"Are you sure this isn't some sort of weird sex thing?"
"Of course it's some weird sex thing, Mike," my girlfriend replies. She's racing around the apartment, hurrying to get it ready with the nervous energy of someone expecting an important guest, while laying out a pet basket and dog food bowls. She starts unwrapping chew toys, studying them with a critical eye to decide on the best one. "He's my manager, and he's paying for this, so you're just going to have to adjust to having him around the house."
"For how long?"
"Just this weekend and every second weekend after."
"He's not going to be sleeping on the end of the bed, is he?"
"That's what the contract is there to lay out," she says. The front doorbell rings. "That's him! Remember, be nice!"
Clive is in his early 40s, greying, suited, a few inches over me. From his bearing and Naomi's overly ingratiating greeting, I get the impression he's an intimidating boss, though he struggles to meet my gaze as he shakes my hand. His grip is firm, though his palm is damp with sweat.
"You must be Michael. Naomi has told me all about you."
"Nothing bad, I hope," I reply awkwardly.
"Well I wouldn't do this with anybody I don't trust," he says. Flicking open his briefcase, he lifts out three thick wads of paper. "This is the, uh, agreement. I'll quickly run you through the particulars."
'Quickly' turns out to be three hours. I sit beside my girlfriend, squirming, as he details feeding times, grooming times, where on his body we are and are not allowed to touch. There's a whole host of body language we're expected to be aware of - tail up means yes, tail between his legs means no, kneeling with his ears back means he wants to play. He'd like to be referred to as 'Luna' or simply 'dog'. If he misbehaves, 'bitch'. I fight back a smirk.
What weirds me out the most is how blasé he is about it. It's like he's interviewing us for a job opening, not signing us up to be his owners. I try to blot out his voice as he dryly describes being let out into the garden to 'do his business'. It's too late. The image is already seared into my brain.
Lastly, the contracts are signed. Clive files them away in his briefcase and pulls out a thick leather collar. "If there's nothing else to discuss, I'm ready to change," he says, breathless with excitement.
"The spare bedroom is free if you'd like some privacy," Naomi offers.
We sit there, listening to the thump of his footsteps heading upstairs, the rustle of clothing hitting the floor above our heads. "You never told me he was a silver fox," I say, breaking the awkward silence. "Sorry, silver bitch." She rolls her eyes. "Can't his wife help him with this?" I ask.
"They're going through a divorce."
"I'm not fucking surprised."
We wait twenty minutes. There's no sign of Clive. "What if something went wrong with the transformation?" Naomi frets. "Go up and check on him."
I open the door just in time to see him clasp the collar shut behind his neck. So much for privacy. Totally naked, my girlfriend's manager turns at my intrusion, his heavy dick waggling for the instant before it is pulled up inside him, as a ripple of pale fur runs over his skin, down his chest and limbs. With a crackle of gristle, his waist pulls in, childbe- puppybearing hips flaring outward. His musculature melts away. A pair of pert breasts blossom on his chest, complementing meaty, curvaceous haunches.
His nose and jaw crunch forward into a canine muzzle that he opens and shuts, struggling to enunciate human sounds.
"Master?" he whines.