There Are No Bad Dogs in This World (3)
The act of performing a character assigned to you is called roleplay. I suppose the meaning might shift if you dug into it more deeply, but that, at least, was all I knew of the word.
As my punishment, Rihardt had ordered me to roleplay. Having braced myself for something unspeakable, I quietly counted myself lucky. It wasn't, after all, a punishment that would maim my body. All I had to do was stay faithful to whatever role Rihardt set for me.
'Hm. Not so bad, actually?'
…I wanted to club my own head for thinking so complacently. If the thing were that painless, Rihardt would never have called it a punishment to begin with. The problem announced itself soon enough: the role he'd assigned was not a person at all, but a beast. And a beast on friendly terms with us, no less.
"You're going to play the puppy Lucy imagines—obedient, and fawning for attention."
I echoed back, utterly dumbfounded.
"You're telling me to play… a puppy?"
"That's right. I'll see to the costume, the script, and the venue myself—all Lucy has to do is show up."
Has "just show up" ever sounded so menacing? I let his words run through my mind: the image of me playing a puppy before Rihardt, groveling adorably for his favor.
'Ugh.'
My stomach went heavy and queasy, as though I'd gorged myself on rich, greasy food. Never once in my life had I performed cuteness for anyone. And now I was to do it, in the manner of a dog, in front of Rihardt?
"…Pardon me, Young Master?"
"If you dislike the idea, then I'll engrave a tattoo across your body instead: 'I am a stupid maid who cannot even properly carry out the Young Master's orders.' It's a rather long phrase, so the engraving will take a while—your skin may get a little hot."
I met Rihardt's red eyes head-on. This bastard. He genuinely intends to brand me with a hot iron if I refuse.
"It's nothing of the sort. I merely wished to ask when the roleplay was to begin."
There was something demonic in Rihardt's threats—the way they made a person's speech instantly reverent. Unlike the ordinary kind, his never stopped at words; they proceeded straight to execution. Push my insolence any further here, and I'd end up with monstrous characters carved into my flesh. I had no choice but to fold. Whether my docility struck him as funny or not, Rihardt gave a quiet snort of laughter.
"Is that so? If Lucy is willing, then let's begin right now."
So that was the purpose behind his late-night visit. He'd had one all along.
"Wouldn't that require a great deal of preparation, though?"
"Don't worry. It's quick."
What costume, what script, and—above all—what venue. Costume and script I could resign myself to, but the location demanded genuine care. One careless moment, and someone might catch us. Rihardt, whatever else he was, had never been the type to run wild from the very first step; he did mind the eyes around him. Which meant he had no intention of letting the servants witness me playing the puppy.
'My image and reputation are already wrecked beyond salvage—of course he'll guard his own.' Which meant, as I'd suspected all along: the Basement. Though the thought of Karen Florence watching sat poorly with me. Every time she laid eyes on me from then on, she'd sing out, Oh, our puppy's here, is it? Just imagining it was already giving me a headache.
Rihardt, who had been surveying my brooding with evident relish, finally spoke.
"I'll bring the costume myself. Why don't you go ahead to my room, Lucy?"
"Understood."
We left the room together. I made for Rihardt's chamber; Rihardt made for somewhere else entirely.
I crossed paths with Rihardt just as I reached his door—envelope in hand. Evidently the costume I was to wear lay inside it. That was fast of him. I suppose the difference starts at stride length.
"It feels silly standing about out here. Shall we go in?"
"Yes."
We entered Rihardt's room. He went straight to his bed and upended the envelope, and everything he'd packed tumbled out onto the mattress.
"There. This is what Lucy will be wearing."
Was any of this clothing? A black leather collar, and those objects that looked for all the world like a dog's tail—this was an "outfit"? I stood on the very verge of questioning the fundamental definition of the word when—
Flutter. Flutter.
Belatedly, more things came drifting down. Three fluffy clumps of gray fur settled onto the bed like dandelion seeds. The collar and tail were dubious enough, but these, too, were items that could not by any stretch be called clothing. Confronted with the carnage, I couldn't even guess what to say. Still—say something I must.
"…Young Master. I distinctly recall you saying 'costume.'"
"Cover the parts of the body, and it's clothing. No?"
Right. Every word, absolutely correct. With a hollow expression, I undid the top buttons of my maid uniform. An order was an order; wear it I would. As I stripped off my blouse and bra, I asked Rihardt,
"Where on earth did you even obtain things this dreadful? Matching my own hair color, no less."
I had asked in perfect sincerity. Rihardt replied as though it were nothing at all.
"I made them myself. Fur and cord from the storeroom."
So his gifted hands were wasted in exactly the useless direction. Skirt and panties off as well, naked now, I picked up the three tufts of gray fur. Their construction was, surprisingly, close to a bra and panties, so putting them on gave me no trouble. Even so, this was the first time since becoming Lucifer that I had worn anything covering so little.
'It's not my original body, so there's nothing to be embarrassed about?' That was a rationalization only available in the first days after my possession. By now I already perceived Lucifer's body as no different from my own flesh. Dressed like this, in this state of mind, the shame was beyond all describing. Even on ordinary days I was conscious of Rihardt's gaze, but this time it cut far deeper. His eyes prickled unbearably, and baring my body like this was mortifying.
Had this display pleased him, then? The corner of Rihardt's mouth curled upward.
"Now for the collar and the tail, hmm?"
The collar I could just barely accept. But a tail?
"Eep!"
A strangled squeak burst out of me as I stared at the thing—all because my thoughts had wandered somewhere very bad. I prayed with everything in me. Please. Please let it not be what I'm imagining. Rihardt, pitiless as ever, granted me that despair in person.
"Lucy. Turn your body so I can see that rump."
O Lord. Never did I think the day would come when I, an unbeliever, went looking for You.
"…Phwaaah."
That was the sound of me letting out a long groan after gulping down ice-cold water. I set the cup on the table and stared at Rihardt. By sheer stroke of fortune, I had been spared any vile foreign sensation in my rear end. The tail was the adhesive kind—not the insertable kind.
"So Lucy, for all that prim, standoffish face, was really nothing but a creature of filthy thoughts, hm?"
Judging from my reaction alone, Rihardt seemed to have taken my full measure, and his teasing began. The truly vicious part was that it rested on fact—I couldn't even call it slander.
"Then wouldn't the person who shaped the thing to look that way on purpose be the more insidious and lecherous of us two?"
"I never made it look like anything. Perhaps it's Lucy's imagination that deserves the praise?"
The more I rebutted, the deeper I dug my own grave—no different from thrashing in a bog. I had to keep straightening a face that refused to be managed.
"I'll walk you through the script on the way."
I answered with both hands cupped over my chest and crotch.
"On the way? In this half-naked state?"
The outfit was such that the smallest movement would leave my nipples and sex fully exposed. Worse, the fur did not even manage to conceal the pink of my areolae. Was I to count it a mercy that, at least, Lucifer's mound grew no hair?
"As Lucy guessed, the venue is the Basement. So no one will see you on the way there."
No one on the way—but someone waiting at the destination. Karen Florence. She would be the audience to my shame. I had seen it coming to some degree, but with it made real, the torment outdid anything I'd foreseen. If anything, the servants might have been easier to bear. At least their curses wouldn't be delivered with heartfelt sincerity. Could I withstand Karen Florence's venomous, wholehearted abuse with my mind intact? Merely imagining it felt as though my psyche were being whittled away.
"Still, better one spectator than a crowd, wouldn't you say?"
Truly, he was hateful enough to make me want him dead. I wanted to drive my fist into that smirking face of his. My only regret was knowing the attempt would be swatted aside without effort.
"I understand the arrangement, but why do you keep making me drink water?"
Counting the cup I'd just emptied, I was five cups deep. It was a volume of fluid at which the urge to relieve myself could not possibly fail to arrive.
"It's all for the performance."
And what performance would that be, exactly? Was the scheme to have me… void my bladder on command, now that I was a dog? It was bleak to admit that Rihardt was more than capable of exactly that.
"And from this moment on, Lucy is a puppy."
His bleak gaze settled on me. I hunched into myself and waited for him to continue.
"When I speak to you, you answer with a 'woof.' Understood?"
"…Woof."
Somehow, I felt that failing to woof on the spot would earn me a beating. Flashing a row of even white teeth, he stroked my chin.
"Good. Clever pup. Shall we give the puppy a proper name while we're at it?"
"Woof."
No.
"A yes, then? All right—what sort of name should it be?"
You son of a bitch.