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Why?
It's a simple question.
We all ask it from time to time. At times we ask, recognizing that the answers we seek are impossible to acquire. On other occasions, we expect an answer without even consciously identifying we are doing so.
I fall into the first category.
I know I have to come to terms with the fact that I will never know why this happened to me.
No matter how many times I pray and beg for knowledge to erase the uncertainty—for everything to go back to normal, for this nightmare to be over—I will never know and that haunts me.
The dude behind the counter keeps looking at me funny.
I don't know what his problem is, but it's kinda creeping me out. No offence or anything, but I don't swing that way, if that's what this is about. Well, I mean, I do—sometimes, if the occasion calls for it. But that's not the point.
For some reason, ever since he stepped foot into the pet store, the well-dressed man hasn't stopped staring. Not even when I glance his way like, Hey! I can see you, okay? This whole eye-contact thing works both ways, you know. Not cool.
The least he could do is avoid eye-contact in that polite, sheepish way people do, acting like he's merely transfixed by something that just happens to be situated right above my left shoulder or simply ignore the incident completely by shuffling in the spot and scuffing his perfectly polished shoes across the floor, or, hell, I don't know, pretending to pick something up as though I hadn't just caught him in the act.
But, no.
This guy's a freakin' nut-job, refusing to look away even when I turn to ring up a customer who rudely snaps her fingers in front of my face as if it's my fault that I'm a little distracted by the weirdo steadfastly ogling me.
The guy—and just who the hell does he think he is?—smirks at my pissed expression, my jaw tight as I politely thank the lady for purchasing a damn wig for her cat. No, seriously. I can't make this stuff up.
Honestly, I'm not sure why I ever applied to work here. I've never owned any pets to speak of—do goldfish really count?— and have no intention of getting one either. I just don't…get it. Per say.
Buying gourmet food for scraggly rat-cats and yoga mats for dumbfounded dogs and honest-to-God unisex perfume for whenever they get a tad too smelly and it becomes a bit of an inconvenience. It's ludicrous.
Not that I have anything against them, but I've never really taken much interest in animals of any species. Growing up, I think I was the one kid in my class who didn't torture their parents about getting a puppy for their birthday or one of those nasty, enormous tarantula beasts, the source of all the girls' screams and all the boys' envy when my classmate, Josh, brought his in for show-and-tell in the third grade and damn-near gave our teacher a heart-attack.
But whatever. It's not like I can afford another mouth to feed, anyway. I live in a shitty, run-down apartment in one of the rougher (though, not the roughest, I feel quite proud of that, actually) neighbourhoods in New York where every day you run the risk of having a knife shoved at your throat and I barely make rent each month. I don't have any daddy or mommy to shell out for me, nor do I possess many good-hearted friends who'd let me crash a couple weeks at their place. But then, that's what happens when you hang around a bunch of losers bonded together over a shared love of pot.
Maybe that why I took such an instant disliking to the strange man in the refined suit—besides the creepy stare thing. The dude just screams money. And arrogance. And possibly even fuck you, nobody. It just ticks me off and that's ugly. I don't even know the guy.
Speaking of…Hands deep in his pockets, the man finally stops seizing me up and begins leisurely strolling down the aisles with an incredulous expression like he's wondering who the hell would be crazy enough to buy half this crap.
I hear ya, man. I hear ya.
He spends an unusually long amount of time simply browsing, an odd look on his face as he eyes the selection of puppies in particular, but I shake off my suspicions and take advantage of the midday lull in order to restock a few shelves. Twenty minutes in, I'm preoccupied comparing two of those comical, squeaky chew toys, the ones shaped like hot-dogs and juicy-looking hamburgers, and berating myself for getting so bored that I'm honestly beginning to find the plastic junk charming, and so my mind doesn't register the sound of approaching footsteps.
Suddenly, I'm startled by a quiet, amiable, "Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me with something."
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
"Uh, sure," I agree quickly, overcome with nervousness and an itchy sense of unease that only amplifies when I meet his warm, mischievous eyes. "What can I do for you, sir?"
"I'm interested in getting a pup," he explains. "Are there any in particular you'd recommend? They all seem the same to me. Yippy and… wriggly. "
"Oh," I blink. "Well, we, uh, we have loads of friendly, well-behaved puppies raring to go, if you'd like to see them up close and get to know them a little better." I pause to clear my throat. It's very hot all of a sudden. "I must warn you, though. A couple are a little boisterous, overly so, if you get what I mean, and they'd jump all over your suit. Are you sure you don't mind getting it wrinkled?"
"You have the most adorable puppy-dog eyes," the man remarks abruptly, gaze sharpening. "If you don't mind me saying."
"Um… thank-you," I mumble, not exactly sure how I'm supposed to reply to that and feeling increasingly more uncomfortable by the minute. I shift my weight and drop my eyes to the ground, hoping he would just go away but knowing that's impossible.
Curious as he is, I have to be nice to him or he might file a complaint with my manager or something. Heck, his three-piece suit is so tasteful and high-priced that I wouldn't be surprised if he were powerful enough to cost me my job over a forgotten please or thank-you.
"Aw, and look at that, you're shy, too. How sweet," the older man grins, too bright, too cheery. I'm getting really freaked out. Then, just when I think this couldn't get any worse, startling me again, he says, "I noticed you seem to have something caught in your hair. May I…?"
Automatically reaching up and blindly feeling around, I chance a glance up and swallow hard, tensing at the intensity of his gaze, a disconcertingly incisive, calculating brown. There's something about him that I just don't trust—regardless of how handsome and charming he appears. How do I even get into these situations? Like, c'mon. It isn't even funny. "Um, no, it's okay. I—"
But his hand's already outstretched and as soon as his fingers come into contact with my short, silky strands, my whole body immediately relaxes, slumping contently. Reflexively, I lean into the touch and his smile broadens as he mutters a soft, soothing, "There, there. It's alright…"
And for some peculiar reason, it is. As horrified as I am, I can't seem to gather the strength or willpower to pull away, even as his spare hand begins to scratch behind my ear!
To my utter mortification, a husky moan escapes my throat, dick twitching dangerously in my pants as I scoot over ever closer. My legs go weak at the knees and I'm powerless to my feelings of bliss. Lids at half-mast and tingling all over, I'm like putty in his hands.
Without my permission—as the man slowly withdraws his magic fingers—my head nudges his shoulder, silently pleading for more. The mysterious stranger doesn't hesitate to oblige.
My breaths become more laboured as he lightly strokes my hair and rubs the nape of my neck with his thumb. Shivering, I realise to my absolute revulsion that I'm actually… Wait.
Panting?
Really?
By the stage, I have a fucking raging hard-on and I am petrified that if he keeps this up, I will actually come from petting alone.
Soon, my tongue tumbles out of my mouth, drool trickling feebly down my chin which only serves to enhance my arousal, and as much as I wish to wipe the evidence of my pathetic weakness away, I just can't. It's like my muscles are frozen, which is odd considering how limp they are and how comfortable I currently feel.
The stranger laughs at what I assume is my panicked-stricken blue orbs, before cooing, "It's okay, pal. I won't hurt you." Still staring, one hand snakes below my belt and I stop breathing altogether as he grasps hold of my erection and begins teasing the tip of my penis with the same casual yet doting manner as he has been in much less intimate areas where he wasn't intentionally trying to get me off.
"Mm…feels good, doesn't it? You wove your widdle belly rubs, huh? Make you feel all nice and warm inside, don't they? You're such a widdle cutie. Yes, you are. Oh, yes, you are." Every word spoken oozes condescension, but I can't bring myself to react angrily to his belittling treatment.
Instead, I whimper as his speed steadily increases and he grips me tighter.
By this stage, my weight is completely supported by his arms so he gently lowers me down onto the floor and it's only then that I notice that the store is totally empty. Not only that, but it's darkened, duller than before, and looks like it hasn't seen a single being in decades.
As if it's the most natural thing in the world, I roll over so that he can scratch my belly, the hem of my boxers proudly exposed, which he does with genuine affection, amusement flickering in his dark depths. Simultaneously, he carefully squeezes my balls and I am suffused with self-hatred as this random stranger so barefacedly jerks me off and I can't seem to do damn thing other than lie back and enjoy it.
His hand is slick with my pre-cum and I don't know how I've lasted this long, because each time his other hand brushes my tummy, I tremble with pleasure and normally my dick can't take so much excitement.
I can feel it. I'm gonna come any second now.
My toes curl.
God, that feels so good.
I lift my leg higher in the air, quivering uncontrollably, and my chest heaves with this terribly familiar, animalistic wheezing sound.
If anything, my shame and helplessness turns me on even more, and with one last, delicate manoeuvre on this older man's part, I shoot this massive load into my pants, coming so hard I feel like I might pass out from the overwhelming sensations of ecstasy.
Balancing my lolling head on his lap, the brown-haired man deftly removes his slippery hand and after extracting a handkerchief from his inner pocket, wipes off any remnants of cum.
Once over, I'm exhausted, any remaining energy swiftly draining from my limbs. Thankfully, though, a little more clarity returns, now that I've been relieved, and I am suddenly all too aware of the hand lazily tracing circles into my shoulder while another comfortingly runs up and down my spine.
"Good boy," he croons tenderly, a warm smile gracing his features as he smoothes my damp hair and I jaggedly inhale and exhale. It's an alarmingly peaceful moment.
Voice slow and sweet, scarily sing-songish, he continues, "Now, I haven't gotten the chance to ask yet and you're not wearing a name tag, but what's your name, kiddo?"
"It-it's Michael," I gasp, disorientated but determined to sit up. "Michael Ross." He seamlessly settles me down again and side-tracks me by petting my face, to which I unpredictably respond by happily lapping his palm—because of… what? Gratitude? Man, that's sick.
For a brief second, I'm frightened that he'll be annoyed by my enthusiasm and snap at me for being bad, but if possible, my receptiveness only delights him further, lips curving at the edges.
Then, pulling a face, he drawls, "Michael, huh?" His expression turns thoughtful as he tests the name on his tongue and frowns. "Well, that's no good. How about Mike, then? Short and sweet. That sound good?"
Call me naïve, stupid, whatever, but I still have no idea what he means.
"What?"
Pursing his lips, he shakes his head, dismissive. "Nah, doesn't suit you. I think I'll name you… Mikey. Do you like that? Mikey?"
"What is going on…?" I mutter, aware on some level that what he is saying isn't right, but my mind is too sluggish to place what. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I've claimed you, that's what," the older man replies confidently, leaving no room for arguing. "You're mine."
"Claimed…me?" I repeat dumbly, lips rubbery, still deeply wedged in denial.
"Uh-huh. You are whatever I want you to be and you know what? I've always been such a sucker for cute, hyper little puppies. Not that you could tell by looking at me. And I just knew the second I saw you that you were perfect. Just look at those eyes," he murmurs wistfully, caressing my cheek with the side of his hand. "Irresistible."
It's almost impossible to concentrate on anything beyond the urge to let go and bask in his attention, (knowing somewhere in the back of my mind that if I'm good, I'll be rewarded with another 'treat' and man, does that sound frickin' amazing) but somehow I manage to follow his bizarre chit-chat despite the fact that in no way do I wish to understand it.
Understanding means knowing what you're getting into. And knowing what I'm getting into would unquestionably bring an abrupt end to my languid, post-orgasm glow that I am adamant to prolong for as long as possible, clinging onto ignorance for all that I'm worth.
"My assistant, Donna—you'll love her—recommended that I get a pet," he says almost conversationally. "She said it would be good for me. According to her non-existent degree in psychotherapy, the reason I work so hard is because I'm secretly reluctant to return to an empty home. Unbearably lonely or something—which is entirely self-inflicted, naturally. And doesn't that sound like a heap of garage?" Without waiting for an answer, he carries on, "Yeah, I thought so, too. Nonsensical psycho babble, if you ask me, or mumbo-jumbo, if you prefer. But still…here we are, and I'm…" He pauses, licking his lips. "I'm very, ah… reluctant to let you go."
Beginning to sweat heavily under the arms, I stiffen at his words, unconsciously gulping. "Wh-what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that you are going make such a perfect companion," the man answers casually, half-shrugging like it's no big deal and straightening his cuffs. "Unfortunately, you won't be able to go for walks or anything, since you can't leave the house, but don't worry, I doubt you'll feel too restricted. I'll make sure my pup's nice and comfy."
I know it's a cliché, but seriously, my eyes practically bulge out of their sockets.
"You-you're insane!" I splutter. Scrambling away from the delusional mad-man with a quick glance towards the door, I recoil at the prospect of being his 'pup.'
No. No fucking way.
But that one minor movement is all I need to renew my sense of humiliation and bewilderment as I hear the quiet squelch of my soggy and rapidly cooling, sticky underwear. My cheeks burn.
As calm as ever, he muses, "I've been called a lot of things in my life, but insane was never one of them. Meh… there's a first for everything, I guess. Oh, and I'm Harvey, by the way. Harvey Specter—best damn closer in the city at your service. Probably should've started with that."
I'm in shock. I must be. That's the only explanation as to why I suddenly can't move.
"Aw, don't be like that, Mikey," he clucks. "Everything's going to be perfect, you'll see."
Harvey stands up and buttons his vest, before slowly backing away. He pats his thighs twice with a wide, twinkling grin and entices in the most warm, persuasive tone ever to grace my heightened eardrums, "Come here, Mikey. Come here."
Cocking my head to the side as my eyebrows pull together in a rumpled frown, I can only stare in confusion. What does he expect me to do, exactly?
"You silly widdle puppy," he scowls playfully, reaching out to tap me on the nose. "You can't escape. I bet you can't even turn a door knob!"
And as soon as he says it, the message wastes no time sinking into my brain and corrupting it. It's crazy, but he's right. With his voice alone, I am genuinely questioning my ability to open a door. In fact, the more I think about it, the more appealing the thought of crawling over to Harvey on my tummy for some more of those wonderful belly rubs becomes.
In an unfamiliar response to my confliction, I whine in a way that's undoubtedly un-human-like and press my hands against the floor repeatedly.
Harvey hunkers down and opens up his arms wide. "Come on," he coaxes, "Good boy, come here. Good boy."
And damn if his embrace doesn't seem deliciously inviting.
"Who's a good boy? You are. Yes, you are."
In the end, it's the unspoken promise of love and attention that seals the deal.
I bound towards him, giving Harvey's chin a thorough cleaning as he chuckles to himself and squirms away, swatting my face in mock-annoyance.
And that's it. Show's over, folks.
My fate is sealed.
In my new extravagant abode (because, shit, this guy is loaded), I'm fixed with a thin, leather collar and mercilessly stripped of my clothes. Forced into only a thick, over-sized diaper that bulges around my crotch, Harvey explains that as much as he loves me, he doesn't want to have to clean up my messes every time he comes home.
Apparently, I have no bladder control. Or at least, that's what he tells me. The thought sticks in my head and I have no reason to distrust it.
What's worse, if Harvey leaves the room—even for one second—I howl and whimper relentlessly, digging at the door with useless non-paws, inexplicably terrified of being alone.
In some ways, I know what's happening and for the most part, I know that it's wrong. But the more I'm showered with love and the more cuddles and sloppy kisses on the forehead I receive, the lines blur and I start to crave everything I know I should hate.
Like at night, for example.
In the beginning, Harvey had a large dog-bed in the kitchen for me to sleep on and yeah, it was fine. Warm and snug, no doubt. But as it turns out, I'm much more clingy than even Harvey had anticipated, and it wasn't long before I was snuggled up on the other side of his bed. But, even being in a bed, my behaviour is no different. You'd think I'd lie like I used to and appreciate it, but that's just not natural to me anymore.
I curl up on top of him, stretched out across his chest, and butt my head against his hand until he resumes massaging my scalp, and to tell the truth,—as much as it pains me to admit—I assume it's the same as sharing your bed with any other, regular dog. Albeit, a demanding, gangly, furless one.
What's more, I love chewing things. Disgusting as it is, I will destroy everything within reach and have lost count of how many pairs of socks and shoes I've torn to shreds. I honestly can't help myself. Eventually, I was given some chew toys to keep me occupied but that's not always enough. I'm pretty sure my teeth have changed or something, because I definitely couldn't have done any of the things I've done now… before.
Before… I bluster a sigh. It all seems so blurry now.
I've pretty much lost all concept of time, and Harvey is the only friend I need, so I find myself unable to miss anybody.
We do engage in somewhat normal conversations daily and all that too, but talking is boring (there are tons of other fun things to do, like play tug of war with one of Harvey's less-favoured ties or fetch the squishy balls the man never tires of hiding behind his back and tricking me into catapulting after) and my attention span isn't what is used to be. It's how Harvey prefers, though, and how he likes it to be. I'm not sure why, beyond the idea that he wants me to act as realistically dog-like as possible.
He's constantly nuzzling his nose against mine and gushing about how much he adores his widdle puppy, so… I must be doing something right, I suppose?
On the plus side, I don't think I've ever been as close to someone as I am to Harvey without being either related or romantically involved—special 'treats' aside.
Every other day or so, the older man will 'help me make my stickies' while I grunt and strain in pleasure, collar chaffing around my flushed neck as I writhe. And did I mention he really loves talking down to me?
Most evenings when he returns from work, tired after another hectic day lawyering, he'll sit down to watch an hour of baseball or read a book, before turning a slightly sleepy smile on me and patting the cushion beside him. I'm positive it's because Harvey knows how much I miss him when he's away and rely on the quality time together, but sometimes I suspect he benefits from these quiet moments just as much as I do.
Tucked into his side, I'll rest my head dutifully on his lap and he'll pet me absentmindedly, which is never my proudest moment because it's obvious how unreservedly I worship the ground he walks on, always trotting along adoringly behind him as he heads into his bathroom to brush his teeth or lying down and resting my cheek against his bare feet while he's working from his laptop. Harvey's grin is fond when he flings a blanket over my body to ward off the shivers and he only ever rolls his eyes at my neediness before kneading my hair with knowing, adept fingers. And I can tell he loves having a faithful devotee follow him around.
It's his fault—of course, it is. Harvey could have chosen anyone to be his pet puppy.
But he didn't; He folded at my stupid, baby blue eyes.
I'm here—a dog for life because somehow I'm now wired that way.
I ask myself 'why' all the time, occasionally aloud, too, though never when he's around. Why me? Why did he have to wander into the pet store during one of my shifts? Why did I react as I did and why in Christ's name am I the way I am now?
Harvey's never fully explained the implications of what he's done, but I'm not slow enough to believe that it's not permanent—that I'm not damaged goods forever—but no matter how hard I try, I can never, ever bring myself to resent him.
For heaven's sake, my name is now Mikey (which he calls out Every. Single. Day in high-pitched, gooey tones upon arrival so that I can dash into the hallway and leap into his arms like an obedient, rowdy puppy, the most fervent IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou of greetings) and still, I don't hate him.
I do, however, despise being parted from him.