Enjoy a snippet from Angela Caperton’s “Pet Door.” The mixture of D/s and a shapeshifting vampire eager for a leash were to delicious for me not to include! Delilah Devlin

*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I scratched, just like the bitch I am.

Wet, shivering, hungry, I pawed at her door and salivated, drooled really, a puppy eager to be paddled with a newspaper and scolded.

Hungry.

I’d watched her for several nights, watched how she’d stared down the valets, eloquently subdued jerks who propositioned her after her performance, salivated as she stroked her tempered violin and fingered the bow before she bound them into the velvet-lined case.

After all, how many virtuosi performed in tight-laced corsets and four-inch spiked heels? For her, I could even listen to the same Brahms Concerto a thousand times before I stabbed myself in the chest with a broken broom handle.

She was it; she could give me what I wanted, what I needed. One glimpse of her complete and utter control of the bow over the strings of the violin and I knew I was lost, or maybe saved.

The rain fell in buckets, the late night squall a blessing to me. I shook off the excess water before I scratched at her door again, eyes acceptably pitiable, the tremble in my body horribly exaggerated, but I was in the form of a little wolf-dog, I was sure she’d think. Would she discern the difference between real discomfort and play-acted misery?

The front entryway to the antebellum home made me smile. At the base, a large pet door, one meant for a medium-sized dog.

I scratched and whined with delicate distress and, even before I was ready, she answered, her corset loosened, breasts freely bobbing in the cups, her tight black skirt gone, revealing red silken panties, a lacy garter, and sleek black stockings. She still wore her high heels. I wanted to lick them, but they stood beyond the invisible barrier of her permission.

I trembled, but this was no act. I wanted her. God, how I wanted her. I whined, unabashed, begging.

She just stared, fresh rain soaking my pelt again. I tilted my head and lowered my lids, going for a look as forlorn as I could manage. I uttered the slightest yip of distress.

“Jesus,” she groaned, looking at me as if I were a worm.

I quivered, excited, wanting more of her contempt.

“Come on in, you idiot,” she said, and I bloomed inside, my entry blessed. I started forward beyond the threshold.

And the door bruised my nose.

She closed it. She invited me in, but closed the door.

I blinked, stunned. Was she kidding? Was she just being cruel? I knew about cruel; I was born from it. I could be cruel too if provoked.

The narrow plane of the pet door swung open, kicked by her high-heeled foot.

I shivered anew, almost unable to move for the shaking of my four limbs. She knew me. Oh, she knew me so well.

I pushed my nose against the pet door, her blunt welcome freeing me to enter, and I slid between the wet, cold night and the warmth of her house.

She looked at me as though my damp, musky coat was my fault. Disdain, barely restrained tolerance, and chastisement shimmered just a breath away.

Saliva pooled behind my canines.

She pointed. “Kitchen. I’ll not have that smell in my carpet.”

Kitchen. Hard, cold, smooth tiles. I padded across the forest green carpet to the Spanish red floor. I wanted to shake, dislodge the excess water from my pelt before it tickled my skin, but the look in her eyes stilled the instinct. I didn’t want to anger her, didn’t want to have her toss me out into the rain again.

I trembled for the control, ached for the firm grip on the leash. She had it, I knew she did.

Angela Caperton writes eclectic erotica that challenges genre conventions. Look for her stories published with Black Lace and eBury Publishing, Cleis, Circlet, Coming Together, Drollerie, eXtasy Books, Renaissance and in the indie magazine Out of the Gutter.