devozki

When I was done cleaning the floor, I quickly finished the few dishes that were left, being careful not to adjust my panties since you hadn’t instructed me otherwise. I spread my legs just wide enough to keep them from falling down further, moving carefully as I rinsed dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher.

From behind me, I heard the distinct click of your camera phone. As soon as I looked over my shoulder, you grinned and snapped another photo.

“Keep up the good work, dirty girl. And when you finish the dishes, you can fix your panties before moving on to your next task on the escort index.”

“Thank you, boss,” I felt my cheeks flush pink as you took two more pictures of me in my exposed, vulnerable state.

After you left the room, I finished loading the dishes and started the dishwasher. Only then, per your instructions, did I pull my tiny panties back up over my ass.

Dusting was after vacuuming and mopping on the list, but I knew you preferred that I do them in the opposite order, so I’d be sure to clean up the dust that fell onto the floor. I dug the feather duster out of the closet, and took the matching, miniscule French maid’s apron off its hook.

Every time I dusted the house, you required me to wear the barely-there smock, as a reminder that I performed all of my domestic duties for you, in order to maintain the clean and tidy home that you demanded and that we both deserved. It came with a thin, black ribbon that I fastened around my neck, completing the look while also emphasizing my submission to you.

I tracked you down and asked if you’d like me to put on the strappy black heels that you sometimes preferred me to wear with my dusting outfit. You said that wouldn’t be necessary, so I went about the house in my bare feet, carefully dusting every surface.

As I put the duster away and hung up my tiny apron – checking carefully to make sure none of the marker had rubbed off on the fabric – you passed by and told me to leave the ribbon choker around my neck. It always gave me an extra thrill to tend to my work while wearing it… like a pet collared by her owner, it made me feel safe and secure. It marked me with a symbol of your dominion over me, and I loved how protected and sexy I felt as a result.

A little while later, I’d finished vacuuming and was almost done with the mopping portion of my chores. I worked in our bedroom, pushing the little water jet back and forth across the floor. From the doorway, I heard you say my name, and a tingle of anticipation ran through me. You had a very particular way of saying my name when I was in trouble, and your voice held that timbre now. I looked up at you, feeling the bizarre but familiar sensation of nervousness blended with excitement.

“Yes, boss?” I asked.

“You have an audience,” you said, and glanced toward our large, sliding glass doors.

This was the one room in the house where people could see in, as the wall around our house dipped low enough for anyone to see over it. I whirled around to see a couple of young teenage boys peeking over the top, devouring the view of my nearly naked body with pubescent candor.

As soon as you marched over to close the curtains, they panicked, dipping out of sight.

With the curtains now closed, you turned to me with a look of disappointment and sighed.

“What have I always told you about cleaning in here?” you asked.

“C-close the curtains first,” I stammered.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been ogled by neighborhood punks, and I wasn’t sure what would upset you more… other people coveting my scantily clad body, or having to teach me the same lesson more than once.

“Close the curtains,” you repeated. “Are you almost done with your chores?”

“Yes. Yes, boss,” I corrected myself. “The only thing I have left is folding the laundry.”

You smirked then, far more devilish than amused.

“Good. When you’re done mopping in here, I want you to take a shower,” you spoke with the calm sternness that made it clear you were leading up to my penance. “Clean yourself very thoroughly. I’ll lay out something clean for you to wear when you’re done. Once you’re dressed, you can fold the laundry. And I want you to iron all the lines, and all of my dress shirts.”

Without thinking, I pouted. I hated ironing, and you knew it.

Crossing to me, you slid your hand into my hair a grabbed, hard, tilting my face to look up at you.

“Is that a problem?” you asked.

“N-no… no, boss,” I answered.

Your other hand slipped between my legs, where you pulled my panties to the side and started stroking me… not on my clit, but so, so close… I moaned and squirmed under your touch, held firmly in place by your grip on my hair.

“Good,” you said. “I don’t want to hear any complaints out of you, my naughty girl. All I want to hear is how happy you are to iron for me, like an obedient, agreeable little servant.”

“I… I w-would love to i-iron for you… b-boss… ohhh, god…” I instinctively tried to shift my hips, to move your finger onto my clit, but you just chuckled and shook your head.

“Not a chance, my little tart. You don’t get any treats if you can’t follow simple directions. This fun is all for me,” you teased. “Pull your bra down, show me those perky little nipples of yours.”

I immediately did as I was told, and exposing my breasts made my nipples obediently stand at attention for you. Then you leaned close to them, the warm air of your breath making me arch my back toward you, but you kept your mouth just out of reach.

With laughter in your voice, you taunted me.

“Mmm, I bet you would love for me to lick your nipples right now… and nibble on them… you want me to pinch them and play with them, don’t you?”

“Oh, god, y-yes… yes, please, boss… I want that so badly… p-please…” I panted and stuttered, your fingers still tormenting me by stroking everywhere but my clit, your provoking words making my nipples ache with longing…

“And what will you do for me?” you asked.

“Any… anything…” I promised.

“That’s right,” you replied, and abruptly released your hold on me. “And you can start by cleaning yourself up and ironing my shirts.”

Catching my breath, I had to repress the urge to huff and pout like a petulant child, lest I get myself into even worse trouble. Instead, I chewed my lip and lowered my lashes.

“Yes, boss,” I said compliantly.

At the doorway, you turned back to me with a wink. “Don’t forget the starch.”