Under the expert, extra-curricular, tutelage of Madam Edith, I was soon back in contention for the satisfactory completion of my studies. But I was a pet project for the Professor -- something had obviously marked me out, in her eyes, as worthy of her attention and, the perfectionist that she was, she would not be satisfied before I was the best student the University had ever produced. Also, I was not just her pet project but her pet, now living with her -- albeit naked in a cage most of the time -- and under her protection. This meant she would be keeping me around as long as possible, eking out the maximum time allowable for students to complete their degrees and, perhaps, wrangling a bit extra as the fates and the University bureaucracies -- which were even more formidable than she was -- would allow her. Of course, I was still a whore -- but now I was her whore, and she was, effectively, my john: yes, I was now a proper whore, a prostitute. But now instead of being flotsam against the tide of student lust, unregulated and unmetered, the clients who serviced me were far more select and paid Madam Edith a pretty penny to use me, This money would help to pay the Professor for the time she was spending on me, although it was also a labour of love.
My favourite clients were those who came to her frequent parties, where I would be strapped to a table naked in the copious lounge area as a centre-piece. I was part conversation piece, part human furniture and part cum-dump, should any of the male guests take a fancy to either of my holes, arse or mouth. As I was strapped down, I had to do whatever I had to do in situ, to which end I was catered to by a maid who often, when attentions were elsewhere, squeeze my precum-dripping cock or even crawl under to taste it, occasionally inducing me to pee so she could drink from the tap, as 'twere. And that's not all she tasted, either -- 'though her favourite trick with my arse was to stick her hand up there to stroke my prostate and milk me. It wasn't much work on her part as, because the gape was quite noticeable, especially after the results of my incontinence despite which, also, it was well-enough lubricated with enough of the deposits of the party's male guest to revitalise a seized engine, her five-fingered salute would violate my battle-weary sphincter with ease on her part and a frisson of joy despite all on mine.
And then there was the walking.
Well, dogs need to be walked, don't they? Funny thing about London -- well, most big cities -- is the complete anonymity it can afford and, therefore, the sort of things you can get away with in the right areas with the right amount of chutzpah. Madam Edith lived in Soho.
"Come on, girl, time for walkies!"
The Professor let me out of the cage and left me wondering what I was going to wear, and where were we going. The latter question would be answered in due time, but for the first...
"You're not serious?" I asked this because she produced for me a doggy collar in pink with the name Daisy on it, surrounded with hearts; what looked like an elongated toffee apple, but with a dog's tail tangentially protruding from it and, last but most telling, a furry-type doggy mask matching the tail.
She gave me a whack with a handy Penang Lawyer-type cane behind my legs which brought me, sobbing, to my knees. The sudden shock of the intrusion of the toffee-apple to my arsehole turned my sob to a yelp.
"Stay down", she commanded, continuing: "And don't you ever even think of questioning my judgement, girl. I know what I'm doing. You don't want me to send you back to your strait-laced parents telling them what a slutty little whore girl their little boy has become, do you?" I'll be honest, the question thrilled me as much as I was horrified -- but I couldn't be that cruel. "Now", she said after securing the collar and the mask, "come".
Well versed as I was with open-air, public nudity, this nudity was public-public. Back in the chapel-and-rugby valleys of Wales, and especially in the sleepy sheep-fuelled villages of Breconshire, never mind Winston Churchill's boots, your reputation would be laid bare for all to see before even the explanation had turned down the quilt to arise from slumber in the face of such outrageous behaviour. I felt a strain on my tiny boyhood as it tugged into a sort of erection.
"You see, girl", said Madam Edith, as if picking up my thoughts, and observing with glee my genital difficulties, "what you need to remember is that, in London, everyone tries so hard to avoid so many things. Eye-contact, conversation, friendliness. Naturally, thinking the person who comes up to you is either a cut-purse or a charity mugger is as good a reason to keep yourself to yourself as any, I suppose. Point the second -- people have expectations and, in a busy metropolis like this, if you don't measure up to expectations, well, they'll fill in the blanks for you. Unless, of course, danger looms large, in which case it'll give you a swift kick in the bollocks, male or female, it doesn't discriminate, and make free with your attentions. That said, we wouldn't be doing this in somewhere like Whitechapel, either, for obvious reasons. Now, the third part is, I'm well known and well-enough tolerated in these parts to get away with practically anything that doesn't hurt or deprive anyone and, while the laws of nudity in this country sort of skirt around nudity for a sexual purpose and this is, technically, sexual, it's not hurting anyone so those in the know mind their own business whilst those naive saps who see things that aren't there are soon convinced they saw nothing. That you're hung like a sapling willow helps too, of course."
We rounded into the throng of Wardour Street where, lo and behold, nobody noticed anything untoward. They saw me, of course -- all the better to avoid trampling me into the pavement or kicking my head in -- both of which, I'm sure, would have been de rigeur in the less culturally adaptive parts of the city whose inhabitants were prone to riot when someone accidentally mis-spelled the name of their favourite food. Indeed one or two of the locals, who knew Madam Edith, would remark about me when they said hello.
"Hello Edith -- I must say, that's a lovely looking dog you've got there", exclaimed one woman as her perfectly manicured nails described my spine. My pre-cum threatened to breach the bounds of my foreskin. "Have you had... errr... him long?
