When my wife quit working to have our first child, I secured a second job as a doorman/security guard at a high-rise apartment building about a half-hour from our home. The Bayview Towers was six stories high with a total of 60 apartments. The main floor consisted of two business apartments, management office and maintenance facilities. I would work there for about three years.
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"Fuck is that the time, I have to go" he said pushing back the sheet and climbing quickly out of the hotel bed.
"Why, what's the hurry?" I asked sitting up my full tits flopping around all over the place.
"Oh bugger," he said as he caught his fingernails on the bathroom door. "I er, um, promised my son I would pop in this evening."
"What for, it'll be very late?"
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"What do you think of him," I asked, pointing to an older man with a combover. "He looks like he won't spit on our food."
"Ugh, I hope not. He looks like the kind to talk about his grandkids to us for twenty minutes and then forget to take our order."
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I named him Frank, as in Frankfurter, because he was a schnauzer, and as kids, we called them frankfurter dogs.
It had been 2 weeks since I found him huddled out by the trash cans, shaking in the cold night air. I brought him into the garage, which was a lot warmer than the 15 degrees it was supposed to reach, held him in a towel to stop his shivers. I had a few cans left over from when my brother stopped by with his dog, Mangy, and Frank went at it greedily.
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To call the private studio of the Dominatrix a dungeon would, for the fortunate, earn only her contempt. Eschewing the contrivances of male sadomasochistic fantasies, the walls were painted a passionless shade of gray-green, the oak floor polished to the luster of ancient gold, and the sole window decorated with an embroidered ivory curtain, now closed.
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