Chapter 8: Good Girl on a Lead

The collar was black leather, soft on the inside, with a small steel ring at the throat.

Léon laid it across my palms on Saturday night, in the hall of his house in Caluire, and for a moment I only stared at it.

"Page nine," he said. "You asked to be treated like an animal."

"Yes."

"A pet. A bitch who is fed, walked and kept."

"Yes, sir."

"Not a girl in a costume." His voice was low and serious.

"A pet doesn't talk unless I ask. A pet doesn't stand unless I say."

"A pet eats what she is given and where she is told. Do you want that?"

My mouth was dry.

"Yes."

"Then put it on."

I lifted the collar to my neck and fumbled with the buckle, and he reached over and fastened it for me.

It sat snug under my jaw, just above the line where no mark could ever show.

The ring bumped my collarbone.

I had never felt so owned.

"Undress," he said. "Everything. Then down."

I stripped in his hall.

The tiles were cold under my knees and palms when I got down on all fours.

He clipped a lead to the ring with a small sharp click.

I felt the tug travel down my spine.

"Heel," he said.

He opened the kitchen door and walked into the garden.

I followed on my hands and knees, a half step behind him, the lead slack between us.

The night was warm and smelled of cut grass.

The only light came from a lamp in the window, and the lawn was soft under my palms.

I crawled across it with my ass swaying and my breasts hanging.

A high wall closed us in, and the city murmured far away.

Every time I stopped, the lead tightened.

Every time I hurried, he said, "Slow."

He walked me twice around the grass.

On the third lap he stopped at the old stone bench under the plum tree and sat down.

"Sit."

I knelt at his feet.

"Sit up straight. Chin up. Hands curled."

I lifted my chin and held my hands curled against my chest, the way I had seen dogs do.

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