Page 22 of Shy Girl

SHY GIRL75

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stomach tightens, and my fingers curl around the edge of the collar, the smooth leather suddenly feeling oppressive.

“This,” he says, pausing as if savoring the moment, “is your audition,” the words hang in the air, heavy and sharp. I blink, my thoughts spiraling, searching for meaning. “Get on your hands and knees,” he says, his tone still calm, almost coaxing. “And bark like a dog.”

I stare at him, the words not registering at first, my brain stalling as it tries to catch up. My breathing quickens, my chest tightening with confusion and disbelief.

This is what he wants. This is what he’s into. The realization lands heavily, the puzzle pieces clicking into place.

I don’t move. I can’t. I stand there, frozen, my thoughts spiraling into a loop of questions I can’t answer, possibilities I can’t predict. The weight of his request settling over me like a thick fog and my mind spirals, calculating every angle, every consequence. Do it, don’t do it, what happens if I refuse, what happens if I don’t?The questions loop endlessly, each one louder than the last.

His gaze doesn’t waver, it is calm and steady, as though he already knows what I’ll choose. I inhale deeply, the leatherof the collar pressing lightly against my throat. Slowly, I lower myself to the ground. My knees press against the hardwood floor, my hands following, palms flat against the cool surface. I feel absurd. My hair falls into my face as I glance down, my fingers trembling slightly. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a relentless rhythm that matches the tempo of my spiraling thoughts.

“Good,” he says softly, his voice low and approving.

I take another breath, deep and steady, and then I do it. A soft, tentative bark escapes my lips, barely audible at first. It feels strange, surreal, and my cheeks flush with heat as the sound hangs in the air. “Louder,” he says, and there’s something almost gentle in his tone, as though he’s coaxing me forward.

MIA BALLARD76

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I try again, the bark louder this time, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small room. I feel silly, exposed, but I force myself to stay in place.

When I finally rise to my feet, brushing my hands against my dress to steady myself, I look up and see him smiling. It’s not the faint, polite smile I’ve seen before. It is wide, genuine, and warm, the kind of smile that transforms his face, making him seem less calculated, less controlled.

“You did great Gia,” he says, his tone lighter now, almost playful.

I swallow hard, the heat still lingering on my cheeks, but his approval feels like a small victory, an odd sense of relief blooming in my chest. He liked it. That much is clear.

I touch the collar lightly, my fingers tracing the studs as I force myself to meet his gaze. “That’s what you wanted, right?” I ask, reveling in the validation. My voice is steadier now, though the words feel surreal even as I speak them.

“Yes,” he says simply, his smile never wavering. “Exactly what I wanted.”

For a moment, the tension in the room shifts, the air feeling less heavy. I stand there, back straight, my hands clasped together in front of me, the spiraling questions in my mind momentarily quiet. “As you can see, I have a very interesting sort of fetish,” he says slowly.

“Idosee,” I say, my voice sounding faraway; detached.

He nods, his gaze never leaving mine. “I’m looking for someone to be my dog,” he continues, pausing as if to let the words settle. “For eight hours everyday.”

The sentence lands heavily, each word clear and sharp, and my mind begins spiraling immediately, dissecting his tone, his posture, the exact phrasing he used.

Eight hours. Every day. Dog.

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SHY GIRL77

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The words loop in my head, a strange, rhythmic pulse I can’t shake. “Eight hours?” I repeat, as though clarifying the logistics will make the concept more digestible. “That’s...a full workday.”

He chuckles softly, a sound that feels too light for the weight of the conversation. “Exactly. I believe in treating it like a job—because it is. A role with expectations, structure, and, of course, compensation.”

The wordcompensationpulls me back into focus. I nod slowly, processing, calculating. My hands fidget against the fabric of my dress, the leather collar still pressing lightly against my skin. “And what, exactly, does being your dog entail?”

His smile widens slightly, and he takes a step closer, his presence filling the small space between us. “It’s simple. You’ll wear the collar, spend the day as my pet. No talking, no standing on two legs, no human behavior unless I explicitly allow it.”

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