Hand Washing
The conversation in the living room wound down and I heard Jennie and the guests saying their goodbyes. Moments later, she opened the door to my room.
"Well, I see you are wearing jammies, after all," she said.
I just clenched my jaw and looked away from her, the universal female signal meaning "I'm not speaking to you."
"OK," she said, "I guess that's your way of saying 'Stop.' Fair enough. We're not as good at this as Mr. Daniels is. Maybe we went too far. I don't know how he's going to react to your disobedience, mainly because I don't know how he feels about you. If you are still just a— ... a
client
to him, well ... well you know he doesn't usually allow someone who's dropped out to resume sessions with him. But maybe he'll make an exception since it's Angie and me that you're disobeying and not him. Still, if he means something to you, I'd hate to see you risk that. But, then, maybe you don't want to see him anymore anyway."
She paused to see if I reacted. I didn't.
"Well, Angie's gone home and I'm going to watch some TV and then go to bed. If you change your mind, just let me know. Angie and I won't spank you for what you did in the laundry room. We'll leave that to Mr. Daniels. But if you want to resume having me and Angie enforce his 'no masturbation' rule for you, ... well ... like I said, just let me know."
With that, she left.
I sat there contemplating my future. I could imagine moving, getting a new job and new friends, but when I thought about losing Mickey, I started to cry. What if I never meet another man who appreciates my body type, who doesn't mind a woman under five feet tall? But most of all I thought about how much I loved Mickey and the thought of losing him filled me with a terrifying dread; a big black hole opened up inside me. I wanted to fill that hole again. I wanted to fill it with the joy and pleasure that Mickey had given me.
I reached a decision that I now think was inevitable.
I stood up and took off my PJs. I picked up the shame bonnet and put it back on my head. Then I put the mitts on. Naked, I walked out to the living room to where Jennie had just turned off the TV and was yawning. She was startled to see me approach in the nude, but only for a moment. She smiled.
"I think you've made the right decision," she said, "Now, I've got a little chore for you before we both go to bed. But, first, go into the kitchen."
She followed me in and told me to stand on a chair and bend over with my hands on the kitchen table.
"What? Why?" I asked.
"For inspection," she explained, "just like at Angie's house the other night. Only then we were inspecting you to see if you were wet enough for the zucchini. But this time I want to verify that you are
not
wet. Since you have a lot less will power than I thought, you're going to have to be inspected regularly to see that you haven't been stirring your honey pot. Until Mr. Daniels gets back, anytime you are out-of-sight of Angie and me for more than a few minutes, we are going to inspect you to see if you are wet. Now get up on that chair."
With a sigh, I did as ordered. Once I was up on the chair, I bent all the way over and put my mitts on the top of the table.
"OK," she continued, "now move one foot to the next chair, so your legs are spread enough for me to see your little nest."
Again, I sighed, but again I obeyed.
I stood there bent and spread obscenely while Jennie stepped behind me to get a look. My privates were at the perfect height for her to inspect. After a moment she declared that she was satisfied that I hadn't been masturbating, and I was allowed to step down from the chairs.
"Now," she said, "I want you to wash your shame bonnet, but you can't use the washing machine. In fact, I don't want you going anywhere near that dryer until Mr. Daniels gets back, so you must stay out of the laundry room. I want you to take off your mitts and hand wash the shame bonnet in the bathtub. Then bring it back to me."
Using a small dollop of laundry soap that Jennie got for me from the laundry room, I hand scrubbed the underwear in our bathtub and wrung it out.
When I brought them out to Jennie, I figured that she would take them into the laundry room and toss them in the dryer. But instead, she simply pointed to our wooden rocking chair as she handed me two clothespins, she ordered me to hang the panties from the top of the chair back to dry.
"But, Jennie, if they are hanging there, everyone who visits or even comes to our door can see them," I protested.
"That's the idea," she explained. "Naughty girls who play with themselves and get their underwear wet must hand wash them and then air dry them in public."
"But how will we explain to people why they are hanging there?" I asked, "What will we say?"
"We'll tell them the truth, of course," she said, pretending to be surprised at my question. "We'll explain that you masturbated in them and that you're not allowed to use the dryer because you treat it as a vibrator."
My face flushed red at the thought of having to make this confession to everyone who came to our door, but I obeyed and soon my rainbow hi-cuts were hanging across the back of the rocking chair.
"Now," she said, "let's get your 'naughty hands' mitts back on."
Back in the kitchen where we'd left the mittens, Jennie bent to rummage in a low drawer while I slipped the mitts back on.
"There it is," she said more to herself than me. When she straightened up, she had a roll of duct tape in her hand.
"I know you must have taken off the mitts to tie that homemade diaper thingy that you made," she explained, "so it appears that you cannot be trusted to keep them on. I'm going to fasten them with tape."
With that, she wrapped tape around the right hand mitt and my wrist several times to make a seal. Then she did the same to the left.
"Alright, Soo May," she said when she was finished, "I'm heading to bed and so are you, but you are to stay naked all night and sleep on top of the covers. Leave your door open so I can check on you during the night and verify that you are not masturbating. In the morning, I'll cut off the tape so you can get dressed and go to work."
And so I found myself a minute later lying naked on my bedspread with 'naughty hands' mittens fastened tight, and my door wide open. Curious, I tested whether there was any way that I could unpeel the tape. I wasn't going to remove them; I just wanted to see if I could in an emergency. It turned out that I couldn't: the mittens didn't allow me enough dexterity to peel up the tape. I tried using my teeth, but that did not work either. If there was a fire in the building, I could probably get a robe on and hold it closed, but I'd just have to evacuate with the mitts still taped on and endure the puzzled looks of the people around me.
In the morning, when I woke up, the first thing I saw was my rainbow panties hanging accusingly from the back of the rocker, and I blushed at the sight of them.
As she promised, Jennie cut the tape off the mitts and allowed me to shower and dress for work.
When I got home at the end of the day, I had to strip and put on the "naughty hands" mitts and the "shame bonnet," and then wait for Jennie. When she got a home about 10 minutes later, she again made me stand on two chairs in the kitchen and bend over for inspection.
And so that's how my life went for the next six days until Mickey returned. At night, I would sleep nude on top of the covers with my bedroom door open and the mittens taped to my hands. In the day, I would go to work as usual, but I spent the evenings wearing the shame bonnet, the mittens, and nothing else. I was allowed to take off the mitts only when eating or doing a chore that required fingers. Anytime Jennie went shopping or was away from me for more than a few minutes, I would have to submit to a kitchen chair inspection of my privates. I was not allowed to enter the laundry room by myself. If I had a load of laundry, I had to stand outside the door of the laundry room wearing nothing save my bonnet and mittens, hang my head, and say "Jennie, I cannot be trusted with the dryer, please chaperone me while I'm in there." Jennie would then come and stand in the room with me while I loaded the washer. I had to repeat this when it was time to move the clothes to the dryer and then say it a third time when it was time to empty the dryer.
I spent the Saturday of that week at Angie's when her husband was out. The routine there (and my state of undress) was largely the same, except that Angie made me request my inspections aloud and explain why I "needed" them. So I had to say something along the lines of "I'm a little muff-rubbing slut with no impulse control. Please inspect my privates to verify that I haven't played with myself."
In truth, I
