Orgasmic Cleaning

– Oh my gooood… yes, yes...

I couldn’t take it—my lips parted all on their own in that whimpering, sweet moan as my tongue gathered the last bits of creamy sauce from the plate, while my knees pressed painfully into the cold metal sink. My fingers, wrapped in pink rubber gloves, slipped along the slick edge of the porcelain, and the plate almost slipped out of my hands. Fuck, why does this feel so good again?

Everything inside tightened, but not from shame—not just from that—but from this strange, pulling, sweet anticipation of how many more of these little, humiliating chores I still had to do today. How many unbearably feminine gestures I’d have to make, the kind that would leave me gasping in a ragged, shameful pre-orgasm while doing them. Like how I’d climb down from this sink—carefully, because walking in these fucking heels is a nightmare—my whole body shaking, my breasts bouncing with unbearable sensitivity. And then I’d head toward the bathroom, where the bucket and that fabulous electric mop were already waiting. The one I once bought for Stacy. So convenient, and now so damn desirable I already want to start mopping…

– No, just a bit more… – I whispered to myself, breathing heavily and finishing with a broken sigh, and right then I felt that warm, wet pulse between my legs. That same feeling that hit me every time I started doing anything I used to hate and thought of as truly feminine—from washing dishes to dusting. All of it today, every Saturday, became just as desirable to me as it was humiliating for whatever was left of the man I used to be on these days.

For one day only—thanks to Stacy’s damn curse—I turned into this… I don’t even know how to describe it exactly. I could only move around the house in high heels, every time in something different, always in an outrageously sexy outfit. Stacy… fuck you. When I used to force you to be the “girl,” I never imagined you’d be such a bitch as to hit me with a curse that turns me into a bimbo every Saturday—one who gets off on women’s chores! Fuck, and I’m the one who told her she should enjoy being the “girl,” even reinforced it… and now I can’t even focus on anything else—not even when I just think about dirty shelves and how I need to dust them...

Ugh, shelve-e-e-es... du-u-u-st! God, I can’t—I want to touch myself so bad, but I just can’t until I’ve cleaned the whole damn house! Breathing hard, I turned my eyes to the plates lying nearby and felt that inner tremor rise again—from the soles of my feet, squeezed tight in strappy stilettos, to the top of my head, where the lacy maid cap was starting to stick to my forehead from the steam rising off the pile of dirty dishes. The plates seemed to call to me, shining with their glossy, slightly greasy surface. Each one demanded attention. Each one became… an opportunity. An opportunity to feel another wave from this cursed body.

I swallowed hard. My throat was scratchy from arousal and frustration. Frustration at myself, at Stacy, at all of this. Yeah, I was standing there again in that tight bodysuit—so short that every time I bent over, I could feel the damp panties rubbing between my legs, letting my body know it was female. That I was a woman. Today. Again. Because it’s Saturday. Because it’s become a tradition, a ritual. Because, fuck, I’m the one who told her “being a woman is easy,” that “you just have to do what’s expected of you,” and now I’m doing it. Every Saturday. With full commitment.

– Alright… – I moaned, letting my fingers slide over the next plate. – Come on, baby, show me how dirty you are...

God, did I really just say that? And in that tone—like I was begging for attention. I bit my lip, and right away I felt that flash of pleasure deep in my body, that shiver shooting down my spine that only ever happened on Saturdays.

I hated it. But I licked the last of the sauce off the plate like it was my only chance at any kind of satisfaction. My heavy breathing echoed through the kitchen, mixing with the bubbling water and the clinking of dishes. Awful. Exquisite. Humiliating.

And right in that moment, as my hands reached for the last wine glass and my tits, pressed into the tight lingerie, reminded me they were still there, I heard her voice. Her voice. Stacy’s. I froze, glass still in hand, droplets sliding down onto my gloves.

– Well, well... You even wore the cap today. Taking it seriously, huh?

I turned around, though I already knew it was her. She was standing there in a loose t-shirt, a mug of coffee in hand, watching me with that dumb little smile. Her eyes ran over me like she was inspecting something, and I just wanted to sink into the floor, disappear.

– You know, – she went on, taking a sip, – the faster you finish everything, the sooner it’s all over today. But… you don’t really want it to end too fast, do you?

I… said nothing, cursing myself for not actually rushing. For wanting to stretch it out. And at the same time, for still hating everything I was doing inside—everything that Stacy should’ve been doing—but now, I didn’t even want to share it with her... And I realized more and more that every week, I was desperately waiting for Saturday...