The Doormat

It is Sunday and I wake up in a frenzy, well rested but aware of my long day ahead. Today I had many chores to do to get our home back in order. This was unusual for me, as the house was always impeccably kept due to my OCD tendencies. I think that is one of the reasons my Master married me, we both value structure, order and organisation. But happy frolicking with my girlfriends since Friday; shopping, drinking wine, dining and watching movies had come at the expense of tidiness. Last night I remember glazing over a sink filled with dishes, dirty wine glasses littering the counter, an unswept floor, piles of dirty clothing and makeup everywhere.

I get up and have my morning bath. I emerge from the bedroom, and see my Master watching his favourite show in the living room. I smile at him but he glares at me. I know the look, and I can guess its instigator. I stop in my tracks as he walks towards me. "This morning you will be a filthy doormat in this filthy house."

I do not know what he means but I know that another painful episode is abound, a mere week after my bitch in heat punishment. My knees still ache from being bound that day. He pushes me towards his den and I walk reluctantly and sluggishly, but oblige because I do not wish to anger him further.

"Clothes off." He lays out the two red squares and instructs me to stand on them, while raising my hands above my head. He snaps the first yellow telescopic spreader bar to my ankles with metal cuffs. The second bar is attached to my wrists, with my hands splayed above, equating with the 2 metres between my feet. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I look like an exaggerated version of Da Vinci's Vitruvian man.

He stands behind me and leads me back into the living room, and to my horror, towards the front door that leads into our home. He kicks aside the cobblestone patterned mat that spreads in front. He pushes me down on my knees to take its place, I whimper as they make contact with the hard tiled floor. He forces my head down, and I soon take the position he wants- face down, flat, spread out, with the side of my face on the tile.

I am a doormat. My eyes barely peek out above my arm, I notice him go into the kitchen. He returns with his favourite beer, and sits comfortably on the couch facing the door, taking large gulps of it at a time. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles contently. He resumes sipping and watching TV.

I lie there as I hear shows begin and end. I gauge that I have been like this for an hour. In addition to my aching knees, my limbs are stretched out for so long that I feel like a medieval racking victim. My shoulder sockets are sore, my inner thigh muscles throb. Worst of all, I want to pee.

I haven't made a sound since, so I decide to appeal to my Master. I really need to pee. I open my mouth but before a plea escapes, he calmly says, "Doormats do not fucking speak." It is so matter of fact, he seems unperturbed as he sips.

I start sobbing loudly, I feel hopeless and I let myself burst, letting the hot pee escape my wet cunt, spreading like wildfire around me. I cry at my humiliating position, the discomfort of the wetness that I now lie in. He speaks, again, matter of fact. "Doormats are super absorbent."

I begin to wail at my lowest point, and then simmer down into a whimper. Tears are its own form of torture, running down the terrain on my face unable to be wiped by my bound hands. I see my Master leave and return with a wooden handled broom. All my nerves shoot to fear, I panic at the thought that I might be caned with it, a feeling I never experienced. I hold my breath in anticipation as he towers above me.

But all I feel is something in my hair. "Doormats can be swept." He makes sweeping motions on my hair and body with the broom, I begin to cry again as its dirty bristles touch me. I catch a glimpse of him, he is amused.

He drops to his knees behind me and I hear his belt unbuckling and zipper undone. He grabs hold of my hair, and yanking my head backwards, I feel the thin hard wood of the broom handle enter my cunt, wet from a mixture of cocklube and pee. It feels uncomfortable and unnatural as he pushes it further and more vigorously. I scream out repeatedly every time its hardness strikes my cervix that could only accommodate 7 inches at most.

Satisfied, he withdraws it. "People wipe their feet on doormats." He pulls my torso up slightly and shoves his hard throbbing cock into my ass, while he places his foot on the side of my head. As he thrusts into me, he presses my face down, squashing it to the tile, muffling my cries and screams.

He grunts in pleasure as he pulls his cock out from my ass and fucks my cunt, only to pull it out again and return it to my ass. He dips into my two holes until my body erupts into a delicious orgasm that makes my knees wobbly.

He pumps into me like this until I feel sore and exposed. My hair is now a tangled mess from his foot rubbing on my head. He finally pulls out and shuffles around to my face. I open my mouth to taste his scrumptious seed, but he shoots it on the floor, in front of my mouth. "Doormats can be used to wipe up spills." I know what he means, so I lick the white load off the tile and swallow.

He smiles, his eyes glisten as he rises and pulls me to my feet. "Now clean up, yourself and this dirty house."