Submitted to Housework

I tapped the wooden arm of the bedroom chair, clicking my nails, watching.

The nude man on the other side of the room glided an iron across a freshly washed bed sheet. He neatly folded it and set it down on the perfectly placed pile next to him.

Bored, I got up, but he didn’t lift his face and started on a blouse. I stood next to him, steam rising, the smell of heated cotton and the vague scent of him close by made me want. I palmed his naked bottom, squeezing it, but he didn’t pause.

I leant right in, still feeling him. “You’re doing a terrible job.”

“Sorry, I’ll do better.”

“You say that every time. And yet you never improve. Bend.”

He hovered, the smallest doubt in his eyes as he turned his head slightly, but he obeyed. He held the ironing board and bent a little.

“More.”

His chest rose silently, and he went further. I pinched hard, making him tense.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

I smacked his arse cheek hard, and he jolted forward. He didn’t make a sound. He never did. Always silent until I pushed him too far.

Each sharp slap was loud in his quiet resistance. I stopped at ten.

“Continue.” My hand stung, and I admired my work. His bottom beautifully red.

“Thank you, Mistress.” His voice unruffled, he went straight back to his task.

Sitting back in the chair, my heart thumped, and desire kindled the fire to come. He ironed a pair of trousers, and as he hung them up, his hands trembled. He glanced at me, wet his lips and started on another shirt. He carefully navigated the fiddly buttons as I draped one leg over the arm of the chair, exposing myself. My dress rode up, and he glanced at me. I wore nothing under it. Blinking hard, he clenched his jaw. Running my hand down my front, I pushed my hips forward.

His cheeks reddened as I cupped between my legs, my pussy hot and wet against my hand.

He ironed slower, continually glancing at me.

“What is it, my sweet?”

“Nothing, Mistress.”

“Ah, poor sweet, you can tell me.” I opened my legs wider, hiding nothing as I pushed two fingers inside me.

“I want you.”

“When you finish.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

His hidden disappointment cut me, always did. I huffed, getting up again.

I stood behind him, and put my fingers in his mouth. Sucking them hard, he moaned.

“Carry on.” He continued on the next, a silk shell top. He set the iron to silk, and gently placed the blouse on the board, smoothing it out as the iron cooled before starting on it.

I felt all over his body. “This is my favourite top. Be careful with it.”

He didn’t miss a beat as the iron glided through the delicate fabric, light steam rising. I grasped his cock hard, but he didn’t flinch.

So well trained.

I stroked it, kissing his back, my free hand roving over the contours of his body. I palmed his still hot and red bottom, and the only sign he gave me of any discomfort was his slight intake of breath.

My stoic, sweet man never complained, never begrudged me an inch of my power. In fact, he needed it.

I pinched his bottom and bit his back. He shuddered as he set the iron down and hung up my blouse. I kissed where I bit, and looked up at the hanger.

“Perfect.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” His reverent whisper was perfect.

“Good deeds deserve rewards.”

He moved onto another pair of trousers as I picked out a roll of PVC tape.

I went to my knees under the board, kissing down his body and feeling all the way. I cupped his balls, stroking his hard and hot dick. There wasn’t much left on the roll, but enough, and un-spooling it, I folded the plastic strip, so it was narrower and wrapped it around the base of his cock and balls. The only sign of his discomfort was the tensing of his thighs and the softest moan in his breath.

His cock reddened, balls tight, and a small bead of moisture beaded and fell. I caught it with my tongue.

He drew a sharp breath and trembled as I ran my tongue over the tip.

I didn’t take him into me, but teased with the slightest licks and caresses, barely a touch.

The ironing board wobbled as he ironed harder.

I let him go and stood. The crease in my trousers was off.

I grabbed the fabric, the hot smell of laundry clouded on the residual steam. “What’s this?”

He set the iron down. He lowered his face.

I squeezed his cock, and he gritted his teeth. He knew what was coming.

“Bend,” I spat.

He nodded, and he leant over. I stuffed as much of the trouser leg into his mouth as possible. He bit on it. From behind us I picked out a long flexible cane and teased him with it.

With one hand on his back, I stuck hard. He held his breath, as I hit his solid thighs, up to his sensitive bum, and back. Criss-crossed lines appeared. The sticky sheen of sweat broke out over his skin, yet he didn’t cry out. It was his only denial of me, that lovely sound of a cry in pain.

His beauty was soft strength; calm penance against my vicious, sharp desire.

His breath came fast, and I halted, he panted gripping the board for dear life.

“My sweet.” I fingered the red welts, and found no broken skin.

He stood, swooning a little, and braced against the board. He groaned, clearing his throat. “Thank you, Mistress.” He trembled as he picked up the iron.

I blinked away my softness for him and set the cane down. Tears filled my eyes as I went back to my seat. I turned slowly, catching the small smile on his face.

His eyes sparkled, and cheeks reddened as he ironed the crumpled fabric that had been in his mouth.

“Feeling smug?”

“Chastised, Mistress.”

My heart calmed, and I picked up where I left off. Finding release from the chemicals rushing and the divine sight of my husband happily ironing naked with his hard cock jutting out.

I palmed a tit exposing myself and moaned, the heat in my pussy almost too much.

He didn’t look up but caught of glimpses of me as he folded and hung clothes. I teased myself, not seeking orgasm. I lost all sense of dignity, provoking him, and yet he didn’t once falter.

When he set the iron down and rounded the board, I stopped.

“I’ve finished, Mistress.”

With a sigh, I stood, righting my dress. “Let me check.” I rounded the board, running my hand over his still red back. He hissed a little. I looked through the immaculately ironed clothes. “You’ve done a good job.”

“Thank you.” He couldn’t hide his smile.

“Are you proud?”

“No, of course not.”

“Insolent.” I grasped his cock.

Arching his head back, he gave it to me; the sound of need.

“Please.”

“Please? You want this?” I took a hand and put it between my legs. He turned his face, chest rising and falling sharply with a dark look in his eyes.

“You want to taste?”

“Yes please, Mistress.”

I grabbed his hair and urged him down to his knees. He greedily went for my pussy, pushing my dress up, humming as he licked and sucked. I came quickly, already beyond aroused.

I pulled away. He fell forward and looked up, saying what I’d waited for. “I need to come.”

Hot lust syphoned through me. “Do you?” I tilted my head.

He closed his eyes, so pained.

“Put your hands behind your back, and sit up.”

He obeyed, and I squatted down, hovering over his tip. I dug my fingers into his neck, and he bared his teeth, body straining as I slid down onto his cock, so hot, hard and throbbing.

He gave in, finally crying out.

I pressed my face against his, kissing him roughly.

“Fuck, please, please.” His red cheeks darkened, eyes pinched.

I came again; his submission always gave me satisfaction, I slowed, drawing the pleasure out, pussy tight in anticipation before peaking in waves of pleasure.

I pressed my teeth against his lips, and he shook.

“Please let me come, Mistress.” It was a quiet prayer that I’d longed for.

“Is it there? Hovering? The edge of pleasure with your cock bound tight? Can you no longer resist?”

His eyes flickered. I kept riding him, enjoying the last of my bliss, relaxing against him.

“You have permission. Take your pleasure.”

With a growl, he grabbed my waist, fisting the fabric of my dress and thrust up. Every thrust was a grunt, claiming his denied pleasure. For weeks, I’d not let him come, I teased and forbade his orgasms. He fell forward, lying me down, and took me with abandon. Hard and desperate, I relished the man whose quiet dignity I’d dismantled.

I laughed, knowing the pain his cock would be in from the tape. I fingered his back, feeling the welts, and with a sharp gasp when I pressed my nails in, he came. I felt the hard pulsing twitch and rush of cum inside me. It seemed to go on forever. Spent and limp, he fell against me, and I cradled him, soothing and crooning as he recovered his breath.

As he came around, he leant up, wincing.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Not enough.” The fucker smirked and kissed me, teasing my lips.

“How long do we have?”

He looked up behind me. “The kids will be back in an hour.”

“A few more minutes then before I tend to your wounds.”

He laughed, and I kissed his neck. I loved Sunday afternoons.

 

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