Sharon's New Groove

This disclaimer must be read before reading further:

The following story is fictional and contains explicit pornographic material; it is not for minors or the close-minded.

Alex Streuth is the pseudonym of the author and a fictional character in these stories. Any characters, places, businesses and/or circumstances etc. described herein are entirely fictional. None of the following is based on real organisms or organizations, and any semblance to anyone or anything real, living, deceased or imaginary, (except where specifically noted in the ‘Continuity and Background’ and ‘Literary Notes’ sections) is purely coincidental.

This story is copyrighted (May 2005) by the author with permission granted to make copies only for personal use, they may not be redistributed to others.

The author cannot be responsible for the existence or delivery of any content which some may find offensive; reader be warned, by continuing further with this document you agree not to hold any party responsible for the delivery or existence of its contents.

Due to the extreme nature of the following material the author advises anyone who has stumbled across this document by mistake to destroy it if it is in the form of a hard copy, or to delete it and then write over its memory address if it is a soft copy.

Thank you and enjoy the following quality presentation.

Continuity and Background: This story takes place in the charming dominion of Cherish Valley , if you have never visited here before it is a place where girls are reared to respect the lordship of men and the dominant fashion of the ladies in town is preened and in pink. The original story written by ‘The Mayor’ is titled ‘Pretty Wives in Pink’ and is modeled after the town of Stepford (The novel “The Stepford Wives” is ubiquitous enough, but you may find the graphic novel “Stepford Bound” (by Simon Benson) useful for further reference.)

The prominent themes are humiliation, degradation, mental conditioning, transformation, modification, bimbofication, objectification, big boobs, huge lips, forced feeding, dehumanization, helpless females, Dominant males, and long term suffering (mental anguish) and servitude.

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About the Author: My hobbies include collecting, examining, and designing. I sometimes come across inspiring stories or goings-on about Cherish and have been asked by the “Committee for the Preservation of the Historical Record of Proper Female Deportment” (the CPHD) to assemble and detail these accounts for posterity.

Authorship Disclosure: The following material originates from personal first-person observations, from video recordings, diaries, medical and scientific notes and other privately held (and confidential) sources, as well as from public town events and records. I then transpose these accounts into the third person and pen these tales in my free time. While this is intended as a work of non-fiction for Cherish public record some dramatic and editorial license has been taken to help increase readership interest. Some stories take place outside of my normal purview and so some facts cannot be 100% confirmed, nevertheless, I have diligently reconstructed the particulars using primary sources to the best of my ability (filling in small details perhaps, along the way.)

Also, as I am extremely busy not all of the gathered data can be included in each presentation. If you are an accredited researcher with a genuine academic interest you may be allowed access to more extensive information. In order to request this more thorough (and graphically detailed) explanation of certain material presented, please send your request (noting with which area of record your particular interest lies) to Streuthanasia@gmail.com.

Sharon’s New Groove

Introduction
Sharon gazed with dull eyes out the window, contemplating the events of the past few days which sat heavily on her mind. A dull ache grew in her temple as she recalled the death of her husband, and then cringed as she thought of having to look for a job now; her husband had always provided for her before.

In fact, that was one of the main reasons she had married him, for his money, she couldn’t say that she had ever had any real feelings for him but she had never gone out of her way to deceive him about their relationship. She felt that it was all quite amicable, all things considered; he had viewed her as a sort of ‘investment.’

To that end he had made her sign a pre-nuptial agreement: she was allowed a weekly ‘expense account’ (allowance) when he had been alive, but was to get next to nothing when he passed on (this would discourage her from wanting anything but a long life for him, he had reasoned.)

Now that he was gone all of his money was to be given to some sort of a charity, something about Cherished Memories or something like that, she hadn’t paid close attention since she had mostly just gone through the motions at the wake and the funeral.

What weighed most heavily on her mind was not that her husband had passed away but that her income had dried up. She was now practically broke.

She had meant to start putting away some of her generous allowance monies but Jim had died suddenly of a heart attack. Now she was left with just a wardrobe of expensive clothes, a car she couldn’t afford the payments on, and a drawer full of jewelry.

As loathe as she was to do it she would have to pawn the jewelry.

She sighed and thought about what skills she had that she could use to get a job. “Well, I suppose I could always be a secretary,” she thought. She continued to gaze lazily out of the window, a copy of the will held loosely in her right hand. Her left hand held a clove cigarette (her husband had forbade her to smoke) which she ashed gently and then drew a drag off of.

She heard a faint noise from outside the door of her trailer (The house was Jim’s, and even while married he had made her live outside in the modular: “This is your home, honey, I live in the house and you live in the outhouse.”) No, he had never loved her, she knew, he had just kept her as a pet, going so far as to actually hang a sign outside of her trailer that read ‘Doghouse.’ She had thrown a fit when he done that.

Ultimately, though, she had submitted to his demands, her financial security demanded it. She had nursed a growing resentment for him after that, and had gone out of her way to rebel in whatever small way she could. She admitted to herself that some part of her was now relieved to be out of the cruel grasp of her husband, despite the tenuous financial footing it brought.

Sharon smiled and thought about the poison she had been putting into Jim’s food for the past six months (“You’re the wife, its your job to cook,” he had said.

She certainly hadn’t intended to kill him, when he had developed chest pains she had smiled in triumph and was spared his lecherous advances for a few sweet months. When he had finally passed on she had been as shocked as anyone else, she thought she was giving him very small amounts.

She had wanted to keep him chronically weak and in pain (so that she could get back at him for every last depredation he had exacted on her over the years) but she had miscalculated, apparently.

The noise outside the door got louder as Sharon stood to walk across the room, still in her bathrobe. Walking to the door to look out of the peephole she heard a ‘1, 2, 3’ and then the door burst open under the force of a paramilitary operation enacted just outside her trailer for her benefit.

She was soon forced down and secured into a body bag by several men dressed in dark, efficient uniforms. “Janitorial service requested in the hole,” a large man spoke into a handset. “Red fox is in the pot, I repeat, in the pot, preparing dinner now.”

He turned to his men “Full boil,” he roared. Sharon was zipped efficiently up, her red hair tucked in on top of her face. Breathing rapidly, panicked but helpless Sharon heard the sound of running feet as she was trammeled into a large vehicle whose engine started and then began to vibrate as it moved.

She could hear several men next to her in the back of the van, and as they moved around to secure themselves in and conduct other tasks they mainly ignored her. Occasionally she would find herself kicked or banged into accidentally by one of the men moving around in the cramped quarters, but mostly she was just cargo.

One of the men wiped his shoes off on the ridge in the van floor next to her. When the van went over another bump the bag rolled slightly and Sharon could smell the detritus that had accumulated over the course of the trip as the men had wiped their shoes off in the designated area. Her face was very close to it, albeit inside of the bag, and the air holes that had been prepared ahead of time allowed her ample opportunity to inhale the air around the waste area.

Eventually the van took a tight turn and she rolled in the opposite direction, bumping into one of the men who were strapped into the sides of the cargo space.

He grunted and then kicked her back to the center of the van. “Did someone forget to give her her medicine?” He unstrapped himself and began to move closer to Sharon ’s bundled form. The protocol was to give her a knockout agent before the trip.

Their commander barked into the back “No talking about the parcel, no interacting with the parcel, detour up ahead.”

The drive continued nightmarishly for Sharon, who was wide awake and scared the entire trip. Every movement or turn caused her to widen her eyes in dread expectation of what might come next.

She would relax, knowing that she couldn’t do anything, and convinced herself that she was ‘safe’ so long as she was inside the bag, but then her mind started to dream up scenarios of what might be done to her, and every time a bump in the road or a sharp turn caused her to move she cringed in expectation of what was certain to be coming next.

Chapter 1, Made to Heel

Sharon was brought to Cherish Valley , and once processed (tagged and given initial ‘security modifications’ to ensure her inability to escape) she was brought to Dr. Spencer’s clinic for the treatment proscribed her. Under the astute care of Dr. Spencer she was ‘brought up to spec’ for the clinical trial she was about to undergo.

Jim Perimor, her late huband, had been an active member of Cherish during his lifetime but had kept Sharon at his house in the ‘general populace’ (that is to say, the United States outside of Cherish Valley .) It had been his desire to push Sharon more and more into a degraded state while still outside of Cherish. He had controlled her through her need for her allowance and he had slowly been getting her more accustomed to her lot in life (or so he thought.)

In his will Mr. Permior had left all of his earthly goods to Cherished Memories, a cover corporation for Cherish, and a legal means for him to leave his possessions to the town that was so dear to his lifestyle. It was not revealed that Sharon had poisoned her husband until Dr. Spencer’s autopsy of Mr. Perimor had revealed the small doses of poison that (upon inspection of the trailer) Sharon had been slipping him. She had been scheduled to be moved to Cherish along with all of his other possessions: Weird as it might sound, the courts didn’t recognize Ms. Perimor as part of her late husband’s estate.

In the contract Mr. Perimor had signed with Cherish, in regards to the disposition of his estate, he had of course put in a clause in case of untimely death as a result of his wife’s actions. He had not expected to actually exercise it, as he knew that his plan for her slow debasement was infallible, but, one at least puts architecture in place for every eventuality.

As it was a very unlikely event, Mr. Perimor had written the instructions with a very smug imagination. He simply wrote something absurd and flippant, juvenile and impractical since he knew that it would never happen…

The bureaucracy of Cherish didn’t consider the flippant nature of Mr. Permiror’s request, and indeed, since the murder of one of their own by a piece of his property was the most anathema of all blasphemies against the will of Cherish’s founders, Mr. Permior’s request was only vetted for proper punishment characteristics.

Dr. Spencer strapped Sharon down, her now drugged form only slightly lucid. He took a pair of clippers and began shaving her head. Her pretty red-auburn hair, one of her most prized features, quickly fell to the floor in loose strops. Calling a male nurse in to finish the job Dr. Spencer ignored the lathering of the woman’s skull as he turned his attention to his subject’s extremities.

Making dotted lines in surgical pen on the offending limbs Dr. Spencer employed modern cauterization technology as he separated the young woman from her arms and legs. The now quadriplegic woman was outfitted with a pair of prosthetic limbs, appropriately fashioned to resemble those of a four-limbed beast.

Dr. Spencer regarded the operation coolly, but a more poetic mind might note that the evil actions of the hateful and evil young Ms. Perimor (widowed) were being rewarded with a surgical transformation into man’s best friend, the most loyal of all pets.

Composites, with a titanium base, the limbs were obviously artificial, not meant to resemble those of an actual dog (with hair and skin) but instead looked more like a robot’s. The business end of the prosthetics was a bundle of very fragile fiber-optic equipment. This was the most difficult part of the operation but Dr. Spencer was an expert in his field, and not due to a fluke. Granted, this was extremely experimental, but it was one of the rewards of being outside of the bounds of the Hippocratic Oath that punitive and untested methods could be employed on offending (and nubile) young women.

Making the very fine connections between the subjects’ exposed nerve bundles, ligaments, and tendons, with their cybernetic equivalents, Dr. Spencer teased the ends into a mating. A small amount of sweat broke out on his brow as he maintained his hunched over concentration on the subject.

He monitored her anesthesia to make sure that she could not suddenly take advantage of her new metallic limbs. Finishing up the last connections he primed a soft epoxy to use as adhesive. Before the final joining he picked up the control device and tested the responsiveness of the limbs.

He sent a command to the right forearm to uncurl the paw: It worked. Next he ordered it to ‘dig’ at the air, and it did! Monitoring the patient’s brain activity he noted the corresponding impulses showing up on the screen. The prosthetics worked perfectly.

Subchapter, Control

When a command was inputted on the controller it transmitted the command to the corresponding limb, which then sent a command up the subject’s spine (using electricity to mimic the signals sent by the central nervous system) to command the brain to move the arm. (Read that again.)

Since Sharon had always had arms she would have muscle memory built up for them, the cybernetic replacements would be able to interpret the commands she gave them, but in the manner for which they were designed. Any human commands she gave them, such as grasping, manipulating, or twisting an arm all of the way around would be reinterpreted correctly, as digging, pawing, or twisting only slightly.

The commands given by the controller were ‘pure.’ That is, they corresponded exactly with one of the limbs programmed ‘correct’ actions. Pushing ‘dig’ on the controller was understood exactly by the limb. The command still went up to Sharon ’s brain before coming back down to the limb, but it would remain unchanged. These ‘pure’ actions were stronger than other commands, which would contain some ‘noise’ as they were translated into correct actions. Thus if Sharon told her arm to ‘pick up a piece of paper’ for example, it would probably be translated as ‘paw, paw, dig, scratch.’

Her owner, meanwhile, could push a command on the controller and get a concise action, since the input was written for work with these devices (the limbs.)

The technology was still in its infancy and was based partially on the work of a researcher in Britain who is working with electric biofeedback. He had inserted a device into his arm to measure the electric signals his body uses to communicate internally, including signals used to indicate pleasure or pain feedback. The research had been picked up upon by Cherish which was making good headway.

These cybernetic paws represented the most progress they had made to date, and Sharon would serve as a good clinical trial. In the future finer progress could be made, but for now, Sharon would suffer with the clumsy gate her new limbs afforded.

End

Since her natural limbs had been amputated beyond the socket she would not be able to indirectly manipulate them. She would not be able to ‘lift’ one of her forelegs by raising a shoulder since her shoulder had been amputated.

The only way she would be moving any of her limbs would be with direct neurological commands to her arms as though they were still there. The beauty of it, of course, would be in the translation:

The programming in the limbs was taken from actual electric bio feedback from real live female dogs.

As Sharon learned to use her new limbs she would find that the commands that worked were the ones that the researchers had obtained from actual dogs. Sharon would be unable to move unless the command she gave her limb was a ‘proper’ instruction:

The only way she would be controlling her movements would be if she taught her brain to think like a bitch.

To help her, the controller’s ‘pure’ commands came from those bitches, and Sharon would be able to ‘hear’ those commands when the signal from the controller was passed through her brain before being executed. Commands from the controller contained data taken directly from female dogs. If Sharon ’s brain resisted the electric impulse, or tried to change it, the result would be no movement.

In the same manner that Pavlov taught his Dog’s proper behavior through association and reward, Sharon would be taught that the only way she would be rewarded with moving limbs would be if she associated the correct thoughts with them:

The only way that Sharon was going to be able to interact at all with her world would be if she learned to accept her new place and acclimate to thinking like a dog.

Chapter 2, Back into the Doghouse

It had been ‘thirsty work’ but the good folk at Cherish Medical had succeeded in convincing Sharon that she was a dog. Coupled with the impulse therapy was the behavioral training and the environmental conditioning.

Sharon had woken up from her ‘beauty sleep’ to find herself in a dog run. A short, long wire (18 wide by 2’ tall) fenced in cage structure which allowed her to move about comfortably on all fours but not to stand (not that getting up on all fours would have been particularly easy with her new limbs.) She had tried to stand at first (falling like a new fawn) but her new position on all fours was the most easy to maintain. (Standing up was theoretically possible, but it would take a great deal of will power to ‘brute force’ the commands through the limbs which worked best with thoughts that were dog-like.)

Even trying to communicate the motion of standing to her limbs was near impossible and incredibly draining. The limbs resisted the foreign impulses to do non-dog movements, and Sharon found the mental battle with her rear and forearms incredibly taxing. Over the next few hours she quickly learned that the only way she was going to make any sort of progress was if she at least learned to accept that she was going to have to be on all fours.

Drinking was her next task to master. She had managed to move forward a bit and was soon moving slowly back and forth in the kennel part of the dog run, which measured 4’ by 4’ and served as the area where she was to take her meals and rest. A water bottle hung upside down and she had to lean forward and suck from it in order to get any drink. The whole process was very humiliating for her.

As she suckled from the cold metal like a common animal the reality of her situation, the artificial limbs, her captivity and treatment all came crashing down on her and she broke down in tears.

Sharon sobbed loudly and dejectedly, miserable and scared, horrified by what she had become, a bald naked freak with robotic legs living the life of a dog. As the tears dripped down her face a man walked into the room, closing the door behind him. “You’ll rust,” he said, jokingly, looking down on her.

Sharon looked up but had trouble seeing past his belt buckle from her vantage point. The features she concentrated on as she relaxed her head into a drooping stance were his brown shoes and blue denim jeans.

“I’m just joking darling, there’s nothing to get worked up about. There there, everything will be alright.” He stepped forward and stuck his hand in his pocket, scrounging around before pulling something cubical and slightly shiny out to offer her. Holding his hand forward through the holes in the wire Sharon saw that he had a sugar cube in his hand. “Come on girl, eat your treat,” he said in the patient manner of a professional trainer.

Sharon of course balked at this humiliating patronage. Refusing to play any more of a part in this cruel charade she backed up slowly (still shaky with her new legs.) The trainer put his other hand into his pocket and pulled out a remote control. Pushing a few buttons he waited patiently as Sharon tried to mentally resist the new commands.

Slowly her legs moved forward, first the right front paw, and then the left rear leg, then the left front paw and the right rear leg. Staring up at his shirt in horror (as high up as she could now see) the angle slowly changed as she could now only see his belt buckle, and now his waist as she was moved closer to him. Giving up in her resistance the limbs brought her up to the side of the cage and she was confronted with his proffered hand again.

Taking deep breaths, knowing what was expected of her but refusing to humiliate herself in this manner Sharon stared at the piece of sugar in the man’s hand. Not wanting to have to do it but seeing no alternative she stalled, putting off the inevitable as long as possible. Knowing that resistance would ultimately provide futile but feeling petulant all the same she bucked her head into his hand, knocking the sugar from it onto the ground inside her cage, where it landed amongst the straw. Her trainer clucked his tongue, and shook his finger at her.

Pressing the command for her to move forward again (although she was very close to the edge of the cage already) he withdrew his hand from inside the wire bars and unzipped his pants slowly. Pressing the button that stood Sharon still (disallowing her movement and holding her in place) the man let out a sigh as he unfastened his belt and let his stomach relax a bit. Letting his jeans fall down around his ankles he took his cock out and Sharon stared at it, unsure of what was to happen next. The man sneered down at her “Disobedient bitch, ungrateful little dog, when a man offers you a gift you take it and you thank him by licking his hand, you stupid cunt.”

Sharon cringed at his words, with her face just a little over an inch from his cockhead, just on the other side of the bars the man grunted and then let loose a torrent of piss all over her face. Hitting her in the forehead, guiding the stream down to smack her in the cheek and then sploosh up her nostril as she recoiled and tried to squirm her head to the side. “Hold still you little bitch!” he roared as he pushed with his groin muscles to increase the pressure of the blast.

Sharon opened her mouth to protest but soon found it the target of the attack and coughed up piss as she shook her head to the side to try to avoid the stream. Laughing down at her the man finished eventually, the stream dwindling and then stopping. Shaking the last few drops into her water bottle the man smiled evilly down at the ungrateful dog who had spurned his gift.

“Stupid bitch, you don’t get it do you? You’re done. I’m doing you a favor by training you, if you resist you’re just going to regret it. Wise up and do as you’re told. Learn to behave or you’ll only be hurt worse.” With that man zipped up and stormed off back where he had come from, stopping only momentarily to position a shiny new companion for the dog outside of its pen.

Sharon had closed her eyes to protect them from the acrid blast and did not notice that the lights were dimming in the room. When she finally managed to shake some of the mess off (and it didn’t sting as much) she opened them to find herself in the dark, hungry and alone, with only a lighted mirror just outside the cage for company.

Staring at herself in the mirror, deformed and degraded, on all fours in a pen, bald and helpless, she resumed her crying. Thinking of herself as a freak, her resistance slowly melted as her self identity was ripped from her by the image that confronted her in the mirror. Sniffling and hungry, growing cold inside and losing touch with her self esteem, Sharon resigned herself to the task of a dog as she bowed down to search the straw with her nose for the sugar cube.

Chewing the discarded treat the lonely woman (bitch) remembered the attention the man had given her earlier and, oddly enough, missed it. Swallowing what he had given her she waited in the miserable pen for his return, staring despondently at her own image in the mirror and hating what she had become.

In order to break her spirit further the trainer kept her in the controlled environment, cold, dark and hungry for three days before making his return. Watching her carefully during that time he noted her progress as she adjusted to her new legs and drank all of the water out of the bottle.

Chapter 3, A Viewing

Sharon looked up eagerly as the door squeaked, she had been alone in the dark for what seemed an eternity now. Desperate for human contact she practically begged with her stance, her face raised, her nose pointing up; if she could have lifted her arms into a begging stance she would have, but her cybernetic attachments weren’t that flexible. Four-legged she would remain.

It was very adorable though, to see her try.

Her trainer walked back into the room, followed shortly thereafter by two more men, one of them fat and squat, and smoking a cigar, the other tall, lean, and smoking from a cigarette holder. Sharon had a slight pang at the sight of the men smoking, she hadn’t had a nicotine fix in several days now. While her late husband had forbade the habit she had still snuck the occasional light.

“Here she is gentlemen, please peruse from all around,” her trainer motioned around the sides of the cage. Sharon was a little nervous; here she was naked and exposed, looking freakish and extremely vulnerable, confronted with two callous strangers. As the tall one approached she shied back from him, only to have the squat one come up behind her and rub her ass appreciatively. Jumping forward from the unexpected feel she spun around to look at the cigar-holding man who was bent forward and leering down at her. Staring up at him in fright he smiled down at her jovially, taking a long drag on his cigar. Narrowing his eyes he blew a cloud of smoke in her face, disgusting her but nevertheless enticing her.

Like the dog she had become, the young woman sucked in as much of the second-hand smoke as she could, desperate to satisfy her cravings, needing her fix. Laughing at the unexpected turn of events the pudgy man held the cigar out to her, holding it through the bars, teasing her. Sharon walked forward awkwardly, still not used to her new legs, looking up at the man needfully, as he maneuvered the burning cigar closer and then further from her begging mouth.

The tall man rolled his eyes at this juvenile behavior on the part of his partner and turned his attention to the pleasant view of the thing’s private parts, lewdly on display as it bent down in a crouch. The squat man had moved the cigar close to the ground and Sharon was trying to reach as far down as she could, but her legs wouldn’t bend, she hadn’t mastered that part of them yet. All that she could manage was to lean down as much as she could. Her trainer pushed a button that commanded her forelegs to bend and she watched happily as the smoky treat came within grabbing distance. She opened her mouth in anticipation just as the squat man responded by stabbing up quickly with his hand and popping the half-cigar into the degraded woman’s mouth.

Gagging on the intruding stick, coughing and choking Sharon sputtered as all three men burst into uproarious laughter. Finally managing to breathe a little the dog struggled to cough up the cigar, until, just as she was about to spit it out of her mouth the command was put into her controller for her to clamp shut.

Sharon ’s eyes began to tear as the half-cigar sat in her mouth. She pushed and pushed with her tongue but her mouth remained firm. This confused her, up until now the only commands she had been given had been ones for her legs, which were robotic so she could understand that part of it. It made her feel helpless, of course, to know that she was so easily controlled but at least she still had some control over her body.

What Sharon did not know was that her controllers had been learning from her bio-feedback. During those three days in the dark they had been receiving input whenever she had moved a muscle.

Every time she had flexed her jaw the signal to move her mouth had been recorded and analyzed. While initially all of the data used had been from a female dog, this new data, gathered from Sharon ’s voluntary actions, could be used to formulate new commands.

Furthermore, and this was the part still being tested, it was theorized, not proven, but theorized, that those actions could be co-opted as well. With an elegant merging of the two types of commands, by comparing Sharon ’s own normal internal nervous system impulses with those recorded from the bitch, a new language could be developed, a system of new impulses, which would cause Sharon to act more like a dog.

Her feet already acted through doggie commands, but those were forced. The programming in her brain had already started when she first received commands to her legs. Her brain heard the commands, those from the dogs, and mimicked them in order to facilitate movement.

It was possible, just maybe, that she could be reduced even further: The hope was that with this new data, by measuring each voluntary action taken by the ‘natural’ Sharon, that this new series of impulses, a custom tailored corruption of Sharon’s nervous system, could cause her to become less and less human over time.

It would be very subtle. Right now the commands that came from the dog were very obvious to her brain. When she was commanded to move forward with her right leg it seemed very foreign and artificial, she had to obey, but it was like being hit with a sledgehammer.

The hope was that as this new custom-tailored ‘language’ was developed, that, since it contained a lot of Sharon ’s own messages to her body, it would be more subtle, less noticeable. Eventually the men would be in control not only what her body did, but how she thought about what she did. One day, soon hopefully, she would behave just as a dog and not be able to tell that the commands were not coming from herself.

The command for her to crimp her jaw shut was obviously artificial, although less tenuous since it wasn’t hotwired to her legs.

Eventually she might be able to open her jaw; she could perhaps develop a resistance to it. At the very least she would be able to identify it as an outside command.

As it was her trainer had the button pressed down hard and was watching her with a devilishly delightful grin on his face. He watched, waiting for the inevitable.

The three men (the two smokers both programmers and neurologists) watched as Sharon’s eyes teared further, a huge grimace on her face as, reflexively, not wanting to but having such a hard time with the foul thing in her mouth, the little bitchdog choked down her meal, swallowing the cigarbutt and fighting the dry retch sensation that followed.

All three men clapped for her as she blushed and tried to hide her head in shame. The pudgy man in front of her cooed at her for being such a “Good doggie,” and lit another cigar.

After a few more weeks of conditioning, of ‘learning’ to think like a dog, of acting like a dog, of living like a dog the poor young woman was devastated. She didn’t think she could take anymore. She couldn’t think anymore.

She felt that every day was starting to blend together and she lost track of the things around her.

She spent a lot of time fighting the thoughts in her head, maybe she really was a dog. She, she knew that she was human, but, maybe she was a dog, she sure felt like a dog, everyone treated her like a dog, and, her thoughts confused her, swirling around, a constant barrage of the doggie commands confusing her weakened mind and breaking her will.

She had started to break, to obey without question. She didn’t notice that the trainer was a little different now, a little more clinical in his treatment of her. He had also started forcing her to perform vile acts for his amusement:

When she was told to crouch down in front of her own shit and sniff it she did so with only a minimum of resistance. The act still disgusted her, but after a few weeks she found it more familial.

Her new trainer meanwhile was very carefully measuring her status and her mental state, comparing her results to those of the real bitch she was being trained towards.

Epilogue, Lap Dog

Today began as any other, Sharon woke up and stretched, she had been fully trained onto the new legs and was quite facile with them now. Whenever she moved them she moved them exactly as a dog would, her thoughts mimicked the dogs exactly when she used her legs. She still had upper brain activity, but this was desired. It wouldn’t do for her to become too used to being a dog.

Her trainer walked up and began an exercise. Pushing just a single button to give just one command to her Streuth smiled as she took off. Sharon ’s body reacted perfectly and began running down the length of the Kennel, following the groove she had carved through use.

Soon thereafter Sharon resumed control of her body but did not notice any change, in fact, she had hardly registered that the initial command had been external: she had ‘remembered’ that this was what she needed to be doing now.

At the end of the run she squatted to perform her morning evacuation. It didn’t bother her that her trainer was standing right over her watching her, or that she was squatting over her food bowl, these things seemed perfectly normal to her.

After completing her morning exercise she barked up expectantly at her Master who rewarded her for her successful completion of her exercise and for her obedient complicity in her training. He placed a single cherry (flush with injected nicotine) on top of her food dish, crowning her meal.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of the treat, her mouth salivated, and the dog did what came natural to it: it dove right into its wet, tasty meal, the cherry atop it forming a symbolic link in its mind for the food to become irresistible (and sating its nicotine fix.)

Her trainer watched in satisfaction as she devoured her own waste and swallowed it all down. Next he punched the button on the remote that began her ‘next’ daily activity.

Happy to have started the day so freshly, with ‘food’ still dripping from her mouth Sharon ran back down the Kennel Run, to end up at an exact setting from where she had just been. Not noticing anything amiss, she squatted over it and performed her morning routine, again. Smiling up happily at her trainer when he clapped for her and patted her on the head, (for being such a good doggie) she waited patiently after she had finished ‘making food’ until he had, once again, placed a cherry on top of it (sanctifying it.)

Satisfied that the training had taken hold her trainer marked off another box on his checksheet (one for each of the day’s meals) and then pushed the button for Sharon to begin her ‘next’ morning exercise. He watched gleefully as she ran around the track, which formed a circle, before she wound up again right in front of him where she had started.

Following rote, with absolutely no commands given her from the remote except for the very initial one which simply served now as a ‘go’ command, she again squatted down in front of her trainer and completed her morning exercises.

With no morning and no night in the interior room, every moment could be the moment perfect for morning exercises. When the size of the (freshly poured) meals diminished, when it wasn’t large enough to warrant a cherry on top, the dog knew to press her foot on the pedal nearby which dispensed more food (fresh dog food) into the bowl. After she had finished she felt frisky and it seemed only natural when her Master gave her the command to begin a run down the length of her Kennel.

It never surprised her when she encountered her dog bowl at the end of the lap and instead she salivated at the sight of her food bowl, her conditioning kicking in, while simultaneously her bowels loosened at the sight of her toilet.

Whenever a small concern would raise itself up, as occasionally Sharon’s mind regained itself to protest in some small fashion, such as resisting to eat its food, or to wrinkle its nose in disgust at the activity, her trainer would push a small button on the control which would sprinkle her mind with the impulses gathered from when she had been a woman and had enjoyed touching herself.

Nowadays sexual pleasure was but a dim memory, and those refreshing spats given to her to appease her higher mind were all that it took to ‘quiet’ her down and get her ‘back on track.’

Every so often as she ran around her run a fine mist of water and cleanser would spray down on her to keep her clean. When a substantial amount of fresh dog food was needed to complete a bowl (when her stomach needed time to catch up with her bowels) a sedative would be released as well into her meal, giving Sharon a time-out that would help her normal flow (it contained a laxative as well.)

Happy to see such a fine specimen, Sharon ’s trainer smiled down on her as she drifted off to a drug-induced sleep. He watched as her mind swam in its semi-conscious state, her dreams carefully tailored with bio-feedback to reinforce her conditioning: She ‘ran’ in her sleep, her legs twitching as she played out her waking moments in her dreams as well. Alex smiled especially big when he watched his plaything swallow in her sleep, knowing what it was she was eating in her dreams.

Getting ready to leave the playroom Streuth set his newly trained doggie up to continue on without him. When Sharon awoke and stood up, her head would trip a sensor which would cause the ‘go’ command to be given.

After finishing her lap and ‘making food’ the cherry would be delivered mechanically (if the weight in the bowl was sufficient.) After finishing her meal routine she would be allowed a few moments to reflect upon her new lifestyle:

Eventually she would become lucid, and horrified at her predicament, and, spitting the foul leftovers from her mouth, make a break for the door (“Always for the door”, Alex laughed, observing her from the next room over) where, turning in that direction, she would trip another sensor…

Alex watched her for a few moments more, relishing the moment when she thinks she can escape, watching the look in her eyes when she thinks she is going to make it, and then savoring that beautiful moment when her eyes blink, registering the newly given ‘go’ command.

Alex counted down the check marks, watching as Sharon stopped to ‘make food’ again and then gulp down her meal.

Smiling through the observation window, patting himself on the back for such a job well done, Alex takes a deep breath and beams with pride before turning his back on her and leaving her to his own devices.

---

by Alex Streuth

Literary notes: As of now there is no major protagonist, the antagonist is none other than Mr. Streuth, which is also my pen name, who works in ‘mergers (the merging of his designs with female flesh) and acquisitions’ for Cherish, handling the more business end of things.

It is my intent for him to be a corrupting influence on the otherwise (relatively) wholesome ideals of the rest of the town. In this story Streuth tries for a more ornamental, decorative design, creating a woman who is a beautiful conversation piece, and fulfills his requirement for a low-maintenance relationship. While not her original trainer Streuth was so smitten with the new technology he just had to have her, and bought her debt from her husband’s estate, after promising to maintain the punitive nature of the terms of her contract. Needless to say, after seeing the final result, her husband’s estate is not unhappy.

Lastly, the author disclaims that outside of the realm of fantasy none of these types of behaviors and/or ideas are healthy much less conscionable. It is my intention to provide a well-written adult story that allows the reader to indulge in their darker appetites. Feedback is welcomed, you may write Streuthanasia@gmail.com

Reader suggestions are always welcomed and I am sure if you have a specific situation, person, item of clothing, object, body part or interaction etc. that you wish inserted into the busy schedules of the exacting Dr. Spencer and Mr. Streuth please do not hesitate to contact me regarding it. I will see it I can fit your order into their schedule, or bring it up at the next Cherish Board meeting. –AS

Please check out Alex Streuth's Stories for the full collection.

Alex Streuth's 'Sharon's New Groove'