It All Comes Out In The Wash

The laundrette was to become Jane's stage, and Mildred was both director and ruthless pimp. It started with her simply taking Jane to work. The leverage was absolute: comply, or spend the day writhing under the pulsing misery of the collar. Jane was always dressed like a slut, just as Mildred had decreed. Her heavy makeup was a mask, her slutty clothes a uniform of her servitude, each gesture a performance polished by the threat of pain.

At first, Jane just served customers, her movements stiff and her eyes downcast. But Mildred's whispers in her ear were a constant venom. "Flirt with him. Let your hand brush against his. Smile at that one, the one with the scruffy beard. Show him you're interested." Jane complied, her body moving on strings held by Mildred, a hollow doll playing a part. The young students from the local art college and university who used the launderette were easy targets. Lonely, hormonal, and intrigued by the stark contrast of this overtly sexual woman in the mundane setting of sudsy machines and tumbling dryers.

Soon, a brave few took her lewd invitations at face value. A tall, lanky art student with paint-flecked fingers touched her arm, his voice a hopeful mumble. Mildred watched from behind her counter, a predator witnessing the first snap of the trap. She intercepted him after he finished his laundry, her voice a low, conspiratorial murmur. "She likes you. But her time is valuable." She laid out the new, terrifying reality of Jane's existence: "Five pounds for a blow job. Ten for a fuck. Fifteen for a fuck up the arse. Take her in the back room. I'll be watching."

The word spread through the colleges like wildfire. The haunted-looking slut in the laundrette was for hire, cheap and available. Under Mildred's watchful eye, connected to the cameras in the back room via her phone, Jane became quite the success. She serviced fumbling boys and curious girls, their meager student loan money lining Mildred's pocket. Jane would close her eyes, her mind dissociating, her body a vessel that earned her the right to not be caned that night. Every pound earned was a reprieve. Every humiliated customer was a sign of her obedience.

Once the last customer was gone and the machines were silent, Mildred would drag her exhausted slut back to the car and deposit her in her house. The place, once a happy home, was now Jane's sanctuary of solitude, the only space where she could curl into a ball and cry without fear of an audience, a place to recover before the demands of the next day.

But Mildred's own day was far from over. After dropping off Jane, she would go home to a kneeling Toby. He was always waiting by the door, naked except for his cage. She now insisted he wear either a tight rubber or leather hood, depriving him of sight and speech. She preferred to see him as an 'it' now; a nameless, faceless tool for her pleasure, its existence reduced to sensation and command. Soon, once the laundrettes were sold to that bitch Amelia, she wouldn't need his scaffolder income. He would be a permanent houseboy, a full-time fixture in her basement of dominance.

She used his cock regularly. She'd unlock it, make it hard with her skilled hands or mouth, then ride it to her own satisfaction. He was very rarely allowed to come. When she did grant him the privilege of release, it was usually ruined. As his body tensed on the brink, she would squeeze the base of his shaft or deliver a sharp shock from the cage, making him spit his seed into empty air with no friction, no pleasure, only the frustrating, empty pulse of a stolen orgasm. It broke his spirit a little more each time, binding his pleasure entirely to her will.