Chapter 3: Morning Routine & Bowl Training

Soft dawn light filtered through the tall windows of the master bedroom, painting pale stripes across the hardwood floor. Emma stirred on the low dog bed at the foot of Marcus’s massive four-poster, the cushion still warm from her restless night. The collar hugged her throat like a second skin, its silver ring catching the first glimmers of morning as she blinked awake. Every breath reminded her of its presence—snug, unyielding, a quiet claim that had settled deeper into her bones overnight. She shifted, and the memory of yesterday’s punishment flared: the burning glow still lingering across her ass, the empty ache between her legs where release had been stolen again and again. I’m already breaking ... and it’s only day one. The thought twisted inside her, shame and something far darker coiling low in her belly.

Marcus’s footsteps approached, measured and calm. He knelt beside her without a word, the scent of his aftershave—crisp citrus and warm spice—washing over her. His fingers found the collar’s ring, clipping the leather leash into place with a soft, decisive snap. The lead tugged once, gentle but insistent.

“Up, puppy. Time for your morning routine.”

Emma’s cheeks heated instantly. She pushed onto her hands and knees, the carpet rough under her palms as she followed the pull downstairs. Her full breasts hung heavy, swaying with each crawl, nipples brushing the floorboards in teasing grazes that sent unwelcome sparks racing straight to her core. The leash guided her through the hallway and into the kitchen, where a wide stainless-steel bowl waited on the tiled floor beside the island.

Marcus stopped, voice low and even. “Breakfast. No hands. Face down, ass up. Show me how a good pet eats.”

The bowl held warm oatmeal, flecked with cinnamon, steam curling lazily upward. Emma lowered her head, chin grazing the cold metal rim. The edge pressed firm and unyielding against her skin as she dipped her tongue into the thick mixture. It was humiliatingly intimate—the smooth, slightly grainy texture coating her tongue, the way she had to lap slowly, deliberately, like an animal. A thick drip escaped, sliding down her chin and landing on the upper swell of one breast, warm and sticky against her skin. Another followed, tracing a slow path over her nipple, making it tighten into a stiff peak. She could feel his eyes on her, steady and unrelenting, watching every flicker of her tongue, every subtle shift of her hips.

People eat like this? The thought spun wildly in her head, shame flooding her cheeks with fresh heat. Why does the way he watches me make me throb? I’m not some dog ... but my pussy is already slick just from the way he’s staring. Her ass remained raised high behind her, cheeks parted slightly, the cool kitchen air kissing her exposed folds. Each lap sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through her, the oatmeal filling her mouth in slow, degrading swallows while her body responded with helpless, traitorous need.