I have been granted a break from my slave task of scrubbing the kitchen floor. Apparently this wasn’t just Kevin’s fetish.
“I want you skirted,” Amanda said this morning after coffee. “And in heels.” Her dressing orders are to be taken literally and exactly, and so, since she didn’t mention a top, my breasts are once again in the public domain, kissing the floor as I, on my hands and knees, clean.
Which is why at the moment, as I type, my tits sport a smear of wet suds from the cleaning pail. Amanda likes the look. Cleaning-woman-slut. My identity is now always hyphenated.
She is not going into the office today, but has a meeting this afternoon with a new client. She may take me to that, and if so, she will, I trust, have me “skirted,” her new favorite word for dressing her Barbie. And I also trust she’ll allow me to wear a top. She keeps saying, always with a smirk, “They need to breathe, Shae.” And I say, “They don’t need to breathe in front of Mr. Jackson and his colleagues,” or whoever the business appointment is with.
Doing floors, as I’ve said before, is a chore I actually like. It gives me some sort of satisfaction to be at floor level and scrub away the dirt and grime, although the floors are never that dirty ever because, well, because I scrub them often. Perhaps it’s the experience of making life a little cleaner, or some spiritual joy of digging out the crud from the crevices of our existence.
Or maybe I just like doing the floors.
It is another level of something to be serving an object — the kitchen floor — while being used as a sexual object of observation and pleasure. In this, Amanda likes to watch.
My skirt is short, and there’s no practical way I can be hands-and-knees and cover myself behind. I have long since disregarded that as a problem worth attending to, and Amanda, as well previously Kevin, have seemed to enjoy my seeming lack of self-awareness and accidental revelation. Since I give my skirtedness no mind and can’t do much about my breasts flopping where they damn wish to, the one annoyance is my high heels. They are awkward to wear, whether I’m on the floor or in bed, which Kevin now seems to like from his new companion-cum-escort.
I may be the only woman in the world who has a special pair of high heels to scrub floors in. But it’s a distinction I don’t necessarily value.
In any case, Amanda is as much a voyeur as anyone else, I guess, sipping coffee in the living room while I scrub in the kitchen, but having a remarkably frequent need to refill her coffee from the pot at kitchen’s entrance. And there she pretends to fuss with her coffee, mostly just watching me, my pussy peeking from behind and my breasts bouncing as I press the sudsy brush back and forth in some sort of carnal rhythm.
I think she doesn’t want to appear so leering, so gratuitous and prurient. She is, after all, a domme of sophistication and elegance. But here she’s ogling me at a peepshow.
On one of her “coffeebreaks,” without turning toward her, I say mid-scrub, “If you want to watch….” I trail off, without finishing. I say it without tone or sass. But it is me trying to be clever. I want to add, “Just pull up a chair,” but I have learned a lesson from last week.
She huffs, then says, “Are you making to give me permission for something?”
“I wouldn’t dare do that, Mistress.”
“Good,” she says, walking away.
Well, my break is over. I still have the pantry floor to do.
Truth is, I like her watching me.