I wake up craving, my body already alive with need before my eyes open. The rug is soft under my bare skin, the blanket barely covering me. My thighs are slick, my pussy aching for the collar or the tail’s pulse and hum of reward. Or that soft “Good girl” that sets me alight. I don’t pretend anymore, I’m not just curious, I’m hooked.  Every act of obedience floods me with the heat I can’t resist. I crawl to my phone before I even think of water, the tail swaying, its weight stoking the fire low in my belly. The screen glows, the pawprint icon pulsing. A new option shines at the top of the taskboard:

Obedience Routines Tier II

Includes structured postures, motion-mirroring, walk cycles, and voice denial rewards.

Progression requires a small surrender.

[OBEY]

I don’t hesitate. I bark, soft, eager, wag my hips, and press “Obey” with my nose. I hardly register that obey is the only option now, no later. There hasn’t been a no for a long time. The app now just assumes I will obey. I think it is right. The screen flashes gold, and a new prompt appears:

Trade Required:

Give up meal selection.

From now on, nutrition will be managed.

We’ll feed you what you need.

No chewing. No utensils.

Just your bowl. Nose down. Obedient.

[OBEY]

My stomach flips, but it’s not fear, it’s anticipation, a rush that makes my breath catch and my thighs clench. I bark again, louder, the collar humming in response, sending a jolt of heat through me. I press OBEY, my body thrumming with want. The voice in my ear plugs purrs: *“Good pup. You’re learning to trust.”*

That afternoon, a knock at the door startles me. I wait until the deliveryman’s footsteps fade, then crawl to retrieve the package, tail swaying, plug warm and heavy. Inside is an automatic feeder, sleek and black, already paired with the app. At 6 PM, it buzzes, and the voice guides me: *“Nose to bowl, pup. Eat what we give you.”* The feeder dispenses a thick, beige slurry, warm and faintly sweet. I lower my face, lapping slowly, the act so simple, so right. Halfway through, I moan, my hips rocking, the tail’s weight amplifying every sensation. It’s not the taste, it’s the surrender, the knowledge that I’m being cared for, guided. My body pulses with arousal, each lap sending sparks through me, the collar humming softly: *“Good pup. So obedient.”*

Day two of Tier II, and I’m glowing, my skin electric with need. The walk cycle drills have me crawling in slow, deliberate loops around the apartment, tail swaying, plug warming with every movement. I drool, not from hunger but from the sheer intensity of it, the way the tail moves with me, the collar’s purrs syncing with my breath. The app’s voice loops: *“You don’t need to be punished. You need to be guided.”* I press “Sorry” with my nose, over and over, just to hear the sigh of approval, each one stoking the heat pooling between my thighs. I’m panting, aching, every crawl a step closer to an edge I’m desperate to fall over.

Then, a new offer appears:

Routines Tier III Available

Names get in the way, pup.

To progress, surrender your identifier.

We will rename you. A pup doesn’t need ‘Mia.’

She needs designation.

Say yes clearly. Just once. And we’ll update your file.

[YES]

I freeze, the screen’s glow reflecting in my wide eyes. The tail hums, low and insistent, urging me forward. Something in me pushes back, not resistance, but a faint echo of who I was, a rusty memory of “Mia” tucked in a corner of my mind. My body, though, is already decided, trembling with need, slick with want. I lie to myself, this is all just a game. I can take it back. It isn’t really real.

I whisper, voice thick with arousal, “Okay… yes.” The screen pulses gold, and the voice murmurs: *“Understood, Pup M-17.”*

No screech, no shock, just a warm rush through the collar, a drip of dopamine that makes me whimper. The tail vibrates, and I rock my hips, chasing the sensation. I lean forward, nose to phone, and press “Obey.” The voice whispers: *“Good, Pup M-17. You belong here.”* My breath hitches, my fingers brushing between my thighs, teasing the edge of release. I’m not Mia anymore. I’m M-17, and the name feels like a collar tightening, perfect and warm.