

Truthfully, the collie had been feeling increasingly strange. Listening to his voice brought her back to earth, though. That dark purr, spilling into her ears like warm molasses, was more than enough to reassure her. If he thinks I'm fine, I must be. Margaret smiled dreamily. Oh, and speaking of that, she was reminded: "'Mrs. Miller,' please. Or 'Margaret,' if you must. I don't go by 'Maggie.'"

"My mistake. Did you study poetry in your English classes, Mrs. Miller?"

"Mm-hmm..."

"Might I recite a poem?"

Considering his voice, he could recite anything he wanted! But when he opened his mouth, all she heard was a strange, flat tone. It was very loud; under the unwavering sound she could detect the thumping of her heartbeat. Jack's muzzle was moving. His eyes... his eyes were very dark. Impossibly dark.

Like a god. It was like... it was like meeting God...

Margaret snapped herself from it with a sharp jolt. "What? Huh?"

"I'm sorry?" Jack cocked his head in surprise.

"I... uh... what did you say?"

"I just asked if you knew anything about the plans for any desserts after the barbecue."

Margaret flattened her ears. The last thing she remembered was something about poetry. "Barbecue..."

"Are you feeling ill again?" The wolfhound looked very concerned.

"I don't... I don't remember."

"Ah. We've been over this," he smiled, and reached across the coffee table to pat her shoulder. The big dog's paw was bizarrely hot, heavy like an iron against her dress. And as soon as he touched her she recalled everything at once.

They'd talked about poetry. Music. Drive-in movies. Her garden. She'd gotten confused about something and he'd explained the chemicals that had been mixed into her glass of water. Then she'd recovered; they'd talked about her husband's work on SAGE, the big computer system they were building to keep an eye out for communist bombers. And then somehow they'd wound up talking about the upcoming block barbecue.

She was all for it, in theory, although she thought having to pay for it out of their own pocket was a little bit silly. Jack had smiled, and said that it was worth it for the spirit of their neighborhood. He'd asked if they were planning on having any sort of dessert, afterwards. Last year there'd been the contest...

"Probably this year, too," she finally said. "I really should get around to entering!"

"What do you make?"

"Angel food cake. It's my mother's recipe, originally, and I've gotten fairly good at it, if I do say so myself. Perhaps I should make some, to practice..."

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

She cocked her head. "Why, Dr. Brewer, I don't really have any plans. I could make some then."

"Actually, I was wondering if you might be willing to accompany me to work..."

Margaret accepted, although she wasn't certain why it had seemed like such a good idea. Harold was rather skeptical and, once she was back in her own home she had to admit that he had a right to be.

But what was the harm? It wasn't like he was taking her to dinner. And it was a chance to be close to him, even if they weren't alone. Either it was entirely innocent, or she was comfortable pretending that it was.

So the next day she found herself in a stuffy room in one of the university's great halls. The others -- all of them were watching her, rather than Jack -- were all distinguished scholars. "So your method in particular is?" One of them was prompting the wolfhound for an explanation.

"It's a combination of the effects produced by psychoactive drugs and a certain trigger phrase, which the subject cannot identify and cannot resist. Mrs. Miller, do you know this man?" Jack pointed to an elderly dog with a worn corduroy jacket and a bored look in his eyes.

"No," Margaret said, shaking her head.

"Of course not. Dr. Valley is also a psychiatrist, but he has certain doubts about the efficacy of this method. What would you say to convince him?"

She blinked, and shook her head. "I... I don't know. I'm not as smart as you about... brain stuff."

"Dr. Brewer." Valley sighed tiredly. "This is all very interesting, I suppose, but..."

Jack smiled. He leaned down, and whispered something into Margaret's ear. Something -- it sounded like they were meant to be words, but everything was jumbled and it hissed like static. She flinched. "... simple operations," the wolfhound finished.

Slightly, momentarily disoriented, she mumbled: "What?"

"I proposed reviewing some simple mathematical operations. What's seven times eight, Mrs. Miller?"

"Fifty-six."

"Very good. Nine times twelve?"

"One hundred and eight."

"Elementary. What about eighty-five times a hundred eleven?"

"Nine thousand, four hundred and thirty-five," Margaret answered at once. It was strange he'd gone for something so simple -- didn't everyone know their hundred-and-elevens-tables?

"Now, of course, you're not a mathematical prodigy. You see: what we've done, Dr. Valley, is removed the conscious barriers to these thought processes. Mrs. Miller, the square root of three hundred twenty-eight thousand, three hundred twenty-nine."

"Five hundred seventy-three."

The wolfhound grinned, and clasped his paws together. "And, of course, this is all fairly trivial. May I borrow your notebook, Dr. Valley?" He took the book, riffled through it, and held it up for Margaret's inspection. Just long enough to see that the pages were covered densely with the old dog's neat, narrow handwriting. Course notes. Then he handed it back. "The fifth word of the second sentence on the third line on the right-hand page, please?"

She'd only seen the notebook for the briefest second. But now that he mentioned it, it was easy enough to picture what the pages had looked like. Yes -- she could recall it as clearly as she could recall her own name. "'Summer.' 'Propose his defense this summer before conference in Washington.' It's a page of notes about one of Dr. Valley's students, a Morris... Webster. Studying --"

Valley snapped his notebook shut angrily. "This is quite enough. These are parlor tricks, Jack."

"Do you really feel that way?"

"I don't even know why we approved this."

The wolfhound nodded. "Fair enough." He set his briefcase on the table and flipped it open. Atop the folders and neatly bound paperwork, metal glinted. Jack took the pistol -- the professors gasped when they saw what it was -- and handed it to Margaret. It was remarkably, surprisingly heavy. And cold.

"What are you --"

He didn't let Dr. Valley finish. "The good doctor is an agent of the Kremlin. Terminate him."

As soon as he said it, she knew that he was telling the truth. Margaret hadn't seen him before, but there was just something communist in his bearing. Something gratingly, glaringly un-American. Besides... it would make Jack happy, and the thought of that thrilled her. Without hesitating, and before anyone could stop her, she lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

She tried again. Startled screaming covered the dull click of the hammer. Dr. Valley's eyes were wide; shocked. It didn't bother her. What bothered her was the idea that she might've disappointed Jack, but the wolfhound took back the gun gently -- and she saw that he was smiling. "It's not your fault, Margaret. Of course, the gun is defective and unloaded. I'm not that reckless, Dr. Valley. But you also saw that she didn't ask questions. She is... utterly pliable."

True as it might've been, the answer did not soothe the older man. "Get. Out."

Outside the room, which was filled with abrupt commotion, a tiger in a well-tailored business suit waited for them. "Had fun, Jack?" he asked.

"They'll come around. Margaret, this is Edward Hansen."

"Eddie." The tiger held out his paw for her to shake. She did, ignoring the muffled shouting she could still hear even with the door closed. "Headquarters is going to want to know what the response was."

Suddenly they were outside, at the edge of the campus, next to Jack's car. And Eddie was gone. The taste of coffee lingered in her mouth, though she found that she had no memory of drinking it. "Forget everything you just heard," Jack was saying.

"What?"

"Good girl." His mouth stayed open -- his lips moved, but she heard only static.

And then it cleared. Margaret felt as though she was waking up from a strange and somewhat unpleasant dream. Had they -- had she... "Did we have a meeting with a... panel of your coworkers?"

"Yes."

"Did I..." Her voice faltered. Unlike a dream, the memories persisted. "I recall pointing a gun at someone and pulling the trigger."

"We were testing your susceptibility to suggestion. Unfortunately, it seems that the faculty is less than convinced. Agent Hansen will probably have to speak to them directly." The wiry-haired dog shrugged, brushing off the setback, and pulled open the passenger side door of the Thunderbird for her.

She took her time, trying to process it all. "I don't... I don't really think I like the thought of what happened. It's not very comfortable thinking you can just... flip me, like a switch."

"Only as long as the drugs last in your system. By tomorrow, you'll be right as rain."

"You're certain?"

He looked over, and smiled his most winning of smiles. Even in full control of her faculties, the broad grin sapped any doubt from her before he spoke. "Completely certain, Mrs. Miller. Besides -- it gave me the opportunity to spend some time with you! I've been wanting to do more of that for a while."

Again she remembered that he had, after all, been interested in her -- had sought her out specifically, even! And since he was working for the government, he was trustworthy. She might as well have enjoyed it: the car was very nice, and its driver made for pleasant company.

He reminded her that she was not to tell anyone of what she'd done, but Margaret wasn't so dumb as to think they'd believe her anyway. By the block party, two weeks later, she was even beginning to have doubts herself.

"So." Harold was three or four beers in; she hadn't been paying the attention she usually did. In any case he was drunk enough to be slurring his words a little. "This's the professor, eh? You were, ah... Marines?"

"Army Air Corps. I flew B-17s."

"Used to..." Harold gestured towards Jack with his bottle, although this put him off balance and he swayed a little. "Used to really envy you guys up there, when we were down in damned Ardennes. Wasn't until afterwards... wasn't a picnic for you, either."

"No. And the next one -- God forbid -- will be even worse. The new bombers are jet-powered, but even them... the way the communists are talking, I don't think it'll be any safer."

"It'll be all rockets anyway. Jus' like fireworks... 's why we're... what I'm doing? Helping to keep our boys safe, if it happens."

"God forbid," Jack said again.

"Mm. You're a good guy, for some brainy professor. Shame we don't do so much of the... talking. We don't talk much." Yes, her husband was definitely feeling the party. It wasn't particularly dignified.

"Well, with work and all, I suppose our schedules haven't matched up." Jack was drinking tonic water, and looked as handsome as ever.

Harold laughed. "Well, m'wife thinks awful highly of you. So you two are figuring out how to... how t'make your schedules work. Should I be worried?"

"Not unless she takes a sudden liking to neuroscience." Jack clinked his glass against Harold's, and the two shared a chuckle before Harold decided it was time for dessert and wandered off. "Interesting man."

"He's..." Margaret didn't have a particularly good way of finishing the sentence. There was a lot to like about Hal Miller -- he was friendly enough, and he was a hard worker. Not particularly adventurous, though. And he'd let himself go a bit, since getting out of the army.

"IBM, you said, right?"

"Yes, sir." He worked on the computers they were using to defend the country against the USSR. That was an honorable thing, wasn't it? Though the work seemed to stress him a little. The drinking, for example, was new. "You're not having a beer?"

Jack shook his head, and swirled the ice in his glass. "I don't really care for what alcohol does to me, to be honest. I like to be in control of my faculties."

Margaret looked down at her wine, and tilted her head ever so slightly to one side. "That does make... sense..."

"Oh, it's nothing you need to worry about, I'm sure." His voice was ever-reassuring. "Just the sort of complications I deal with in my line of work."

There were always complications. Hers were more trivial: there definitely seemed to be aphids in her tomato plants, for one. And she wasn't completely happy with how her cake had turned out; it wasn't that anybody would notice, and it probably tasted fine, but there was no way they were going to vote for it over Betty Mortimer's chocolate raspberry layer cake.

She slipped away from the activity to the backyard of Betty's house. Her garden was immaculate. Beautiful, vibrant tulips welcomed her; nothing was out of place or... complicated. Even the shed was a masterpiece -- it even had its own electric light, and a locking door!

Harold had built a shed, but despite his aspirations it remained a rickety structure that looked alright from the outside but leaked badly within. Betty's husband would've been absolutely scandalized.

The stride of the footsteps behind her was long enough that she guessed the owner before Jack's voice drifted over. "Well-built, isn't it?"

"Isn't it?"

He walked with her, around the back and to the far side, canting his head and inspecting the wooden exterior. "It's from Sears. They sell the whole kit."

"He didn't build it himself?"

"Oh, I doubt it. That's the way things go these days. It's all mass-produced in factories up in Michigan." He tapped the foundation with the toe of his oxblood shoes. "Nobody really cares these days. We're all too busy buying things."

He had stopped; so did she. "Care about... building sheds?"

"Care about anything." He smiled gently: "They just take the easy way out. Except when it matters. Then they try to convince themselves that things need to be difficult. When if you think about it... a lot of the time, you can do what you want."

"Well..."

"It's a free country. Isn't that what Independence Day is about, Mrs. Miller?"

The other party guests were laughing and raucous, out in the street; the evening was warm. Soon there would be fireworks. "We should probably go... um... go back out. Don't you think, sir?"

"Should we?" Jack leaned against the wall, and his dark eyes wandered far more than they should've. "Nobody's going to come back here -- we could stay awhile. And if anybody asked, you'd just tell them we were looking at the garden. You like gardening..."

The collie swallowed. She was, ever so slightly, regretting the second glass of wine. "I don't know." When she said this, what she meant was: I don't want to think about the answer too much.

So Jack did her thinking for her. The wolfhound's paw ran over her shoulder, under the pretense of adjusting her dress. "You could. Look into my eyes, Margaret."

She raised her muzzle. His eyes; god, he did have the best eyes. If only her children could have eyes like that -- what? Where did that thought come from? Her breathing caught. "Well..."

He opened his mouth. "Out of --"

It cut out in static, white noise, and Margaret gave a startled yelp and dropped the wineglass, springing back and away from him. "What?"

"Mrs. Miller?"

How is this happening? "You -- you told me that -- that it wasn't permanent."

"What wasn't?"

"Wh-what you did to me! You told me it would go away!" Once the drugs wore off! That was what he'd said, and that was weeks ago.

"I'm not certain what you're talking about."

If she tried -- and she really, really had to try -- his voice was only calm, rather than soothing. Focus. Concentrate. You're Margaret Miller, you're in your own neighborhood, and you're safe. "You can still... you can still do things. To my head!"

"That's silly. I don't mean to suggest things, but are you... are you stressed? Come on, Margaret. Look at me."

"No!" She took a few deep breaths. "I'm going back to the university -- I'm telling Dr. Valley what you've done!"

The calm dropped from his tone. "Careful. Don't do something you'll regret, Mrs. Miller. The university will deal with things in their own time. Now, if there's a problem here, let's take care of it."

She gritted her teeth and, before he could do or say anything else to her, Margaret tore herself away from his gaze and rushed back out and into the party. Harold, at least, had had enough to drink that it made for a convenient excuse when she said they needed to go home.

That night, she found it impossible to sleep. Had that really happened, next to the shed, or had she been imagining the whole thing? It was a very fanciful tale, if anyone stopped to consider it for too long...

Harold wouldn't understand, of that she was certain. Even if he was sober, he wouldn't understand. But maybe the professors would -- especially Dr. Valley. He was a critic, but he'd seen what had happened in their meeting... and anyway, he'd surely notice that she was upset by something.

Yes. That was the answer. Get up early in the morning, and drive to the university. She wasn't the best in a car, but she had a license and Harold would be too hungover to care. Until then, she barred the doors tightly, and waited.

Upset as she was, it seemed she had managed a few hours of sleep at least: the summer dawn was a few hours old by the time she had herself put together enough to head out. She glanced around nervously before getting into the car. Paranoid... I'm just being paranoid...

Jack's Thunderbird was parked, and empty.

Through the drive to the university she rehearsed what she wanted to say. I'm Margaret Miller; I'm an average housewife in Needham. I was recruited by Mr. Brewer, and even though I've never done anything the slightest bit strange in my life I agreed to let him do this to me...

Right. She was very ordinary. She'd picked a nice, seafoam dress that complimented her fur, and brushed her hair down until it was shiny and smooth. She tried to make her wedding ring conspicuous. Average, ordinary, safe, plain, comfortable -- normal. I want to be normal again.

Classes were not in session; although it was 10 in the morning, it was also the day after the Fourth of July, and the lecture hall seemed to be empty. She found the office marked KIERAN VALLEY, PHD and, finding it unlocked, she slipped inside to wait.

How was such a thing even possible?

10 became 10:30. 11. She glanced over the papers on the professor's desk. Maybe he'd have his phone number written somewhere, although she didn't really want to be rummaging through another man's belongings.

She heard the handle turn in the door, and straightened up. I'm an average housewife and --

Jack Brewer stepped through, and when he saw the collie he chuckled, and crossed his arms. "Fancy meeting you here."

"I told you I was going to talk to the professors."

"I know. How else do you think I knew where to find you? I can't let you do that, though, Mrs. Miller."

"Then I'll be leaving." She declared it with as much strength as she could manage.

"Not until we have a talk. Can we talk?"

"I'll be leaving," she insisted, and took a step towards the exit.

The wolfhound snickered. "No. No, you won't."

"I don't want to talk to you. Not after what you... what you did to me."

"Too bad." He let his arms hang, relaxed. "You're staying right here."

"You -- you can't do this. It isn't right! It isn't right to do this!"

She reached for the door, and immediately he put his paw over the handle. Now Margaret was pinned between it and the wolfhound's body, and for the first time she realized just how large he actually was. She came up to his chest, and just barely at that.

Jack didn't need to have done anything to her. His size alone was enough. He grabbed her other paw, and squeezed her wrist tightly. The collie became acutely aware that she was trapped; she didn't even bother to struggle. Her ears lowered. "Please... let me go..."

"No. You don't know what you're doing."

"I do," she whimpered. The wolfhound had her fast, though. He's going to kill me. He could snap her neck without even feeling it. Or those teeth... or... or he must've had a gun... a working one, this time...

Strangely, he wasn't growling. He didn't even seem angry. Instead, he was smiling. Even the grasp on her wrist wasn't painful, just secure. Jack lowered his muzzle until their noses were on the same level. His eyes were as warm as ever.

"Please..."

"Out of the night that covers me," he purred.

Her shoulders drooped, suddenly. She'd been so foolish. So dumb. He hadn't been threatening her. Why would he threaten her? Jack stepped back, and the collie turned to look dumbly at the door. She'd been planning on leaving, for... for some reason...

"Were you going somewhere?"

"I... I think so," she shook her head, and tried to imagine why.

"That's odd." Jack seemed to agree. "Strange you'd be going somewhere when you don't even remember your own name."

"I do!"

"What is it?"

The collie blinked. Her muzzle formed strange shapes, but none of them seemed to be quite appropriate. Had her parents really never given her a name? That would've been very unusual. Stranger things had probably happened, but... then... "Well, it's..."

"Margaret. But you go by 'Maggie,' most of the time. Right?"

Right. That's right. Actually, she thought she didn't use that name most of the time -- it was a special name. Jack used it. She liked to hear him say it. "Oh. Yes... of course..."

"Maggie, you were going to do some silly things, weren't you? You were going to talk to some professors and make some very, very strange claims. Do you think I'm mad at you?"

She shook her head.

Jack rewarded her with a pat on the side. "Good, I'm glad you know that. I'm never mad at you, Maggie. I think the problem is that you just don't know what you are."

Sometimes when he said things, they seemed rather strange to hear. This was one of those times. She might've momentarily forgotten her name, sure, but so what? "No, no. I... I know what I am."

The door opened behind her; she stepped away from it, and canted her head at the appearance of Jack's friend, the tiger. Edward -- Hansen? Yes, right. Eddie Hansen, you saw him before. Nice stripes. "Do you really, then," Jack went on, while she pondered. "Why don't you tell Eddie what you are?"

Eddie closed the door. And locked it. Margaret wasn't all that concerned. Probably he just likes his privacy. There's nothing wrong with that. "I'm an American," she told him eagerly. "A nice, all-American girl. I live in Needham... I'm a housewife -- Harold Miller's wife."

"Ed?"

The tiger looked her over slowly. "She looks sort of like an agitator."

"I'm almost inclined to agree."

Margaret's ears went back. "I'm not! I -- I'm an American. Like you!"

Eddie rolled his eyes. She felt Jack patting her shoulder gently. "You're not anything at all like him, though. Look at him, Maggie. He has stripes. Do you have stripes?"

"N-no. He's a tiger."

"And you're an agitator," the feline scowled. "Clearly."

"No!" she protested hotly. "I'm a collie! Both my parents were collies! Purebred!"

"Agitator," Ed repeated. "We might have to teach her a lesson about disloyalty."

Before she could panic, Jack came to her assistance. He stroked her arm soothingly. "No, no. Maggie says she's a collie. They're very loyal. You don't believe her, do you? Well, Maggie, you're going to have to prove it, I suppose."

"How?"

"If you say you're a dog," he suggested kindly. "Maybe you should beg like one."

She looked over her shoulder at the wolfhound, who responded with a smile. It was less than respectable, she knew, but... but if he said it, then it was probably the only way. The collie dropped to her knees, tucking her tail and keeping her paws submissively folded in her lap. She raised her eyes up to look at Eddie, but his stern gaze didn't waver.

"I don't think so," the tiger growled. "Fucking Sovs..."

Why? Why doesn't he trust me? She whined hopefully, splaying her ears out to either side. "Please," she urged him. "Oh, please, please don't say that. I -- I'm an American. I'm a good American dog. Look. Look, please," she begged, feeling her whiskers begin to tremble.

"A good dog," Eddie snorted. "Of course you are, red. Trained?" He held out his big paw and she licked at it hopefully, tasting his fur on her tongue. The tiger jerked it back, and then swatted her sharply on the muzzle.

It stung -- she couldn't avoid yelping. Jack rested his paw heavily on her shoulder. "Don't do that," he told Eddie curtly. "She's trying. Shake, Maggie."

The tiger extended his paw again and this time, carefully, she put her smaller one atop his to shake it gingerly. He looked unimpressed. "Bark, then." That wasn't right -- she wasn't supposed to bark. Housewives didn't bark. "Bark, you commie bitch."

"Maggie..."

She did her best. It wasn't a proper feral sound; more of a hopeful 'ruff!' Eddie finally grunted. "Fine. Maybe I'm convinced."

"Good girl," Jack told her. God, but that was a relief! She didn't even realize how worried she'd been until the danger was over, and her tail was starting to wag again. With Eddie convinced, she started to get up, only to find the wolfhound's paw still at her shoulder.

"Um..."

"Dogs don't wear clothes, do they?" he suggested.

It was a curious question to be asked. "You... wear clothes..." she said. The reply obviously disappointed him, judging by the way Jack rolled his eyes at her. She'd always worn clothes in public before -- and she was at the university, in somebody's office. And there were two people there, both of whom had only seen her clothed.

So why was this time different? And why were her fingers already fidgeting with the buttons of her shirtwaist dress? It wasn't so bad. More than that, it was sort of... exciting? Jack surely had a reason to be asking the question in the first place. Margaret unfastened the rest of the buttons, and didn't protest when Eddie helpfully pushed the nice fabric off her shoulder.

"The petticoats, too?" she asked, standing up to slip all the way free of her dress.

"Good dogs don't wear petticoats if they want to be convincing," Jack reminded her. It was a gentle voice. Of course she could've kept her clothing on -- clearly! He wouldn't have minded. He was looking out for her.

But just as clearly, it would be more effective to remove her clothes, and so she did. She worked her undergarments off, too, while she was at it. Most of them -- not her bra, until Eddie nudged at that by way of a reminder.

Naked, she looked between the two men. The wolfhound grinned, and every time she felt the weight of his eyes on her her tail wagged happily. To think, she'd been worried about what he might've wanted to do to her! Just looking at him and his nice, dark eyes clouded her brain in reassuring, fuzzy warmth.

"I think you might deserve a treat for being such a good dog, don't you?" Jack asked, drawing his paw up and under her chin. Even without knowing what he meant, the thought was a little thrilling: she nodded swiftly. "No, no. Ask for it."

"Can I have a treat? Sir?"

He smirked, and patted her shoulder gently. "No. We already know how a good girl begs." His voice was understanding, of course, and not reproachful.

Margaret smiled, and happily got down on the floor again. She looked up at the tall wolfhound. His lean, sinewy body towered over her, filling her vision with its reassuring bulk. Lifting her muzzle, she wagged her tail hopefully. "Please? I've been good -- I've been so good! Please, sir."

With a telling grin, the wolfhound slowly undid his belt, and pulled his slacks open. His undershorts were tented heavily -- the collie's eyes widened just to think of the sheer bulk they were containing. As she watched, he slid the shorts down and his white-furred sheath slipped free, along with four or five inches of hard, salmon-pink bare flesh protruding obscenely from it.

She'd never seen one so close. Certainly she and Harold had never done anything like... like that. Jack's thick, heady musk sent her senses reeling as it filled her muzzle. "I... you want me to..." It bobbed stiffly -- the sheath still nice and plump, promising that still more was yet to come.

"Don't you?" the wolfhound asked.

Margaret shook her head weakly. "It's not -- it's not right to do that..."

Jack sighed, and patted her head gently. "You're mistaken again, Maggie."

"I... I am?" She felt quite certain that she was not. She was not the kind of woman who would put one of those anywhere near her muzzle, not if she expected anyone to respect what came out of her mouth again. She might've been a dog -- but she was a proper one, with a house, and a garden to take care of... and a husband... somewhere...

Jack was stroking her ears. "You want to suck on it."

"I do?"

As he stroked, he pulled her closer, gently, until her eyes had nothing to focus on but the thick, veiny shaft before her. It was all slick and shiny. It smelled heavily of the dog -- not cologne or bodywash or conditioner, just pure, raw dog. "Of course. You pretend well, but you've always been the kind of eager slut who would beg to be able to get her muzzle around something like this."

Her ears went back. Was he telling the truth? "I don't think..."

"Beg, Maggie."

Why was she licking her chops like a starved animal, then, if she hadn't wanted it? The longer she went, the more she could almost feel it, slipping between her lips. She could envision the way she'd keep him away from her canine teeth... how warm he'd be on her tongue. She leaned forward, unable to help herself.

Fortunately Jack was there for her. He caught her muzzle before she could do anything. "No. Beg. Come on, you've done so well..."

Whimpering, denied, the collie looked up at him and pouted. "Please?"

"'Please' what, Maggie?"

"Please, can I taste you? Just a taste? Please?" She licked her muzzle again, whining in her hunger. Jack let go, and at once she fell forward, burying her nose in his crotch and inhaling his aroma deeply so she wouldn't ever forget it. The main course she badly wanted to savor, to put off, but she only lasted a few seconds before she had to have that taste and she dragged her tongue over him in a wet, slurping lap.

It wasn't so bad at all. A little salty. Mostly he was hot, a glorious pulsing heat, and so slick that he glided effortlessly into her muzzle. More of his shaft throbbed free of his sheath while she licked at him. Eight inches? Nine? Easily. She probably couldn't have gotten her fingers around him if she tried. If?

It was a bit of a squeeze, but she managed. Even better, that held him in place for her insistent licking. A clear bead of liquid appeared at the tip of the wolfhound's massive endowment and she lapped it clean at once, thrilling at the salty, metallic tang. Once again she had clearly been mistaken. She had wanted it. She was the... the kind of eager slut who would beg for such a thing.

"Looks happy."

Eddie! That was right -- there was somebody else in the room! She stopped -- panicked. Jack's voice filled her ears. "No, it's okay."

"But -- he's --"

"A good girl doesn't mind being watched. There's no shame in liking the taste, Maggie. Why don't you turn around?" She whined and, ever-understanding, Jack ran his fingers tenderly through her hair. "Turn around so you can show him how good you are."

Of course she did as she was told, and discovered that Eddie was on his knees, too. Before she could hesitate again, Jack's paw was between her shoulderblades, pushing firmly, and she dropped down onto all fours. It put her nose close enough to the feline's crotch that she could already smell him. Not nearly as enticing as her lovely wolfhound, but... close enough?

Jack patted her side affectionately. His voice was sternly reassuring. "Go on. Don't be shy."

One paw on the cool floor was enough to keep her balance; with the other, she pulled down the zipper of the tiger's dress pants. They must've been expensive; the feeling of the zipper was crisp and smooth. Even so it took some effort to pull it over the bulge that swelled behind it, straining at his cotton briefs.

The briefs were even more difficult, but she was soon rewarded with the big cat's stiff length springing free and a glimpse of something even more strange and forbidden than Jack's had been. It was nice and thick, and it came to a tapered point, and the bare flesh was textured in curious little studs.

I wonder what they'd feel like on your tongue, Maggie? she thought, immediately before realizing there was no reason to wonder at all. She bathed him gently with her tongue, and found her ears perking at the hint of Eddie's appreciative purr. His tail began to sway, lashing in the periphery of vision dominated by his shaft and the fuzzy cream fur of his exposed sheath.

As she licked and nosed at him, the collie felt strong paws stroking her thick fur, working lower and lower until they were caressing her hips. Groping her rather... possessively, not that there was anything wrong with that. A hot, hard something pushed between her thighs and despite the distraction of the tiger throbbing under her tongue she found enough of her voice to mumble questioningly.

"What's that?" Jack asked.

"That isn't... I don't think..." She struggled to find words that didn't seem dumb. "My husband..."

"Knows the kind of girl you are," the wolfhound finished. It was a very matter-of-fact statement.

He slid the tip of his cock over her lips -- slick and slippery; there was no resistance to it except what was left in the ragged half-formed thoughts of impropriety still left to the collie. Before they could gather into anything more substantial he stopped. Shifted.

Maggie felt him pressing into her, using that first pointed inch to stretch her walls about him. Then he stopped, holding perfectly still. Her racing imagination took over, flooding her clouded brain with the promise of what he'd feel like all the way inside. Would he even... fit? He was definitely bigger than Harold, that was obvious -- to say nothing of what that big knot would do to her.

The mere thought of trying to take all of him was deliriously exciting. She had a perfect, clear image of a nice, proper, married-with-house-and-garden collie woman -- down on all fours with the tiger's cock stuffed into her panting muzzle and the wolfhound rutting her from behind like a feral bitch in heat. A shock of forbidden, aching delight shuddered through her. "Oh..."

"'Oh' what, Maggie? You know the kind of girl you are, too, don't you?"

"Yes..." Typical. All-American.

"You want me to keep going?" Jack wriggled his hips to force himself another inch deeper and she cried out before she even knew she was doing it.

"Y-yes!"

"I don't want to hear another word from you, then."

Her ears splayed and her raised tail struck his belly in eager thumps. He meant, she felt certain of it, that she was supposed to be finding something else to do with her tongue. And: there was the exotic tiger meat presented so invitingly before it. She lapped over the textured cockflesh again and again, until he was slick with hot canine saliva -- and then she couldn't take it anymore, suckling him into her muzzle hungrily.

Eddie grunted when she bore down on him, her lips clinging to the tapered head of his shaft. The grunt was followed by a salty taste on her tongue as he spurted his precum right into her mouth. It was rather... fun, in a naughty way, to think of what she was doing to him.

She paused to lick him clean and kept going. Maggie felt every throb and twitch as he slid deeper into a long collie muzzle that was just perfect for the task. Soon her nosepad was nuzzling into his fur; he was filling her maw completely. She swallowed, and heard him grunt again. His words were slurred: "Do that again, commie whore."

Strangely the second word didn't really bother her. It was the first that really stung: she was a good, red-blooded, patriotic American girl! It was the day after the Fourth! I'll just have to show him... she ran her tongue in slow circles on his prick, pulling her muzzle back, and then sucked hard on him when she eased forward to take him in again.

Just at that moment Jack drove forward, fluidly, slickly, squelching into the dripping collie bitch. Maggie groaned and forgot that she wasn't supposed to speak, but her giddy shout of delight turned into a muffled, unintelligible wash of hot breath fluttering over the tiger in her muzzle. Her jaw quivered and when Jack finally hilted and ground his hips sharply into the collie's fuzzy rump she moaned again and knew that she'd found her calling.

"Don't stop," Eddie growled. "Don't you fucking stop." She tried not to, tried to blot out the carnal, primitive pleasure that jolted through her with every movement Jack made. She bobbed steadily on the feline's length, trying to keep going even if her licking was getting a little unsteady.

The wolfhound behind her didn't give her any quarter when he began to thrust, fucking his cock smoothly into the collie with powerful thrusts. Maggie squirmed and shoved excitedly backward to meet him, forcing his overgenerous endowment as deep as she could, certain she could feel him pushing up against the very limits of her body. Achingly huge, the big dog split her wide as he forced his cock into her, growling with the sheer effort of it.

Maggie could only mewl her rising pleasure unevenly into the tiger; every sound was muffled. Her eyes screwed shut to focus on doing her job properly. She cupped with her paw, guiding the feline's cock between her lips and squeezing him playfully. She was coming to like the taste of it: a nice, fresh, musky tang in her muzzle. Not that she would've done it for Harold, necessarily, but here Jack wanted her to, and that made it all the better.

Jack himself was getting further into his steady tempo, groaning as he slid his pulsing erection easily into the her slick, heat-sloppy pussy. She heard him taking deep, heavy breaths and could imagine the look on his face -- eyes sightless, muzzle drawn in a snarling grin as he took his pleasure from the pliant, gasping slut of a collie.

He rutted into her quickly, not bothering to take his time. His rocking hips plowed the giant dog's shaft into her wetly; their fur squished together while he ground and humped and thrust. He was too consumed by it, by the need to... to take her for his own. Maggie shuddered in delight at the thought, and the man in front of her suddenly bucked and forced his own length solidly into her throat.

She choked, gagging around the heavy flesh, and heard Eddie growl out his satisfaction at the sensation. It took a moment to recover -- all the while she was being knocked forward, the resistance pounded out of her by the big wolfhound ramming his prick into her with a growing, telling urgency. Jack's breathing was harsh: he was putting all his strength into it now and she had to use both paws to brace herself against the brutal, hard fucking.

Behind her closed eyelids every new thrust speared into her in a flurry of hot sparks that danced and swirled in flashes of color. Warmth, an electric, clenching heat throbbed through her veins and tensed her muscles. There was no such thing as Margaret. No such married, prim housewife existed. She had no garden to think about it. There was only a moaning bitch of a collie squirming on her master's cock, begging him to keep going -- all the while her own gasps and pants were muffled by the other man's length she was busy greedily devouring.

Jack's knot pushed her wider still as it grew larger. He had to work harder and harder to shove it into her; his strong paws grasped at her hips roughly and he dug his claws in to tug her back. He's going to be too big to fit, she realized. As it was he had to strain, and when he finally lurched forward it ground their bodies sharply together, jolting her to feel the pressure of his tip as he bottomed out in her.

She, or the woman she was losing the memory of having been, hated it when Harold tied her. Those final, grunting exhalations before he collapsed as a dead weight on her chest and she had to endure the awkward minutes, long after he'd passed out, until he was shrunk enough that she could wriggle free. She'd never liked it.

It was only now that Maggie discovered that she'd been wrong all that time. It was her place to have a strong, virile man's knot shoved into her -- her place to have a proper stud claiming her body for his own. Jack was trying a final time -- her ears went back with the tension and the almost painful straining of her lips trying to manage him. No. Too big.

She found the thought disappointing, wrong even -- and then with a shocking thud! he did it. Got it into her, filling his collie bitch completely. His knot sank fully into her clenching, craving snatch. His claws scrabbled and bunched up her thick fur. She whimpered around Eddie's meat and heard the tiger's throaty purring catch and break when she suckled desperately on him to keep herself from howling.

Jack grunted, growling out behind her as his hips bucked of their own accord. Rapid, humping thrusts -- the unmistakable rising pace of a canine at the very brink of his release. His knot swelled up, battering her from within, pushing into all the right places. Maggie couldn't fight it any more. Her whimpering built into a keening whine... her tongue lashed at the feline shaft choking her.

Her whole body arched and pleasure wrapped her up in a crushing embrace. She was shockingly aware of every last inch of wolfhound dick impaling her as her spasming cunt clenched on him. Her legs tried to kick but there was nowhere to go, no escape from his paws and that throbbing spire buried into her. Jack snarled and went rigid, grinding deep. His tip prodded and there were long, desperate seconds of pressure... and then it knocked forward, the tightness yielding abruptly when he pushed into her very womb.

And as her climax hit its zenith and she was dumb to everything but raw, physical sensation she felt the twitching in his length, the pulse rising in it in that half-second before it burst into her in a jet of white heat. Another and another followed -- a slick torrent spilling into her very core. Maggie felt a spreading warmth slowly overcoming her as he flooded her womb, draining his clenching balls completely inside her.

There was so much of it! Even a sticky warmth, spattering the back of her throat -- she rasped in surprise and barely managed to swallow the second pulse just as she realized that it wasn't Jack, that Eddie was at his peak, too. The tiger's barbs flared, dragging over her tongue while he pumped his load right down her throat.

That was it. That was what she was for. To be so completely filled, so utterly claimed. The strength of the wolfhound's humping was beginning to falter but the spurts of his virile seed were still going strong. Eddie pulled back until the collie could taste the bitter, salty musk of tiger cum coating her tongue, too much of it to swallow without gagging.

She tried anyway, slurping lewdly, but even still it began to spill around her lips, drooling from her muzzle, and finally he gave up too: her muzzle was suddenly empty, and before she could say anything to question it she felt the answer come as a ribbon of thick feline spunk painting itself over the soft fur of her face. Her head dropped, letting her finally give voice to the ecstasy racing through her in a sobbing moan.

The moan tapered into silence. Panting filled the little room. Panting, and the sound of her claws tapping, shivering against the floor as she came to her senses. The unsteady drip of the tiger's seed falling from her face and muzzle.

When she decided she was finally steady enough, she kept herself propped up on one paw and used the other to brush as much of it from her face as possible. Enough to open her eyes: the tiger had a decidedly satisfied look on his face.

"I know you want to clean him off," Jack said, giving her sore haunch a pat. "Go ahead."

The thought hadn't occurred to her, but once it was mentioned she had no doubt that he was right. She nosed forward like a puppy until her tongue could curl about her prize, lapping softly on the nubbed, slick flesh, getting every last drop while he sighed in gratification and slowly softened back and into his sheath.

At last he zipped up his pants and stood. Maggie stifled a giggle at how shaky he was. I did a good job. I am a good girl. Sure enough, the tiger gave the two canines a knowing smirk. "She'll do, then. File your ordinary report when you're... free, Jack."

The door closed solidly behind him. It wasn't locked, but the collie discovered she felt no fear of being discovered. Jack would protect her. Everything would be alright. He would make everything alright...

"It's good that your plans all came together," the wolfhound told her. She agreed without reservation, even though she had to wait for him to tell her what those plans had been. "Coming here to wait for us, so that I could knock you up."

Her tail wagged. "Did you?"

"We'll see, won't we? You'll want to go again anyway; I know that. So would you like to talk about your future?"

She was a few steps behind, still thinking about how nice it would be to have puppies. That was a thing that proper American housewives did, too! It was nice that Jack agreed; he'd certainly tried his best. "My... my future?"

"I want you to listen carefully."

"To?"

"I am the master of my fate," he told her.

"I... I am the captain of my soul." Where had that come from? Why was she thinking about that? It seemed teasingly familiar, like nothing else in her life was -- familiar as breathing, or walking; something you didn't have to think about.

She seemed to be with another man -- she felt his weight at her back and an ache in her... troublingly full loins. She didn't want to look down; she knew what she'd see. The collie was staring at a closed door. The door was in a university lecture hall. She was at the university because...

"Oh god!" she gasped. It was Jack -- the other man was Jack. He'd... done things to her. At once she remembered everything that had happened with crystal, agonizing clarity. And even if she hadn't, he was still knotted to her. "How can this be... be happening..."

"Because it's important that you understand the world, and your place in it."

"Which is..."

He sat back, and tugged her into his lap. His arms encircled her, though the hug was more pragmatic than affectionate. "A soldier. We're in a war for survival with the Reds. It's either them or us, and trust me: America is more important than you, Margaret Miller."

"It's not... right..."

"Anything done for the side of good is right. How much does the Bill of Rights matter in a mushroom cloud? I'd do any of this again, in a heartbeat. If Dr. Valley continues to be stubborn, well then, he'll just have to be dealt with."

None of it mattered, but she mustered a faint protest: "that's against the law."

"Laws are just paper. You think we care about your right to free speech if you're going to be using it to write propaganda for Khrushchev? You think we care about your right to privacy if you're hiding secrets to help Moscow out?"

"But..."

"No law or sentimental claptrap about your civil rights is more important than this god-blessed country, Margaret. You better learn that straight away, before we have to teach you another lesson."

The thought was profoundly unsettling. And perhaps he was telling the truth? Sometimes unpleasant things had to be done for the greater good. The atomic bomb, for instance -- maybe this was like that? "I suppose. My country is more important."

"You know it. Bet you could recite the Pledge of Allegiance from memory. Not like these intellectual types at the school here. You're better than that. What did you say you were?"

"A typical, all-American girl," she recalled, and wondered if it was true.

Jack didn't have any doubts, though. "So you are -- and those are the best kind. Besides, it's only against the law if somebody finds out. Which they won't, because you're not going to tell them."

Her shoulders sagged. "No. I'm not."

"Good girl." Jack rested his muzzle atop her ear. "So you're with me, then?"

Not like she had much of a choice. Besides... it must've meant something that she felt so much more comfortable under his control than afterwards. Peaceful, even. "Yes."

"I knew you'd learn. Now, Maggie. You did come to the university to persuade those professors, though. Didn't you?"

"Yes..."

She could hear the grin in his words. "And you've showed yourself to have some rather well-honed talents. There's no shame in being good at what you do, of course. But you know what I think?"

One way or the other, it would be what she thought, too. "What?"

"I think, typical all-American girl, that you'd best get to persuading."