Rx for Submission

The fine day I realized My full power and dominance over men is a day I treasure, and one you shall no doubt enjoy reading about.
 
I am a registered nurse, employed as an office manager for a very well-regarded urologist, a doctor considered to be at the top of his field. Although his medical knowledge and skills are first-rate, it was an unfortunate fact that his treatment of his nursing staff was deplorable! By the time I went to work for this doctor, I had several years of clinical nursing experience under my belt (more about my belt later, pet), and he hired me because of my knowledge, intelligence, and supervisory capability. He needed someone to take over the office and get it running like a well-greased machine, stat. 
 
I quickly ascertained the reason why things had gone awry in the office, as evidenced by the low morale and frequent sick days: this doctor's attitude needed some major adjusting! The doctor was a squat, salt-and-pepper-haired man in his early fifties, complete with spare tire, love handles, and double chin . . . but despite his homely exterior, he had a huge ego, one that required some serious deflating. He ordered the nurses around in a gruff manner without addressing them by name, never saying please or thank you, yelling at them frequently for not working fast enough or for any other perceived lapses he saw fit. Many a time during my first week I would happen upon a young nurse in a corner or empty exam room, red-faced and crying softly as a result of his condescending treatment. He manifested all the classic symptoms of a God complex, which, left untreated, had run amok. I knew I had to remedy this situation immediately, and I needed to devise an appropriate therapy plan. 
 
I had noticed something rather curious about the good doctor. Whenever I went into his big, traditionally appointed office—which featured a huge mahogany desk, oversized leather chair, and hundreds of scientific tomes neatly tucked into built-in bookshelves—the doctor behaved in the strangest manner. He continually stared at my shoes! He seemed mesmerized by them. Being the office manager, I did not wear a traditional nurses' uniform. My daily garb consisted of a well-tailored starched white lab coat with a badge bearing my name and title; a tasteful blouse; a snug, just-above-the-knee pencil skirt in black or navy blue; and black nylons—which, unbeknownst to anyone but me, were thigh-high and held in place with a garter belt. They were pure nylon, silky to the touch, and sometimes bunched ever so slightly at the ankles as pure nylon stockings are apt to do, only adding to their allure. Finishing off my outfit was my shoe of preference: black high-heeled pumps with a low vamp exposing a bit of toe cleavage. My long chestnut locks were pulled into a loose upsweep, showcasing my porcelain complexion and feline green eyes.
 
The staff had left for the day after seeing our usual caseload: those poor men requiring Viagra for their perpetually flaccid penises; a steady supply of patients due for digital prostate examinations; and those unhappy campers in need of urethral catheterization. The doctor sat at his big desk, completing his case notes, and I knew this was the time to confront him and administer the cure. I strode confidently into his office, nylons whooshing as my legs moved, high heels clicking authoritatively on the floor. I closed and locked the heavy wooden door behind me. 
 
"Doctor, we need to talk," I stated. Staring at my shoes, he nodded. "I find your condescending and rude manner with our staff to be unacceptable." He looked up at me, surprised. "I want you to tell me something, Doctor. Why is it that you are so interested in my shoes?"
 
"I don't know what you mean," he stammered, looking a bit flustered, which was quite uncharacteristic for him.
 
"I believe you do know what I mean. And I want an answer now." He cleared his throat nervously several times, unable to reply. "You like my shoes, don't you? Tell me the truth, now!" 
 
"Yes, Lauren, I do like your shoes, very much," he practically whispered, his head hanging in abject embarrassment. I knew I had the upper hand! And I was going to bring this MD down.
 
I pulled up my skirt the slightest bit, allowing me the leeway to put one pump-clad foot on his desk. He immediately took the bait, reaching for my shoe. "Not so fast!" I yelled. "We're going to change things around here a bit. Get out of your chair." He stood up, and I immediately took his place in the large leather chair. "Get on your knees," I ordered, and he quickly complied. What a sight it was, indeed, to see this seemingly powerful bastard kneeling in front of me! "Would you like to touch my shoes?" I asked. He nodded vigorously. "I just might let you . . . but first we have to establish some rules here." He nodded again in agreement, and I continued, "You shall call me 'Mistress Lauren' from now on, do you understand? Let me hear it!"
 
"Yes, Mistress Lauren," he squeaked.
 
"Louder!" I ordered.
 
"Yes, Mistress Lauren!" That was much better.
 
"You're not the big boss anymore, are you? You're not the one in charge here. Look at you, on your knees, kneeling at my feet!" He blushed crimson, and his breathing was becoming heavy and irregular.
 
"No, Mistress Lauren, I'm not the big boss!" he answered.
 
"Now, you will do as I say. I want you to stand up and strip naked. Except for your socks and your tie. I intend to lead you around by that tie, using it as a leash, while you crawl pathetically after my shoes, do you understand?"
 
"Yes, Mistress." He had become putty in my strong, feminine hands. He stood before me, shamed, and stripped dutifully, leaving on his socks and tie.
 
"Back on your knees," I commanded. He dropped to his knees with urgency. He looked pathetic in his ridiculous get-up, with his pale, flabby, bulbous naked body and a smaller-than-average erection throbbing relentlessly beneath his spare tire. "What's that!" I yelled. I reached out and smacked his hard cock several times. I could see him becoming more compliant as he winced from the sting of my sharp slaps. "You will, from this point on, treat your staff with the utmost respect. You will give them all a large raise. You will give me an even larger raise . . . and a tidy bonus today and every Friday, do you understand?"
 
"Yes, Mistress, I understand! I'll do anything, but please, please let me touch and kiss your beautiful shoes and your beautiful feet!"
 
"Not yet! To prove your submission to me, I'm going to take you for a little walk." I had him get down on all fours, and I grabbed the end of his tie. I pulled him along, leading him around his desk several times, walking faster, listening to him grunting and breathing hard to keep up with my clicking heels, as I observed his complete and utter submission to me. I was in the zone, and I knew right then and there that this is what I was always meant to be—dominant, commanding, and controlling, demanding complete respect and submission! From that moment forward, I would accept nothing less.
 
Finally I sat back in his chair, crossed my legs, and dangled one gorgeous foot in front of his pathetic face. "You've been a good boy, and now you shall get your reward. Lick my shoe clean!" 
 
He proceeded to lick and slurp and kiss my shoe, with a garbled "Thank you, Mistress" punctuating his submission. When I decided he was finished, I rose to leave, telling him that only after I was gone was he free to relieve himself, provided he remain on his knees while doing so. I exited, closing the door behind me with a definitive click. Standing in the hallway, I listened with my ear pressed to the door and heard the sounds of his frantic masturbation and his grunts and moans when he climaxed.
 
To prevent relapse, we repeat this scenario each Friday afternoon. Everyone on staff enjoys complete respect and large paychecks.
 
As for me, since this transpired, I have built up a nice little collection of slaves—in addition to an enviable collection of designer heels, courtesy of my weekly bonuses.
 
 




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