"Come here." I command in an authoritative voice, and she does, slinking low to the ground, eyes downcast as she pads toward me. She knows that tone, the huskiness of my voice, the slow, calm sound of control that I take on when I'm aroused, when I want to go somewhere to sate my lust. We could stay home- I'd find plenty of ways to entertain myself, as always- but this evening we're going out. I want to show her off.
She kneels at my feet, ever the obedient bitch. I barely acknowledge her. She knows what's coming; waiting will only excite her more, though she's careful not to show it. I stand in front of the mirror and examine myself. There's no thrill greater than getting dressed, in taking the time to prepare myself. By day, I'm the softest butch: khakis, polo shirt, tennis shoes, short, shaggy hair that could almost pass for a femme cut, when styled right. I look like something that walked out of an Abercrombie & Fitch poster. It's about comfort, and it's about blending in at work. My Clark Kent disguise, if you will. But at night . . .
At night, it's about leather and denim and metal. Enough metal to set off every metal detector at every airport. There are the studs, of course, through my eyebrow, beneath my mouth, in each lobe, and the rings, in my nose, at the corner of my lips, clamping each nipple, a dozen flanking the tender cartilage of my upper ears, and that special piercing, right at the hood over my clit. During the day, it's a conservative pick-and-choose mix of what holes to accessorize. At night, it's every one of them. There's the metal in my skin, and the metal in the toes of my boots, the heavy metal of the chain that hangs a loop off my hip, the metal in the switchblade I carry as a sexual prop, the kind that makes women's hearts beat with fear and excitement. All that metal against the backdrop of dark blue denim- skintight over my ass, my hips, those feminine curves- and black leather. No underwear, and no shirt, either, just my metal-tipped breasts straining at the half-unzipped jacket. Metal, leather, denim. Oh, and silicone, packed big and hard into my jeans in its own leather harness. My little bitch likes that, oh yes, she does, enough so that I have to hide it from her, and buy her her own rubber toys.
I slick my shaggy hair straight back with gel into a neat, severe helmet. Sometimes I twist a lock forward with my finger, to hang like a springy wet curl on my forehead, but tonight I just don't have the time. Even as I turn and gaze at myself in profile, she's getting ancy.
She's been kept waiting so long, she must think I'm not watching her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her break her statue-still position on the floor to scratch vaguely at her ear. In a second, I'm onto her.
"Roxy!" I say sharply, but she only looks at me with big, pouty eyes. Brown puppy-dog eyes that I can never refuse. What must our dynamic look like to outsiders? Who exactly is the master here? Perhaps I spoil her, but I can't help it; she's far too sweet. The emblem of dainty femininity with her soft, curly black hair. The sort who'd win every title in a contest. How could I not want to show her off?
"We're going to go for a little walk." I tell her. "Do you want to go out tonight?"
She knows she can't make a sound; I've trained her to be silent when I want her to be. Instead, she starts to wiggle her little behind, stretching out on the floor in apparent enjoyment. I stroke her ass; she wiggles it more.
"How does Daddy look?" I ask, standing back, hands on my hips, legs apart, posing as the toughest, sexiest leatherdyke I can be. Roxy grins widely, a mouth full of teeth, and then begins to pant very gently, tongue hanging out. I hope to get the same reaction from the ladies at the clubs tonight, especially when they see my little bitch at my side.
"Stay." I command before going in search of her collar. Like everything else I own, it's leather, with little metal spikes around it. I have my own, too, but I only wear it when I want to be cute. Tonight, I need it as the sign that she's mine, that she's not just wandering around, ripe for someone else to pick up. The collar is a sign of my ownership of her. And she so loves to be collared, likes the feel of control and dominance and yes, safety, that it gives her. The few times I take her out without it, she never strays far; she feels worried and naked without the firm connection between us.
I hum as I walk back, jiggling the collar and its metal chain so that it clinks merrily, the sound that gets her even more excited than me getting dolled up in my leather. But when I come back, instead of sitting there patiently waiting for me in obedient style on the floor, she's on her feet, and has her nose buried in the underwear I had thrown on top of the pile in the hamper. I know that they're wet and shiny at the crotch from my anticipation of tonight, that the deep, heady, earthy scent of my pussy must have been calling to her the entire time she was waiting. She doesn't know I'm behind her, and I watch as she sniffs and breathes in the scent of me. Then, carefully, delicately, she slips out her tongue to lick them. That's the last straw.
I stomp my boot hard, and she freezes and drops, cowering to the floor, whimpering. "Roxy." I sigh. "I should leave you home tonight." She eyes me guiltily. I'd grab her face and grind it into the underwear, but it would only give her what she wanted. But even as I wonder in annoyance at how I'll ever pass her off in public as a good, docile companion, my anger is melting away in anticipation.
"That's okay," I say as I ready her up, hooking the collar around her slender neck, latching the chain into the ring, giving it a gentle, experimental tug. "You just got a taste of what every dyke in the city wants to get her tongue on. Who can blame you?"
In my finest leathers, bedecked with metal, with a chain swinging between me and my obedient bitch, practically creaming into the seam of my jeans, I open the door and out we walk. Down the street, turning, strolling, past the park with its homeless and spillover from the gay bar down the street and probably even a few undercover vice cops, that distracts Roxy almost enough to use up all the slack in her leash. I agree with her; gay leathermen are almost as tasty as leatherdykes. But we're headed somewhere else. We stroll up and down around the lesbian bars, past the trendy nightclubs, the working butch's watering hole, the mixed egalitarian sex clubs crammed with bisexual women dying for threesomes. I don't go into any of them, partly because of how I'm dressed, partly because of Roxy.
I lean up against a wall and survey the pickings while Roxy waits at my feet on the cold pavement. Roxy watches the pretty women pass by, too. She drools a little. So do I.
Then, out of one of the wilder bars, a biker-chick kind of bar, comes exactly the type of woman I'm hoping Roxy will bring to me. Long, curly auburn hair, perfect to ball up into your fists, to clutch, to yank, perfect for directing a head and by extension, a mouth. The brightest red lips that makes a mockery of the term 'lipstick lesbians'. The white, white skin of her exposed neck, whiter next to her flaming hair- a neck I'd so love to collar, love to throttle as I made her orgasm. Soft tits shapely under a black leotard and tight leather pants. And fuck-me heels, God help me. A leather femme, the kind that can play dominatrix, and will, I determine, play submissive to me tonight.
She sees me, sees Roxy, and then takes bold strides to meet me. Roxy always has that effect.
"That your bitch?" She asks with a smile.
I bend down, put a hand on Roxy's neck, ruffle her head. "Yes. This is Roxy."
"She's gorgeous." She says. Her eyes flick back up to me. "So's her mommy."
I take the compliment in easy butch stride: a lazy smile and confident, heated eyes that communicate everything I plan on doing to her tonight. She shakes her head to herself, eyes laughing.
"Do you always use your dog to pick up women?"
Roxy scratches my leg, anxious to move on, either with this woman or without her. After all, I did promise and make her wait for a walk. I ignore her momentarily while I trade an appraising gaze with my newest prey, like all my prey, the kind that has a very weak, tender spot for a fluffy black poodle, especially one so incongruous with its owner.
"It worked, didn't it?" I reply roughly, but then melt into sweet talk. "What can I say? I love my dog. Of course," I lean in close enough to touch my forehead to hers. "I'm a cat lady, too."
Her brows arch. "Oh?"
"Oh yeah, I love pussies."
She laughs, a pure and crystal sound, tipping her head back. On the ground, Roxy tips her head back, too, and lets out an excited little yowl that only makes me and my new lady laugh even more.
"Can I walk her?" She asks, extending her hand for Roxy's leash.
"Where to?" I ask in mock ignorance.
"Your place." She replies, taking the chain with Roxy confidently leading the way home. I hang back just a step or two, so I can watch my two bitches, both of their rear ends wiggling: one with the very correct expectation of being spanked red and fucked hard, and the other, in delight of a night walk and anticipation for a well-deserved can of Alpo.