Walkies

Miles always loved the moment the leash clicked into place.

The soft jingle of the collar, the firm but teasing tug that made his pulse jump, and the low, knowing rumble of his Master’s voice right beside his ear. “Heel, pup. Nice and close.” Out here under the open sky, Miles didn’t have to think: just obey, just ache, just be good.

Today he was already throbbing before they’d gone ten steps.

His heavy cock had thickened the instant the leash pulled taut, straining against the thin white pouch of his jockstrap until the fabric stretched tight. Every stride made his stiffy sway wildly between his powerful thighs, the swollen head rubbing against the damp material and leaving a shiny trail of pre-cum dripping onto the concrete behind him: clear, sticky droplets that glistened in the sunlight.

“Stay close” Master murmured, voice laced with amusement as he gave the leash another playful yank. Miles instantly pressed in tighter, his broad chest brushing Master’s hip, breath coming in hot, panting huffs behind the mask.

“Good boy.”

The praise hit like a spark. Miles whimpered, tongue lolling as his cock gave a visible twitch, another thick bead of pre rolling down the underside and splattering the pavement. The jockstrap was soaked now, the blue paw print darkened with his own mess, the waistband digging into his hips while his balls swung heavy and full with every eager step.

Master’s fingers brushed the back of his neck, nails scratching lightly through the fur. “Look at you… already making such a pretty mess for me. You’re that excited just from a little walk, puppy?”

Miles nodded frantically, cheeks burning beneath the mask, hips stuttering as he fought the urge to hump the air. The leash tugged again -sharper this time- forcing him to slow, to feel every throb, every sway, every humiliating drip.

Master’s hand dipped low, fingers slipping under the stretched waistband of Miles’ jockstrap with casual ownership. The pup’s breath caught hard behind the mask as those warm fingers wrapped around his aching, pre-slick cock: thick and heavy, already throbbing wildly from the walk.

One slow, deliberate jerk.
Two.

Miles’ hips jerked forward on instinct, a sharp, needy whine ripping out of his throat as Master stroked him firmly through the soaked pouch, milking another thick bead of clear pre straight onto his fingertips. The jockstrap pulled just enough aside for the cool air to kiss his flushed, dripping length before Master withdrew his hand, now glistening with the sweet, musky slick.

Master then lifted his coated fingers to Miles’ muzzle.

“Open.”

Miles obeyed instantly, tongue lolling out even farther, eyes fluttering half-shut in pure, desperate bliss. The moment those slick fingers slid past his lips and pressed onto his tongue, a full-body shudder rolled through him. His tail whipped wildly behind him, thumping hard against his own calves as he suckled eagerly: loud, wet, shameless noises escaping around Master’s fingers. The taste of his own sweet pre flooded his mouth, warm and salty-sweet, and Miles moaned deep in his chest, the sound vibrating around the digits like a happy little growl.

His powerful thighs trembled, knees threatening to buckle as another heavy spurt of pre leaked from his untouched cock. His eyes rolled back slightly under the mask, cheeks burning hot, ears pinned flat in overwhelming pleasure while he nursed every last drop like it was the best treat he’d ever earned.

“Good boy” Master murmured, amused, slowly pulling his fingers free with a wet pop.

Miles whimpered long and needy, tongue still chasing the taste, completely lost in the hazy, blissful fog of being used, teased, and utterly owned.