Dance Practice Was Over
by Michael D.

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"Dance practice was over. I knew this because I heard the key enter the lock from the outside of the door and then turn open.

He was home now. I lay in my locked cage in the corner of his bedroom, the place where I had over the last few months become accustomed to spending my time while he was out of the house. Time had a way of simply standing still while I was locked in confinement. I could see through the bars of the cage out into the dim bedroom where my food and water bowls sat on the floor next to each other when the zippers on my eyes were left open, but movement was limited to shifting my weight from one side to the other. He had said that he preferred me in this helpless way because it would always reinforce to me that I was dependent on him for absolutely everything, even movement.

I was encased from head to toe in a skin tight rubber suit, with zippers on the eyes and mouth, and a zipper that went up the back which could be locked shut once I was inside. The hands of the suit ended in paw-like enclosures so that I would have no use of my fingers. When he allowed my mouth to be unzipped, he would leave a used, sweat stained dance belt that he had worn during practice in the locked cage with me so that I could suck all the sweat out of it while he was away. He said it was one of my duties to clean his dance belts with my saliva and mouth. I felt a rush of utter excitement surge through me as I heard the door knob turn and the door open. He would be tired after ballet practice and I would be required to pleasure and clean him.

Normally, after ballet practice, any other dancer would change at the studio, but he would simply put a pair of sweat pants on over his tights, a jacket over his leotard, and replace his slippers with a pair of tennis shoes, then come home so that I could properly minister to him. He came into the bedroom, said, “Hey, boy,” in a tired manner, and I would give out a muffled whimper in answer. I was not allowed to ever speak unless he gave me express permission. I was, however, allowed to make any sound that a pet dog would make. He said that that kept me in my proper place with him. He put a couple of fingers into the cage which I nuzzled with my rubber encased face, and then bent down to unlock the cage.

With a click, the padlock unlocked, he swung the cage door open, and I crawled out to sit on my knees in front of the cage waiting for him to give me the proper signal, a routine which I had by now become very accustomed to. He sat down on his chair, unlaced and pulled off his tennis shoes, dug into his duffle bag, and pulled out the white, scuffed, leather slippers that he had used during practice.

“Who’s a good boy,” he said, and that was my signal that I was allowed to come to him, on hands and knees, and sniff out his sweaty slippers, which he dangled in front of my nose like a dog treat. They smelled sweaty and masculine, and he teased me with them for a minute, slapping my face with them gently. Our routine was usually the same every time. He slapped his thick thigh and said “Off,” which I knew meant I was to pull his sweats off with my rubber paws, a feat I had learned to accomplish over time. I slid the sweats down his legs, pulled them off leg by leg, revealing the grey tights he had worn during practice underneath, still stained with sweat in his bulge. He took his jacket off and threw it to the side of his bed. “Sit, boy,” he ordered, and then, one by one, he put each of his slippers onto his wide, beefy, tights encased feet. It was now my job to clean the dust and dirt off of the leather slippers. He leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out, and snapped his fingers at me. I immediately crawled to his feet and began to lick and suck as best I could. They tasted of leather and dust and sweat and I felt pure joy as he would groan quietly as I ran my tongue over the impression his toes made through the slippers. I shuddered with excitement to be at the feet of this masculine man in slippers, tights, dance belt and leotard, where I belonged.

After a few minutes of licking, he said “Off,” which I knew meant to pull one of his slippers off one foot at a time. I gently put the heel of the slipper between my teeth and pulled it off. He rubbed his moist, tights encased foot over my face and shoved his toes into my mouth, where I began to suck the sweat out. It tasted of sweat…of salt…of stink…of male. My life, as a servant, a dog, to this ballet-god, made me thank my creator. I swelled up in my skin-tight suit and gave thanks.

What would happen next, I wondered…"