Sunday Morning Chores

[Scene], [Sissy Maid], [Chastity], [Caning], [Humiliation], [House Tour]

Starting bright and early every Sunday morning Shaun cleans the house from top-to-bottom. His duties mostly consist of those one-a-week chores; vacuuming the carpets on the two upper floors of the house, straightening up the play rooms, sweeping and mopping the tile floors in the bathrooms and kitchen, scrubbing the toilets. The kind of thing I don’t want to do myself on a regular basis. Not when someone else is thrilled at the opportunity.

So Shaun does all of this, mincing around in polished, high heels. A leather strap extends from each of the pink cuffs locked around his ankles. They loop through the heels to keep the ungainly footwear in place. And matching bands around his wrists, waist and throat are made similarly unremovable by cute little heart-shaped locks.

The waist belt helps make sure that his black and white satin maid’s uniform stays in place, so as he cleans he enjoys the constant sensation provided by such an outfit. And I enjoy the occasional sight of his short, off-the-shoulder sleeves, his layers of white tulle petticoats, and the lace tops of his stockings.

At this moment I’m sipping a second cup of good coffee in the sitting room and reading the news on my tablet. There’s a certain joy in not putting on airs on these mornings. I could dress in any of a dozen titillating outfits that wouldn’t look out of place on the cover of a vintage femdom magazine. I own them, after all. They’re all hanging neatly in the closet upstairs and I’ve been known to play the counterpart to Shaun’s uniform once-in-a-blue-moon with thigh-high boots and a PVC bustier. Not today, though. Today I’m luxuriating in a long-sleeved bodysuit and cotton pajama pants, just another layer in our little dichotomy.

I’m comfortable, he’s uncomfortable.

I’m relaxing, he’s working.

I don’t have a care in the world, he’s probably wondering if his dusting will meet my standards today.

Shaun is a perpetual student. When we’re not playing a cruelly entertaining game of my devising he devotes his time to the latest research project I barely understand. I respect his involvement in his University work, but I still joke that he’ll never leave school. Sunday morning cleaning sessions are just another opportunity to learn.

He wants to let me know that he thinks his chores are done, so he kneels on the floor beside me and rests his head on my knee. I set the tablet aside and idly twist a lock of his hair around my fingers. I asked him to let it grow out over a year ago, being a shame to have it close-shorn as it had been when we met. Now it’s shoulder-length and cut in such a fashion that tied back it looks rather masculine. But mere moments with a brush and an appropriately girly visage can be realized. I enjoy a touch of versatility from my pets.

He isn’t allowed to speak at this moment. It’s my choice when the game continues. I prefer to give him at least the time it takes me to empty my cup to consider whether I will approve of his efforts, and attention to detail.

Some Sundays I can even notice the change in his demeanor when he remembers that he didn’t close a closet door, or that his mop and bucket haven’t been hidden away and are instead abandoned in the downstairs water closet. He can’t go fix any mistakes now. But today he is calm. Glancing down I can see him smiling sweetly, eyes closed. It’s almost a shame to make him move.

“Up, sissy. Take my coffee mug and wash it while I inspect your work,” I say. He responds primly by sitting back on his heels and cupping both hands around the mug I hold out for him. Eyes down. Perfect in every way, so far. He even waits until I’m on my feet and heading up the stairs before I hear him get to his feet and head to the kitchen.

My bedroom is on the top floor and I begin my inspection here. It is in fact nicely tidy, the surfaces and carpet are devoid of even one speck of dust or lint, and the en suite is clean and pleasantly citrus-scented. The white sheets on my wood-framed bed are properly made up with no hint that I was still slumbering, wrapped up in them less than an hour ago.

My bed. My single favorite piece of furniture in my home. It’s sturdy, and simple, and wide enough for three. I appreciate the clean lines of mid-century modern furniture, so when I tell you that I sleep in a four poster bed, please don’t imagine something from a period drama. I do have a maid, but I’m no Marie Antoinette.

There’s another bedroom upstairs that Shaun has no jurisdiction over, so I pass by that door. And the other room on the top floor is the dungeon. It is only by tradition that this bright and airy room has such an imposing name, being the only room in the house that features a table used exclusively for tying people to. I don’t know anyone with a basement and even if I had one I would still prefer to keep most of the most thuddy, slappy, and pokey toys up here.

The windows in the dungeon face west and something about the setting sun awakens something delightfully devilish in me, in the same way that it rising in my bedroom’s windows makes it easy to get out of bed in the morning. But since I know the dungeon hasn’t been used for a few days I decide to skip looking for reasons to punish Shaun here, and head downstairs instead. On the landing of the middle floor he is waiting for me, still looking downwards, gloved hands tucked demurely behind.

This level has two more bedrooms including Shaun’s, another playroom of a softer sort, a proper bathroom I visit when I wish to luxuriate in the bigger tub, and a defunct airing cupboard used for towels, extra bed clothes and the like.

Shaun’s bedroom gets a once-over from my sharp eye, including his own little shower and toilet where he is free to leave the seat up. The other bathrooms in the house are more likely to collect assorted shampoo bottles, bath bombs, and other paraphernalia.

After his space meets muster the nursery needs a cursory glance. It’s a sweet-smelling space painted in pastel tones and features an oversized crib, changing table and all the accessories any ageplayer might wish for.

No-one sleeps here every night. Caring for a baby fulltime is chore, even if you have a maid to do the hard work. And even Shaun wouldn’t choose to be brought in here each evening. But when trustworthy vanilla friends visit more than a few have excitedly asked to spend the night in this room instead of on the sofa. It clearly has appeal.

Of course Shaun’s performance has been found to be without a single flaw so far. I let him know with a gentle caress of his jaw as I pass him at the top of the stairs, then down I go.

I know the sitting room is up to scratch as I watched him work on it earlier, so I walk into the kitchen. It is by far the largest room of the house and plays host to a long oak table, freshly cleared of clutter. I pore over the granite countertops, appliances, and every single slate floor tile for spots and stains.

I even look for the drop of cream I deliberately splashed into the bottom of the refrigerator while pouring my coffee this morning and am utterly disappointed to find that my sissy maid had found it, wiped it up before I could use it to justify leaving bright red lines on his bottom.

I take a moment to look for streaks on the windows. The kitchen is extended by a glass-roofed sunroom and is separated from the patio by modern French doors, but every pane is clean on the inside. This is the second week in a row that I can’t find a single fault with Shuan’s handywork, and I’m frustrated by the fact, ready to invent a crime so I can give him a token punishment.

It’s testament to how incredibly unlucky Shaun is that at this moment I decide to open the dishwasher. And it is here that I find reason to break into a broad grin. I seize the offending item with a single finger, like a vaudeville curtain crook pulling a cartoon comedian from the stage. And I stomp back up the stairs loudly, back to my sissy maid, while working on finding my composure and stifling my smile.

“What is this, sissy?” I ask, dangling it in front of his face with one hand while the other is set on my hip. I’m fully in character now.

“Ummm,” he vocalizes weakly, then clears his throat. I can tell that he hasn’t yet worked out his error and answers in an inquiring tone. “Your coffee cup, Mistress?”

“And you were too excited thinking about your reward, about jerking your little dick after doing your chores, to wash it as I asked?”

“Oh. Ummm,” is all he offers as a response.

“Not even an apology?”

“Yes Miss… I mean… No Miss… I’m very sorry, Mistress.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be better,” I chide him, opening the airing cupboard door. It’s narrower than the other doors that lead to the actual rooms in the house.

There was once a tall, cylindrical water heater tucked into this space. I wanted endless hot water for my morning showers, so some years ago I had a top-of-the-line gas boiler installed. The old water heater was removed, and this little closet became a space for storing towels and sheets, neatly folded on narrow shelves along the back wall.

There’s barely enough room for someone to stand inside when the door is closed. I always leave a narrow cane tucked in the corner, just inside the door frame and I grab it now.

“A dozen strokes, sissy. Hands on the banister.” He says nothing but is already wincing at the thought. I reach around in front of him and into the pocket of his little white pinafore to retrieve the two steel-springed laundry pegs I have him keep there. They’re part of his uniform, and I use them to clip the back of his skirt up to his waist belt to expose the horizontal run of ruffled white satin across his black panties. Those are pulled down to his knees without ceremony and I find a position where I can comfortably swing the cane at his ass or thighs.

I find it’s very important when administering a true punishment to Shaun with the cane that I not allow him to warm up to it. He likes taking painful beatings from the cane, a paddle, a flogger, but the pleasure comes from being slowly turned pink by gentle swipes with different toys until I can leave big red welts on his ass with the cane and in response he moans with ecstatic pleasure.

That isn’t punishment. Instead, I enjoy watching him tremble with trepidation as I swing the cane through the air and produce a dramatic “whoosh” behind him. Next, a few test-taps on his legs, dragging the bamboo up to brush against his protruding balls and tapping it against the steel ring of his cock cage.

“I might not even let this out today. Will that help you concentrate of what’s being said to you?”

“I don’t…” he pauses, so clearly considering his options. It’s never wise to outright disagree with a suggestion of mine, but it also isn’t within him to directly agree to forgo his chance to play with himself this morning. Finally he retorts that “Routine is an important part of conditioning, Miss.”

I snort a laugh at this response and let him have three quick snaps of the cane across his bare ass. He yelps loudly with each one, rests his temple on the banister between his hands which lets me see him biting his lower lip, and his knuckles already red from gripping the handrail. He no doubt remembers what happened the last time he allowed instinct to let his hands snap back in response to the cane. I disciplined each of them directly, by giving each palm a taste of the rod.

“Are you getting comfortable, sissy? You prefer getting this over and done with quickly, don’t you?” His response is a subtle nod and a whimper which earns him the next three strokes, all aimed at the bright red line already forming on his skin. It’s good target practice, and means a lasting punishment that might still help him remember his lesson as the week wears on.

“Why are you being punished? Three reasons.”

“Because I didn’t listen to instructions,” he replies hastily, and I reward him with his next smack. “Because pain helps me learn,” he continues, stuttering. Having to engage his brain, having to think, counters his ability to take his punishment with dignity.

To help accentuate his distraction I wait a beat before letting him have the next stroke across the back of his left thigh. Startled, he twists away suddenly but keeps his hands in place. “Good boy,” I tell him, “One more reason?”

“Ummm,” he says again, stymied. His eyes are tightly shut and his face flushed red, I’m sure he’s close to tears. I’m about to prompt him again when the bedroom door behind me cracks open and Hannah steps out, looking at us through bleary eyes, jamming spectacles uncomfortably onto her face and pushing curly red hair behind her ears. She folds her arms, smirks at me.

“Because he’s a stupid slut that actually enjoys this,” she offers.

“Is that right, sissy?” I ask him, but he answers with a long-suffering whine. I let him have the cane again “Words, please.”

“Yes Mistress, that’s right.”

“What’s right?”

“I’m a slut. A stupid slut.” He’s punctuating each utterance with deep, sniveling breaths.

“And? Do you enjoy this?”

“Yes Miss.”

“Does it make your little dick hard?”

“Yes Miss.”

“Are you still, really, deep down, just thinking about jerking off in your closet?”

“Yes. Yes Miss.”

“How many more strokes?”

He gulps down a deep breath and tentatively suggests that he’s owed three more smacks with the cane. I pepper them across his thighs, just above the tops of his stockings. And then tell him to get up.

He hangs his head in shame and automatically starts moving towards the open cupboard door. Hannah slips past us and into the bathroom. A little silent ballet. I hear the bathroom door lock and I’m alone with Shaun again.

I reach for the chain leash still dangling from the rail above his head. It clatters as I fix it to his collar, and I press the key to his chastity device into his hand.

“Where’s your handkerchief?” He reaches into his pinafore pocket and pulls out the little white square. “Good sissy. Don’t make a mess, and lock it up when you’re done,” I tell him. He nods, and I shut him in the dark of the cupboard to relieve his frustration.

I make sure he hears me leave.