I will phone to check on your progress at one or more points throughout the day.
I expect you will not disappoint me, slave.
Sir."
My breath catches in my throat as I finish reading his instructions and pick up the feather duster in a trembling hand. So much to do - and so little time!
I run to the bedroom, ignoring my shimmying breasts as much as possible, and find the sexiest, highest pair of black high heels that I own. Slipping them onto my feet, I know that they lift my ass into prominence between the framing apron strings and garters and that my cheeks curve enticingly plump as a result. I feel myself redden as I catch a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror in the corner. I look the part of a very improper french maid!
I spend my time in the bedroom making our bed with fresh sheets, tidying up any stray clothing that had been left to lie around and dusting the furniture. I find the can of spray wax in the linen closet and two soft rags and begin to work on raising a shine on the wood.
I can't help but notice, unbound as they are, how my breasts jiggle and bounce with every movement I make. The harder I rub at the wood, the harder my breasts jostle. The rounded globes begin to ache with a sweet, dull throb that make them feel oh-so-full. They ache with my passion to have them patted and fondled. Of course, I don't dare fondle them! Such a thing is forbidden to me unless Sir expressly orders me to caress myself. But, oh! How I want to knead that soft-firm flesh! My nipples jut blatantly at the thought of how good it would feel to pinch and tweak them!.
It takes perhaps a half hour to complete the bedroom, but I leave it with the satisfaction of knowing Sir will find no fault with my effort in this room at least. Taking my can of wax and my feather and rags, I go down to the livingroom. I tidy for a small time and then begin the dusting. I manage to finish only one table when suddenly the phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Hello my little cum-slave."
I feel myself blush and my voice trembles when I answer. "Hello, Sir."
"Where are you, my sweet?"
"I'm in the livingroom, Sir."
"You have your feather duster with you?"
"Yes, Sir"
"Good girl. Please sit yourself on my red leather chair. I want your ass right at the chair's edge. Slip your shoes off and place your feet on the chair's edge so that your knees are drawn up. Are you positioned yet, love?"
I swallow and manage to squeak, "Yes, Sir, I am positioned as you ordered."
"Very good, slave. Now, spread your knees - wide! Are they spread?"
"Y-yes, Sir."
"Lovely. I can just picture you in position. Now - take your feather duster and dust yourself, slave! That's it. Nice and slow. Oh so soft. Tickle your clit for me. Are you feathering yourself, girl?"
Barely able to draw breath, I gasp, "Yes, Sir."
"Goooooood girl! Very, very good. You please me with your prompt obedience, slave. You please me so much that you've made my cock twitch."
"Th-thank-you, Sir. I love pleasing you."
"I know you do, angel. Now - you will sit there on that chair, with your legs lewdly spread for me, feathering your pussy until such time as you make the leather of my chair damp with your cream! You will not come!!! But you will make yourself very, very wet! So wet, that some of your juice trickles down to dampen the leather! Do you understand me, little slave?"
"Y-yes, Sir. I - I will make myself so wet - that - that I dampen your leather chair with my juices. I - I am not to come, Sir."
"Mmmm. Very, very good, slave. When you have my chair slightly damp - not wet, mind you! I don't want my leather stained!! You will be punished if you stain it!! - but when it is damp, you will stop feathering yourself. You will put your shoes back on, you will get a clean cloth and you will wipe down my chair so there is no sign remaining to show how dirty you've made it. Do you understand?"
"Y-yes, Sir. I am not to stain your chair or I shall be punished. I must clean it well when I have made it damp."
"Very good. I may call again, slave. Now feather yourself and make my chair damp like a good little sex-slave."
The connection dies and I moan into the echoing silence. Oh god! I'm petrified of staining his chair! I've always been afraid of damaging it in some way! So many times he's warned me to be careful of marring the leather when I clean it! How damp is too damp, I wonder! What if I misjudge how much moisture I dribble? I swallow, knowing I have no choice. He's ordered me to feather myself until his chair is damp and, wanting so desperately to please him, I do as he's commanded.
Nervous as I am, it takes perhaps thirty minutes for me to make his chair sufficiently damp and I almost orgasm on several occasions in that time. I'm forced to stop often to catch my breath, to force the throbbing in my pussy back to a manageable level, to reach anxiously beneath my ass to see if my pussy has dripped its moisture onto the leather yet. But at last the hide feels sufficiently damp - yet not too wet - for me to feel safe in rising and running for a cloth to wash away my sticky scent.
Sir calls me five more times throughout the day. Each time he orders me to seat myself on his leather chair and to 'dust' myself to the point of making the leather damp with my juices. Each time I drive myself to the brink of orgasm three or more times before finally his chair feels dewy beneath me. Each time I am terrified that I've stained the soft leather. Each time I haven't stained it, but after his third phone call I'm left with a pussy that throbs lingeringly through the remainder of the day and nipples that seem to have forgotten how to lie flat.
I pay special attention to dusting and polishing the diningroom, knowing that Sir obviously intends to have his dinner there. I set the table very prettily for him and when I am well-pleased with all my efforts, I take myself into the kitchen to begin preparing his dinner.
It is a complicated recipe and it takes me most of the afternoon to cook it, but by the time I am done, I have an exquisite meal that looks fit for a king and the house smells divine. Glancing at the clock, my heart almost stops! Sir will be walking through the front door in only a few short minutes!
In a panic I run upstairs, moaning at the way my breasts joggle. Quickly repairing my make-up and my hair, I spritz on the perfume that I know drives Sir wild. Glancing critically in the mirror, I gasp - to my horror I have a small spot of dirt right in the middle of my apron! I swallow hard. There's no time to attempt to clean it! Sir will be home any second! Praying that he somehow overlooks my tiny error in the face of everything else being so perfect, I return downstairs to prepare his glass of brandy. A quick moment of terror when I can't find my feather - ah! there, on the kitchen chair - and I am kneeling in the front hallway with my knees widely spread, brandy glass in one hand, duster in the other, eyes demurely lowered as I know he likes, outwardly calm though my heart is thudding, as the front door opens and his shoes enter my line of sight. I shiver.
"Good evening, pet."
"Good evening, Sir."
He reaches down and tilts my face up so that he can see my eyes. "How was your day, slave?"
My voice trembles. "It was wonderful, thank you, Sir."
He nods his satisfaction and motions me to hand him my feather duster. I give it to him then blush as I watch him lift it to his nose and inhale deeply.
"This smells like slave cream. Can you explain to me why that is, sweet?"
"I - I used the duster as you instructed me to, Sir. I dusted my pussy until I made your chair damp."
He nodded again, this time almost grimly. "I can smell that you obeyed me in this. You didn't climax, did you?"
"N-no, Sir."
"Are you certain, slave?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Did you want to come?"
I suddenly feel so weak - deliciously weak. "Yes, Sir."
Send to your friend