I’m not gonna lie, I absolutely lost my mind at one key moment in this piece. Nearly slid right off my office chair and onto a crumpled, horny heap on the floor. Please welcome back the fabulous Komplicated Kitty, who some of you might remember from her red-hot piece ‘bring it, babe‘ back in November. She’s here today with an account of another intensely sexy BDSM scene, in which her Master orders her into her collar, and then to go clean the kitchen floor. Read on for humiliation, degradation and one very slutty Cinderella…
Slutty Cinderella does a very thorough job
Sir and I are exploring a bit of humiliation/degradation in our play. This is a tricky space for both of us, as I suspect it is for many couples. For him, going from how he treats women in the real world, to a fantasy where he treats his wife, who also happens to be his submissive, very differently, is not always an easy or comfortable switch of mindset. For me, there are triggers, faded with time, but which still sometimes show up in unexpected ways. And yet, we are both interested in seeing where this may lead…
Sir sends this text: Come downstairs at exactly noon completely naked with your hair pulled back in a ponytail. Bring your leather play collar, kneel at my feet in the library, and quietly wait for instructions.
With great enthusiasm, I strip off my clothes and dig my leather collar out of the drawer. This particular collar is considered ‘high protocol.’ When I’m wearing it, he is ‘Master’ not ‘Sir,’ and I’m forbidden to speak unless spoken to. I prance into the library with the collar dangling from my fingers and a wide smile on my face, but he barely looks at me when I enter the room. Instead, with his phone to his ear, he points to a spot on the floor and continues with his call.
His dismissive attitude, coupled with the type of collar I have in my hand, has my mood sobering. Intuitively, I don’t think I’m in for something painful, but I do think whatever he has in mind will be intense. As I kneel on the rug and wait, a unique combination of dread and enthusiasm cycles through me.
When he finally finishes his call, he wordlessly buckles my collar and then demands I crawl behind him into the kitchen. I follow on my hands and knees, the first trace of heat curling in my belly.
“You will wash this kitchen floor, from the cabinets to the table with a bucket and soap, while on your hands and knees. I want it so clean you could eat off it. When you’re finished, come back to the library and kneel again,” he orders.
I’ve known this man for years, and nothing like this has ever been part of our dynamic. I wonder briefly if I’ve missed some secret fantasy of his, and I want to ask if I should buy one of those cute little maid outfits, but I don’t dare.
The task he’s given me is not an enjoyable one, however I’m very interested in where he’s going with this game so I attend to it in earnest. I’ve washed our kitchen floor before. So has he, since we both like a clean house. But as I scrub it now, collared, naked, and on my hands and knees, I find I’m embarrassingly aroused. By the time I finish, I’m uncomfortably wet between the legs.
When I return to the library and kneel by his feet, once again he makes me wait before acknowledging my presence, and once again I have to crawl behind him to the kitchen so he can inspect my work.
“Very thorough. Good.”
He leans against the kitchen counter, unzips his pants, and pulls them down over his hips.
“Suck my cock. Use your hands and your mouth.”
His tone is uncompromising, emotionless. Still on my knees, I take him in my mouth.
“Go deeper. Lick my balls. Just like that.”
At some point, he grips me by the hair and fucks my face, hard and dispassionately, as if I am nothing more than a plaything to be used for his pleasure. When I know he is close, he pulls out of my mouth…
…and comes all over the nice, clean floor.
“Good thing you did such a good job on the floor. Now lick up my cum.”
I feel a strange mixture of humiliation and deep arousal. My pussy throbs with need, but my face flushes with embarrassment. He waits silently for me to choose to obey.
When I press my face close to the floor and begin to lick up the warm, salty mess, he knows he’s pushed me toward a limit, and his tone shifts when he speaks.
“I love you on your hands and knees. You’re so sexy. Does my cum taste good?”
“Yes Master,” I whisper.
“Get every drop. What a good girl.”
When I finish, I’m surprisingly close to tears. The act felt so degrading, yet I’m extremely turned on. My clit is pulsing, my body shaking, but I also feel out of sorts. He knows this. He knows me.
“I love that you followed my directions so well,” he says, reassuring me with just the words I need. “I loved fucking your face. I loved watching you lick up my cum. Now, it’s time for your reward. Lie on the kitchen table with your bottom near the edge. Put your hands over your head and bend your knees. Open your legs nice and wide and stay like that.”
I climb onto the kitchen table and open myself to him.
“Perfect. Is your pussy wet?”
“So wet, Master,” I answer.
“Since you did such a good job, I’m going to reward you. Do not move. Keep your legs open.”
Spread out on my own kitchen table, the feeling of vulnerability lingers, but when he grips my thighs and sucks my clit into his mouth, all thought vanishes. He works a finger into me, then two. He licks and sucks and finger fucks me into oblivion.
“Come hard for me,” he orders.
His demand pushes me over the edge. My climax races through me, and I come, loud and wet and messy.
Later, when he wraps me in a blanket and tucks me onto the sofa, I think perhaps scrubbing the floor might be my new favorite chore.
2 Comments
omg this is intense and hot! great writing!!
The unexpected intensity in this piece reminds me of an evening I had several years ago. I was having an affair which involved a good deal of BDSM. We were meeting at an hotel before she went away on holiday. She had suggested that she would like some ‘marks’ that might show when she wore her bikini; I wasn’t going to be with her on this holiday, so I was slightly jealous.
I had told her to wear stockings & no underwear when I picked her up from work, but when she was seated beside me, her bag in the boot, I asked her to show me, and she hadn’t done it. She claimed stockings were a faff; I agreed, and pointed out that the faff was the whole point.
Often we would go to a hotel, out for drinks and dinner, and then back, though sometimes she would be beaten or fucked before we went out. As we unpacked and changed, I told her that I was disappointed about the dress code failure, and so we wouldn’t be going out for dinner, that we would just eat at the hotel. We went down to the bar, got some drinks, looked at the menu, chatted. Once we had settled on our order I went to the bar, and asked for it to be delivered to my room in about 40 minutes. We finished our drinks, and got up – she thought we were going to the restaurant, but I told her that no, we would eat in our room. She was surprised – it wasn’t something we had done before.
In the lift I told her to face the mirrored wall and raise her skirt. She was now naked underneath, so I could give her several hard spanks as the lift went up to the top floor. She could see my face in the mirror as I did it, and was quiet as we walked back to the room. She said in a low voice that she didn’t realise how much the stockings mattered to me.
Back in the room I told her to strip. I put the leather straps on her ankles and wrists, the collar round her neck, the lead on the collar, and took her to the bed, and bent her over it. I pulled out my belt, but just then dinner arrived – somewhat ahead of schedule. I took her still naked to the bathroom, and let in room service. I set the circular table for one; knife and fork, placemat, napkin, wine glass, water.
I brought her out of the bathroom, but her pleasurable anticipation died when she saw the table. I told her that our meals out, our dinners were a such a pleasurable thing, her punishment would be that she would have the food, but none of the ritual. I drew her hands behind her back and clipped her wrists together. My hands guided her to kneel on the floor beside the table. I took off her lead, and looped it round the table’s central leg. I put down a towel, and then placed her plate on it.
I stood up, checked she was OK, sat down and started to eat. My hands were shaking a little – this was not like anything we had done before – though the wine settled it somewhat. Usually we would be talking and laughing, but we were both silent. I looked down, and she looked up at me. Her face was a complete picture of real misery and affront. She said that she could not eat like this, putting her face to the food. I told her that if she didn’t she would go to bed hungry. Then she flushed, anger crossing her face, and said that she would go to bed hungry then, and turned away, chin up, defiant. I carried on eating, and seeing that I was not to be moved, she put her face down to the plate, and took a couple of mouthfuls. When she lifted her head there was food on her nose and chin, tears in her eyes, and she was biting her trembling lower lip. The deep flush had gone and she was deathly pale. She knelt up, and asked for a drink in a shaking voice. I felt this had gone too far, and saw a way out.
I gave her some wine, wiped her face, and then picked up her plate. I started to feed her, forkful by forkful, some wine, some water, and the mood lightened. I told her that if she finished her food nicely she could have dessert – and then she could suck my cock, and I would whip her with the riding crop. I saw her nipples harden, and her beautiful smile came out, and I knew we were back where we needed to be. The feeding was delightful, like feeding a child. The rest of the evening and night went as anticipated, and we rose early to go to the airport. Leaning over the balcony she smoked a cigarette, looking into the distance. She looked back at me , flipped up her skirt, and she had stockings on, no knickers, and I could see the dark stripes across her buttocks and upper thighs.
Some months later we were having dinner again, and she asked if I recalled that evening. Of course I did, and she told me that she had always had a ‘thing’ about eating with a knife and fork, right from when she was small, never touching food with her hands, even things like fish and chips – she had to have a little wooden fork. But she hadn’t known until that evening how deeply ingrained this thing was, nor how intense her revulsion would be at being made to do it.