A text was sent by Him around eight o'clock that evening. The order was to use the spare key under the welcome mat and clean the House to His standards by the time He was to be off work, not half an hour from the time of the message. A secondary message added that He was to later on have Guests over.
With the fear of God imprinted upon her at the thought of her Sir's dissatisfaction, as well as He did train her, she hurried over and set to prepare each of the handful of rooms she was permitted to enter in His absence:
The floor-spacious living room was first with its large U-shaped sectional but it was easy enough to tidy by fluffing the decorative pillows and centering the wooden coffee table in front of the sofa. The guest bathroom, a full yet small one was more of a task given the typical dirtied services that required a deep clean. The same went for the dining room to a lesser degree, despite the expansive dining table that resided in it.
The hall closet, too, received a comb-through; Sir's coats were neatly arranged on their hangers and the clothes she had been wearing were folded neatly and placed on one as well, being hung on the far opposite end of the rack to not taint the jackets. At the bottom of the closet, next to a couple extra pairs of Sir's shoes, was a bulky, plain rectangular trunk she knew far better than to indulge in - that lesson had been painfully learned months ago. Instead, she ensured all supplies in the toy chest were clean, organized, and had working batteries if they so required them.
Lest her mind escape her, she left the trunk be after a final check and closed the closet. She settled upon her knees in front of the main entrance, head bowed and hands resting palms-up atop her lap.
None too soon, albeit, as the rattle of a key meeting the metal lock startled her not a full five minutes later.
He wore a buttoned-up dress shirt that was tucked into a nice pair of slacks, the kind that made her paranoid under the unspoken threat of punishment to not be sloppy whilst giving head. Neither glance nor word was dropped to her as He passed, unaffected by her presence.
She dutifully refrained from casting either, as well, eyes steadily fixed on her lap as her ears tingled in straining to hear His actions behind her. She ascertained His whereabouts by the subtle clapping of His loafers against the linoleum shortly before a snort of derision hazed the dining room.
Her heart palpitated, a numbness stiffening jaw.
Before there was much more time for anxiety to settle in, she felt the electric closeness of vicinity of her Sir standing directly behind her. It was difficult for her to repress a shudder as goosebumps prickled her skin and erected the hair on her arms and neck. She could feel phantom grazes of His hands all over her, wild thoughts flashing through her mind of all the ways he could use her from that angle...
He must have crouched down then, as His lowered voice came to her ear: "You forgot to wipe down the most obvious place, stupid bitch. Now I don't believe you truly know how to respect My House."
A fist gripped the back of her shoulder-length hair as He stood. "Come fix your mistake before I change My mind about allowing you to be here by yourself in the future." Slowly, He began to lead her on all fours by the hair into the dining room.
It hit her then what exactly she had skipped over, and she mentally kicked herself for such a mindless error.
He tugged upwards on her locks to get her on her feet and took a step back with his arms crossed, directing her to get upon the table on hands and knees. "Mop up all the crumbs and filthy stains with your tongue and spit. Your mouth is as disgusting as a sponge in mop water, anyway. Lick every inch of this table until I think it is clean enough."
Without hesitation, she perched herself obediently and spat on the glossed surface, spreading it messily with her tongue. She did so once more to cover an area slightly bigger than her face, before lapping it up thoroughly, like she was lucky enough to be spit-shining a pussy - as if her Sir would ever reward her so graciously! She repeated this process many times over until almost half the table had been attended to, her average breasts having dangled so low at some point that their faces were tacky with her saliva.
Sir moved along the perimeter of her workspace as He saw fit, scrutinizing silently for missed spots. He observed the bimbo dog's technique, too, stoically amused that she was so eager to please that she was executing the task decently enough to appear practiced in doing so regularly.
Her brow creased deeply as His silhouette left her peripheral vision, but she stayed honed in on the job at hand and, if anything, performed livelier under near lethal anticipation of further humiliation.
"Are you so desperate for attention," He chided domineeringly. "that even this has turned you on, slut? You're so fucking pathetic. I said I wanted My table to shine, not your spoiled pussy." A swift slap landed on that wettened, openly exposed region.
She yelped, jaw stumbling as she resumed care for the last portion of table. "I'm sorry, Sir." She apologized softly after a final sloppy lick. Her bare bottom rested on her heels, hands placed on her knees, as He stood in front of her.
"Apparently not sorry enough, since you enjoyed that so much. Do I have to let you clean every other inch of the House like this for you to learn?"
