Chapter 8 #2
She stood and walked out on unsteady legs, her waist tiny and her ass forced into the perfect tilt by the four-inch heels.
I watched her leave with my hand pressed over my rock-hard cock, rubbing it slowly over my jeans.
And I made a mental note to buy some taller locking heels. She was handling these with ease, so it was time to challenge her. Plus, fuck, those legs and that ass were going to look even sexier when I forced her feet into the brutality of five-inch heels.
- - - ? - - -
Storm
The plug felt fucking enormous inside me, and every step made it shift and move, which sent spasms all through the over-stretched, burning muscles trying not to clench around it.
There was no doubt I was fully subjugated and conquered though, with my owner’s willpower holding me wide open and cramming my ass full.
And the cincher was… fuck, so damned tight. I had to work hard to breathe while I carefully made my way downstairs and across the house to the laundry room, read through his bulleted list, and started on his clothes.
I’d missed the routine of cleaning, and yet I was frustrated that he was using up our last day by making me do fucking laundry.
But once I started folding everything the way he prefers, it all came back. I liked the idea that his clothes would be clean and folded when he arrived home, so he only needed to place them in his closet.
And working with the cincher keeping my posture so damned rigid, the heels straining my feet and calves, and fuck, I felt the plug every second of every minute — it all worked together to turn laundry into motherfucking foreplay.
So I methodically folded every shirt with precision exactly the way he demands. It took longer without his plastic device, but I managed it.
I was more careful hanging my own clothes than normal, making sure they were perfectly balanced and hanging exactly straight.
I made my way through the rest of his list, and it took me five trips to get everything upstairs. I was super careful about folding his clothes into his suitcase, my asshole throbbing around the plug while I was forced to take shallow breaths.
And then came having to change the sheets on my bed on fucking stilettos.
The plug shifted hard enough when I leaned across the mattress to dislodge a corner, and I had to stop and brace myself while tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.
I blinked them back and kept going, stripping the bedding, replacing with clean, and then taking everything downstairs and starting the washer.
Next on his list was dusting.
Everything.
I moved through the entire house on those heels, the heavy plug making every bend and reach an exercise in control.
My calves were screaming within the first hour.
By the second hour, the balls of my feet felt bruised.
The pain should’ve been pure misery, but it fed straight into the heat between my legs until my clit throbbed in time with every step.
I dusted my own house more carefully than I ever had.
Every surface, every baseboard, and I found myself happy I’ve never been a knickknack collector.
I could feel him watching sometimes, could sense him in the doorway or across the room, and the knowledge only made me want him to dominate me even more.
I double-checked every room before I moved onto the next, but I was still tempted to go back through for a final check when I finally finished the last room. I didn’t though.
I merely walked into the living room, where he was doing something on his phone while a movie played, and went into wall pose. The final instruction on his list.
I stood there for several long minutes, my legs trembling, the cincher squeezing so tight I had to work to breathe, and the damned plug holding me open and reminding me how empty my pussy was.
My feet and calves burned like they’d been set on fire, and somehow that burn had become the same heat pulsing between my legs.
I stood, propped on the wall with my ass poked out at him, and waited.
Eventually, he stood and walked the house slowly. I could hear his footsteps over my head, coming down the steps. The longer it took, the more I wished I’d gone back through the house to double-check myself.
When he finally came into the living room, I heard him walking around the room. Heard him lift something and put it down. Then something else. My legs were shaking. The plug felt heavier than it had all afternoon.
Eventually, he said, “I put potatoes in the oven earlier. Fix the steaks we moved into the fridge yesterday, make some salads, and set the table with everything we’ll want on our potatoes.”
I once again had to fight the cincher, and since I don’t own an apron to ask permission to wear, I just had to be extra careful. Frying steaks directly under your boobs makes you very aware of every second of your enforced nudity. Fuck.
And my feet and calves fucking hurt. I wasn’t used to spending hours in them while cleaning the damned house anymore.
But then I castigated myself for all the internal bitching. If he’d had me doing it without them, I’d have been even more upset.
By the time the steaks were resting and the salads were plated, the insistent throb between my legs was much too loud to ignore, but it settled some once I sat.
Eating in the cincher always feels wrong, but I’ve learned how to manage it.
We had a pleasant meal, with him asking me about my schedule in the coming week, frowning when I told him I’d be leaving for Virginia in two days to meet with local law enforcement, first on the scene.
The local DA was trying to find things he could prosecute for, and he wanted the officers to talk to me.
He asked if I’d run it by my attorney, I assured him I had, and he relaxed. “Okay then, you just need to make sure you don’t say anything about being there.”
“Or about the people involved. Yes, Sir, I know. The object on my end is to get them to talk, not for me to talk. The attorney has okayed all the questions I plan to ask, and I’ll be careful about any I come up with on the fly.
” I shrugged. “I know their objective is to get me to talk, and I know what I can and can’t tell them. Sir.”
He nodded. “You’ll be fine. You’re smart.”
When we finished eating, he wiped everything down while I handled the dishes.
I could see him while I worked, and I was tempted to tell him I’m not as particular about getting every last smudge and watermark, but I didn’t.
He is, and I honestly can’t say if I love him in spite of that quirk, or possibly partly because of it.
While I worked, the discomfort and pain of my cincher, shoes, and plug once again worked to bring me to near the boiling point, but I did my best to ignore my empty pussy, throbbing clit, and the way my nipples felt on the end of my tits, craving touch.
My final task was to take the cast-iron pot off the hot eye, add a little more oil, and put it away. I store it in the oven, so it doesn’t matter if it’s cool or not when it goes in.
I wasn’t sure what to do with myself while he Windexed the front of the oven I’d just closed, so I stood with my arms at my sides, staring at his feet, and tried not to shift my weight back and forth on my burning, aching feet.
While he was putting the Windex away, he quietly said, “Bend over the low part of your island, slave.”