How to Train Your Puppy | Chapter 5 [Comm]

Chapter Five

“In the Crate”

Nuba stared, silent, wide-eyed, still suspended halfway into a new diaper with his legs raised and knees bent as Duncan casually tossed the used one into a covered pail with a mechanical clunk. The metallic echo left the room oddly quiet, the silence emphasizing the click of the lock now firmly attached between the rottweiler’s legs.

He swallowed hard.

It was a sound that didn’t belong in a bedroom. That was the sound of permanence. Of ownership. Of a boundary being drawn not with words, but with steel and precision.

Duncan was not smiling.

Instead, the rhino was focused, meticulous, as though measuring whether his work passed inspection. His thick fingers lingered against the silicon of the chastity cone, tugging ever so slightly at the ring to test its fit. Nuba gasped, more from the sense of powerlessness than pain.

"Good," Duncan murmured, finally. He set the pup’s legs down with deliberate care. 

"You'll stay clean. And focused. That little distraction? Not yours anymore."

Nuba blushed so hot he thought his fur might catch flame. The feeling of being laid down into the fresh, dry diaper that followed felt almost ceremonial. The thick crinkle of fresh padding was louder than before, louder in his ears, anyway, and the powdered scent wafting up toward his muzzle was almost dizzying.

The rhino applied lotion in slow, deliberate circles, moving with the practiced rhythm of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Each swipe was gentle, almost tender, but held the silent weight of dominance. This was not about pampering. It was conditioning.

“You’ll get used to it,” Duncan said softly, as he dusted a final handful of powder across the rottie’s groin. 

“Soon you won’t remember what it’s like not to be padded.”

The tapes were applied with mechanical precision. Each one clicked into place against the landing zone with a confident press. Nuba breathed through his nose, eyes fluttering shut. It was so final. He didn’t even fight it.

How could I?

He asked himself. A week ago, this would have made him bolt out the front door. 

But now?

The thickness between his legs made every breath feel heavier. More weighted. He wasn’t just wearing it, he was in it.

Duncan helped him sit up, one hand at his back. Nuba leaned into the touch instinctively, looking up through lidded eyes. His mouth opened to speak, but the rhino beat him to it.

“No talking unless I say. Good puppies don't yap.”

Nuba clamped his jaw shut obediently. Duncan didn’t even look down at him, only reached behind and retrieved something from beneath the changing table.

Nuba’s heart skipped.

A bib.

Sky blue, trimmed in satin ruffles, with blocky letters printed across it that read: 

"Tiny Tummy, Big Baby."

The rottie squirmed, his ears flattening.

“You’ve earned your snack,” Duncan said simply, tying the bib around his neck before helping him down onto the floor. 

“Let’s get into your new routine.”

The leash was reattached to the D-ring at the front of his collar, the gentle snap causing Nuba to reflexively lower his eyes. He’d learned by now not to resist. Not even internally.

He was beginning to like it.

As Duncan walked, Nuba crawled behind him, mittens muffling every pawstep against the soft, rubberized nursery floor. The slight waddle his fresh diaper forced into his gait made each crawl a slow, shameful effort. But the rhythm was... soothing.

By the time they reached the feeding area—an oversized high chair with reinforced straps and a gleaming, wipe-clean tray, Nuba was panting softly through his nose, his tail swaying behind him in lazy arcs. Duncan hoisted him effortlessly into the seat, securing the padded straps around his chest, waist, and ankles.

The final buckle locked into place just above his navel. He couldn't move. Couldn't squirm. Couldn't escape. The high chair had him.

The tray slid into place with a solid clack.

Duncan reached into a cupboard and retrieved a large, pastel pink bottle. It was clearly adult-sized, but styled no different than what a toddler might drink from—complete with little cartoon clouds printed along the sides. The bottle sloshed with a thick, creamy fluid the color of vanilla pudding.

Nuba’s nose twitched.

“Formula,” Duncan explained, unscrewing the cap to test the temperature against his wrist. 

“Not quite the same as you’re used to, but it’ll keep your tummy full. And quiet.”

He offered it with one hand, pressing the rubber nipple firmly into Nuba’s mouth. The taste was surprisingly sweet, heavy with nutrients but warm and almost dessert-like. Nuba hesitated, but Duncan raised an eyebrow.

He suckled.

Slowly at first, reluctantly. But then his stomach gurgled, reminding him just how little real food he’d eaten. The sensation of being fed while strapped into the high chair made him feel a thousand times smaller.

Duncan watched with folded arms, leaning against the counter. His stare wasn't lecherous, nor affectionate. It was measured.

"You drink the whole thing, pup. Then maybe you’ll get some tummy rubs."

The words should not have sent shivers down Nuba’s spine. But they did. They absolutely did.

By the time the bottle was empty, Nuba’s muzzle was sticky. A line of formula had dribbled down his chin and onto the bib. His stomach gurgled—full, warm, content. He let out a soft sigh around the rubber teat, his legs twitching slightly in their restraints.

Duncan stepped closer, removing the bottle and wiping his snout clean with a cloth.

"Good boy."

Nuba practically melted.

The praise landed deep in his belly, somewhere lower than pride and nestled right up against submission. He blinked slowly, sleepily, his body slumping as much as the restraints would allow.

“I think,” Duncan murmured, stroking the rottie’s ear, “someone’s ready for a nap.”

The world around Nuba seemed to blur slightly as the rush of formula, care, and fatigue caught up to him all at once. The rhino released him from the high chair, lifting him into his arms effortlessly. Nuba nestled against his chest without even thinking.

Carried like a toddler, crinkling with every step, he felt nothing but safe.

By the time Duncan laid him in the crib, Nuba was half-dozing. The bars of the wooden crib loomed high above, the mattress beneath him plush and warm. Plush animals ringed the edge. A soft lullaby played from a mounted speaker overhead.

The lock clicked on the crib door.

Duncan leaned in, brushing a hand down the side of the pup's cheek. Nuba’s eyes fluttered open just enough to meet his.

“You’re mine now,” the rhino whispered. 

And good pups always get their rest.”

A pacifier was pushed gently between his lips.

Nuba didn’t fight it. He suckled softly, a little moan slipping from his throat as his body surrendered fully.

The nursery lights dimmed. The sound of Duncan’s heavy footfalls receded, each step echoing slightly off the nursery dungeon’s polished concrete floor. A low creak of a door, a clink of keys, and then silence.

Real silence.

The kind that pressed in on the ears and made the corners of your thoughts glow brighter than they should. Nuba lay there, cocooned in soft plush and surrounded by infantile pastels, the slow rhythmic spin of the overhead mobile casting gentle, looping shadows across the bars of his oversized crib.

Click.

He glanced toward the crib gate, where Duncan had so casually locked him in with that simple flick of the wrist, unbothered, unquestioning, so confident that his little pup wouldn’t so much as try to escape. And the worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.

Nuba hadn’t even thought to try.

The rottweiler turned onto his side, crinkling softly as the fresh diaper hugged his hips, thick between his thighs and still faintly warm from Duncan’s hand. He could still smell the powder and lotion that clung to his fur, the sweet mix of lavender and talc coating his belly and thighs like an invisible second skin.

He brought his mittened paws up to his muzzle, rubbing them together gently. They squeaked faintly, useless and puffy, perfectly restrictive. The leather buckles, the D-rings. It wasn’t just bondage. It was design. Intent. The perfect expression of his new role.

Puppy. Pet. Plaything.

His cheeks warmed, and he squirmed a little in the crib, the soft mattress rising around him, hugging his frame like a nest. It should’ve felt claustrophobic. Infantilizing. Even degrading.

But instead… it was comfort.

Nuba groaned softly around the pacifier in his mouth. It had the slightest resistance when he sucked—thick rubber, heavy on the tongue. Another tether. Another signpost.

You don’t need words anymore, puppy. Just be quiet. Just be soft.

He wriggled deeper into the bedding, pressing his face into a giant plush rattle pillow. His hips shifted, the diaper crinkling and squishing beneath his weight. He could feel the snugness of the chastity device tucked inside, a firm reminder that even his own body wasn’t his anymore.

He wasn’t allowed to be horny.
He wasn’t allowed to get off.
He was only allowed to feel—and be owned for it.

Nuba closed his eyes tight.

His thoughts buzzed like flies in his head. On one hand, a part of him screamed in distant protest. You don’t know this guy. This is too much. This is messed up. That little voice, it used to be louder.

But it was quieter now. Fainter. He could ignore it if he just pressed his thighs together and felt the snug puff of padding squish his sore, tender cock between warm fluff and locked silicon.

He moaned softly, shamefully, biting the pacifier nipple for a moment and then sucking harder. No one could see him right now. Duncan was gone. Coaching. Doing something normal. While his new little pet lay in a crib the size of a prison cell, diapered, locked, babbling around a paci like some obedient pervert.

And it felt right.

That was the most twisted part.

Nuba turned again, rolling onto his back. The mobile twinkled above him, a soft lullaby playing on an endless loop. He stared up at it, ears flopping sideways against the pillow.

He had come home with Duncan to flirt. Maybe fool around. Maybe have a hot night with a mercenary muscle-rhino who oozed big top energy and carried himself like a scene daddy.

Not this.

Not this… elaborate regression. Not this room. Not this role.

And yet…

A deep breath left him, and he felt the pacifier bob gently between his lips.

He had not asked to be unlocked. He hadn’t tried to shout for help. He hadn’t even tugged at the bars of the crib, which looked sturdy enough to hold someone twice his size. Every part of him could have protested.

But he hadn’t.

Because you like it, the voice in his head whispered.

Nuba curled in on himself just a little, his legs drawing up as far as the bulky padding would allow. His diaper shifted again, hugging close to his hips. The sense of helplessness blanketed him like the quilt Duncan had tucked around his frame.

His cheeks burned as he remembered the rhino’s voice:

“You’re mine now.”

Those three words carried more weight than a collar. They weren’t just possessive. They were factual.

He was Duncan’s. No arguments. No conditions. That was the point.

Nuba let out another soft breath, the pacifier squeaking as he suckled it slowly. He felt a lazy warmth building in his chest. He wasn't scared. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even frustrated.

He was relaxed.

And maybe that was the most humiliating part of all.

His thoughts drifted to the way Duncan had fed him. Bite by bite. That slow, patient method of touch. How he’d cooed “good boy” in that gravelly baritone, like it meant something bigger than praise.

Like it was truth.

He shifted again, this time pressing the side of his face into the plush mattress and letting out a slow, muffled whimper of conflicted delight. He should have felt humiliated.

But instead, he felt… at peace.

Duncan didn’t just dominate him. He curated him. Molded him. Like a craftsman showing off a brand-new sculpture that he wasn’t finished polishing yet—but already adored.

Nuba whimpered again, more openly now. The sound bounced lightly off the crib bars. Not a cry for help. Not defiance.

Just surrender.

Maybe he would talk to Duncan about it later. Ask if he really meant for this to be more than a weekend scene. Ask how far he expected this training to go.

But… not now.

Now he would nap.

The warmth of the bottle still lingered in his belly, and the slow suckle of the pacifier pulled him down into a hazy, floating space where words didn’t matter and feelings were wrapped in soft cotton fuzz.

His last thought before his eyes drifted shut:

I think I want this.

And the crib, sturdy and silent, cradled his surrender with open arms.