Climax: Volume 2

by Ella Ford

  She fixes me an ice cool stare, her deep blue eyes locking on mine. “And how is my pet today? Have you been following your rules?” she asks, her voice soft and friendly, yet laced with an undercurrent of command and authority.

  I merely nod and smile, remembering that the mistress prefers her pet not to talk unless absolutely necessary. “Your mouth is for pleasure, not chatter,” she has told me on a number of occasions.

  “Good girl,” she purrs and squats down beside me, lifting her hand to scratch behind my ear. I sigh at her touch, and lean my head into her, nuzzling her palm with my cheek. Then she stands and reaches across the hall to a small table by the wall. I hear a familiar metallic jingle and watch as the mistress retrieves my leash, then bends down again and clips the chain to the silver ring at the front of my collar.

  My heartbeat quickens and a warmth spreads through my body, like food coloring diffusing in water. The leash means that the mistress is in a playful mood and that I might be allowed to taste her, or have her taste me. My spirit soars at the prospect.

  With a gentle tug on the leash, the mistress begins to walk off in the direction of the living room. I drop forward onto all fours, keeping up as best I can with her purposeful strides, trying to avoid becoming tangled up in her long legs. I love to walk beside her like this, to come to heel when she asks me to.

  A tiny voice in the back of my mind offers a faint admonishment, suggesting that it is wrong to be treated like this, to be led around like a lowly animal. But that voice has become quieter over recent weeks, sinking into the background behind the incessant cacophony of my desires.

  We arrive in the living room and the mistress sits down on the sofa, pulling on the leash until I am kneeling at her feet. She relaxes back into the comfortable leather couch and sighs contentedly, then crosses her legs. A pavlovian response triggers inside me. The soft swish of her nylon stockings brushing together and the briefest scent of her perfume trip some inner association that floods my body with feelings of eager anticipation. I know what the mistress wants by instinct and experience, but I hold myself back, awaiting her command. I am a good pet, and I obey my mistress without question.

  I gaze up at her expectantly and she stares back at me, piercing me with that inscrutable expression. Then she raises her leg and holds her foot out to me. “Take off my shoe and kiss my foott, then work your way up my leg. Take your time, I want to enjoy this,” she commands.

  I nod once and take hold of the offered foot without hesitation. When I first became the mistress's pet, I would have balked at such a command, so forthright and degrading. I would have resisted her will and attempted to assert my own. But not anymore. Not after the mistress has shown me that a good pet is an obedient pet, and how much pleasure obedience can bring.

  I lift her foot onto my lap and begin to remove her shoe. For a short time, I struggle with the strap around her ankle, unable to unfasten that tiny buckle with my clumsy fingers. I feel panic rising inside me. The mistress senses this and whispers tenderly to me. “Take your time pet, we have all night,” she says and my mind is instantly calmed.

  Eventually, the buckle comes undone and I slowly ease the shoe from her, enjoying the slow reveal of her nylon covered foot. She wiggles her toes, happy to be free of the restrictive heel, and my heart skips a beat. Perhaps it is another Pavlovian response or perhaps it was a deeper desire, but the sight of her foot causes my desire to swell inside me. I hold her foot up and study it, relishing the muted red of her painted toenails beneath the soft gauze of her tan stockings, the soft curve of her arch, the intricate wrinkles of her sole.

  I feel a sharp tug on the collar as the mistress pulls me towards her, signaling her growing impatience and I’m roused from my trance. Without further delay, I plunge my mouth and nose into her sole, instantly overcome by the moist warmth of her foot. Her scent fills me, a rich aroma of shoe leather and sweat, and I breath deeply, savoring every wonderful sensation. Then I lightly tease the flat of my tongue from her heel up to her toes. She writhes a little on the couch and moans softly, a sound that fills my heart with instant gratification.

  I find her toes with my mouth, wrapping my lips around her and sucking hard on them. I alternate gentle flicks of my tongue with light nibbling, teasing her with my mouth in a way that I know she enjoys. Then I shift my attention to the top of her foot, kissing her repeatedly, lapping at her. I make my way towards her ankle and gaze upwards, along the long length of her leg.

  The mistress has uncrossed her legs and parted them slightly. As I watch, she lifts her bottom off the couch and shuffles her tight skirt up her thighs, revealing the lace tops of her stockings and the creamy flesh beyond. She parts her legs yet further and then drops her hand to her crotch. Then with slender fingers, shifts her black lace panties to one side and reveals her delicious, pink pussy.

  My heartbeat quickens as I see my destination, waiting there at the top of her endlessly toned leg. I long to leap forwards, to bury my head there, to lose myself in the warm wetness of her folds. But I know that I must compose myself, I must worship her body respectfully and with restraint. Obedience is key. I continue to kiss up her shin, gripping the firm muscle of her calf in my hand. Each kiss on the soft nylon is like pouring gasoline on the raging fire of my desire and I can feel myself giving into temptation, but still I resist.

  I lift her leg up and kiss behind her knee, in a place that I know drives her crazy. She sighs and squeezes her eyes shut, pushing her head back into the soft cushion and dropping her hand to her pussy once more. As she rubs herself, I sense her arousal, rich and musky, an intoxicating cocktail of lust and desire, and I can resist no more.

  I let her leg drop down onto my shoulder, her soft foot coming to rest on my back, and I fall towards her. Without a single moment of hesitation, I plunge my tongue forwards and dive into her lips, licking her from front to back. My mind explodes, a familiar conflagration fueled by an intense need to taste this woman, to serve her, to be used by her in whatever manner she requires.

  I feel the leash pull taut, forcing me deeper into her and I capitulate without resistance. “Oh yes, good pet, right there, right there,” I hear the mistress moan above me.

  As I find the hard nub of her throbbing clitoris, a distant part of me wonders how I got here. How I became the willing pet of this insatiable woman. How I changed from willful teen to submissive toy. How I came to love the taste of my mistress and the touch of her hand.

  It all began six weeks ago, at the beginning of a long summer at home from college and the offer of some easy work...

  Chapter 2: Adoption

  “Here, what about this one? Looks like Wendy’s is taking on staff for the vacation season,” my Dad said, placing the newspaper down in front of me on the table.

  I snorted derisively, but didn’t look up from my phone. “Sure Dad, I’ll look at it later,” I offered, then turned my attention back to the endlessly fascinating happenings on the internet.

  Dad sighed and crossed his arms. “Honestly Melissa, you’re going to have to find something to do all summer. I’m not having a daughter of mine mooching around the house, bumming money off your mother and me.”

  “Sure Dad, whatever,” I replied, not really listening to what he was saying. I was nineteen and had no intention of spending this long summer serving rubes in the local Dairy Queen or wherever. Besides, Mom and Dad were loaded. They could afford to give me a decent summer - after all, I’d maintained a steady 2.5 GPA in my freshman year. I should be rewarded not punished, I figured.

  Suddenly, without warning, Dad brought his hand down on the table with an almighty crash. I jumped, nearly dropping my phone onto the floor in surprise. “Listen here young lady,” Dad shouted, raising his voice for the first time that I could remember. “I’m tired of your attitude. We didn’t raise you to be a welfare queen. We raised you to have respect, and you’ll damn well act like it.” He snorted in anger and turned away from me, placing his hands on his hips. “Ever since you
’ve been away at college, you’ve changed, young lady. You’ve become disrespectful and disobedient. Well, it ends now. I want you in work and earning money by the end of the week, or your Mom and I will stop your allowance. You’ll have to fund your own college tuition, like the other kids!”

  I gasped, shaken by the unexpected change in Dad’s demeanour. I could normally get away with murder with my old man, and this seemed totally out of character. “But Dad, I…” I stammered.

  “No buts!” he shot back. “Work. End of week. Or else!” he spat, then turned on his heel and stalked off through the back door, slamming it behind him.

  I composed myself and glanced down at the newspaper before me. Despite the threat, I had no intention of flipping burgers at Wendy’s. Honestly, who did Dad think I was? I picked up the paper and began to scan the want ads. With vacation season starting, the town was soon going to be filled with rich tourists from the big city, eager to spend their money on bad food and cheap trinkets. So the job ads were filled with positions that catered to these corpulent schlubs. Burger flippers, waitresses, pool attendants. Nothing that a self-respecting college girl should be doing.

  I continued to scan down the columns of ads, mentally crossing off the positions that I thought were beneath me. Then a particular ad caught my eye. It was small and unassuming, a personal ad without the corporate logos of the burger joints and theme parks. The tiny text seemed to drown among the larger advertisements, becoming lost on the page.

  Want to make some EA$Y money? Like animals? Dog sitter wanted for professional woman. Five days a week. No time wasters. Call 555-8463.

  I studied the ad, enjoying the painfully kitsch way that it substituted “$” in the word “easy”. I sat back and thought about it for a moment. I wouldn’t exactly say that I was an animal lover exactly. In fact, it would be more honest to say that animals hated me and I hated them. But everyone lied on their resumé, right? Besides, it sounded like an easy gig. Feed the dog, take it for a walk, and spend the rest of the day watching TV and eating this rich bitch’s food.

  That sounded like a career I could get behind!

  Satisfied that I’d done as I was told, I set aside the newspaper and tucked back into my breakfast. Maybe I’d even have a morning bath later on! I deserved it.

  ---

  “Mommy loves her little Petey. Doesn’t she honey! Yes, yes she does!”

  The woman nuzzled her face into the little dog’s furry body and kissed it over and over. The dog rolled over onto its side and kicked its legs into the air, allowing the woman access to its underbelly. The woman enthusiastically scratched at the thing and it began to whine contentedly.

  I blinked, surprised by this sickening display of affection, but keen to maintain the pretence that I thought all of this was totally normal and acceptable behaviour from a grown woman.

  After calling the number in the job advertisement, I’d been invited to the house of Felicia Jones, a PR agent who worked for one of the big firms downtown. Ms. Jones was unmarried and filthy rich, living in a spacious, modernistic house in the affluent suburbs on the edge of town. Whitewashed and built into the hillside overlooking the city, the sprawling, single-level building was stark and featureless with an interior that was uninspiring. All businesslike and serious, it lacked charm and character in every way imaginable.

  Its owner, Felicia Jones appeared to embody the flavor of her home herself. She was in her early thirties and crisp, with a refined air that screamed boring efficiency. Her clothes were sharp and smart, her makeup and hair impeccable and her demeanor was cold and intimidating. At least, it was with other humans. When her yapping terrier, Petey, scampered into the room, she became a gooey mess, lapsing into the horrendous baby talk that I was now being treated to a glimpse of.

  I sat back and tried to feign delight and enchantment at the cute antics of the spoiled canine. I cooed and sighed as she scratched its belly, trying to give the impression that whatever baby-regret emotions she was expressing now, I felt exactly the same and would make a perfect candidate to take care of it.

  “So, you say that you’re a dog lover Melissa?” she asked me, finally looking up from the whining furball that sprawled on her lap.

  “Yes, Ms. Jones, I love dogs. All animals in fact.”

  “And you have dogs at home?” she inquired, using the same note of concern that you might use when screening babysitters.

  “Two actually. A great dane called Rex and a schnauzer named Buddy. He’s my favorite,” I lied, surprising myself with the ease with which I bent the truth for my own ends. In actual fact, my Dad hated dogs almost as much as I did.

  Felicia Jones studied me. For the first time, but certainly not the last time, I found myself subjected to the icy glare of her glacier blue eyes. It felt as though she was staring deep into my soul, probing me for hints of weakness or untruth, and I mentally recoiled under the scrutiny, suddenly sure that I had made a very bad mistake coming here.

  “Hmmm. Well, you certainly appear genuine,” she finally replied, returning her attention to the dog again. She fell silent for a few minutes and I waited patiently, then she spoke again. “Okay, I’m willing to give it a shot. When can you start?”

  I blinked in surprise, shocked by how easy it was to get my own way with this woman. “I, uh, straight away,” I replied with a smile.

  She nodded and stood, straightening her skirt and jacket. “Great! Then it’s a deal,” she said and held out her hand to shake mine.

  I stood too and raised my hand to meet hers. As I lifted my arm, Petey the dog leaped up and snapped at me, barely missing my skin by a fraction of an inch. I pulled back and yelped, genuinely shocked by the damned, yapping beast.

  “Petey! Down!” Ms. Jones shouted with a note of command and authority that she’d not yet displayed. The dog fell back on its haunches and looked up at her in what appeared to be surprise and contrition. “Bad dog! That will not do!”

  The dog whimpered and whined, clearly aware that it had upset its mistress. “I’m sorry Melissa, are you hurt?” she asked, turning to face me.

  “No ma’am, just surprised is all. Dogs normally like me.” Another lie.

  “Okay, well both Petey and I are sorry for what he did. Petey is normally a good dog, and obedient. I think that obedience is very important and I won’t tolerate behaviour that is contrary to this.” She fixed me with that icy stare again, but I didn’t think anything of this at the time.

  “No ma’am, I’m sure Petey was just excited.”

  She looked at me for a second, seemingly content with my acceptance. “You know, I have a good feeling about you Melissa. I’m sure you’ll do just fine here and take good care of my Petey. Why, if anything ever happened to him, I’d be mortified. I don’t know how I’d ever replace him,” she said, sounding genuine for the first time that afternoon.

  “Yes, Ms. Jones. I won’t let you down,” I replied.

  She nodded and turned on her heel, then beckoned me to follow her by tapping her thigh with the flat of her hand. “Come, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

  Without thinking, I took off after her. Again, I didn’t think this at all unusual. At least not until much later.

  ---

  Dogsitting for Ms. Jones turned out to be much like I expected. While she went off to work, I spent the day in her house and looked after Petey. This turned out to require virtually no effort at all on my part. I let the dog out for a run in the spacious garden a couple of times a day, filled up his water and prepared his food on a morning and night. It was so routine that it soon became boring, so I spent the rest of my time watching TV or chatting with college friends on the internet.

  Since Ms. Jones was frequently out of town on business, I found myself spending several nights a week staying over at hers. This suited me just fine. It got me away from my folks and my annoying younger brother, Sam. And she had good wifi, so I could immerse myself in the captivating spectacles of Twitter and Facebook.

  It wa
s on one such sleepover that I made a mistake that would change my life forever.

  Ms. Jones had flown to Denver on an overnight trip and left me in the house, as she’d done many times before in the last few weeks. It was mid-summer and the days were long and sultry. The mercury thermometer displayed a sweltering ninety five degrees in the shade, and I’d gotten through more iced tea during the day than was probably healthy.

  At least the house had good air conditioning! So good, in fact, that I was loathed to leave its cool embrace and take Petey outside to let him do his business. Instead, I opened the folding doors at the back of the house and let him out on his own. The dumb dog liked the cool as much as I did, so he was seldom out there for more than a few minutes. In no time at all, he inevitably returned, panting and gasping for air and we both returned to the cool retreat of the living room.

  On this particular night, at around eight o’clock, I opened the doors and allowed Petey to scamper through, into the dark garden. As he disappeared into the night, my phone buzzed and I plucked it from my pocket, eager to see what was happening. It was a Twitter notification, from my best girlfriend Kimberly. Kim’s adventures were the stuff of legend in the dorm where we shared a room, and I loved to live vicariously off her sordid antics.

  @melissababy OMG! You will not believe what Josh and me just did! lol xoxo

  The tease! She knew that I would have to reply! I gave it a few minutes, hungry with curiosity and desperate to know more - but keen not to appear too eager and feed her narcissism. Eventually, I relented and probed her for information, as much as she could give in 144 characters or less.

  For the next ten minutes, Kim and I exchanged tweets. Gradually, I extracted the whole sordid story from her, piece by piece. It turns out that Kim and her BF had been listening to their local oldies station and they’d heard that ancient Alanis Morrisette song. You know the one? The one with the lyric “would she go down on you in a theater?”