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As Rothko stepped from his mud-stained 2007 Honda Civic, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. Twenty-five feet away, his front door lay askance; from within his house blared a torrent of early 2000s nu metal, interspersed with the familiar crackle of a vintage boombox. The racket simultaneously annoyed and amused him; doubtless, his pet was doing something stupid. As per usual.

Rothko then slammed the car door, slowly edging his way toward the house's open doorway. It wasn't long before he recognized the telltale signs of Maggie's shenanigans – the clanging of pans, the scuffling of flip-flops. Silently, he opened the screen door and slipped inside.

And despite the hellhound's expectations, Rothko remained unprepared for what he saw next. As if a dead body were dragged on the hardwood floor, a trail of marinara sauce led from the living room into the kitchen; a Maggie-shaped imprint laid there in its center, undoubtedly where she'd slipped and busted her ass earlier. Just out of sight, the samoyed sang along to Limp Bizkit. She was incredibly off-key.

Rothko sighed. Truly, he had chosen the wife of all time.

“Maggie?" Rothko called, his tail swishing against the doorframe. “Are you in here?"

Excitedly, Maggie's voice boomed over the worst guitar solo Rothko had ever heard. “Hubbyyyyy!" she yelled, then careened into Rothko's sight, dropping herself into play position. Her hands laid flat on the dirty kitchen tile, her ass raised in the air, as her once snow-white tail wagged.

“I've been so busy," she slurred, nearly tipping over. Like a buoy, she swayed to and fro. “You left for so long, and I got so lonely. And hungryyyyyy." She hiccuped. “And a little drunk, hehe."

Rothko rolled his eyes. “You stupid… you started pregaming already?" he asked. “The concert is in an hour. I thought we'd start drinking together." He then pushed past Maggie, daintily avoiding the splotches of sauce on the floor, and barked: “And what did you do to our kitchen?!"

Maggy then stood, suddenly bashful at the question. “I dunnoooo," she teased, her arms crossed behind her back. “I''m – hic! – innocent, I swear."

Rothko sighed, gave Maggie a once-over. The canine's fur was tinged red with spicy marinara sauce, dangling in sparse blotches from her dark hair. A burgundy crust surrounded her toothy maw, as if she had shoved her face into a pot of pasta; a quick glance to the stove top indeed corroborated this theory. A maw-shaped depression still remained in a stray pot of spaghetti.

The hellhound then glanced around the room, assessing the extent of the damage; and unfortunately, it was quite severe. Somehow, Maggie had managed to even stain the ceiling with her lunch. Red stains poured from every pot and pan, past the stovetop, and onto the floor. Like a crime scene, red sauce pooled where Maggie had fallen when trying to transport the pot. Furthermore, it seemed that Maggie had emptied three separate jars of pasta sauce – likely after spilling most of it.

Wordlessly, Rothko wandered to Maggie's boombox, then turned it off. The sudden silence greeted Maggie like a slap.

“Oh, I liked that song!" she pouted, and glanced to a bottle on her left – a grimy bottle of cheap gin. “Hey, do you think I should have another shot?"

“Absolutely not," Rothko replied, and pinched his nose. “Maggie, I left for an hour and you're already wasted. Do you even see the fucking mess you've made?"

Nonchalantly, Maggie waved her paw. “Oh, I'll clean it all up later," she pouted. “And besides, you're gonna help me clean it all up. So it doesn't even matter that much." A pause, and then: “I think I'm gonna have another shot."

Rothko snarled, then snatched the bottle from her grasp. “Oh no, you're not," he growled. “Maggie, we are supposed to be at a concert in an hour. But you're in absolutely no state to be out in public." He then motioned around, added: “Not to mention that this will take all night to clean. How did you even manage to get sauce on the ceiling?"

Maggie simply shrugged, donning a smug grin. “I dunnoooo," she muttered, and giggled. “Okay, so here's what happened. Okay? When you left, Rothko, I just got so lonely. So I, uh… I started with one shot, and then…"

“Mmmm."

Maggie guffawed, grasped Rothko's paws. The scent of gin rolled off her flat tongue, pervaded Rothko's nostrils. “And, well, eventually, I stopped using the shot glass, haha." Another snicker. “And, um, I got so drunk that I felt hungry. Like, super hungry."

Rothko raised an eyebrow. “So you made a metric fuckton of pasta?" he snarled.

“Exactly!" Maggie exclaimed. “I made this big pack of pasta, and I tried to make a bunch of sauce, but it kept spilling everywhere. So I poured out this one jar… and then I dropped it."

“And you fell in it."

“Right!" Maggie admitted. “I fell down, and I got all wet." She then turned around, showing her back – completely covered in sauce. “And then, uh, I poured two more jars – cuz, yaknow, I was so hungry."

Rothko's stare seethed with rage.

“And I ate so much. It tasted so good." The mutt then flashed a capricious smile at Rothko, her tail wagging anxiously behind, her paws raised under her chin. “Anyway… babe, you're toooootally not mad, right? Like, if you were mad, you'd – hic! – totally tell me, right?"

Rothko frowned. It took all his strength not to pin her down then and there; so instead, he asked: “Do you want me to be mad?"

Maggie looked away bashfully, her hips swaying. “Nooooooo," she replied. Which, of course, meant that she had hoped Rothko would be mad.

Rothko hummed, tapped his foot. Of course Maggie would intentionally make a mess in hopes of prompting a reaction. Rothko had never met anyone brattier; or frankly, more annoying. Her nonchalance made his stomach churn.

Rothko then stuck a finger in Maggie's face, scrunched his maw. “Here's how I feel, then. You're the most disgusting person I've ever met." A cold edge tinged his words. He then pushed past Maggie, shoulder-checking her chest, and made a beeline for the staircase – somehow, it remained untainted by Maggie's whirlwind.

Maggie frowned. “I take that to mean you're mad," she called out. Rothko didn't respond.

For a moment, Maggie was then left amidst the destruction she had wrought. Truthfully, the kitchen had never been in a worse state. Red-orange splotches dotted the stovetop and walls alike, doubtlessly flicked there by her sopping, wagging tail. Swept haphazardly under the dinner table was a broken shot glass, crumbled into green shards.

Just as Maggie began to mope, Rothko then reemerged from the staircase. His paws were coiled behind his back, his tail swaying mischievously behind. A barely-hidden scowl curled along his maw.

He said, “Hey, mutt. Do me a favor."

Maggie, of course, knew what was coming. “Hm?" she asked, and laid a finger on her lip. With all her strength, she attempted to muster an innocent expression… and failed. “And what's that?"

Rothko growled; he could feel a great anger boiling in his chest, leaking into his balled fists. He ordered, “Go outside. In the backyard."

“Why?" Maggie asked.

Rothko snapped, “Because you're a fucking mutt, that's why."

Maggie shifted her weight, staring upward at her husband with a smug grin. “Oh? Is that right?"

“Yeah, that's right," Rothko huffed. “Honestly, you surpass the bounds of stupidity every day. But… this?" And he motioned around. “This takes the cake. I mean, look at you. You're filthy!"

Maggie lapped crusted sauce from her paw and replied, “No, I'm not."

“You are," Rothko snarled. “Fuck, and you smell like shit. I can barely fucking look at you."

“But–"

“Why would you ever think this was a good idea?" Rothko asked. “We're gonna miss our concert. We're gonna miss our friends. Tonight was supposed to be a date night. Our date night."

In a show of complete and utter insanity, Maggie shrugged. “Yeah," she pouted. “Well… at least the ants will have plenty to eat, huh?"

Rothko could only shake his head. He knew what Maggie was doing – he just hoped that she would give up before he burst.

“Are you seriously being a fucking brat right now?" Rothko snapped, and stepped closer. “You're worse than worthless – you're a damn detriment. What is wrong with you?"

“I don't know," Maggie teased. “That sounds hot, though. Tell me more. And be specific."

Rothko's eyes narrowed. “This isn't even the first time you've done this. Not that you'd remember, with that stupid peabrain of yours."

The samoyed picked at her fingernails casually, refusing to make eye contact with the feral hellhound. She muttered, “Yeah, I really don't remember what you're talking about."

Enraged, Rothko stepped forward once more – this time, close enough for Maggie to feel his hot breaths. “Well, let's see," he growled. “Just two weeks ago, you decided to 'help' me clean the laundry… so you put all of our clothes in the washing machine at once. And you left it in there for three days. Our stuff still smells like fucking mildew."

“Not really my fault," Maggie replied.

“And before that – oh, this is a good one – you wanted to make us a garden, remember? So you dug a bunch of holes in our backyard, but then forgot to plant anything." Rothko wiped his face with the back of his paw. “And you didn't fill in the holes, either. So now it looks like some stupid mutt just decided to go hunting for our damn power lines." A sigh. “Which is, I guess, exactly what happened."

Maggie simply scoffed. Her breath reeked of cheap alcohol. “Okay," she said, “So what do you want me to do? Just go outside and stay there?"

“No, no," Rothko muttered. “You are going to strip. Then, you will go outside… so I can hose you down."

Maggie's eyes widened. Her lips desperately attempted to string together the appropriate response, but could only manage a slurred rebuttal. “U–um, I don't think you can do that." She frowned. “I mean, you want me to be outside? Naked? The neighbors are gonna see."

A fire burned in Rothko's chest as he replied: “Idiot. If you wanna act like a mutt, then I'm gonna treat you like one."

Maggie flashed a smug grin. “Make me," she whispered.

Rothko, however, had already planned to do so. With an equally smug grin, the hellhound then revealed what he'd been holding behind his back – a muzzle, fitted with a thick leather collar and leash. Rothko had secretly bought both items for Maggie only a week prior; deep in his heart, he knew they'd prove useful.

Upon seeing them, Maggie's jaw dropped. Her tail wagged anxiously, that confident bratty demeanor curdling her smile into a grimace. “Hey, look now," she whined. “I was just kidding. Teasing and all. You know?"

“Yeah," Rothko replied. “I know." He then motioned toward the porch door, ordered: “Now get on stripping. Or else."

“N–no!" Maggie cried. “You can't m–make me." She quivered excitedly, a dumb giddy smile pulling at the edges of her lips. “I've been such a good dog for you. This little mess is nothing!"

“Last chance," Rothko growled.

Maggie blathered, “Really, I'm doing you a favor with all my, uh… escapades. It's a relationship building exercise!"

Rothko, however, wasn't going to let Maggie weasel her way out of this one. He approached the wagging samoyed intently, dropping the leash and muzzle onto the ground, and swiftly hooked his fat fingers under the hem of Maggie's shirt. Immediately, the mutt began to squirm.

“H–hey!" Maggie cried. “You can't just – ah! – take my clothes off!"

Rothko huffed. “I can and I will," he said. “If you wrack your stupid little mind, you'll remember… you gave up your autonomy the minute you became my pet."

And Maggie had, in fact, done so. But she still was not going to give in without a fight. She wrapped her little paws around Rothko's muscled forearms, attempting to rip them off of herself – but she only succeeded in cementing the hellhound's ironclad grasp.

“F–fuck!" Maggie cried, pulling away. Her mess-covered shirt stretched as she tried to wrench it from her husband's grasp. “You're gonna rip my fucking shirt! Buzz off!"

In a show of absolute dominance, Rothko then yawned in Maggie's face. All his wife's struggling hardly made him move a muscle. He snarled, “Don't struggle, you idiot. You know I'm going to get what I want."

Rothko then suddenly ripped the shirt upward, flinging it clean over Maggie's head. The samoyed's shoulder-length hair puffed upward in the draft, then flopped haphazardly along her face. Her plump breasts, too, now hung free from that fabric. The sight of them made Rothko ravenous.

“You aren't wearing a bra," Rothko echoed. “Why aren't you wearing a bra?"

Maggie's face reddened at the sudden intrusion. She hastily swished the hair from her face, then cupped her breasts; her dark nipples, however, still poked from beneath her fingers. She snapped, “Since when do I have to wear a bra to cook spaghetti?"

Her shirt haphazardly dangled from Rothko's fingertip, then drooped onto the red-stained floor. With a flourish, Rothko then pointed at Maggie's pants and ordered: “It doesn't matter. Off with those, too. Now."

Maggie puffed out her cheeks; from beneath that thick veneer of snow-white fur, her pink tummy shone through. Thick thighs near-burgeoned from her tight jeans. Her fluffy tail wagged nervously behind, batting against the warm stovetop with reckless abandon.

“I–I'm not just getting nude for you!" Maggie exclaimed. “I might be a little dumb, but I'm not just a mutt." A coy smile, and then: “If anyone here is a mutt, it's you for being so easily angered."

Sharp fangs poked from beneath Rothko's jowls. He asked, “Is that right?"

“Mhm," Maggie hummed. “Now get out of my way, huh? I'm soooo tired and tipsy… and you're really killing my vibe. I need a nap." She then stepped forward, attempting to push past Rothko's daunting frame; predictably, however, the hellhound pushed her backward.

Rothko chuckled, asked: “Do you really think a little backtalk is gonna stop me?"

Maggie grinned, replied: “Probably not. But it was worth a try, right?"

The hellhound then placed his hands on Maggies shoulders, looked into her eyes. Solemnly, he said: “Not really."

And then, without warning, Rothko's paws darted toward Maggie's groin. In one swift motion, he had managed to unbutton Maggie's pants; and with a frighted yelp, the samoyed fought back. She grasped desperately at her husband's wrists, attempting to tear them from her crotch – and failed. Rothko then ruthlessly tore the pants past her waist, awkwardly hanging them around her knees.

“Stop it!" Maggie cried, and swayed under her own weight. “Fuck, you're gonna make me – agghh!"

And, like the drunk bitch she was, Maggie lost her balance. Her paws clung around Rothko's wide shoulders, hugging his maw against her shoulder in a last-ditch effort to stand straight; but alas, Rothko, too, had slipped. A still-wet pool of pasta sauce squelched under his paw as he collapsed onto Maggie, crushing her under his weight on the hard kitchen floor.

Maggie yelped the whole way down, and landed with a hearty oomph. The impact was enough to jostle her senses, knocking the breath from her lungs. And for a moment, she laid prone.

Rothko, however, was cushioned from the fall. He deftly stooped himself on his knee above her, growled: “Maggie. What the hell are you doing? Stop squirming."

Maggie then attempted to respond, but breath didn't pass her sauce-stained lips. Helplessly, she watched as her master silently tugged her pants past her ankles, throwing them in a loose pile with her socks, shoes, and shirt. In that moment, she felt positively humiliated.

And paradoxically, buried within that immense shame, laid a kernel of desire. Maggie acted bratty particularly because she craved punishment. There was a certain sweetness to having her breath stolen, to Rothko's claws raked across her back. Rothko seldom tried to hurt her, of course; but on the occasions he did, Maggie turned to him with a smile. Every time.

And so Maggie laid, her legs lazily splayed on the wet kitchen floor, her formerly white fur blotched with spaghetti and tomato. Hell, she could've probably make a spaghetti angel.

The mess, however, was no longer Rothko's focus. The burly hellhound near-salivated as he laid eyes on Maggie's freshly revealed slit, nestled between those thick furred thighs. The barest hint of slick pink flesh hinted from within.

For a moment, Rothko's anger cooled. That expression on Maggie's face – he identified it immediately.

Rothko asked, “Are you… turned on by this?"

“N–no!" Maggie sputtered, flailing drunkenly as she attempted to sit herself upright. “I'm, I, uh–"

Rothko, however, silenced her. He raised his finger to his lips, a tight-lipped frown adorning his maw, as he contemplated his next move. A quick glance out the kitchen window betrayed the yard's current state – sun-beaten grass, atop which sat a little kiddie pool. It'd been set up for Rothko's little cousins a week prior.

The hellhound then smacked his lips, admitted: “I've decided what I want to do. Get up."

Maggie, however, did not want to cooperate. “No!" she pouted, and stuck out her tongue. “You want me to just be a stupid mutt? Fine. Then I'll just roll around on the floor."

“You're insufferable."

“I don't speak English, either," she blurted. Another coy smile. “So I guess you'll have to treat me like the mutt you want me to be, hm?"

Rothko was happy to oblige. “Fine," he growled. “You wanna act like a stupid bitch? Then I'll treat you like one." He then scooped his collar and leash from the floor, held it taught between his paws. “Show me your neck."

Maggie shook her head. “Nope!"

Rothko, however, didn't take no for an answer. Silently, he grabbed the back of Maggie's head, wrenching her hair backward. Like a rabid hound, Maggie attempted to lunge forward and nip at Rothko's paw – but was successfully held back with a pathetic little yip.

And in only a few seconds, Rothko had secured the collar around his muttwife's throat. It was easy, after all, for Rothko to overpower her. A flick of his wrist snapped her head backward; and with a finger, he could hold down Maggie's chest. Despite her chub, the mutt was actually quite weak.

With a cold metallic snap, Rothko then affixed a leash to Maggie's collar. The black leather contrasted against the white fur of her nape. Then samoyed attempted futilely to pull away, to wrench herself from Rothko's grasp, but couldn't. The leather was far too sturdy.

“Now…" Rothko muttered, and licked his lips. “Let's see how my stupid dog fares being seen naked by the neighbors, hm?"

“N–no!" Maggie cried, and attempted to dig her claws into the hard floor. However, the attempt was useless – she simply slid along the mess she made, her ass stained red, as she neared the patio door.

“You can't make me go outside," Maggie sputtered. Her heart was racing now, the thought of being so utterly exposed making her quiver. “Y–you can't make me do any of this, asshole."

Rothko guffawed. “You're calling me an asshole?" he asked. “You're a fucking mess. Your stupid drunk ass couldn't even make spaghetti without fucking up our entire kitchen. Now… do what you're told before you make me throw you out, hm?"

Maggie, however, did not obey. She crossed her legs in the patio doorframe at the last second, hunkering herself down there. “No way. I'm not going anywhere," she pouted. “So there. Good luck trying to carry me outside."

Rothko only rolled his eyes. He said, “That won't be necessary." And then, as if brandishing a weapon, the hellhound raised his knee in the air… and brought the heel of his boot down on Maggie's upper back. Hard.

Maggie then spilled forward, like a ragdoll, onto the back porch. She just barely caught her snout from careening into the stained wood. With a scowl, she then turned backward to face a rather smug Rothko – she could barely see him as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight.

“Motherfucker! I could've busted my face!" she shouted. “What were you thinking?"

Rothko sighed, replied: “You want me to treat you like a mutt, right? Well, this mutt isn't being obedient enough for me."

“But–"

“No buts," Rothko interrupted. “In fact, I'm sick of hearing you talk." He then brandished the muzzle, hovered it before Maggie's face. “I'm putting this on you now. Don't move, or I'll give you a concussion this time."

Taking advantage of Maggie's daze, Rothko then easily affixed the wire muzzle to Maggie's maw. The mutt attempted to speak, but could only muster a desperate whine.

Satisfied, Rothko then pointed toward the pool. “Walk. Now," he ordered. “You're not so stupid that you can't follow basic orders, right?"

Much to Maggie's chagrin, that insult made her loins churn – and she was still reeling from that kick. So begrudgingly, the mutt raised herself onto her newly bruised knees, and slowly began crawling toward the kiddie pool. All the while, pathetic moans fell from her maw. At a few points along the way, Maggie stopped, only to shoot a glance backward at Rothko – who then nudged her with the tip of his boot, resuming her journey.

As Maggie then reached the pool, her paws sunken into the grass, she shot one last desperate stare back at Rothko.

Her husband simply nodded, flashed a twisted grin. “Go on," he said. “You were begging to be punished, right?" He then tapped the side of the kiddie pool with his boot, snarled: “Get in now, mutt. Before I make you."

As always, though, Maggie had other plans. She huffed, plopped her ass on the ground, and flashed an obstinate grin at Rothko through the wire. The mutt wasn't planning to move.

And, as always, Rothko pounced at the opportunity to punish her. “Alright, bitch. If you won't cooperate, I'll help you out," he growled. “Just remember – you asked for this."

And then, as if moving a couch, Rothko crouched downward and rested his palms under Maggie's tum. His biceps bulged, his maw grimaced, as he then tugged at Maggie's heft. With a deep huff, he hooked himself around Maggie's curves, then raised the girl into a solid bridal carry. The bratty samoyed couldn't help but yelp; she hadn't expected Rothko would be so brazen. Or so dedicated to humiliating her, for that matter.

Maggie whined excitedly, squirming against Rothko's embrace. She could feel his pecs tense as the hellhound struggled to contain the squirming pup.

“Oh? Do you want me to put you down?" Rothko mocked. “Because I guarantee you… this won't be pleasant."

Rothko then unceremoniously dropped Maggie into the shallow pool. Cold rainwater had filled it since the previous night's shower; and as Maggie careened into it like a comet, it overflowed from the sides, soaking Rothko's sandaled feet. Maggie groaned as the frigid water met her fur.

A high-pitched whine bellowed from Maggie's lips, and she flailed her arms against the tiny pool's sides. Just as Rothko had predicted, the cold water was not pleasant.

Luckily, Rothko didn't seem to care about her blathering. He then silently turned, walked away, and unhooked his hose from the house's side. Slowly, he unraveled the hose from its spool. He then yelled over his shoulder: “It's warm today, mutt. Consider yourself lucky your owner is willing to cool you off, hm?"

Maggie could only pout. Slowly, she then lowered herself into the cold pool, attempting to obfuscate her bare breasts. Grime rose from her body and bobbed along the pool's surface. She then shot a glance toward the neighbor's window, hoping that nobody would see her naked.

Nonchalantly, Rothko sauntered to Maggie's side, hose in-hand. Noticing Maggie's anxiety, he taunted: “If you're worried about the neighbors seeing you, it doesn't matter. You're not a person, after all. You're my dog. And as my property, I can do with you as I please." He then motioned with his finger, ordered: “Now roll over, mutt. I wanna start with your back."

Maggie then slightly opened her mouth, intending to growl, only to be met with an intense beam of ice-cold water. It pounded against her teeth, filling her maw and oozing out onto her breasts. She sputtered as the water threatened to plunge down her throat, her chunky paws raising to shield her eyes.

Enraged, Maggie then let out a frustrated half-howl, baring her little teeth from behind the wire mesh.

Rothko guffawed at the display. “Calm down. I'm not going to drown you," he mocked. “And as long as you obey, I won't have to. Now roll over. I'm not going to ask again."

Blush rose to Maggie's round cheeks; she then pouted as she begrudgingly flipped herself onto her stomach.

Fuck, Maggie hadn't felt this aroused in a long time. Rothko's gruff voice, his imposing figure… all the time, she yearned for him. She yearned for his condescending remarks, for the petty snipes which pierced her ego like darts. Each ill-intentioned glance made her skin crawl in the best way, as if cutting down to the core of her being. Maggie needed to be insulted. She needed to be manhandled, thrown, kicked. Each impact a kiss, each pointed word a proclamation of love.

“You ready, mutt?" Rothko asked. “I see your tail wagging. I guess that means yes."

Embarrassedly, Maggie attempted to stifle her tail… which only caused it to wag harder. With a whimsical boing, it slapped again and again on the pool's side, causing her round ass to jiggle. Unable to protest, she was forced to concede the truth – she was just a stupid dog.

“Right," Rothko said, and cocked the hose. “I forgot, dogs aren't allowed to talk. My mistake."

The water then burst free from his nozzle once more, pounded ruthlessly against Maggie's backside. Hardened red-and-black flecks burst free from her white fur, accompanied by the embarrassed whines of a muttwife being powerwashed.

“Aww," Rothko cooed. “You like that, huh? Are you really that stupid?"

Even in her muted state, Rothko could sense the flames of rebellion flaring within Maggie's quivering lungs. Desperately, she wanted to let loose a bratty comment… but couldn't. She would have to settle for half-muffled barks and moans.

Rothko then wiped sweat from his brow, scratched at his chin. “You know what I think, mutt?" he asked. “I think you're just excited to be punished by your master. I think you're a little slut for pain. Am I right?"

The samoyed shrunk at that comment. Truthfully, she did love how the hose felt against her skin. It left faint red ravines along her flesh, just barely visible behind that thick mat of white fur. It was more than that, though – she was desperately, hopelessly in love with Rothko. She would do anything for him.

“Okay," Rothko announced, and then momentarily stopped the spray. “Now do me a favor, hm? Spread your ass for me."

Maggie sputtered at the order. Once again, she shot a worried glance at the neighbor's window, only to find it unoccupied. For now.

Noticing her anxiety, Rothko teased: “Look, I know you're worried about being seen. But, honestly… I don't really care." A chuckle, and then: “Hell, I wouldn't have to do this if you just kept yourself clean. But you decided to be a fool today." He pointed at Maggie's backside, explained: “You fell ass-first in a bunch of pasta sauce, and I need to clean it off. So stay still and stay quiet."

Maggie, however, refused to sit still. She quickly tried to right herself in the pool, scrambling her paws along its slick sides. Noticing her struggle, Rothko then promptly closed in on her. With a single paw, he pressed downward on Maggie's spine, pinning her to the pool's floor. “Maggie, it doesn't matter if anyone sees you," he teased. “You're just my dumb pet, after all. They'll understand."

Maggie refused to listen. With a stifled whine, she continued to writhe against Rothko's embrace… and failed. Terribly. She couldn't even raise herself an inch. How was Rothko so strong?!

Begrudgingly, Maggie was thus forced to give in. With shaking paws, she proceeded to spread her ass, revealing her dripping pink cunt.

“Oh, you're certainly excited," Rothko teased. “It's too bad that bad dogs don't get to get off." A huff. “I suppose the hose will have to do for now."

Rothko then reactivated the hose's nozzle. The water erupted with a high-pitched hiss, then plunged onto Maggie's backside. The annoying samoyed's sopping wet tail flung cold droplets every which way, causing the hellhound to recoil.

“Jesus, girl. Can't you stop wagging for a second?" he barked, only to be met by a frustrated moan.

And so the pair continued to make fools of themselves. Rothko held the wet pup down with one paw, then sprayed her with the other. All the while, the pair struggled and bickered.

“Stop kicking! Don't make me hold down your feet, too," Rothko threatened.

Eventually, however, Rothko decided that the mutt's backside was sufficiently clean. He stepped away, wrung out his sopping wet t-shirt, and rolled his finger in the air. “Roll over again," he said. “I wanna get your front. There's sauce all over your tits still."

And for once, Maggie did as she was told. Frankly, she had become quite tired after struggling for so long; her fighting spirit had begun to melt. She wasn't sure how much more she could take.

Silently, the hose's water then battered Maggie's breasts. That soft, constant pain nearly made her squirm. She could still feel the tenderness on her knees from where Rothko had kicked her over – a tangible reminder of their love. God, the entire ordeal was so romantic. Thinking about it now, the prospect overwhelmed her.

Noticing that Maggie had fallen silent, Rothko then stopped the hose. Excess water softly dripped onto the lawn. A subtle tenderness flashed in the hellhound's eyes.

Amidst the chirping of birds, Rothko then stooped down, tenderly unhooked Maggie's muzzle. He asked: “Maggie… are you okay?"

Maggie then snapped from her thoughts, replied: “Yeah, I'm fine." A tiny cough. “I'm sorry, haha. Just feeling… introspective, suddenly." A pause, and then: “I think I'm done. And I want some cuddles now… that is, if you'd suffer a dumb dog like me."

Rothko gave a sly smile. He cooed, “Suffer you? I do that every day." He then went quiet, met her gaze.

“Really, though. I love you, Maggie."

Maggie frowned. “Even if I'm annoying?" she asked.

“Especially when you're annoying. And believe me… you're annoying as shit," Rothko replied. “Now… let's get you dried off."

“And… for the love of God, don't do this shit again."