Clean up

Per Brand's instructions, Vanessa kept her ruined top open and her stiff skirt bunched and tucked up around her waist while she bused the table, wiped down their places, cleaned and washed dishes,

... adjusted the plug in her backside once... and again... It stayed pretty well, Vanessa didn't think it would actually fall out, but with her walking and bending and working it felt like it was working its way back, at times.

While she worked, Brand began fiddling with her TV, learning the remote layout. He opened his briefcase, busying himself with its contents.

Vanessa finished. She paced back and forth for a bit, and... she didn't know what to do. She walked out of the kitchen, towards Brand. She... what was she doing?

Instructions. She shivered a little inside as she realized what she was doing, why she felt so insecure. She was waiting for Brand's instructions. Without them, in the situation Brand had left her, she was lost and listless. Until she had some kind of signal from Brand she was a stranger in her own home, waiting for the owner to tell her what the guests did, what the evening plans were. He, in some short hours together, was dictating her space and her life so that she couldn't act without him guiding her, at least until she got used to her new routine and life.

Getting used to it. To this. That sounded even worse than Vanessa's current limbo.

Vanessa stopped, and turned. Brand was at the dining room table, his head down. Maybe he hadn't noticed she was done. She would find something else to do, something to putz around with, some excuse to make herself scarce.

"Finished cleaning?"

Vanessa paused mid-turn. She bit her lip and contemplated a lie, and quickly rejected the idea. She turned towards Brand, and quietly nodded.

God! She hated how meek... and with her tits showing, her black ass hanging out, Vanessa's self-loathing once again spiked.

"You want to take that thing out your anus? Or are you used to it? If it comforts you, keep it in. It's a good pacifier, don't you think?"

Brand waited. Vanessa's self-loathing remained, but took on a subtly different form as she contemplated the next words she would speak.

"I-"

"If you want it out, you're going to need to ask proper permission. I might want it to stay. In fact..." Brand stood, and a few quick strides, too quick, brought him to Vanessa. He turned her around, and sat down again, now with a good view of her backside. "Better. Do you have something to ask me, Ms. Lockley?"

"I-" Vanessa was facing a painting on the wall - a dark-toned oil painting of a dark-haired white woman at a bar, holding a wine glass. The woman looked off into the distance, at some unfixed point off the canvas, and Vanessa had a brief flash of absurd gratitude that the woman wasn't looking at her breasts, or her shame.

The black woman adjusted her words to comply. She just wanted her asshole to be free of its burden. What was she worried about anyway? Her pride? What a bitter, depressing joke that was. Vanessa always liked dark humor, but she didn't want to laugh.

"May I please take the wine stopper out of my behind?"

Brand didn't answer.

Vanessa took in a breath, exhaled, "Sir?"

"Mmm. Bend over."

Vanessa... should have been used to this by now. She hoped that she was never used to it... even more that she wouldn't need to get used to it. The end of one particular humiliation in sight, she did it without arguing, and felt Brand spread her cheeks from behind. He poked the rubber cork up her butt, and she jumped. He poked harder, causing her to flinch, and jump again. He pressed it, and held firm, pressing harder... god was he trying to put the whole thing in her?! Vanessa squirmed, repressing the urge to shout, to snap at him, and after several long seconds he stopped, and ran his hands over her vagina. Her damp pussy.

Vanessa could almost feel her teased box swell, sensitize... gush at his touch and attention. If her self-disgust could go any deeper, it did.

"Alright. You can take it out, if you still want to." Brand wiped his fingers on one of Vanessa's buttcheeks, wordlessly indicating just how wet she was... that he knew how wet she was, that she had defiled his hand when he touched her vagina, and that her butt was the perfect napkin for her arousal.

Her shame could definitely go deeper. Vanessa actually felt the fissure in her heart rip open that much more.

"Thank you," She muttered, "Sir." She straightened and began to scurry off, planning to go to the master bath attached to her room. She was unsure of what would happen when she unplugged herself. The ice inside her had long since melted, and wasn't of sufficient quantity to cause real discomfort when it was body-temperature water, but Vanessa had never been put in the position for of finding out what her body would do with any quantity of water put into the wrong hole.

"Use the downstairs bathroom. The third door on the left." Brand directed Vanessa expertly inside her home. She paused, and nodded her acquiescence.

"It has a shower," As if she didn't fucking know that, "Use it to clean yourself out, thoroughly. Don't touch your face, though, and keep the water cool. I don't steam ruining your makeup or kinking up your hair."

Brand had a list. A plan. From the moment he entered her house, his mind had been working, planning, he had scouted out... he was a step ahead of her, at every turn. He was designing her to his specifications. Not as a person, as an object. A female, objectified, formed to his specifications. He was insane. Vanessa didn't have a choice. She went to the bathroom he indicated, intending to do exactly as he said.

"Make sure you get that dried filth off your tits. That's getting a little stale." Vanessa, somehow, had actually forgotten about that. Had grown used to the smell of cum and drool on her chest. The reminder did not help her broken ego heal one bit.

Vanessa entered the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. She saw her face, her still-swelling eye, her cheeks flushed with her deer-in-headlights expression, her damp pubic curls, her slightly bruised, cum-stained breasts... her 'wardrobe'. She gagged, and resolved to not look in the mirror again. She was disgusting. She had never felt so disgusting, even after being face-fucked by Brand into a sloppy mess... the large mirror reflected everything that she felt inside, back at her. Her outside was as much of a bruised, stained, **** mess as her insides.

She crouched over the toilet, and unleashed her plug. She farted, and a had a little trickle, and nothing more until she squeezed. Her insides must have absorbed much of the water in her colon, which wasn't so much in the first place. Vanessa finished evacuating, and stepped into the shower.

The cool water shocked her body, but Vanessa stood firm. She cleaned herself, and especially her rear, and stepped out again to finish over the toilet what her body said she still held inside. She stepped back in, cleaning again.

She touched her butthole, exploring, unfortunately curious if her time with the stopper in had stretched her...

It didn't seem like it. Her back hole still felt tender, though, abraded by hard, rough ice and its time being distended. She tried not to think about why she was cleaning it so thoroughly. Digging so deep past her tenderized sphincter. She kept at it, and kept avoiding the unwanted thoughts that intruded her alone time.

Finally, shivering, she was satisfied in her cleanliness. Vanessa thought about dressing, but looking at her ruined clothes... picturing herself undressing again... somehow it all seemed worse than honest nudity. She exited the bathroom, naked as a jaybird, clothes and shoes in hand. Vanessa's heart caught in her throat. Her clothing dropped from her limp hands, completely forgotten.

Rose petals... they were everywhere. Vanessa probed one with a toe. It was real. Crimson and torn from their stems, they littered the floor outside the bathroom. More sparsely, they led away, creating a deliberate trail for her to follow.

She followed the trail. The naked brown executive felt for a moment like she was floating, like a dream. She was brought back to reality by a perverse urge to pick the petals up as she walked along - a result of some efficient, time-saving instinct; the practical knowledge that it would be her cleaning up the floral confetti at a later time.

They might be a romantic sight under some other circumstance, but this night the petals at her feet created a path of shame; a trepidatious walk to her future and her doom. She obediently followed them along the hallway... they squished under her naked toes up the stairs... and lead her around the corner to the master bedroom. Her room.

Brand's room, now. His lair. Where he awaited her, his prey.