Pass Quality Checks

The new clothes, the shoes, all of that arrived in a very steady stream. Trey let her make breakfast – sausage links and french toast, a very big helping – and then ordered her back onto the couch. The shows were very happy to see her. “Meghan,” the naked girl on the screen said. There was just a slight electronic hitch to her name. “You must clean for your husband. He’s your protector. Your provider. Rub your pussy if you understand.”

Of course she did. Trey, busy unwrapping cardboard boxes, didn’t seem to mind. After some unsatisfying rubbing she took the initiative and tore herself away from the screen, legs wobbling. Trey seemed concerned until she returned with sex pillow, her old standby, and thrust it between her legs. The first orgasm came along almost immediately.

After that it was an easy morning. Trey had to get her to try on outfits, from time to time, but he made sure she never had to look away from the screen for any length of time. Plus the outfits he’d gotten were very cute. “I went about half and half with frazzled slutty housewife and classy chic homemaker,” he said, pulling out a half-dozen pairs of tights. So those were the slutty ones, Meghan supposed. “And a dash of costumes. Some tiger MILF, a cheerleader, you get the picture.”

Meghan slid on a tube dress. It was either rubber or something similar. Her new and still-growing boobs didn’t fit in it, half-popping out, and showing off a lot of aureole. She giggled again. Everything was just fun and hot. Whatever concerns she had about this, about drizzling the couch with girl juice, was buried way underneath the reassuring patter on TV.

“You’re so good at this, Trey!” she said, enthusiastic. “I look sooooo hot!”

Trey looked bashful. He stared at the ground, trying to avoid the compliment. “I mean, this is the part I got good at,” he said, shy. “Dad did the electronics and the chemicals and the plumbing, I got really good at the clothes and the makeup and the toys.”

“Toys?” Meghan said. Somewhere, way inside of her, a part of Meghan wanted to know why she was half-naked with this man. The dress was cinched up around her hips, and her pussy was very visible.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll see. Just keep eating and keep stroking and keep watching, alright? You can do that for me?”

It sounded great, and she fell back with a delighted squeal. “You’re having a lot of fun,” the TV reassured her. The girl on screen was masturbating, just like her. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? You have all day to you, to indulge, to rub, to cum. And all night is his, to stroke you, fuck you, use you. It’s a well-balanced relationship! Cum now. Get a little more stupid!”

She did, and how.

—

“This is a test,” Trey told her. “We’re getting really close, you’re almost done. Okay?” Meghan nodded, eager. She was so excited.

“Clean!” She bounded into the kitchen, heels tapping. Trey had put a load of dishes next to a tub of soapy water. Meghan pranced up to it, stopping only to snap on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. Trey had done her nails in a super pretty pink gloss, with a spiral effect, and it would be a shame to chip them. She set to the dishes with a will. After a moment, she felt a firm but insistent pressure on her back, and obligingly bent forwards.

A rubbery vibrator, very large, teased at her slit.

Meghan wavered for a moment, then just spread and set her legs. “Good!” Trey enthused, shoving it all the way in. Meghan dropped a plate, which, to her enormous relief, landed safely in the water. She diligently kept at the scrubbing, working around the long length of dick inside of her. Even when it started to hum.

He left it in during cooking.

The intensity gradually ratcheted up, until she was a wet, squirmy disaster, legs threatening to give out as she worked at the stove. Nonetheless she managed a passable croque monsieur. Trey had completely restocked the pantry, fridge, and refrigerator with every possible necessary. New thoughts floated around: she could perhaps use the mustard for dinner, in the instant pot. They interrupted the sex haze, and the relative normalcy of them made Meghan pause. What was she– was she really gallivanting around in a rubber dress, leaking pussy juice on the floor? She was an editor, for god’s sake.

But then the vibrator picked up another notch.

“Okay, go, go!” He urged her on into the office, where he’d already set up trash bags and bins. “Quick, all of the books!” Meghan had to laugh, even as she plunged in, tossing stacks of personal favorites into the trash. What was this even supposed to test her on? It hardly mattered, she was sweating, cumming, and moaning as she went, stuffed like a turkey and throwing Thomas Hardy into a bin. Sweat pooled around her tits.

“Why are—” she had to gasp for breath. When had she gotten so out of shape? The image in the zoom camera reflection was wider, even verging on chubby, with wet round thighs that quivered underneath the vibrating onslaught.

“We’re donating them!” Trey said. He snapped his fingers. “Don’t think about it! Just clean them up!”

Clean, that’s what she was doing. Books were dusty and dead. And it wasn’t like she was going to read them. Even the bits of words she could see, as they toppled over into the trash, were suddenly nonsensical, silly. She needed – magazines, that was it. Trashy-ass shit magazines with lots of pictures. She tossed out a portfolio of her personal short fiction. It occurred to her that she knew absolutely nothing about celebrities. She’d have to do something about that.

It also occurred to her – why was zoom on?

Meghan looked over. There was the editorial staff, staring at her, manicured and mannered eyebrows raised. They all of them wore glasses, heavy-set ones, and most wore black. When she’d bent over to dump more literature it was pretty clear she’d put her sopping wet slit right in front of the camera. They could probably even see the humming piece of plastic inside of her.

The sound was muted. Tom, head of editorial, clearly said “wow”, if she was any good at reading lips.

Trey slammed the lid of the laptop closed, hustled her away. “Okay, almost there!” he said, enthusiastic. He seemed so completely sure of himself, so ready for the moment. He walked with definitive steps. “One thing left! Every housewife’s dream! Fuck the delivery man!”

Oh, god, yes.

The weight of the fantasy slammed into her, driving out any sudden horror at showing her privates, her newly fat ass, to colleagues. Fuck the man at the door. The last little bits of her guilty pre-Trey self found a tiny bit of purchase. Fucking the delivery guy was praxis. It was like leaving out water bottles and snacks, but with her tits. Meghan stumbled towards the door, swung it open.

A female delivery girl was there. She didn’t look right – she was just pressing away at the doorbell, over and over. Each time she shuddered, eyes wet and glassy. There was a huge damp patch in her bicycle shorts.

“Oh, huh,” Trey said. For just a half-second he lost his composure. Then he turned, pointing at Meghan, commanding. “Work with it!”

Yes, yes of course she could. Meghan took the woman’s hand. She had a long black braid and wore a reflective vest. She smelled like the road. She seemed to be trying to say something, but couldn’t recall English. Meghan half-threw her onto the couch and peeled down her shorts. The woman had a big black bush and was absolutely drenched. Meghan had never gone down on a woman before. She dove in. This was all part of being a good hostess.

It was very rewarding. For her. Her thighs quaked. She was sure she wasn’t orgasming, because she’d already done that. This was something more. The delivery girl tasted so good. She was being such a perfect, wonderful housewife, so clean, so inviting, so wet, so horny—

Meghan, perfect mistress, didn’t black out until her guest already had.