Girlfriend By The Hour

Girlfriend By The Hour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.


When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Chapter6 (v.1) - The Puppy

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 17, 2015

Reads: 1586

Comments: 4

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 17, 2015



Andre didn’t remember the train being this gross. Then again, the last time he rode it was probably his freshman year of college, when he was less sensitive to the scent of urine—or the sight of a man relieving himself of it in the corner behind the baggage compartment. Andre’s instincts told him to hide Imogen from it, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

She was too busy holding her knees up to her chest, rocking slightly and exposing her panties to everyone on the train except Andre. She didn’t seem to care about that, either. The girl was attractive enough, and it was refreshing being out with a woman who could hold her own in conversation, but the balance between the effort and reward was tenuous.

“Is she crying? Hyperventilating? Is she sweating a lot?” On the other end of Imogen’s phone, Sal sounded like she was reading from a list of symptoms. She’d been through this before.

“No, just rocking. Will she be okay in a limo, do you think?”

“Ask her. Wait, is she not talking?”

“I feel sick,” Imogen groaned in a breathless voice that was less sexy, more about-to-vomit.

Andre rubbed her back. She’d removed the shawl so she could bury her face in it, only to toss it on the floor of the train. Andre had every intention of leaving it and buying her a new one, but for now he was appreciating the ripple of well-shaped muscles beneath her soft, freckled skin. Again he found himself fighting off an unbidden fantasy, this time involving candle wax.

His brain attempting to bolster the reward, which did nothing except irritate him.

“Maybe you should put your head between your legs,” he suggested.

She did so, letting her skirt pool around her waist and between her thighs. The freckles didn’t extend that far; no, this skin was smooth, firm, marked by a smattering of pin-prick moles.

“I’m gonna have my driver come get us from North Springs,” he told Sal as he glanced out the window at nothing. “Take her to my place and get her home tomorrow when the roads are clear. I’m not sitting on a bus for two hours.”

“You don’t need to stay with me,” Imogen protested weakly.

“I do. My home is staffed and you’ll have a private suite. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Let me talk to her,” Sal said.

He held the phone up to Imogen’s ear. Their conversation involved a lot of Imogen assuring Sal she’d be fine, even a promise that she would log on tonight so they could take down Polexia.

When she ended the call, Andre felt better. He told himself it was because he could give her all kinds of insider advice about the notoriously difficult Polexia fight. It might have been because no I-love-yous were exchanged.


The embarrassment set in once they were inside the limo. Branson, a surprisingly small and thoroughly Irish-looking fellow, was kind enough to keep the privacy screen up so only Andre had to witness her shame.

“I’m sorry, you must think I’m crazy,” she said after taking a cautious sip of ginger ale. She clutched the glass between her hands and stared at the soda sloshing with the motion of the vehicle.

Andre lifted his own glass to his lips. He’d poured the whiskey quite generously, but he was nursing it. If Imogen wasn’t still nauseous, it would be hard to resist snatching it from him and tossing the full four fingers down her throat.

“I have three sisters. I’m pretty sure all women are crazy.”

“Three? That must have been rough growing up.”

Lightning flashed outside, but the thunder was muffled by the limo’s insulation. Andre rubbed Imogen’s back mindlessly while she pretended it was headlights.

“Nah, they’re great. You’ll meet them at Thanksgiving.”

Imogen peeked up at him through her eyelashes, unable to lift her head fully. “Will I?”

“It’s part of the contract. You agreed to visit them on the next major holiday.”

“I just meant…this was another interview, right? And I don’t think I exactly shone tonight.”

He laughed lightly. “I like you, Imogen. You’ve got some quirks you need to let me in on so we don’t have any more disasters, but you’re easy to talk to and genuine.”

That couldn’t be further from the truth, but Imogen wasn’t about to call herself out on it. “I thought you didn’t like chatty women.”

“Most of the women I take out are profoundly stupid. A silent companion is a companion who won’t embarrass me. I’d like you to be less argumentative—don’t forget I’m your boss—but a bit of conversation isn’t horrible.”

Her boss. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Yes, hearing that made her feel better. Things had gotten a little too personal a couple times tonight. She’d forgotten she was an actress in Andre’s life. Friends would be nice, but nothing more. She exhaled and said, “I’m allergic to penicillin.”


“Things you should know about me. I’m vegetarian, I’m afraid of lightning—and crickets. Grasshoppers, praying mantises, that sort of thing. And I’m allergic to penicillin. Mmm, no roses. I mean, I don’t expect you to buy me flowers, but if you do, no roses. They smell like soap.”


Imogen shifted. “That’s it. Oh, no horror films.”

Andre smirked. “Continue.”

Imogen huffed out her next breath. “I’m done. I can’t touch cotton balls or corn starch. Now I’m done. How about you?”

Andre sipped again at his whiskey. “You know everything you need to know,” he said, his tone short and absent. Bored. Then he considered his drink for a moment before finishing it off. “My household is…unorthodox. Fair warning.”

Imogen wasn’t sure how to translate that. She didn’t think he referred to the actual structure, although she found it to be surprisingly quaint. Regal, certainly, but the brick façade, white porch, and man-made pond with one of those silly swan-shaped paddleboats was kitchy and unassuming. Also kitchy was the cherub fountain Branson navigated around before parking in front of the porch and running around with an umbrella to protect Imogen from the elements.

Andre led her into a high ceilinged foyer but didn’t stop to point out the enormous chandelier or the rooms branching off. He continued down a narrow hallway as he bellowed, “Tina! Tina, where are you?”

Seconds later, a petite woman with skin darker than Andre’s and braids in canary yellow popped out from a branching hallway. She was flushed from exertion but looked happy enough. “Hey boss!” she peeped in a child’s voice, though Imogen guessed her to be in her 30s. “Perfect timing, suite’s all set!” She plowed forward, wiping her hand on her charcoal pant leg before extending it to Imogen. “Hey, Tina.”

Imogen accepted the hand and returned the firm shake. “I’m Imogen. Are you…?” she started to ask before stopping herself. She wasn’t sure if maid was an offensive term, and it definitely would be if she wasn’t.

“No, I’m his housekeeper,” Tina replied.

Imogen wondered what Tina thought she was about to say, but decided against asking.

“You’ll show Ms. Zelenka to her suite,” Andre said gruffly. “Whatever she needs, you’ll provide. Do you understand?”

His tone seemed too harsh for the occasion, but Tina just giggled and rolled her eyes. “Well look who’s in a mood tonight,” she teased. “I’ll take care of Ms. Zelenka—“ which she said with another glance up to the ceiling, “—Amanda will take care of you.”

Andre gave Imogen the briefest of nods, making it clear she was to stay with Tina. Without a word, he walked off down the hall.

Imogen looked between his departing figure and Tina’s wide smile anxiously. “Umm, who’s Amanda?” she asked, unsure of what else to say.

There was far too much devilment in Tina’s smirk. “Amanda’s…Amanda. You hungry? I can make you…an egg sandwich? A salad? A drink?”

Imogen shook her head. How this woman already knew her diet baffled Imogen, and the evening had drained her of any late night appetite.

Tina tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Oh! Want me to off-tank your Polexia run? Midas just cloned my warrior to King’s Cross, and your friend set your raid to start in a half hour.”


The tail and mittens were on the toy chest, in clear view for Andre when he walked into Hell. Amanda had a plan for tonight, which was more than Andre could say. He needed her now, this was a definite, but on the walk to the room he hadn't come up with a single scenario that suited his mood.

Amanda was less patient than usual, squirming so much during the tying of her harness Andre had to reknot it twice before he was satisfied. She drummed her fingers anxiously on Andre's shoulder while he strapped the knee pads onto her and didn't stop until he slid her hands into the soft leather mitts. She dropped down onto all fours immediately upon his request, but her toes thumped a rapid cadence on the cold slate floor until he snatched up her ankles and bound them to her thighs.

And then she was all energy, circling around Andre, sniffing at his pant legs, even nipping at his ankles.
"Are you deliberately testing my patience?"

She paced back around to face him, frowning but playfully so. "It's been ages since I got to be the puppy. I was excited."

"Quiet, or I'll muzzle you." It wasn't a hard limit, but Amanda preferred not to have anything over her nose. Andre liked the aesthetics of a good muzzle, but he didn't mind forgoing it. This was more her game than his.

She pursed her lips tightly to show she could be quiet without it being forced.

"Good dog," Andre said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gummy fish from the bag he hid there.

Amanda wiggled her butt, causing her tail to wag in excitement, and ate the fish out of his palm.

"Now sit," he commanded.

Amanda didn't hesitate in plopping her butt down on the cold floor even though she winced.

A familiar calm brushed lightly down Andre's back. Amanda was absolutely his, even when it brought her discomfort. She trusted him enough to obey blindly, and he could see the reward for this trust in the way her hip shifted slightly. It wasn't the cold that made her wince, it was the pressure from the anal plug when she sat on it.

Andre petted her hair, and this was his reward. Puppy play was safe enough for Amanda's hair to stay down, and he could bury his fingers in those ebony curls all day.

Amanda rolled her head into his touch, and they stayed like this for several long seconds. The whisper of the tail fur as it brushed slowly against the slate. The almond of her shampoo wafting in the air. The heat between them. The bliss of that perfect moment.

"Stand," Andre commanded.

Amanda understood. This wasn't Heaven, it was far too soon to slip from their roles. She lifted her butt back into the air and gazed up at him expectantly.

"Ready to practice your tricks?"

She nudged her nose at his pocket.

"No, no. Tricks first." He held his hand out. "Shake."

She set one of her mitts in his palm.

"Excellent. Now lay down." When he was satisfied that she was as prone as she could manage in the binds, he said, "Roll over."

This was a bit more challenging, but she wanted that Swedish Fish. She shimmied onto her side, then back. The armature giving her tail a proper curve interfered then, swirling the plug inside her.

A smile crawled across Andre's lips as she paused there on her back, her muscles flexing beneath her tanned skin as she struggled against the sensation. He was glad he had taken the time to knot the ropes properly at her sternum, carefully crossing the ends between her breasts and around her back, drawing them down and through her thighs to catch her ankles. One perfect, unbroken chain. It might have been nothing more than aesthetics, but what else was there in life?

And then Amanda was on her side and then her knees again, eying his pocket.

"One more. Play dead."

Amanda's wicked grin told him she'd prepared for this. She brought her mitted hands to her chest and recited, "Oh, I die, Horatio. The potent poison quite o'ercrows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England. But I do prophesy the election lights on Fortenbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with th' occurents, more or less, which have solicited. The rest is silence!" Then she groaned and fell to her side, motionless.

"You little bitch," Andre said, laughing. "Get up, have your treat."

She did so, snatching it from his hand and shaking it until he rolled a rubber ball across the floor for her to fetch and return. It made her happy, so he went along with it until she'd worked up a flush and a heavy breath, then he commanded her to heel.

She immediately returned to his feet and brought her head down to her paws in full submission. They’d played this game enough that whole volumes were spoken in her actions. She was ready for petting.

“Mmm, you’re such a good girl,” Andre murmured as he sat down and patted his thighs. “Come on, puppy.”

She obediently curled up in his lap, resting her head on his leg and hugging her paws into her chest while he stroked her side. The sound she made when he squeezed her hip was more of a purr than anything a dog would make, but that was okay. Andre brought his fingers up to her forehead and the bridge of her nose, his touch feather light. The way she wriggled seemed innocent, but of course it was all a game. The rolling of her shoulder against his crotch was absolutely deliberate.

“No, no, I want you to beg for it.”

She jumped up, pushing her paws against his shoulder and unabashedly licking his neck.


Amanda backed off with a whimper, dropping her head back down to her paws. She knew what she was doing. She hadn't begged, but she'd played exactly how a puppy would. Her disobedience was perfectly choreographed to arouse Andre without irritating him, just like it always was. She was his perfect match in here.

Except there was something lacking, something that had been for a while even if he just now realized it. He couldn't quite identify what it was, and while she waited, unflinching but eager for his next command, he considered it.

A wig, he thought, which was peculiar because he usually favored her curly black hair. For some reason he wanted it to be lighter and straighter, just a hint of a wave. And her deep brown eyes, begging him silently to continue, what if they were softer? A paler shade, pushing toward blue but hovering in the grayscale?

No, no. That would be far too innocent for this room. He needed this intensity. It would be crazy to even think of changing her. She really was perfect.

Andre cleared his throat and said, "Present."

Always the expert, Amanda spun around deftly, dropped her head and chest down, and lifted her tail into the air. Despite the binds keeping her ankles tethered to her thighs, she balanced effortlessly on her knees, wiggling in excitement as she displayed herself.

Yes, this was exactly what he needed. Someone who knew her place in this room. Someone who relished in her exposure. Someone who could stand up to his most scrutinizing examination without discomfort.

He guided her knees into a wider stance, spreading her lips to reveal her damp, aroused core. With the lightest flick of his thumb upon her swollen clit, she reared back for him.

"What's this?" he mused. "Why, puppy's all wet. What did puppy get into?" He dragged his thumb up and slid it inside her, pushing the nail down against the thick, fleshy wall. She tightened, clenching firmly around his digit, so he pressed back against it.

Amanda's head rolled into her mitted hands, stifling her gasp. She rocked on her knees, begging Andre to fuck her if only with his thumb. She was ready for a release.

He didn't usually go too far in puppy play—it didn't interest him like other games did—but the burning he'd felt when entering Hell had only intensified. The rest of the scenario played out in his mind, his first clear path. He'd been playing off her actions, but now he drew the line forward.

She would have her release, but she wouldn't have her freedom. No, Amanda had endless stamina, and he would test that tonight. But first, her release.

He dragged his thumb back out slowly but roughly, hooking against her rim and pulling her closer. "Puppy's all dirty. Maybe she needs a bath."

And so he gave her one, lathing his tongue around her clit and lapping up her juices, reveling in her earnest pleas as he deliberately brought her to the edge repeatedly before shifting his focus on a new spot. She could no longer control her motions, so Andre grabbed her hips firmly, causing the tail to whack his forehead.

"This fucking thing," he growled, yanking it out of her and eliciting a loud squeal from Amanda. His mouth was back on her pussy before a drop of her eruption could be spilt.

"Oh God, Andre, oh God!" she screamed before her words dissolved into meaningless garbles. As she peaked, her hips struggled forward, attempting to escape from his wicked tongue, but that wasn't about to happen.

No, what was about to happen was something Andre didn't think they'd ever done before. It wasn't his style. But he couldn't shake the image of dirty blonde waves and stormy eyes, and it drove within him a desire for them to lose control together.

So he hooked his arms around her thighs, drawing her back with him as he laid down on the cold floor. She reared up, keeping her hot, flooding pussy at his mouth and anchoring her paws on his chest.

But that wouldn't do at all. He lifted her up enough to say, "I have a bone for you to bury.”

She glanced at his face, then at his pants, then back to his face. On the return, her expression morphed from confusion to the weird, gray area between pleasure and irritation. It was rare for him to get an erection in Hell. He took as much pride in controlling himself as he did in controlling his sub, but he’d been running hot all night.


Amanda bent over and, using a combination of her mitted hands and careful teeth, freed him. She ran her tongue up the length of his shaft slowly, excruciatingly, and licked clean the dew rising from the head before wrapping her lips around him.

And then, disaster.

© Copyright 2018 chloecomplains. All rights reserved.


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