She taps her pen against the palm of her hand. Not nervous. Expectant. She waits for an answer. I stand in front of her, my eyes downcast. She's leaning on the edge of her desk, legs crossed. Yes, I'm staring at her legs. They're too beautiful to ignore. Even while I'm here in her office, in trouble, I can't help but get turned on by her beauty. It makes me ache.
Log files can be a bitch. I'm finding that out the hard way as my eyes go from her legs to the ream of paper she's shoved into my hands, pages with columns of numbers interrupted by a highlighted row. Each row represents a time that my computer has logged one particular website. It's a site I shouldn't know about. I never should have gone digging into her life but I did. And here's the evidence right in front of me in black, white, and highlighter yellow.
I'm at a loss for words. I'm even at a loss for making any kind of grunts that might act as communication. I've been caught and I feel a hot flush centered on my spine and rushing over my back, up my neck, bringing the blood to my cheeks. I lick my lips, feeling how dry my mouth has become. The world takes on a bit of an aura, as if I'm watching everything via an old tube television set. I'm surprised that I can even stand because my legs feel like they've turned to water.
The pen keeps tapping. Has it been ten seconds or ten minutes since she asked me to explain myself? What could I say? The truth?
As if this word pulled an emergency release lever in my head, I start speaking. The words are mine, yes, but I don't even realize that I'm saying them. Out the pour.
"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have, I couldn't help myself, I was looking at your facebook page and then started poking around and found that site, that site with your pictures on them..." On and on I went, free from punctuation, just one unending string of stammered apologies.
And the pen kept tapping, as if she were directing this symphony of excuses. Finally I empty the well, running dry of lame reasons for doing what I did.
"Are you finished?" she asks coldly. "What kind of man are you that you can't tell me the truth?"
I force myself to look at her face. I see the hard line of her mouth, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses, her ebony hair wrapped in a tight bun and held in place with what looks like a chopstick. Is that racist? Should I not think that about Heather? But, really, it looks like a chopstick.
She clears her throat, bringing me back to her eyes. There's a look there I've never seen before.
"I asked what kind of man you are and I think I know," she says, crossing her arms across her chest. I can't help but notice the way this enhances the cleavage as her shirt opens just a bit more. "You're not a man at all," she announces, standing up from her desk where she leaned and walking towards me. She moves around me and I debate whether I'm supposed to crane my neck around to watch her or just listen as she lectures.
I hear her behind me but keep looking at the space she had occupied. I take in her desk, seeing her Matrix screensaver, a few stuffed animals, the framed picture of she and her sister (the owner of the company) and...
Something passes in front of my face so quickly that it doesn't register. Before I know it I've got something wrapped around my throat and it's being pulled tightly. I hear her growl, "You're a dog."
I reach up to feel around my neck, studs of metal line the strap and I know it's a dog collar that she's buckling onto me. I'm shocked into speechlessness.
"Get down here," she says, looping a finger into the collar and pulls me down onto my knees. She moves back in front of me, keeping her hand on the collar, and bending over to keep her face close to mine. My heart is beating out of my chest with fear while my mind is awash with confusion. I'm still thinking that I need to find words to apologize, to explain away my growing obsession with looking at pictures of Heather when I should be working. I'm not comprehending that she's got me on my knees with a collar around my neck.
"Get down and kiss my feet," she commands. Normally I'd have laughed at such an absurd suggestion but I know she's deadly serious. Knowing that my behavior will determine if I keep or lose my job, I do what she says, getting down onto my elbows and showering her stocking feet with kisses. I've never been this close to her before. I can smell her skin mixed with the leather of her shoes and the odor is intoxicating.
"If you want to keep your job and your reputation you're doing to do exactly what I say," she begins. "Every morning you will bring me a medium non-fat latte with two sugars. When you come into my office you'll close the door behind you and get onto your knees to deliver my cup, is that understood?"
I pause to look up at her, "Yes, Heather," I say. I can't see her face as she's silhouetted by the overly bright neon lights above her.
"That's another thing," she continues. "When we're alone you will refer to me as 'Your Majesty.' You won't speak unless you're spoken to. Are we clear?"
"Yes, your Majesty," I said, putting my head down.
"Did I say you could stop kissing my feet? Are you really that bad at following directions?"
Immediately I begin kissing her feet again.
Ten years my junior (and looking twenty), Heather and I don't work together. She's the company's Human Resources director. Apart from a few conversations around the coffee maker and saying hello when she comes in in the morning, we haven't exchanged many words in the four years I've been working for her sister.
Seeing Heather always brought a smile to my face. Her bubbling personality was only matched by her beauty. I'd never seen her upset, much less angry, and this shook me to the core. But, what she says disturbs me even more.
"You need to stand up, now, and get undressed."
I stop kissing her feet and look up at her again, as if half-expecting to see her smiling and to say, "Just kidding." I can't discern her facial expression but there's no mirth when she puts her shoe on my shoulder and digs her heel into me saying, "Did I fucking stutter? Get your ass up."
Indeed, she's nothing but serious. My hands falter as I reach for the top button of my shirt. She sees this and doesn't hesitate to reach up and tear my shirt open; buttons flying everywhere. She cocks an eyebrow, challenging me, as if to ask if she needs to do the same thing to my pants. I shuck the tatters of my shirt and undo my pants. When I'm standing there in my underwear she gives a slight shake of her head, letting me know I'm not done. Off go the underwear, leaving me bereft of clothes and feeling completely vulnerable. The only thing on me is the dog collar.
"Back on your knees," she says. "Your hands and knees."
Once there, she sits on the corner of her desk and puts her feet up onto my back.
"You have a new role in the company. You're to be my pet whenever I require it. I think I'm going to call you 'Mookie.' Does that sound good, Mookie?"
"Yes, your Majesty," I respond, still numb to the world.
"Good Mookie. You'll be my dog since you're not a man. Like a dog I may have to keep you in a cage. When I scratch your belly your leg will jerk. When you're bad I'll punish you and when you're good I may reward you. And, since you're such a big doggy, you'll give me rides whenever I want... and I want one now." Before I know it, she's sitting side saddle on my back, holding onto my collar and telling me to move.
I crawl carefully around her desk, trying to keep her flat, knowing that I'll be in trouble if she were to fall off of my back. I'm thankful that she's just a slip of a girl, especially when she announces that she wants a second trip around her desk.
"That was good, Mookie. A very smooth ride. Like a Cadillac," she says, standing.
I look up at her again, seeing her in a new light. "Keep your eyes, down, Mookie. You're not worth looking at me," she says.
I cast my eyes down, her feet and legs are still visible and I admire the curves of her ankles and calves. I wonder to myself how I got into this situation.
As if she's reading my mind she asks, "How did you find the pictures, Mookie?"
I tell her about looking at her facebook profile and the photos of her on stage and seeing the comment about her stage name. I searched this name and found a gallery buried deep on her personal website. Rather than looking at the photos the way she presented them I went to the root of the directory and browsed it. That's also where I found a folder with a few folders buried deep within. Here I found pictures of her from a local theater production of "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas." Another folder contained more risque photos, each subsequent folder getting more daring, like a trip down a rabbit hole of
"And what did you think when you looked at those?" she insisted.
I couldn't answer her. I had spent hours masturbating to those images. My mouth worked, again, trying to find an excuse. She wasn't having it.
"Tell me, Mookie. Now!" she yelled.
"Ah-um-I wondered what it would be like to touch you; to feel your skin. I imagined how soft and warm your breasts are and..." I trailed off.
"And, what, Mookie?" she chided.
"And... nothing, your Majesty."
"Aw, don't you want to say, Mookie? Don't you want to tell me everything I want to know? Are you being headstrong?"
"No, your Majesty. I'm... I..."
"Let's see if we can do something to loosen your tongue a bit, Mookie. Lay down on your back." She moves to her desk and retrieves something out of a drawer.
The overhead lights make it impossible for me to see what she's doing. Before I know it, she's got her hand on my manhood, sending shivers through my body and blood rushing to my cock. She's doing something to my balls, there's a slight pinch and then a vibration. I wonder if she's got a sex toy on me but the pleasant hum is replaced by a more insistent sensation. It begins to throb and, quickly, it feels as if someone is flicking my balls with their forefinger and, just as fast, its like they've changed from their finger to a small hammer.
I cry out. Instinctively, I try to sit up. Her foot comes down on my chest, pushing me back. Rather than being between my legs, she's back up, holding something in her hands with wires that run down between my legs.
"Too much, Mookie?" she asks with a laugh. "How about this?"
The hammering changes to what feels like a pin pricking my nuts before spreading out into what I can only describe as a clamp coming down around my entire groin. I gasp as the pain blossoms through me.
"Now," she says, "what else did you think of when you were looking at my pictures?"
I groan and with that it seems that my inhibitions escape me. "I wanted to know what your pussy tastes like," I blurt.
"Ahhh, that's more like it," she says. The pressure on my crotch eases to a dull throbbing ache.
She stands and moves around me, the wires tugging at my balls. She moves around me to stand over me. Blocking the light, I can see straight up her dress and at her very sheer panties. She squats down, her skirt encircling my face. Her sex is closer to me. I swear that I can feel the heat of it. And, it may be wishful thinking, but I imagine I can smell the scent of it.
"Is this what you've dreamed of? My pussy in your face? Is this what you thought about while you masturbated?"
"Yes, your Majesty, yes," I say beneath her.
"Show me, Mookie. Jerk that prick for me."
Without hesitation I grab onto my cock. Instead of pleasure, it's pain that confronts me. The electricity Heather's sent through my balls make masturbation nearly impossible. She knows. She laughs. "Poor Mookie," she mocks. "Tell you what; I'll turn down the power for thirty seconds and if you can cum in that time, I'll allow it. Do you think you can, Mookie?"
I breathlessly answer, "Yes, your Majesty."
The electrical sensation fades and I begin to masturbate in earnest, keeping my eyes locked on her crotch, breathing in deep in hopes to capture her scent. She begins to sing the "Jeopardy" theme song. I work past this distraction and give in to my lust, putting my left hand under my balls (and feeling the electrodes there) while my right worked the shaft of my cock.
As she sings the seconds away I reach my climax. As I orgasm I'm overcome with a sense of gratitude mixed with the horror of knowing I'm doing a very bad thing, doing this at work beneath the Human Resources Manager. And just as fast. my moral compass comes swinging back around as Heather reaches beneath her skirt, pulls aside her underwear, and slides a finger into her well kempt pussy. She removes it, turns, and drops down onto my chest. She smiles at me and holds the wet finger out above my face. She nods her head and I open my mouth, excited to taste her.
She leans over me as the finger comes closer. At the last second I look from the finger to her face, just in time to see the spittle drop from her mouth into mind. I gag and she laughs at me, putting her finger in her own mouth. "No, Mookie. No," she says simply, standing back up.
She returns to her desk. I lay there, waiting for her return. Instead, I hear the clicking of nails on a keyboard. She's not coming back. I sit up, the spunk on my belly running down to my crotch. My nakedness may have embarrassed me before but now I'm completely mortified.
Heather sits at her desk, just as I see her every day when I pass by her office on the way to the water cooler. Without looking up she puts her tissue box at the edge of her desk. I take a handful and clean myself up before getting dressed. She acts as if I'm not even in the room as I hunt around for my buttons and thank the stars that I have a spare shirt in my car.
It's only as I'm ready to grab the doorknob that I realize I still have the collar around my neck.
I reach up take it off but something stops me. I turn and return to her desk, moving to the side, and get down on my knees at the edge. A smile blossoms on her face and she wheels her chair to me. She reaches around my neck and undoes the collar. "That's a good Mookie," she says, putting the collar back in her top drawer.
I've been dismissed. I get up to go again. As I turn the knob to her office door I hear her ask behind me, "And what will you be bringing me in the morning?"
Without looking back I say, "A medium non-fat latte with two sugars."
"Good Mookie," she says as the door closes behind me.
I already look forward to the following morning's trip to Starbucks.