“And you think this is okay, puppy?” I asked Gerard. Only 19 years old, Gerard Demonieu sat quivering, his knees vibrating on my new cherry wood floors, his emerald green eyes threatening to bubble up with tears. “You honestly think, after all that time I spent teaching you, that *this* is up to my standards?”
Gerard continued to sit, kneeling on the cherry-wood floor. “I’m sorry, Madame DuBois,” his rosy, full lips whispered. He squirmed a little in place. He knew he wasn’t allowed to move – not even to adjust his puppy-ear headband – until I gave the command.
My black stilettos clicked as I circled around him. Gerard kept his soft, manicured hands in his lap. He began to follow me with his gaze as I walked, but I snapped my midnight dragon-tail whip on the floor, and his chin snapped back to looking only forward, front and center.
Gerard looked very good today – in fact, his grooming and appearance exceeded my standards. His fluffy blonde hair fell in front of his eyes, and looked clean, conditioned and natural. The poinsettia speedo he was wearing accentuated the curve of his pretty young ass. And his posture as he kneeled on the floor – his back was straight. I always loved a good military boy.