(Content Warnings: Hair pulling, shoe licking, femdom, Dominance/submission, mild findom, reference to strap-on play.)
He hears her heels on the hardwood floor in the hallway, but impulsively he decides not to look up from his computer when she steps into the room. It’s a mistake and he knows it immediately, her clicking steps ceasing as abruptly as they started; he’s too stubborn to relent, though, his now-nervous gaze fixated on the lines of code he’s spent all weekend digging through.
“Oh sugar,” she says, clucking her tongue, and Trent swallows.
“Not now,” he says waspishly, like a complete fucking fool. He should be on his knees already, crawling towards his mistress, apologizing for his behavior – this was part of their agreement – but he’s already too deep to backpedal. He hunches his shoulders, face stitching itself into a scowl, like he can somehow be too manly to be in trouble. “I’m busy,” he adds shortly, still not looking up, and it’s the final nail in his coffin.
Brit has her pretty little hands in his hair before he has time to process that she’s crossed the room; she pulls hard, the gesture somehow radiating calm and control, until he’s forced to slide out of his desk chair and onto the floor. She keeps pulling, making him flail onto his hands and knees, and then shoves his head downward until his face is smashed indiscriminately against her expensive shoe.
“Fuck,” he growls, low and masculine, anger flaring hot in his chest. “What the fuck, Brit?”
“You best watch your mouth, Trent,” Brit chastises, her southern accent bringing an almost maternal level of no-nonsense to her warning, “And don’t you dare drool on my shoes.”
Trent hesitates, torn between retaining whatever control he has left by jerking away, or forfeiting its illusion and relaxing beneath her grip. They never discussed struggling. Brit is a little bit smaller than him, and he doesn’t know every last detail of her history with men; he doesn’t want to inadvertently hurt or upset her. He exhales, copes with his own attitude, and slumps his shoulders. “Yes, Mistress,” he mumbles, kissing the gleaming toe of her vividly teal shoe. “I’m sorry, Mistress,” he adds, turning the kiss into a nuzzle so he can linger at her feet.
The hands in his hair loosen, and she starts to pet him instead, her flashily manicured nails working against his scalp like he’s a beloved dog. “That’s it, baby,” she coos, moving into more of a crouch so she doesn’t have to strain to reach him, “You bought me these, remember?” Of course he does. He was hard for hours after they left the store. “Why don’t you help me keep ‘em clean?”
Trent groans and flattens out on his belly immediately, parting his lips to breathe heavily against her shoe before actually licking. He’s careful with his licks, not wanting to leave unattractive smear prints on the material, but he’s too eager to really take his time, pausing only to kiss at her feet whenever he strays close to her skin.
From here he can see up her skirt, the thick tuft of her pubic hair held at bay by sheer black material that’s so flimsy he can smell her pussy. He wants to taste her so badly he whines in the back of his throat as he works, but she only gave him permission to clean her shoes, not the damp crotch of her panties, so he doesn’t try his luck. He laps with the flat of his tongue, nostrils flaring as he breathes so he can enjoy the scent of her.
She stands, turning her foot and lifting it enough to let him take the heel in his mouth. He resists the strong urge to suck like she’s feeding him her cock: thick, rippled, and teal, just like her shoes. He knows she has it in her purse along with the harness; knows if he’s good enough, she might let him suck her off, even though he was an asshole before.
Brit takes her feet away and steps around him. She briefly rests one heel on the back of his neck and presses hard enough to make him drop his face to the floor and cross his arms behind his back like they practiced. He’s hard enough now that laying on the floor is starting to suck, but he doesn’t give voice to the complaint, instead just nuzzling the wood to comfort himself. She removes her heel, his neck aching with its absence, and he hears her clipped steps as they take her towards his desk.
Where his laptop is still open.
“Did you save your work?” Brit asks, not even trying to feign innocence.
Trent swallows and closes his eyes, his erection flagging only minutely. “No, Mistress,” he whispers to the floor.
Her nails move over the keys, clacking with confidence for a few seconds before he hears his laptop being clicked shut: the actual final nail in his coffin. His desk chair creaks slightly under her weight as she sits down, wheels gritting against the floor while she adjusts it to suit herself.
He’d saved a few hours ago, so it’s not a catastrophic loss, but his now-wasted afternoon churns in his stomach like ill-advised alcohol. He feels drunk with the punishment, the edges of his thoughts fuzzy with something he can’t name but doesn’t hate. Maybe even likes.
“You’re gonna lay there and think about what you plan on doin’ the next time I come all the way up here to see your ungrateful behind,” Brit drawls, pronouncing it buh-hind with a pop, and Trent can hear her finger tapping on her phone screen. He imagines she’s scrolling through new shoes, as his credit card is already saved on her account; he hopes she finds something else in teal. The chair shifts, likely because she’s crossing her legs, and he wishes he could look up to see if her skirt’s ridden up over her gorgeous thighs. If she’s even wetter for him now that he’s being useful. “Y’all outta know better.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress. I’ll do better next time,” Trent tells the floor.
“Honey, I sure hope you do,” she says, sighing, and goes back to playing on her phone in silence. Occasionally, his phone vibrates somewhere on his desk, probably with notifications from his bank as Brit pursues her favorite websites.
Trent doesn’t feel the need to scowl. He doesn’t feel the need to do much of anything, except stay and think.
