Cleaning supplies

Aalia crawls along behind you, through a hallway, past many rooms, and up a wide spiral staircase.

You stop in front of an unassuming door.

Though you try to appear indifferent to her plight, you can’t help but steal glances of her soft brown skin, taut with youth and regular exercise. Her black hair spills down her shoulders, hanging so that, from this angle, you can’t see her tiny breasts.

She refuses to look at you with her big brown eyes.

She has a round nose and pink lips. Her butt and legs are strong but lean, reflecting long lasting dedication to early morning runs. Her feet are small and soft, you wonder what they’ll taste and smell like later.

Between her legs, she leaves a trail of humiliating arousal on the wooden floor, the result of one of your many new rules.

“Are you pissing on my floor?” you say, even though you know it’s not urine.

She sits back on her heels to answer. “N-n-no. It’s...” She stops short of saying what you both already know—that her pussy is dripping wet from unexplained (to her at least) arousal.

You haven’t touched her yet. For now, you’re enjoying the way she squirms and fidgets in embarrassment. You’ll have plenty of time to defile her later.

That doesn’t mean you can’t make her situation worse. “Knees apart,” you say. “Hair out of the way. Hands behind your back.”

She obeys in silence. Later, you’ll fix that too.

You kneel down in front of her, examining her inner thighs, slick with her on juices. “Look at me,” you say.

Her eyes flick to yours and then to the ground. Again, she fails to hold your gaze. She inhales deeply, sets her jaw and lifts her chin. You enjoy the stoic defiance you see in her eyes. It will be so much fun to break her later.

Judging by the puddle between her legs, and the rules as you have written them, Aalia must find the experience exceptionally degrading. You resolve to make her feel worse. “It’s too bad you have such tiny little tits.”

Her jaw works in anger, but you also see her hips roll as if a lover had licked her clit. The expression on her face is dismay and confusion.

“Tell me how sorry you are for having such worthless little tits.”

Angry shock empowers speech. “I don’t want to say that,” she says in a breathless whisper.

“It doesn’t matter what you want. You’re just a small tittied ****. Now apologize.”

There are tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Her thighs quiver. “I’m sorry—” she pauses, swallows, closes her eyes and tries again—“I’m sorry for having such worthless little tits.”

The last word is punctuated with a heavy sigh as her hips thrust into empty air.