Chapter 2: The Dog and the Footrest
The silence stretched, broken only by the soft tap of her fingernail on the phone screen. Her foot was a warm, inert weight on my chest. I counted the recessed lights in the ceiling. Twelve. My knees ached from the hard floor. The taste of her skin from yesterday was a phantom presence on my tongue, coppery and sour.
“You’re breathing too hard,” she said, not looking up. “It’s distracting.”
I tried to slow my breaths. The arch of her foot pressed down slightly with each inhalation.
“Better.” She took a slow sip of wine. “So. ‘AIFreak93’. Tell me about the videos. The really bad ones. The ones you didn’t send.”
My throat closed. “There aren’t any.”
Her foot slid up, the ball pressing against my throat. Not hard, but the threat was precise. “Try again.”
I swallowed against the pressure. “There’s… there was one. From before. When you first posted the picture with… him.”
“The finance bro?” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Go on.”
“I made a video. Of me. Watching you both. Through a window.” The words felt like shards of glass coming up. “You were on the couch. He was… and I was outside. In the rain.”
She finally lowered her phone, placing it screen-down on her stomach. Her eyes were dark and interested. “Were you jerking off in this video?”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Yes.”
“In the rain.”
“Yes.”
“Pathetic.” She said it like a compliment. Her toes wiggled, tracing the line of my jaw. “You like that, don’t you? The idea of being excluded. Of being so desperate you’d stand in the rain for a glimpse.” She shifted her weight, and her foot moved from my throat back to my chest. “Say it. Say you’re a pathetic foot-slut who cares more about the smell of my soles than he does about his own dignity.”
The marble floor leeched all warmth from my back. My t-shirt was thin barrier. “Melissa…”
“Say it.”
The pressure increased. Not from her foot, but from the air in the room, from the expectant curve of her lips. “I’m…” The word choked me. “Pathetic.”
“And?”
I turned my face away, but her foot followed, toes nudging my cheek, insistently turning me back toward her. “I care more about… about your soles. Than my dignity.”
“Good.” She swung her leg off my chest in one fluid, athletic motion. Before I could process the relief, her knees were on either side of my head, the black silk of her robe brushing my ears. She lowered herself, not onto my face, but just above it, a millimeter of charged air between us. “Now, my show’s getting boring. Entertain me. Kiss it.”
I knew what she meant. The silk was a barrier, but the heat beneath was unmistakable. The intimate, musky scent of her, intensified by the day, cut through the perfume. I lifted my head a fraction, my neck straining, and pressed my lips against the silk where her body hovered.
“Through the robe doesn’t count,” she sighed, as if explaining something obvious to a child. She grabbed a handful of the fabric at her lower back and yanked it up and out of the way.
The exposure was sudden and total. She settled back down, the full, solid weight of her now directly on my mouth and nose. The world vanished into warm, damp flesh and the overwhelming, salty-sweet tang of her sweat. “Kiss. And sniff. Like you mean it. I want to feel your nose digging in.”
I couldn’t breathe through my mouth. I tried through my nose, and my senses were flooded with her—a primal, animal smell that made my hips jerk involuntarily against the floor. I moved my lips, clumsy and sealed against her skin. I inhaled, the act forcing my nose deeper into the cleft as she’d ordered. A low, shuddering groan escaped me, muffled by her body.
“There he is,” she murmured from above, her voice slightly strained as she shifted to get comfortable. The phone screen lit up the periphery of my vision; she was back to watching her show. “My little seat cushion. Finally useful.”
Time lost meaning. My jaw ached. My lungs burned for clean air. Each time I tried to turn my head for a gasp, she’d grind down harder, silencing me. Spit leaked from the corners of my mouth, wetting her and the robe tangled around her hips. My erection was a painful, persistent throb, ignored and trapped in my jeans.
Eventually, she lifted herself off. Cool air rushed over my wet face. I gasped, coughing, dragging in huge lungfuls of the perfumed apartment air that now tasted sterile and wrong.
“Up.” She was standing now, robe retied. She pointed to the space by the door. “Strip. Everything. Fold it. I don’t want your garbage clothes scattered on my floor.”
Shame was a cold river down my spine. But the command was clear, and my body obeyed before my mind could formulate a protest. I stood on shaky legs. The leather leash, discarded since yesterday, was coiled on the coffee table. She watched, arms crossed, as I unbuttoned my jeans. The look on her face was one of clinical assessment, like she was evaluating a piece of furniture.
Soon, my clothes were in a neat, pathetic pile by the door. I stood naked, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on my skin. I crossed my arms over my chest, then let them fall, knowing the gesture was futile.
“Better,” she said. She picked up the leash and the wide leather collar from the table. “Come here.”
I walked over. The marble was icy under my bare feet. She didn’t make me kneel. She simply clipped the collar around my neck. The leather was cool and stiff, the buckle clicking shut with a finality that echoed in the quiet room. She attached the leash.
“Down,” she said, giving the leash a testing tug. “On all fours.”
I lowered myself. The floor was brutally hard on my knees and palms. She looked down at me, the leash held loosely in her hand.
“We’re going for a walk. Follow.” She turned and began a slow pace around the large glass coffee table. I crawled after her, the leash dangling, my movements awkward and simian. The contrast was absurd: her, graceful in silk, sipping wine; me, naked and animal on the floor.
She stopped at the first corner of the table. “Halt.” I stopped. She lifted her right foot, planting it on the table’s edge near my face. Her sole was damp from earlier, the lines of her skin clearly defined. “Clean it.”
I leaned forward and licked a broad stripe from her heel to her toes. The taste was fainter now, layered with the clean scent of her soap, but the essence of her was still there.
“The other one.” She switched feet. I repeated the action.
We proceeded to the next corner. And the next. Each time, the ritual was the same. Halt. Present foot. Clean. By the third corner, my tongue felt thick and fuzzy. My knees were raw. A steady, low-grade humiliation vibrated through me, syncing with the ache in my groin.
After the fourth corner, she didn’t move. She stood in the center of the room, the leash pulled taut so my head was held low. She looked down the length of it at me.
“You’re my pet now,” she stated, her voice casual, conversational. She gave the leash a short, sharp yank. The collar bit into the back of my neck. “Tell me what you are.”
I stared at the polished marble, at the reflection of my own distorted, kneeling form. My mouth was dry. The words were a solid block in my throat.
She waited. The silence was more violent than any yank. It demanded an answer.
“I am…” The first syllable cracked. I closed my eyes. The images flashed: the AI videos, the rain, the sneaker in my mouth, the weight of her on my face. A devastating truth coalesced from the shame. It was the only thing left. “I am your pet.”
“Louder.”
“I am your pet.” It was a whisper.
“Look at me and say it like you believe it.”
I forced my head up, against the pressure of the leash. Her expression was serene, victorious. A tiny smile played on her lips. I took a breath that shuddered through my whole body.
“I am your pet.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded once, as if filing the admission away. “Good.” She dropped the leash. It hit the marble with a soft slap. “Stay.”
She walked back to the couch, leaving me kneeling in the middle of the room, naked and collared. She picked up her phone and the remote. The huge television flickered on, casting a blue glow over everything. Some reality show filled the screen with loud, empty laughter.
She curled up on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. She didn’t look at me again.
I stayed. The cold from the floor seeped up into my bones. The collar was a constant, heavy presence. The laughter from the TV was a mocking soundtrack. And underneath it all, a terrible, calming certainty settled in my gut.
She was right. This was what I was. The bargaining, the resistance, the fragile ego—it was all just debris now, washed away. What remained was this: the hard floor, the weight of the leather, and the silent shape of her on the couch, my owner, finally satisfied with the truth.
What remained was this: the hard floor, the weight of the leather, and the silent shape of her on the couch, my owner, finally satisfied with the truth.
The commercial break was a symphony of jingles. She muted it.
“You’re still hard.” Her voice cut through the quiet, observational and bright. “I can see it from here. That’s kind of amazing.”
I flinched, trying to shift my knees to block her view. It was useless.
“No, no, don’t hide it. It’s the most honest part of you.” She took a sip of wine, swirling it in the glass. “Think about it. Your life is in the toilet. You live in that depressing studio with the microwave that beeps forever. You wear the same three shirts. But here, naked on my floor, you’re literally at attention.” She let out a genuine, incredulous laugh. “It’s so pathetic it’s almost beautiful.”
My face burned. I kept my eyes on the geometric pattern in the marble.
“Look at me when I’m appreciating you.”
I dragged my gaze upward. She was smiling, resting her chin on her hand.
“Remember your office? The thirty-second floor? The Herman Miller chair?” She tutted softly. “You’d have panic attacks before board meetings. I’d find you in the stairwell, sweating through a thousand-dollar shirt.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re more relaxed now than you ever were then. Admit it.”
I said nothing. My throat was too tight.
“Come on, Derek. Use your words. You have a Yale degree, somewhere.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Or did they revoke that, too, after the indictment?”
The old wound, prodded with a casual, sharp stick. I swallowed. “I’m… more relaxed.”
“See? Progress.” She unmuted the TV. A cosmetic ad played, all soft focus and promise. She watched for a minute, then gestured at the screen with her remote. “I need a pedicure. Your tongue’s okay for a quick clean, but it’s not exactly precision work. You’d probably just slobber all over the polish.”
She stood up abruptly, the silk robe whispering. She walked over to me, stopping so close her bare toes were inches from my kneecaps. The leash trailed behind her. She looked down, her head tilted.
“The AI thing, though. That’s the real kicker.” She crouched, bringing herself to my eye level. Her perfume was expensive and cold. “You couldn’t just watch normal porn. You had to program a bot to describe me humiliating you. What was that one prompt?” She tapped her temple, pretending to search her memory. “Oh, right. ‘Melissa makes you lick her shoe clean in front of her new boyfriend, a successful hedge fund manager.’” She burst out laughing, a sound that filled the sterile room. “You wrote my dialogue and everything! Did you make the fake-me call you a ‘filthy little bankrupt’? I bet you did.”
Each word was a precise, surgical incision. I wanted the floor to dissolve.
“The real thing’s better, isn’t it?” she continued, her eyes wide with mock curiosity. “My real sweat tastes better than anything you could imagine. My real voice is so much crueler. And the best part?” She reached out and flicked the leather collar with her fingernail. Tok. “It’s actually happening. You’re not just a sicko with a keyboard anymore. You’re the sicko on my floor.”
She stood up, sighing as if pleasantly tired. “Okay, up. We’re changing the scene. Crawl to the kitchen.”
The command pulled me from the spiral of her words. I moved stiffly, my raw knees protesting. The marble gave way to cooler tile. She followed, the leash slack.
“Halt.” We were in the center of the vast, minimalist kitchen. Stainless steel gleamed under the overhead LEDs. She opened the large stainless refrigerator. The cool breath of it washed over me. “It’s a bit bright in here for you, isn’t it? All these reflections.”
She took out a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and drank. She didn’t offer me any. She placed the half-finished bottle on the island counter, well out of reach.
“You know what I realized?” she said, leaning back against the counter. “You never actually begged to come over here. Not out loud. You just showed up, smelling like desperation and cheap laundry detergent. So let’s hear it. Properly.”
She crossed her arms, waiting.
I stared at the grout lines between the tiles. My mouth was parched.
“I’m waiting. I’ve got all night. You, clearly, have nowhere else to be.”
The truth of it was annihilating. I drew a shuddering breath. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please… let me stay.”
“Louder. And specify.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please, Melissa. Let me stay here. With you.”
“To do what?”
The humiliation was a live wire in my chest. “To be… your pet.”
She was silent for a long moment. I opened my eyes. She was biting her lip, not in concentration, but to stifle another laugh. “Oh, wow. You really mean it.” She shook her head, a grin spreading. “The mighty Derek Cross. You used to argue M&A clauses for eighteen hours straight. Now you’re begging to be my dog on the kitchen floor.” She pushed off the counter and walked a slow circle around me. “Your old colleagues would pay to see this. I almost wish I’d recorded it.”
She completed her circle and stopped in front of me again. “Okay. Since you asked so nicely.” She pointed to a spot near the dishwasher. “Your new bed is right there. You don’t move from it unless I say. Understood?”
I crawled to the spot. It was hard, unyielding tile.
“Good boy,” she said, her tone breezy and utterly dismissive. She unclipped the leash from my collar but left the collar on. The weight was a fact of me now. She walked back toward the living room, her steps fading. The TV volume rose again, more empty laughter.
I lowered myself onto my side, curling slightly against the chill. The dishwasher hummed, a dull, mechanical vibration through the floor. I watched the play of light from the other room. The collar’s buckle pressed into my neck.
From the living room, she called out, her voice clear and amused over the sound of the television.
“Don’t get too comfortable. Tomorrow, you’re cleaning my gym shoes. The really sweaty ones. With your toothbrush.” She paused, and I could picture her smile. “You still have a toothbrush, right? Or did you pawn that, too?”