Weekdays With My Pet

Yesterday I wrote a little (under 2000 words) story called “Weekdays With My Pet”, because I really want someone to just sit under my desk so I can pet and touch her whenever I feel the need. Here’s the first bit:

My pet is not a morning person. I am, by the nature of my work, but she’s not. Still, when I get up at 6:30 each weekday, so does she. She doesn’t have to get dressed — she usually just slips on a short chemise, long enough to cover her bottom but not much more than that — but she does have to follow me around. It’s what a pet does, after all.

I also have a dog. Well, I say “I”, but I really mean “we” have a dog, because my pet, while being mine, is also a human being. Just because I don’t treat her that way doesn’t mean she isn’t one. Anyway, the dog also wakes up when we do, and he gets lots of pets, and breakfast, and a trip out to the backyard. Once he’s done with everything he needs to do, he and my pet both follow me into the office. My dog has a bed that he curls up in for his post-breakfast nap, and my pet has a pillow she sits on under my desk, her head against my leg.

Throughout all of this, we don’t actually talk. Pets don’t talk, after all. I talk to the dog, and tell him he’s a good boy, and I do give my pet small orders, just to remind her of her place. But we don’t have conversations. Not in the mornings. Mornings are pet time.

My favorite part of the morning, though, comes around 9:00. My pet goes to work at ten — she works a midday shift at a coffee shop; we don’t need the extra money but she likes to get out of the house and see other people — so, at nine (sometimes before if I have a meeting), she shifts around until she’s kneeling between my legs. I undo my pants and slide them and my shorts down to my ankles, and my pet takes me in her mouth. She’s an expert at it — we’ve been together long enough that she knows what I like — and her lips and tongue plus her hand cupping my balls never fails to bring me to a powerful orgasm, which she swallows eagerly, my hand in her hair, holding her in place with my cock either just past her lips or all the way into her throat, whichever I feel like at the time.

When she’s done, I pet her head and stroke her cheek and tell her she’s a good little pet, and she smiles up at me, eyes glassy — I like taking her breath away by making her take me to the hilt and then keeping her there with my hand on the back of her head, and it makes her eyes stream tears and her nose run. “Thank you, sir,” she says, the first words she’ll actually say to me, and I let her up. While I work, I hear the shower running, and I hear her brush her teeth, and then, a few minutes later, she comes out wearing jeans and a t-shirt, over which she’ll put her apron when she gets to the shop.

“Have a good day,” I tell my pet.

I love tears, too. Just saying. If you’re a crier, you should contact me.

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