LUDOVICA LUXURY -DOGGIES BREAKFAST

LUDOVICA LUXURY -DOGGIES BREAKFAST

I sit comfortably on the BDSM bed, a throne of black padded leather dominating the room, the mattress creaking faintly under my weight as I adjust the glossy black latex sheets, cool and slick against my skin. Beneath the bed, the black metal cage waits silently, its lattice of bars reflecting the dim light from the bedside lamp. It’s time to let my little captive out for some air—or rather, it’s feeding time too. He’s locked in there for at least six hours now, his body likely stiff, though his obedience remains unshaken. He wears a chastity belt, a steel contraption keeping him in check for two weeks straight, and I have no plans to remove it today. Still, I feed him, in my own way. With a slow motion, I lean down and unlatch the cage door, the sound of the bolt breaking the room’s stillness. “Come out,” I say, my voice soft but edged with command, tapping my fingers on the bed’s edge. He emerges, a bit stiff, crawling out carefully, his eyes adjusting to the light after hours in the shadows. The chastity belt glints faintly under the lamp, a constant reminder of his condition, but there’s no time to dwell on that—his air break is short, and I already have his meal in mind. I stand, my tight dress rustling against my thighs, and grab a handful of kibble from a box on the nightstand—small, dry pellets perfect for my game. With a sly grin, I drop the kibble onto the grey tiles of the floor, the sound of the pieces bouncing like a light rain echoing through the room. Then, with my shoes—shiny black décolleté with sharp heels—I start crushing them, pressing down deliberately, the crunch under my soles mingling with my amused breath. Crumbled bits scatter across the tiles, a carpet of crumbs I prepare just for him. But it needs more. I pause, lift a leg with grace, and let a copious stream of pee flow, a warm, golden cascade that soaks the crushed kibble, turning it into a wet, sticky mash. The grey tiles shimmer under the light, and the sharp scent mixes with the wax of the candles burning on the nightstand. “There,” I say, lowering my foot and rubbing the sole of my shoe into the mess, “your meal’s ready. Eat it off my shoe.” He edges closer, his face betraying a mix of resignation and anticipation, and begins licking from the sole of my décolleté, his tongue sliding over the mash seasoned with pee and crumbs—a slow, humbling act that makes me chuckle softly. “Hurry up,” I warn, tapping the other shoe on the tiles, “your air break’s almost over, and I’ve got things to do.” He picks up the pace, obedient, trying to clean every trace from the glossy sole, while I watch from above, pleased with his effort. Time ticks on, and once I’m sure he’s done, I point to the cage with a nod. “Back inside,” I say, my voice firm, and he crawls back into his small metal haven, the door shutting with a decisive click. I straighten up, adjusting my dress, and cast a final glance at the cage beneath the bed, a satisfied smirk on my lips. He stays there, locked in his chastity belt, while I step out into the night, free to handle my affairs, knowing my captive has had his ration—a humiliating meal straight from the sole of my shoe, a memory to tide him over until I return.