It All Comes Out In The Wash

Mildred was lying back on her plush velvet sofa, a glass of amber whisky in one hand, a smoldering Woodbine in the other. She was watching Jane clean her house. It was a mesmerizing performance. Jane was dressed in her brand-new uniform, a vision of gleaming black latex from the Rubbermaid collection. Mildred particularly liked the way the short, tight skirt flounced with every movement, accentuating the gentle sway of her hips as she tottered around on the impossibly high heels that were padlocked to her feet. Every now and then, as Jane bent over to dust a low shelf or wipe the skirting boards, Mildred would get a tantalizing glimpse of the new, state-of-the-art chastity belt. It was a marvel of engineering, designed for both torment and utility, with integrated fittings that enabled a thick butt plug and a long, ribbed dildo to be inserted and locked in place while it was worn.

It had been six months since Jane's illness. That little scare had made Mildred reassess her management strategy. Now, she took the best care of her pet, her diet perfectly planned, her health meticulously monitored, just the way you would look after a favorite, expensive animal. Her makeup had toned down from the thick, whorish mask of the laundrette days. Now it was tasteful and erotic, a subtle enhancement of her features that highlighted her natural beauty. In the quiet evenings, something had shifted between them. Mildred had discovered quite a passion for French kissing her slut, for the simple, intimate act of their tongues meeting. She had determined that her slut would never feel a real cock inside her again, but she would become very proficient in the arts of receiving pleasure. And she had become an expert in performing both cunnilingus and anilingus, her tongue a tool of exquisite devotion.

Mildred had become quite fond of her, she decided, not as a best friend—that was gone forever, burned to ash—but something else, something deeper, more complex.

When Jane had finished her cleaning, her movements precise and obedient, Mildred crooked a finger. "Come here, slut." Jane put her dusting cloth away and glided over, stopping before her mistress and lowering her eyes. Mildred spread her legs, the silk of her robe falling open. "Between my legs. Time for some comfort licking." Jane gracefully knelt, her head disappearing under the robe, and soon the familiar, skillful rhythm of her tongue sent waves of warmth through Mildred's body.

As Mildred came down from her third, shuddering orgasm, her phone rang, its shrill sound cutting through the post-coital bliss. She put it to her ear and smiled, listening to the nervous, weaselly voice on the other end. It was Gary. He had what she needed.

"Enough," she told Jane, her voice firm. "Go to your room." Jane stood, performed a perfect, submissive curtsy, and scampered off to her room, the sound of her padlocked heels clicking on the wooden floor the only sign of her retreat.

Mildred lit another Woodbine, the tip glowing a fierce orange in the dimly lit room. She blew a plume of smoke into the air, the acrid scent mingling with the smell of sex and expensive leather. She looked at the phone on the table, the device that had delivered the ammunition for her next move. The trap was set. It was time to start reeling in the fish.