The Very Bad Dog Ch. 02

To the outside world, Troy is your standard heterosexual alpha male: white-collar, boring, golf-playing, with drinking buddies and an appropriate level of disrespectful lust for the opposite sex. He reminded me of every Chad, Derek and Chip who bored me half to death. Tight blonde curls. Tanned. He looked exactly like he spent his weekends on a yacht and waxed lyrical about his share portfolio to anyone who would listen. To me, this wasn't just unattractive, it was the kind of thing that made my cunt feel as dry as the Sahara: the WASP alpha male-induced cunt drought.

When I met him, properly; that is to say, when we mutually noticed each other for more than one or two odd moments, he was in the elevator heading upstairs to his office, as I headed to mine. I was on the phone with Adrian. I hung up, saying, "You be a good boy for me, now," and then I was alone in the elevator with Troy. I felt his eyes on me from behind. His brain was sharp enough to detect that my tone was not that of a mother speaking to her child.

Score one small point for Troy.

For the next five days, every morning, in the elevator, Troy stared at my legs and feet, not permitting himself to raise his eyes above the knee. I could feel that, that he didn't quite dare.

On the fourth day, my assistant advised me we had a new client. Another small firm that worked in the building wanted our services. It would be so convenient, after all. And nobody knows advertising like we do.

I suspected it might be Troy. On that fifth morning, when I rode up the elevator with Troy, I was on the phone with Adrian. "You don't want to go back to being a bad dog, do you, Adrian?" I said. "No. I didn't think so."

Troy sharply exhaled as I hung up the phone. I felt his eyes clinging to the backs of my knees.

As expected, Troy, his deplorable business partner Damian, and their assistant, Karen, walked into my office and I struggled, really struggled, to contain my amusement.

Damian attempted to defer to my assistant, Alberto, and he referred to me as "Miss", telling me at once he took his coffee black, no sugar.

I rolled my eyes and gazed straight at Troy, who said, "Actually, Dr Mammides is the boss in these parts, I believe," proving my theory that he'd been doing his homework on me.

"Doctor? You?" said Damian. He looked me up and down skeptically. "Wait. Do you have a PhD in communications or something?"

"I'm a psychiatrist," I said. "It's what makes me so good at my job."

Damian looked ready to bolt, but he cracked out a wide fake smile. "Well, I'll be damned."

He gave me a lascivious long glance that repelled me, but I held my bile, giving Alberto a tight nod.

"Dr Mammides graduated from high school at sixteen, from college at nineteen and was top of her medical school class at Columbia. She does, as a matter of fact, also have a PhD in communications. In addition to providing advertising services to companies that need to rehabilitate their public images, we also provide courtroom support to legal teams-"

"You mean like helping them select juries?" said Troy.

"Indeed," I said.

"And Dr Mammides maintains a very small, selective psychiatric practice."

"Now, if we're quite finished with my CV," I said, "Shall we begin with your needs? Alberto, two coffees, black, no sugar, if you would be so kind." I looked at Troy, waiting for his coffee request, but he merely stared at me, his blue eyes honed tightly on my knees. "And a jug of water."

I started to feel a little less the Sahara, and slightly more along the lines of the Fertile Crescent.

Karen trotted out along with Alberto. As soon as they stepped from the room, she exclaimed, in a bubbly voice, "Wow! Your boss is amazing! It must be so hardcore working for her!"

I could imagine Alberto pinching the bridge of his nose in horror at Karen's enthusiasm. I don't lead with tooting my own horn unless I'm required to, unless the client needs a confidence boost.

I sat waiting for Troy and Damian to explain to me just what their company had done to make them so hated, and glancing between them to decide who was top dog in their relationship.

Troy's eyes were like little bolts of a welding flame and they never left my face, except for when he spoke directly to me, at which point they cast down to the floor, to my Louboutin-clad feet and stockinged legs.

As Damian explained the source of their woes - an unfortunate ad campaign that made them look both sexist and racist, which they'd taken out on the advice of Damian's older brother - I rubbed a long glossy fingernail across my lower lip. I was, in truth, hardly listening to him. He was to blame for the campaign. He had narcissist written all over him and all that was missing was the word cautery-branded across his ass. I leaned forward in my chair to tighten my cleavage, and crossed my legs to bare my thigh just slightly. Troy squirmed in his seat. I couldn't see his erection, but I knew it was there.

I was quite finished with believing Troy to be a standard WASP alpha male. He'd found the bars of the cage to which I held the key, and he was all but clawing at me to lock him in.

When Damian stood and walked to the corner of my office to make a call, I stood too, walking to where Troy sat. Damian walked out to continue his call in private, and I lifted my skirt in front of Troy's face. His eyes bulged out. He sucked his lip into his mouth in his eagerness. But he didn't touch me without being invited.

Which is precisely why I invited him.

I reached for his hands and hooked them into my blush pink satin thong. His motion was pliant; as directed. He peeled my thong down, and I stepped out of it. He held it in his hand, marveling at it as I straightened my skirt and sat back down behind my desk.

Troy brought my thong to his mouth and licked the gusset slowly and deliberately, before carefully folding the thong and putting it in his pocket quickly as Damian re-entered my office.

Over the next two weeks, Troy amassed a collection of my panties in this way. After the first week of it, I was beginning to despair over loss of underwear. I needn't have worried. Alberto signed to accept a delivery and left a low wide box on my desk. I peeled back layers of tissue paper to reveal silk, lace and satin nudes, blacks and blush pinks.

I sent him an email, just two words: "Very good."

#

One Friday evening, when we did not have an appointment and I was working late, Troy came to my office and simply walked in.

I flipped my laptop shut. "What are you doing?"

He looked at the floor somewhat mournfully, stuffing his hands into his suit pockets. "Damian is nailing Karen on my desk right about now."

"Do you have designs on Karen?"

"No."

"On Damian?"

He wrinkled his brow. "God no."

"So, what's the problem?"

"He always does it on my desk, not his."

"He prefers to shit where you eat, instead of where he does. That's a curious behavior. But I'm not quite sure why you're here."

"I thought ..." He looked down at my legs.

I stood, walking around from my desk. "I'm not sure thinking is your strong suit. And coming here is very presumptuous of you." I leaned back against my desk, resting on my palms.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said, lifting his eyes to my face for an instant, before dropping to his knees and crawling my way. He placed his nose a hair from my outstretched left ankle.

Oh, what the hell. I had a vague headache from trying to work my way around rehabilitating his company's image - which had specifically offended the well-endowed rear ends of very beautiful black women everywhere - and he had a little charm about him.

I lifted my left foot and kicked my shoe off, and he just about fell on it, running his tongue over it through the stocking. I slid my hands up my skirt to peel my stocking down, watching as he rolled it lovingly down my leg, then pocketed it.

I suspected I'd be needing new stockings soon, too.

At the sight of my bare toes, Troy went nearly insane. He sucked my long, slender big toe into his mouth as he dropped his hand to his belt buckle, freeing himself to jerk off.

"I didn't give you permission to jack off, little dog," I said, and he froze. "But I suppose ... since I'm feeling benevolent, just this once, you may."

I cocked my head to one side as I watched him. He was on all fours, his ass in the air. I couldn't contain the smile stretching across my face.

"Do you deserve to service my perfect feet, little dog?" I said.

"I don't-"

I pulled my toe back. "Then why should I let you?"

"Please," he began. "I need to ..."

"You need what?"

"I need to suck your perfect toes in my mouth."

I put my hand over my mouth to contain my chortle. He was an amoeba, certainly, but he was really quite something.

I lifted my foot and flexed my toes, the nails painted in a dusty rose gloss, the skin milky and fine. "Go on, then. Lick my toes."

He moved to his haunches, peeling off his suit jacket, and then nursed my foot in the crook of his elbow, starting to lick up and down.

"You can do better than that. My foot deserves better than a little back and forth."

"Yes ..."

He hesitated, looking for a title. I filled it for him. "Goddess."

"Yes, goddess. Thank you, goddess."

He laved over it, spreading his saliva, as tingles ran violently up my legs. "Lick it like you'd lick a cunt, dog. Lick that arch. My sore sole. I don't wear four-inch heels for nothing. Come on. Between my toes."

"Your feet are divine, goddess," he murmured, and I contained my grin.

"I'm aware." Troy's tongue between my toes, and especially along the arch of my foot, had me shivering with pleasure. "Faster, dog. Harder."

My toes were sensitive, but the soles of my feet, and my high transverse arches: they were exquisitely sensitive. Troy ran the knuckle of a bent finger up the inside of my arch as he ran his tongue beneath my toes in sequence, till his tongue poked out between each of them. I cupped my hand over my mouth to contain my pleasure. I felt my eyes glazing over. Yes, he really was quite something.

I shivered with delight, sliding my hand beneath my skirt. He was so focused on the task at hand he didn't see me slipping my hand beneath my panties. I rubbed at the swollen pearl of my clit as he licked with increasing intent.

To my surprise, although his cock was rock hard, he'd given up jerking off to focus entirely on me. That pleased me most of all.

"Just like that, little dog," I said, rubbing at my clit in time with his lapping between my toes. "Don't stop or that toe's never going to come."

I was close, so close, but Troy's obedience had me craving something more. I freed my right foot from its shoe and leaned down to peel off the stocking. His motion, automatic: he peeled it the rest of the way and pocketed the stocking. Yes, Troy was going to cost me a lot in stockings and panties.

I began lifting my skirt above the waist and, in surprise, Troy halted, staring up at me as I slowly slid today's panties down. When they came towards the ankle near his face, he looked down at the saturated gusset and buried his face in it, lapping furiously at the juices coating the fabric.

I gingerly lifted my right foot from the floor and slid it to his lap, towards his dripping, neglected erection.

He gasped as I ran my arch over the dripping broad head of his cock, then pulled my left foot from his arm, pinning his cock between them and slowly jerking him off. He looked at my wet panties, my flushed face, and became presumptuous all over again.

Throwing his hands to my ass, he pulled my cunt down over his mouth and sucked on my clit as though he meant to suck the marrow from my bones.

I knew two things immediately. Number one: Troy had never, ever given a woman head before. Number two: It didn't matter. I was so turned on I was going to come in short order regardless.

"Slow down, little dog." I widened my thighs, bending my knees and tightening my feet together against his bulging cock. Troy thrusted his hips up from the floor, jacking himself off between the arches of my feet. Troy's cock felt steel hard and thick against my skin. "It's not a race."

I grasped the back of his head, fisting his blonde curls in my hand to adjust his pace to my liking. "Make your tongue firm, dog. Like a spear." Troy obeyed at once. "Good. Now, grind it around the outside of my cunt, towards the front."

I moved his head, pulling him to just the right spot, and he obeyed, his cock firming more between my feet. I lifted one foot, rubbing my arch against his slick broad cock head, and he groaned against my cunt lips, starting to jerk harder against me.

"You like that, dog?"

"Yes, goddess," he said, his nose grinding my clit as his tongue worked the treasure-trove of nerve endings around my cunt entrance.

"You want to spill your dirty cum on my perfect feet, you rotten, depraved little mongrel?"

"Please."

"Why should I let you?" I dragged his mouth upward, directing him to circle my clit. "Flatten your tongue."

"Your feet are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."

"So what? I'm bored," I said, but my clit was thrumming my excitement.

"But your pussy is the best thing I've ever tasted."

"Cunt, Troy. My cunt is not a fat, pink bowtie-wearing indoor cat. Say it, Troy."

"Your cunt is the best thing I've ever tasted." My clit swelled a little more under the attentions of his fat tongue as he swatted it, back and forth, with increasing confidence.

"What have you been doing with my panties?"

He groaned as I returned to jacking him off, jerking hard between my feet. "Licking the crotch over and over. Sniffing them while I jerked off. When I can't taste you, smell you anymore ... I put them over my cock and jerked off onto them."

His filthy confession tipped me over and I grasped his head with both hands, directing him to slide his tongue inside my soaked cunt as I clamped down and came over it.

Troy growled, his mouth still suctioned to my lips, and I felt the warmth of cum spreading between my toes as he jerked furiously for a few short thrusts.

His hands fell to my knees.

"Clean up the mess you made, mongrel," I said.

"Yes, goddess." His cock barely flaccid, Troy picked up my feet and began to lick his cum off each of them in turn, so dedicated to the task that my skin almost grew oversensitive by the time he was done.

"That will be all, little dog."

He sat back on his haunches and stared at me. "Selene-"

I held out my hand, the palm flat. "Stop right there. I said that was all, little dog. It's impolite to remain when you've been asked to go."

"But I thought- we just-"

"As I said earlier: thinking isn't your strong suit, is it?" I said, smoothing my skirt down and returning, bare foot, to sit behind my desk. Troy stood, stuffing his cock back in his trousers and zipping up. "You let your business partner run an ad campaign that you fully understood was offensive. In fact, you found it so offensive that every time we discuss it, he smirks his amusement - because he doesn't see the problem, not really - while you shrink in horror. You let him fuck your assistant on your desk. If you were the alpha male you pretend to be, you wouldn't stand for it, not for a minute. But you do."

"You don't understand Damian."

"I understand all I need to understand," I said. "You are, in essence, his bitch."

I crossed my legs under my desk.

"That's a little harsh."

"Is it? He's essentially bent you over your own desk right now. Your cheeks are spread and he's pounding away at every last shred of self-esteem you ever had. Do you enjoy it?"

His cheeks turned scarlet, the color spreading all the way up to his ears. His voice was low and quiet. "No."

"So then why?"

"I don't know."

"Try thinking about that, little dog. Now get out of my office before I call security."

"Please, Selene-"

"In meetings, you will address me as Dr Mammides. At all other times, as goddess. You will not, under any circumstances, address me by my given name. My given name is reserved for friends and family. You are neither of these things."

He turned on his heel, halting with his hand on my doorknob. "Do you mean ... there will be other times?"

He was an amoeba, but he was really quite something. "If you behave, little dog. You're dismissed."

In a way, I can only blame myself for everything that has transpired since Troy has come under my roof. He is my worst little dog. The one most prone to misbehaving, to fits of pique, to doing all manner of things in a desperate attempt to gain my attention.

That I allowed - nay, demanded - that he eat my cunt before the rules were set is part of the problem. I helped to establish a dynamic in which Troy always believes he deserves more than I am willing to give him.

On Monday, when I came in to work, Alberto knocked at ten o'clock and carried in a bouquet of white flowers. Always the white flowers. This time, a dozen white roses.

I suspected Troy of being their sender, suspected he smelled love and romance, but I allowed myself to be a little charmed by the card:

"Forgive my impertinence.

Your presumptuous mongrel."

Yes, it is entirely my fault. Troy was never going to be a good little dog. Unlike Adrian, Sabrina, and all the rest, his training has been hampered by one other thing: his jealousy.

I suppose I ought to have cut him loose the moment I suspected he had developed a romantic attachment, but the benevolent goddess in me saw the effect our encounters began to have on his work life. The more Troy submitted to me, the more he stood up to Damian.

I told myself I was helping him. Did I not become a psychiatrist to help?

When he begged, while humping my leg and licking the backs of my knees, some two months after that first Friday night, if he might be trained properly in the home of his benevolent goddess, I thought: perhaps it would make all the difference.

But these were lies I told myself. I know that now.

#

The morning after Adrian fucked my ass in front of Troy brings another mess. Troy is determined to be my worst little dog. His jealousy is entirely out of control. He has ripped apart in his bare hands the stilettos I wore while Sabrina licked my cunt, ejaculating into them like the feral beast he is. He has taken them into his corner like a chew toy. This, I know, is his protest.

Troy has no idea of the trouble he is in now.

Since coming to be trained by me, Troy has effectively taken a vow of poverty. Little dogs, especially naughty little yapping dogs, have no need of money. Troy's idea of spending money involved strip clubs, cocaine, cognac and three-piece suits. The goddess, I am, but also the mother.

And goddesses, goddesses need things.

Goddesses need silk and satin lingerie draped slickly over wet cunts and erect nipples. Goddesses need confining bondage dresses that shape them into glistening, unforgiving hourglasses. Goddesses need long, cruel heels that point the toe and remind the little dog that she, too, is making a sacrifice. The goddess's perfect feet might as well be bound when caught up in five-inch Balenciaga heels; it is, after all, so much more trying for a goddess to coax and train a stubborn dog through the confines of an unyielding Bordelle silhouette.

It's all artifice. All performance. I barely remember the last time I wore yoga pants and walked around barefoot in my own home. Every woman's first experience of BDSM is her relationship with her own feet. When she dances herself beyond blisters and into calluses. When she endures cruel heels, rough rubbing leathers, pinching toes; all pain endured for the pay-off of pleasure. The pleasure of a beautiful shoe, the beautiful dance, the admiring glance of a lover, the envy of others.