Clean Slate

Author's note: Hey there! I hope you're having a wonderful day! Just a quick interruption in your scheduled reading to inform you that I've created a Discord server around hypnosis, mind control and transformations, with a focus on concept stories. I'll also keep everyone updated about my upcoming stories (big novel underway) there. Feel free to join!

I woke up feeling strangely refreshed, which was weird considering the chaos that had erupted on the Discord server last night. The morning light filtered through my blackout curtains where they didn't quite meet in the middle. For once, I didn't have that usual groggy, half-dead feeling that typically accompanied my mornings.

My phone sat face-down on the nightstand, and I deliberately avoided picking it up. No doubt there'd be hundreds of friend requests from men who had completely ignored my request to be left alone. They could wait. I stretched and looked around my apartment, once again annoyed by the state of it.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered to myself. "I own a restaurant now. I drive a Porsche. I can't keep living like this."

I needed help, and I needed it fast. Mrs. Johnson—my neighbor with her soccer-playing kids—came to mind once again. It was Wednesday, around ten in the morning, which meant her kids would be at school. She was a stay-at-home mom, though whenever I bumped into her in the hallway, she looked completely exhausted from it. I felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of commanding her to clean my place when she already seemed perpetually tired, but I was **** to go searching for someone else when she was right next door. Besides, I remembered the rules Zoe and I had established yesterday—no lasting physical pain, mind alterations must be temporary, respect women's life paths, and don't mess with their relationships. Having her clean my apartment didn't break any of those rules. It's not like I was planning to make it a regular thing. Well, not too regular.

I pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt, then headed next door. I could hear the sound of a television through the door as I knocked. A few moments later, it swung open.

Mrs. Johnson stood there in yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt with a coffee stain on the front. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, with several strands escaping to frame her face. She had the kind of natural prettiness that didn't need makeup, though the dark circles under her eyes suggested she hadn't been sleeping well. She was curvier than I remembered—not fat, just soft in all the right places, with hips that filled out those yoga pants nicely.

"Oh!" she said, recognition dawning on her face. "Mr. Moore, right? I'm so sorry—I should have come by to offer myself when I realized you were the Owner, but you weren't home when I tried, and then the kids got back from school, and things have been so hectic with soccer practice and homework and..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I figured you knew where to find me anyway if you needed me." She said it all so casually, as if discussing the weather or commenting on a neighbor's new mailbox.

"It's fine," I assured her, still getting used to these casual acknowledgments of my ownership. "And please, call me Oliver. Actually, I could use some help cleaning my apartment. It's gotten a bit out of hand." I paused, smirked, then added, "I'd appreciate it if you did it naked." The words came out casually, and I felt a small thrill at how easily I could make such a request now.

Mrs. Johnson glanced down at herself, then back at me, sighing softly. "Oh, um..." She looked back into her apartment. She seemed more uneasy about the cleaning than the nudity. "I've got a lot on my plate already today. I need to prep dinner for the kids, and I've got three loads of laundry waiting, and—"

"Clean my apartment, naked." I ordered, cutting her off.

Her expression shifted immediately, resignation replacing hesitation. "Of course," she said, nodding as if I'd just asked her to borrow a cup of sugar. "Let me just turn off the TV."

Mrs. Johnson—Emily, I reminded myself—stepped into my apartment and froze, her eyes widening as she took in the disaster zone.

"Oh… wow," she muttered, clearly in over her head but not backing down. "This is going to take a while." She began undressing without ceremony, pulling her stained t-shirt over her head to reveal a practical beige bra that struggled to contain her ample breasts. As she wiggled out of her yoga pants, stepping on something that made a suspicious squishing sound, she grimaced. "That's… not going to be super convenient for cleaning, but whatever you want."

Now fully naked, Emily stood awkwardly in my living room, her body bearing the gentle marks of motherhood—subtle stretch marks across her hips and breasts, a soft curve to her belly, and full thighs that met at the top. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, and her breasts, while not perky like a twenty-year-old's, had a natural fullness that made my mouth go dry.

"Where should I start?" she asked, looking around with the overwhelmed expression of someone facing an impossible task.

"Let's tackle the living room first," I suggested, feeling a twinge of guilt. "I'll help you with the trash at least." I grabbed a garbage bag and started collecting the empty energy drink cans while she bent over to pick up discarded clothing, giving me a perfect view of her ass. When she caught me looking, she casually adjusted her position, spreading her legs slightly wider as she reached for a sock under the couch. There was no enthusiasm in the gesture, just a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of what was expected.

The next few hours passed in a blur of cleaning activity. Emily moved methodically through the apartment, her naked body glistening with a light sheen of sweat as she scrubbed, dusted, and organized. I found myself increasingly distracted by the bounce of her breasts as she vigorously attacked a stain on the carpet, the flex of her thigh muscles as she reached to dust a high shelf, the way her nipples hardened in the air-conditioned room. Each time she bent over or stretched upward, she made sure I had an unobstructed view, not with any particular eagerness but with the diligence of someone performing an expected service.

By mid-afternoon, the apartment was nearly unrecognizable. The floor had reappeared, surfaces gleamed, and even the bathroom smelled of bleach rather than neglect. Emily was on her hands and knees, scrubbing at the last corner of the kitchen floor, her ass swaying slightly with each movement. Something primal stirred in me as I watched her—a mixture of arousal and the intoxicating feeling of power.

Before I could think better of it, I crossed the room and grabbed her from behind, pulling her up against me. She gasped but didn't resist as I pushed her against the wall, my hands roaming over her sweat-dampened skin. I groped her breasts roughly, feeling their weight and softness, then spun her around to bury my face between them. Her skin tasted salty with sweat, and I felt a surge of conflicting emotions—desire, power, and a nagging anxiety about what I was doing to her.

Emily responded to my advances efficiently, her hands finding my erection through my basketball shorts, stroking me with practiced movements. She rubbed herself against me, creating a delicious friction that made me groan. But as her fingers slipped beneath my waistband, an image of Claudia from the restaurant flashed in my mind—the way she'd looked at me after I'd fucked her on that table, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright...

"Stop," I said, pulling back abruptly. "You should… You should get dressed. I can finish the rest myself."

Relief flashed across Emily's face, though she quickly masked it. "Of course," she said, retrieving her clothes from where she'd folded them neatly on a chair. "The apartment looks much better now. Just make sure you don't let the dishes pile up again."

I nodded, still trying to calm my breathing as she dressed. "Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it."

"No problem," she replied, now fully clothed and heading for the door. "Just knock if you need anything else." She said it politely, like a neighbor offering to water plants during a vacation, not like someone who'd just spent hours cleaning naked at my command.

After she left, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Claudia: "Hey, it's Oliver. From the restaurant. Are you free for coffee or something sometime?"

Her response came quickly, surprising me with its casual tone: "Well, well, look who's asking me out. Technically you're my boss now (and my owner), so shouldn't you be able to answer that question yourself? ;)"

Before I could formulate a reply, another message popped up: "I'd love to go for coffee or something sometime. When and where?"