Poor Yvette. She meant well, but she had so very much to learn.
For instance, he couldn't really tell if she was doing a good job on the carpet. She seemed to be scrubbing with the proper vigor, but an old toothbrush was probably not the right tool for the job. Especially given that the toothbrush in question was attached to a chain draped between her preoccupied nipples with a too-short piece of string.
But he did like the way it forced her to bend over so her nose practically touched the floor. And it certainly made her ass wiggle enticingly beneath the ruffled skirt flouncing above her thighs. Such a tempting target to encourage with the crop.
She had made excellent progress today. It had definitely been worth the effort to extend the wire on the stimulator so he could control its speed from his armchair.
She had already learned to hasten her efforts with the toothbrush when he nudged the knob up a notch, despite the effect on her very clamped chest.
And it had only taken two hours of practice.
He was quite pleased with Yvette's new uniform. It had taken him forever to find just the right dress with a scalloped front to present her breasts without obstruction, not to mention the proper pouf in the shoulders and an intricate lace trim to complement her apron and headpiece.
And it matched the latex gloves and stockings perfectly.
He was a stickler for details, but he couldn't ask for a better pair of Victorian button boots. They came up to just below her knees and provided excellent support for her ankles, an important consideration when completing household chores that require many hours of standing.
Especially ones with heels that taper down to a sharp point not unlike the business end of a knitting needle.
She started to pant again. He decided it was time to dial down the machinery to a languid hum.
He checked his notes. This would make number seven this afternoon.
Thirteen to go.
He picked up the book review section and wondered why that tiresome Dean Koontz was still being allowed to publish. Such a waste of trees, he tsked.
She groaned.
He sighed and put down his newspaper.
First of all, she was not to speak unless asked a direct question.
And in those rare cases, she was to respond exclusively in French.
In other words, a double transgression.
He sighed, realizing this would require immediate remedial action.
"Put down the brush."
Standing behind her, he pushed the lash of the crop between her clenched haunches.
"Up."
The shank bent with the urgency of his command.
Once fully upright, she trembled a bit as she composed herself on the pinpoint heels and placed her hands behind her head without prompting.
He resisted the urge to praise her, much less admire her. Now was not the moment, he reminded himself, to fawn over her perfect form.
"Reach behind you and pull up the hem of your skirt."
He stood beside her, the shaft of the crop resting horizontally against her defenseless flesh.
"Let's review. You spoke without permission, and used English. Correct?"
He prompted her to reply with a fast swat.
"Oui, monsieur."
"Did you climax just then?"
Crack.
"Oui, monsieur."
"That makes a total of seven this afternoon. Correct?"
Crack.
"Oui, monsieur."
"How many were you supposed to have?"
Crack.
"Vingt, monsieur."
"Correct. That leaves 13."
"Oui..."
Crack.
"I didn't ask you a question, Yvette."
He rolled his eyes. So much to learn.
She stared straight ahead as he stood next to her in silence, her face unable to mask the looming sense of dread.
After a few moments, he went to the bathroom and retrieved a new bar of soap.
"This is for using vulgarity in my presence."
He unwrapped it slowly in front of her.
"Open your mouth."
Her eyes grew wide as he pushed it between her teeth.
"Bend over."
He allowed the silence to crush all hope of a reprieve out of the room, then reached between her legs to remove the still-buzzing vibrator.
"Thirteen missed orgasms. Times two transgressions. That totals 26."
A moment passed before the crop whistled.
As he progressed, his rhythm became maddeningly inconsistent in terms of both timing and aim.
But zebras wished they boasted such stripes.
"Straighten up."
Feeling flush, he walked back to his armchair to better observe her glowing backside.
After a moment of appreciation, the familiar sensation of blood engorging demanded his full attention.
"Come to me."
She turned and approached the chair, her fingers remaining clutched obediently around the hem of her dress.
"Turn around."
He slipped off his pants, opened his legs and placed his hands around her hips.
She tottered uneasily on her heels as he pulled her back and guided her over his lap.
"Put your hands on the arms of the chair."
Her sex pulsed hot and slippery against the tip of his cock.
"Down," he commanded unnecessarily.
A nudge with his thighs was all it took for her to begin raising and lowering herself while his hands found their way around her to her still-clamped breasts.
Her pace quickened as he fondled and kneaded her bosom, giving an occasional tug to the chain from which still hung the toothbrush.
A low moan escaped the bar of soap.
His fingers were unrelenting as she practically bounced off his groin, each thrust penetrating her deeper than the one previous.
He felt her heart thrashing like speedmetal drums as they approached what appeared to be a mutually-beneficial resolution.
At the first sign of his own release, he pinched open the clamps and let them fall noisily to the floor.
He had to put his arms around her waist to keep her from falling forward.
Sweating profusely, Yvette shuddered hard when his hand slipped down and grazed against the top of her elegant fur.
No, he reprimanded myself.
*** Later ***
Much, much later.
"Up."
He helped her off his lap and held her steady until he was confident she wouldn't topple over like a tree that's had quite enough of the chainsaw.
"It's time to put that soap to its proper use. Undress, shower and return to me in 10 minutes."
He poured a jigger of frozen vodka into a crystal tumbler and sipped it serenely while imagining the steaming droplets cascading against her limbs.
She came back into the room all fresh and pink and scrubbed and precisely on schedule.
He pointed to the full-length mirror edged in discolored gilt that hung in the center of the far wall, then rose to follow her.
As she studied her reflection, he collected his duffel bag and a few accessories from the closet.
Spirals of black rope tumbled to the floor next to her feet. He selected one, uncoiled it and begin wrapping it snugly around her ankles.
Then, another coil just above her knees.
The top of her thighs.
Her waist.
And especially her breasts.
He pulled her wrists behind her back, positioned them so her hands touched their opposite elbows, and bound them accordingly.
He supposed he would need a chair to reach the hook over her head with the excess line from her arms. He wanted to be sure he provided enough support to keep her upright under any circumstances.
Still somewhat dismayed at her insolence, he decided to ensure her continued silence with the pump gag, held in place by the training hood that encased her entire head in smooth calfskin.
He was pleased she took the deflated bladder in her mouth without her customary debate. As a reward, he didn't bother with the eye coverings. Besides, seeing would help her appreciate what he thought might prove to be a most difficult task.
He held the butt plug in front of her eyes so she could take a good, long look. Its brushed aluminum finish gleamed dully in the soft light from the lamps scattered about the room. With its long nose that widened considerably halfway down, it looked rather like a model of a space capsule from the Gemini era. Just the thing for re-entry. Or rear entry.
He unfurled a long coil and tied one end to the back of the rope around her waist. After giving the plug a generous coating of lubricant, he threaded the line through the metal loop screwed into its base and pushed its tip maybe an inch into her rectum.
The other end of the cord soon ran between her legs, then up her waist and around and over the knot between her breasts.
Leaving the end hanging in front of her, he ambled to the bookshelf that covered an entire wall and selected a weighty tome. The bible. Of sorts. Emily Post's Etiquette. 864 pages of detailed instructions on how to master the art of civil obedience.
"Proper poise in a young lady's carriage is so very important," he pretended to read from a page opened at random.
He closed the book and began to wrap it with the rest of the rope dangling from her chest.
When it was secure, he carefully balanced the book on top of her head. He hardly needed to tell her that were it to tumble down from its perch, an opposite reaction would occur to the plug.
He didn't like to put new holes in the hardwood floor, but the metal eyelet was so small, he didn't even need to get out a drill to screw it in place in front of her feet.
A piece of twine soon connected her big toes to the chrome loop.
"En pointe," he commanded.
As she raised her heels with the utmost deliberation and care, he placed a long vibrator under her arches and taped its ends to the floor.
It made a ghastly noise when he twisted it to its highest setting.
Fortunately, he wouldn't have to endure its grinding for long.
He resisted the urge to say something about keeping her on her toes. Instead, he informed Yvette that he would be in the kitchen preparing their dinner, which she would also enjoy, presuming she maintained her comportment as obviously instructed.
Of course, she would be expected to wash the dishes afterward. He might even allow her to use her hands.
Good help is so hard to find these days.
Even so, he sincerely doubted his love would be quite so quick to call "tails" the next time they flipped a coin to see who cleaned the house.