"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.
