Chapter 2: Friday

The girl arrived early but tried to stay out of sight, only moving closer as the clock approached the hour. Obviously she intended to obey precisely. I tried not to care. Actually a part of me wished she had simply not come at all.

“Strip.”

“Err...”

“Strip. Right here, right now. Or go.” Why oh why can’t I just not care... ?? It would be so much easier.

She dropped the sports bag at her side and stripped. I reached out, taking each item from her, my arm moving aside to drop her clothes into the waste bin. It was a kind of tradition.

Naked she actually gained confidence, more so once I had taken the wide leather collar from the drawstring bag and buckled it around her neck. I used one finger to test for tightness, then attached the lock, fit was important because no key was provided. Attaching the leash was more tradition than necessity, but its metallic click and the cool steel links on her flesh added a finality that made her shudder. It made me wet, memories will do that.

The next step was overly dramatic, but traditions have reasons, so I opened the drawstring bag fully, then dropped it over her head. Standing I gave no command, just walked, the sharp tug of the leash pulled her to follow. It was the first step, trusting another. She would need that.

Only the leash guided her, so I had to take care in choosing my route, a short leash was for amateurs unsure and inexperienced. The length had to be long enough to establish distance, to compel the bitch to follow without any indication of her surroundings.

I chose to take the longest route, one that would add to her disorientation. It didn’t really matter as the destination was going to be a surprise regardless. Another tradition, this one between those who sponsor or compete, the ‘backstage’ details are not discussed with others, more silliness, but traditions are often based on trivia, gaining importance only through repetition.

The row of wire travel cages were around half full when we arrived. A few firm pushes, a spank to move her forward and she took her place in the cramped cage, locked in to wait. Comfort wasn’t a concern.

There are two factions that drive the format of the competition. The larger faction want the award to mean something and therefore want the competitors to be challenged. The smaller but louder faction want much more. No member would ever want or allow an animal to be hurt, especially to be harmed intentionally or carelessly, the same does not apply to the human bitches. Watching another suffer is a pleasure hard to explain, even harder to forgive, but it is a part of human nature, maybe less developed nowadays, perhaps less blatant in ‘acceptable’ society. None the less it exists, in popular TV just as much as in this competition.

To be a tough enough test to please both factions without offending the sensibilities of either isn’t easy, so over time the competition has changed, evolved. Currently it is probably as challenging as any have ever been.

By the time I returned to her cage, the girl was cramping badly, whimpering softly as she tried constantly to stretch or flex to relieve the strains on her muscles. Other sponsors were pulling their bitches from the cages, just as I was. Few words were used, an occasional command, a sharp smack, a tug on a leash.

One at a time each was led to the scales, the same as you’ll see at most vets, except these had hand, knee and toe prints etched in yellow on the black rubber mat that covered the scale’s platform. Each bitch was pushed and spanked into position, all six marks covered, thighs vertical. The measuring bar placed outside a knee, the arm lowered until it touched. The height noted along with the weight of the bitch.

The bitches were lined up, leashes clipped to the ring in the floor between their feet. Then left there. Some stood quietly, one shivered incessantly, another was rigid, head turning to track every sound.

Time passed.

Time for the reveal.

The curtains opened and the crowd of members who had been talking quietly suddenly began to cheer and call out, the noise only abating as the compere took his place.

As he began to speak an assistant moved to the first bitch in line. The compare listed her measured height and weight, the club to which she belonged, her sponsor’s name. Then he announced a name, always seemingly on a whim, always derogatory, tradition again. The assistant used a large permanent marker to write the given name on the thighs, belly and across the shoulders of the bitch.

One by one each had their details announced, a name allotted, written. Then the betting started. At a signal from the compare the assistant would grab the indicated bitch, force her into whatever position was required, display her, then simply leave her to move to another. Some stayed as they were left, others returned to the standing position, some alternated, unsure. Nobody cared.

Nobody but me. Maybe the other sponsors. A few spectators... ?? Who knew... ??

Finally the curtain closed. The crowd calmed, drinks were ordered, seating arrangements swapped, invitations offered and accepted.

Back stage the lights were dimmed and the drawstring bags removed. Most blinked even in the dim light, a few looked at others, flinched at the crude writing, looked down at themselves. A few just stood quietly. An assistant approached them wearing a backpack sprayer, the wand flicked around, dousing each with the pheromone scent of a bitch in heat, many bitches actually. He worked until each was soaked in it, hair dripping, bodies glossy with it. Their body heat increased the aroma, the scent strong enough to drive a dog into a mating frenzy. Exactly the effect desired.

Bagged once again, senses now awash with the aroma of aroused bitch, they waited. We sponsors returned to our bitches, took up their leashes and headed to the ‘play area’.

The large room was originally a warehouse, actually the entire club was housed in a number of interconnected warehouses. Small by modern standards, but more than big enough to provide ample space for the various facilities. The play area was the club’s pride and joy. The huge space with its opaque roofing panels gave a feeling of being outside, or at least a believably pretend outside. Most of it was covered in good quality fake turf which added to the look and provided a durable surface that could be hosed down when necessary. It was to the centre that we sponsors led the bitches. The centre was concrete sprayed with a rubber compound, the thickness allowed a little give. The whole thing one large circle.