Charm School: If There's Time to Lean, There's Time to Clean
#2 of Charm School
Second part's here! Hope y'all enjoy. <3
_ Chapter Two: In Which Portia Blackburn Learns the Virtues of Timeliness and Butt Plugs _
DING DING DING DING DING DING DING!
Portia Blackburn bolted upright in her bed with a loud squawk, looking this way and that as though searching for a fire, finding nothing but a stone-faced Weavile standing at the foot of her bed and ringing a handbell. The Eevee closed her eyes and gave a deep, shuddering sigh. "Jesus Christ." Her voice was still thick with sleep, and her light brown headfur was unkempt and cowlicked. Charlotte looked down at her, saying nothing.
"You didn't tell me you'd be training me in the fucking witching hour," Portia said, with more than a little acid in her tone.
"It's seven in the morning, girl," Charlotte responded. The Eevee gave her mistress a curious look. If that chocolate bar from last night was indeed from her (how many Cs are there in the house? It probably wasn't Cora), the Weavile had already improved greatly in her view. And yet, there was something about a short, odd-looking young woman with a sandpaper voice that didn't gel with Portia's idea of what it meant to be a "lady". Then again, she had never gotten a straight answer about what that meant, either.
"Shower and dress," Charlotte said, "and wait in the parlor." She turned to the door, before adding "Heather said to be ready in a half-hour, so don't dilly-dally."
As the Weavile left, Portia cursed under her breath. She couldn't remember the last time she had taken less than a half-hour to get ready in the morning (when she woke up in her bedroom, at least-waking up at someone else's place, or on someone else's floor, was another matter entirely). Another indignity to seethe over, which Portia planned to do at length in the shower.
The bathroom was nice, at least-nicer than some in the hotels Portia had stayed in. There was a heated marble floor, a porcelain sink, a silver-rimmed mirror, and (in one of the manor's nods to modernity) a glass shower enclosure. A toothbrush holder sat on top of the sink, with a note attached. The message was written in the kind of exquisitely neat cursive that graced the menus of five-star restaurants, and read as follows:
Portia-
Kindly refrain from leaving your brush on the sink. We have a toothbrush holder for a reason.
-Miss Heather
Portia scoffed. Passive-aggressive bitch, she thought, before smearing a glob of toothpaste on her brush. She inspected herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. Her hair was a fucking mess, of course, but she could tame a few of those cowlicks in the shower. She couldn't see any spots on her face, which was always a good thing. She scanned her forehead, checking for any remnants of red to be found. Good-she had washed all the lipstick off the night before.
Portia rinsed her mouth of the toothpaste, spat, and left the toothbrush laying in front of the holder. If Heather was going to write "FAT CUNT" on her forehead in lipstick, she might as well get petty revenge how she could.
The shower was hot and refreshing. The experience so far having left her a bit paranoid, Portia kept monitoring the temperature in case they rigged it to go ice-cold after five minutes. But, for once, things seemed straightforward, and after a few minutes Portia sighed and let the warm water flow over her. The shampoo smelled like lavender and peppermint, and the Eevee stepped out of the shower feeling like a spring morning. Even putting on that stupid plain grey servant's dress didn't bring her down too much.
Portia was about ready to take the world by the balls and declare it hers when she entered the parlor. Heather sat on the couch, one leg crossed neatly over the other, glancing up at the entrance. She tapped the screen of her phone and clicked her tongue.
"Forty-one minutes and fifty-three seconds," she said. The Cinccino placed her phone down and reached over to a side table, picking up a long black implement and tapping it in her hand. A riding crop. Portia's face fell.
"Do you remember how long Miss Charlotte allowed you in the shower?" Heather's voice remained smooth, posh, and so infuriatingly smug that Portia had to suppress the urge to throttle her. Still, the Eevee responded.
"Thirty minutes, Miss Heather." Portia's voice said all the right things, but there was still that undertone of seething venom.
"How much longer than thirty minutes is forty-one minutes and fifty-three seconds, girl?"
Portia grit her teeth. "Eleven minutes and fifty-three seconds, Miss Heather."
"Good girl," Heather said, with a smirk that made Portia's right eye twitch. "It seems like you didn't have to suck off your maths professor to pass, hmm?"
The Eevee's expression darkened even further. "I didn't suck off any of my professors, Miss Heather." Those last words were so dripping in bile that they barely made it past Portia's lips.
"Perhaps you should have," the Cinccino said. "Maybe you wouldn't have dropped out of uni if you had."
"Shut your fucking gob 'fore I do it for you."
It was an impulsive snarl from the back of her throat, and Portia was startled by its ferocity. So, she noted with deep, cathartic satisfaction, was Heather. Her blue eyes were widened with surprise, and she sat upright with alarm.
The pleasure of seeing Heather's queenly expression falter was short-lived; her eyes narrowed, and her lips curled back into place.
"Well!" she said. "I'll have to add a few more strokes to your punishment, then."
It was then that Portia remembered the riding crop in Heather's hand. The Eevee ran through the entire dictionary of vulgarities in her head as the Cinccino beckoned.
"Well? Over my lap, girl."
Portia had never been spanked before, although more than a couple of people told her that she ought to have been. Her parents were far too busy to do that, though, and any nanny that so much as laid a finger upon her would have been kicked unceremoniously to the curb.
This is all to say that Portia found herself in a very unfamiliar situation. She was bent over Heather's knee, arms folded in front of her on a throw pillow, skirt hiked up and panties lowered. Her round, fluffy rump was exposed to the cool air, and she shivered as the Cinccino slowly dragged the leather tongue of her riding crop along it.
"That'll be ten strokes for taking too long in the shower," Heather said, "and fifteen strokes for talking back to me." A soft yet surprisingly firm hand pressed into Portia's neck scruff, holding her still. "I would have given you another five for leaving your toothbrush out on the counter, but since you've never been flogged before I'll go easy on you this time. Isn't that nice of me, dear?" Portia said nothing, resting her head on her folded forearms and staring sullenly ahead.
"You know," Heather said, hand leaving the nape of the Eevee's neck before running along Portia's left rump cheek, "you've got a bigger arse than I expected. Is that where all the weight goes?" She squeezed, sinking her fingers into the bubbly, brown-furred flesh. "You're lucky, then. When the weight goes to your tits and arse, no one calls you a fat little sow, hmmm?"
"Miss Heather?"
The Cinccino tilted her head. "Yes?"
"Could you please just flog me, Miss Heather?" Portia hated how needy and pathetic she sounded, but she just wanted to stop the teasing and get it over with.
Heather sniffed disdainfully. "I was about to start before you interrupted me, girl." She placed her hand back on Portia's neck scruff, raised the hand holding the crop, and smiled-
-before flicking her wrist.
THWACK!
Portia reacted as though she had been stuck with a cattle prod. Her head shot backwards, her eyes opened wide, and she let out a catlike yowl of pain. "YEEEOOOW!" Heather rolled her eyes.
"I didn't even hit you that hard. Sit still, there's twenty-four to go."
THWACK! The second blow struck down upon her right cheek, and felt like a lick of fire against her rear. Portia gave a shrill cry, her body twitching on Heather's lap as the Cinccino continued her assault.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Four in quick succession, alternating sides, delivered in a perfect rhythm that scarcely let one blow fade before the next rained down. Portia couldn't remember the last time she had felt pain like this-not even the harsh slaps from yesterday! The formerly-spoiled Eevee thrashed about like a fish on a dock, trying to squirm away from her mistress, but Heather held her tight. "No," she said, sharply, as though addressing a small dog, before continuing anew.
It's worth noting that, despite the noises she was making, Portia did not cry. Whenever she had serious physical pain, like the broken leg she suffered a few years back in Christchurch, she got by with alcohol and a near-constant stream of furious, agonized expletives. Emotional pain barely registered; at least, up until now. The humiliation of this ordeal was starting to get to her, and Portia felt an unfamiliar heat behind her eyes as she squealed out from the pain.
As satisfying as it was to reduce poor Portia to this state, Heather's ears were twitching from the constant aural onslaught. "Bite the pillow, girl," she ordered. The Eevee, whimpering, did so. She took the frilly white throw pillow in her mouth, muffling herself as she waited for number eleven.
When eleven came, and twelve and thirteen behind it, her struggles started anew. The Eevee girl kicked her legs, thrashed her head, shrieked into the pillow. She was breathing heavily, trying to keep herself from hyperventilating and failing miserably. The heat behind her eyes grew, and Portia could feel the first flecks of wetness come to her eyes. She scrunched her eyes shut tight-god fucking damnit, she wasn't going to cry over this.
Heather sighed. "If you're going to overreact to a little spanking like this," she said, "there's more work ahead of you than I thought." Her wrist flicked, the crop singing through the air before landing on the right cheek, then the left. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty-ceaseless, almost mechanical, and completely unconcerned with the pain it was causing.
Portia's writhing stopped for a split second as those blows rained down, the horrid sting rushing through her like a tidal wave. Heather intentionally struck down on the rawest, most pained parts of her rump to really put the hurt on her, and Portia gave just the reaction the sadistic Cinccino wanted.
The bratty Eevee girl buried her face further into the pillow and began to cry. Her body quivered as she let low, guttural sobs groan out from her throat. She sounded less like a posh, spoiled young princess and more like an eight year old who scraped her knee on the pavement. Heather almost felt bad for her.
"There, there," she murmured, half-sincerely, petting the back of Portia's head. "There's only five more to go, and then you'll be off to Miss Charlotte. Settle down, now." The tears didn't stop, but the Eevee sat still long enough for Heather to finish the job.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! The snap of the crop against Portia's rear sounded off like firecrackers, and the red-hot burning sensation returned, as though she had sat on a hot skillet. It took a few minutes before Portia even wanted to move again, simply laying there prone across Heather's lap as she soaked the pillow with her runny tears.
"Have we learned a lesson, girl?" Heather asked, with a smirk. Portia didn't answer her.
"How many did she give you?" Charlotte looked over Portia's beaten rear sympathetically; cherry-red markings were visible through matted brown fur.
The Eevee leaned on the back of an armchair, lip still quivering. "Twenty-five," she said, her voice thick with tears.
Charlotte nodded. "That'll do it," she said. "Now, sit still. This'll help with the sting."
As Charlotte's fingers pressed into Portia's sore cheeks, the younger girl hissed from the pain before, after a moment, sighing with relief. The cold cream that the Weavile had spread on her hands worked quickly-there was no doubt going to be reminders of the pain throughout the day, but this would keep it manageable.
"There we are," Charlotte said, her rough-edged voice taking on a gentler, more nurturing quality. "Do you feel better?"
"No," Portia responded, sullenly.
Charlotte frowned. "Aren't you forgetting something, luv?"
"...no, Miss Charlotte. I don't think I feel better."
"And why might that be?"
"I think you know bloody well why that might be." Portia paused before realizing her mistake. "...Miss Charlotte."
"That's better." Charlotte finished massaging the ointment into Portia's cheeks, wiping her hands clean with a cloth. "Well, as for that, I think I can help a little bit." She tapped Portia's shoulder, bidding her to turn around, before lowering her hand. She held Portia's soft, manicured hand, her grip firm yet forgiving.
"If you think this is all for our own pleasure," Charlotte began, "you're wrong."
"Only part of it, then?" Portia cut in. Charlotte continued.
"If you were to keep at what you were doing before you came here, you'd be dead in five years. You'd overdose in a hotel room, or fall out a twenty-story window, or pick a fight with an elephant or something. Wouldn't that be a waste?"
"So is that why I was eating out of a dog bowl last night, then? Is that why I was bent over that smug cunt's lap and beaten like a mule? To show me the giddy heights I can reach?" Portia's tone remained acidic.
Charlotte shook her head, sighing. "If I can say something to make you feel better, it's that this will reach a point where things become much, much easier for you. But you can't get to that point without a little humility, you understand?"
Portia didn't respond, but the way she averted her gaze satisfied Charlotte enough.
"Very good. Now, I ought to show you some chores."
Portia stood in the doorway of the bedroom that she was sent to yesterday, the one where she found the dress they wanted her to wear. The morning light poured through the slightly-open window, a gentle breeze quietly hissing through. Portia remembered when she thought this room would be hers, and sighed bitterly.
Charlotte stood by the writing desk, her voice and tone steel-cool. "This is the first real test you've faced, girl," she said, "so pay attention." The Weavile tilted her head at the Eevee, quizzically. "How clean do you suppose this room is?"
Of course, it looked immaculate. Everything from the pillows on the bed to the doors on the wardrobe to the items on the desk and nightstand was neatly and symmetrically in its right place, and there was a polished shine to the wood of the furniture. Still, Portia couldn't shake the feeling that this was a trick question. She thought for a moment before answering.
"Well, Miss Charlotte," she said, "I wouldn't say it's awful. I've slept in some hotel rooms in worse shape. But it could stand to be a lot cleaner than it is right now. The curtains aren't as neat as they should be, the mahogany doesn't gleam quite like mahogany, and the sheets could use a spin in the wash. Thought so ever since I came up here yesterday."
Charlotte raised her eyebrows, quietly impressed. Portia gave a triumphant grin.
"You're really very good at bullshitting," the Weavile said. "You ought to do it more often."
Portia's grin froze, and she blinked. "Should I say 'thank you' for that, Miss Charlotte?"
"All the same to me," Charlotte said. "At any rate, you're right, even if you were talking out your arse." A pause. "You can thank me for that, too, if you'd like."
"...um. Thank you, Miss Charlotte?"
Untroubled, Charlotte continued. "But there's more pressing things for you to take care of. Do you see what this is?" She ran a finger along the surface of the desk, extending it towards Portia. The Eevee inspected it and looked up.
"Dust?"
"Dust," Charlotte confirmed. "There's a few things you need to know about dust." She kept her finger extended as she spoke. "Dust's made of everything. It's made of pollen, it's made of dander, it's made of hair and fur fibres, it's made of skin cells. You can't avoid dust." She blew onto the tip of her finger, and the dust vanished into the air. "Because it's made of everything, and because it gets airborne so easily, it can get in every little part of a room. That means that, unless you're very very thorough, you can miss a spot and everything'll get dusty again."
Portia nodded, with a hint of impatience. "Right," she said. "I know what dust is, Miss Charlotte."
"Maybe you do," Charlotte said, "but you don't know the most important part of this where you're concerned."
"And what's that, Miss Charlotte?"
The Weavile smiled slightly. "Heather hates dust. Hates it like nothing else on Earth. We've kept this room for a week without cleaning it so we could test you with it, and she's been teetering on the bleedin' edge."
That would explain a lot, Portia thought, before speaking. "Maybe she's got some sort of obsessive-compulsive thing? My oldest sister has that-one thing out of place, and she starts popping benzos like Junior Mints."
"Maybe so, but I'm not her shrink and neither are you. I'm just laying out the stakes. If you do a great job with this room, she's going to be a lot softer on you for the next few days. But if you don't..." Charlotte trailed off. Portia gulped.
"Shall we get started, girl?"
It was about a third of the way through Charlotte's long, tedious, ludicrously complex instructions for cleaning a bedroom that Portia realized she didn't have the faintest fucking idea where to start. She didn't need to clean anything growing up; there were servants for that, the kinds named Maja or Milena, short and fat with craggy faces that never smiled. Portia silently fumed over the situation as Charlotte went on and on about microfibres and window cleaners. She felt like Cinderella. Even worse, Portia thought, sourly. At least that whiny minge knew how to clean in the first place.
Fucking hell, was she still going on? How many different ways are there to get rid of cobwebs? Portia nodded along with whatever Charlotte was saying, mentally checked out as she seethed. If she got out of here (Christ, am I thinking "if" now?, Portia wondered), she would get one of those cranky old Polish women to clean everything and not speak a word. Maybe that would-
"Now, bend over."
It took Portia a second to get back to the situation at hand. "Pardon?"
Charlotte gestured towards the bed. "Bend over and lower your panties." When Portia flinched, the Weavile rolled her eyes. "I'm not spanking you," she said. "I told you that already."
If she did, Portia didn't hear it. "Then what are you doing?"
"I'm putting the plug in," she said, simply.
In a weekend thus far full of painfully awkward silences, this one was among the most painful and awkward of them all. Portia's mouth hung open; the Weavile simply tilted her head.
"Well? You don't have all day, girl."
"Look, Miss Charlotte," Portia began, her left fist clenching and unclenching itself. "I don't want to step out of line, here-"
"Then don't." Charlotte gestured back to the bed. "Bend over."
Well, that was worth a shot. Portia tried again. "Miss Charlotte, I don't think I heard anything about a plug."
"You weren't listening carefully, then." Charlotte reached under the bed, opening a large box filled with god-knows-what before pulling out a black butt plug of modest size. "I'll be starting you off on the smaller side," she said. "You haven't taken anything up there, have you?"
If she had, she couldn't remember quickly in this state. "I don't think so, Miss Charlotte."
"There's a first time for everything, then." The look in Charlotte's eyes told Portia everything she needed to know. She stepped forward, shuddered, and bent over the bed, pulling up her skirt.
Charlotte took a bottle filled with a clear, viscous substance and squirted it along the length of the plug. "I'll make it easy for you this first time," she said, with a not-unfriendly grin. She hooked her fingers into Portia's panties and pulled them down.
She kept talking. "You might be wondering why I'm doing this," Charlotte said, cupping her hand on one of Portia's soft, full buttocks and sinking her fingers gently into the furred flesh. "Most of the girls who come our way think they know how to clean, even if they can't. It's easy to feel like you're doing the right thing with cleaning, even if you're fucking up." Charlotte pulled apart Portia's cheeks, revealing that tight, winking asshole. "This is to keep you on your toes."
Portia was cooperating with the Weavile for the most part; she had started to warm to the shapely young woman with the thick Mancunian accent, and didn't try to buck her authority. But as that rubber butt plug pushed its way past the ring of her hole, the Eevee reacted out of reflex.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!" she growled through grit teeth, wriggling and trying to get away from the Weavile as she inserted the plug. It wasn't painful so much as foreign-she had never had anything inserted that way, not even a thermometer. In a way, it felt like a violation.
Charlotte, of course, wasn't having any of it; a hand braced itself on her shoulder, pinning her to the bed until the Eevee's hole had accepted the plug. When she was done, Charlotte patted Portia on the shoulder. "You comfortable?"
Portia's face seemed to be trying on a new grimace every few seconds. "No," she groaned out.
"You'll get used to it, luv." Charlotte gave an affectionate rub on Portia's back before standing back up. "I'll be back in an hour."
With that, she turned around and made her way out of the room, leaving Portia bent over the bed, quietly seething in the springtime sun that beamed through the window.
Not for the last time, the idea came to Portia to simply take the plug out before cleaning. After all, Charlotte had left her alone rather than watching her like a hawk (another thing Portia appreciated; Heather sure as hell wouldn't have done that, and though she hadn't seen too much of Seraphine she didn't seem like the laissez-faire type either). Would anyone have to know?
Well, no, but nothing was stopping Charlotte (or, god forbid, Heather) from ducking in to check her progress, and Portia wasn't in the mood to give a paranoid glance over her shoulder every half-minute. And so, grunting and wincing, Portia pulled herself upright off of the bed, slowly, as though her feet were standing on a balance beam.
Of course, gymnasts on balance beams were very rarely expected to perform with a plug shoved in their tight rears-even that bloke from Team USA didn't try pulling that on them. This particular plug wasn't exactly massive, but someone as tight as Portia would certainly feel an unpleasant stretch. Gingerly, she walked towards the neat array of cleaning implements that had been left for her, her feet inching forward and her body tensed from head to toe.
There was a bucket of liquid with a mop sticking out of it, a broom and dustpan, a container of various cleaning sprays, a brush, a couple of sponges, and a small pile of light blue cloths, on top of white a feather duster sat.
If there was anything she remembered from that whole lecture, it was that the most important thing to do was get rid of the dust. Portia looked warily at the feather duster, frowning. "It's come to this, huh?" she muttered to herself. Not two days ago, she could conquer the world with a black credit card and a pharmacist's cabinet of drugs; now, she was a fucking French maid.
Portia bent down to pick up the feather duster-and yelped out, shooting a hand beneath her skirt and placing it behind her rear, eyes wide. The plug was big enough to make her walk like there were shackles on her ankles, but small enough that it'd slide right out if she bent over. As such, the perfect size to be as much of an inconvenience as possible.
Portia grunted as she pressed her fingers on the end of the plug, making a face as she pushed it back into place. Moving carefully, she picked up the feather duster, slowly returning to a standing position to make sure it was still in place. It was, but it didn't make it feel any less like someone shoved a plum in her ass.
The nightstand, being closest to her, would go first. The Eevee shuffled over there, looking over the neatly-arranged items (a lamp, an alarm clock, a coaster for a glass of water) and tackling the task at hand. She flicked the surface of the feather duster along the wooden surface of the nightstand, watching with satisfaction as dust dissipated to reveal streaks of clean brown wood. She kept at it, her wrist working along the surface of the nightstand, lifting up the alarm clock to dust underneath it, dusting along the neck and the shade of the lamp, blowing stray flecks of dust off of the coaster. Before long, it looked like a job well done to Portia. She turned around, wincing slightly again at the feeling of the plug, before making her way over to the other nightstand.
It was as soon as she got to work on this one that she heard a voice. "You're not doing that right."
Portia paused, the feathers of the duster barely brushing the surface of the nightstand. She turned her head to the door, watching as Seraphine closed it and walked towards her.
"Pardon, ma'am?"
"You shouldn't use a feather duster for nightstands. They're not for flat surfaces." Seraphine's voice was dry and even, French-accented even in fluent English.
"They're not?" Portia did her best to sound mild.
"No. Didn't Charlotte tell you that?"
Portia bit the inside of her cheek. Charlotte almost certainly told her that, but she hadn't been paying attention. "Yes, Miss Seraphine. I'm sorry, I must have been-"
"Stop." Seraphine didn't put any particular emphasis on the word-it was clear and neutral, like a command given to a computer. Portia stopped talking immediately.
The Sylveon reached down to the pile of blue cloths, the ones that Portia found the duster sitting upon. "Microfibers," she said. "These are for flat surfaces. Use the duster for corners, and if you find cobwebs."
Portia looked at Seraphine curiously. Of the three dommes, Seraphine was the one she knew the least about. Heather was to be feared, and Charlotte was to be trusted (mostly), but Seraphine was something of an enigma. Portia wondered if this was some sort of sabotage, if this was a secret test that she was failing. If it was, there was no clue in the Sylveon's face, sharp and curious yet betraying nothing else.
Portia didn't have time to doubt Seraphine. She took the cloths and nodded politely at the Sylveon. "Thank you, ma'am." Then, cautiously, "Ma'am, can I ask you something?"
"You can ask."
"The plug." Portia's face wore an uneasy expression to show Seraphine her discomfort. "May I take it out? Please? I'd clean better without it." She was trying to see whether Seraphine had a soft center like Charlotte; although, considering Charlotte put the wretched thing in in the first place, she wasn't sure what she was expecting.
"You may not," Seraphine said, coolly. She didn't elaborate any further; she left the room, leaving Portia to continue her work.
Fifty minutes into the allotted hour, and Portia was awful chuffed with herself. She had stripped and flipped the mattress, changed the sheets, mopped up the floor, and dusted every surface she could reach. It seemed Seraphine wasn't tricking her after all; the microfiber cloths worked like a charm, getting rid of dust as though it was an eraser clearing a chalkboard.
There was a voice in the back of her mind-it was the voice that had been in the front of her mind for the past nineteen years. You fucking idiot!, it moaned, clutching at its hair. Don't get proud for this! You're not a bloody chambermaid! Still, Portia had to do this if she didn't want to deal with Heather again, and if she was going to do this she was going to take pride in a job well done. She went over the wardrobe door once more with a cloth, humming some meandering tune under her breath.
Once she was satisfied, Portia made her way back over to the cleaning supplies, slowly. Cleaning may not have been her idea of a fun time, but it was a thing to do, and it was a thing to distract from the discomfort of that damn plug stretching her out-if that was the idea behind Charlotte putting it in, well done.
Portia folded up the cloth, placing it back on the pile before she sat down on the bed. She sighed a heavy, weary sigh, reaching down to massage her feet as though she was an Irish washerwoman with eleven kids and an alcoholic husband instead of a pampered rich girl being made to clean for once in her life. She wouldn't admit it, but she didn't mind it as much as she thought she would-the plug was a literal pain in her ass at times, but when your older sisters were a Turner Prize winner and an Olympic gold medalist, it was nice to have nothing more expected of you than a bit of tidying up.
And, Portia noted with pride as she looked over the bedroom, she wasn't half-bad at it. She scoured every surface for dust, she mopped the floor, she made the bed, she cleaned the windows-
Oh fuck she forgot to clean the windows.
Portia stood from the bed with a start, glancing back at the digital clock on the nightstand. Only five minutes left. She bent over to pick up the bottle of window cleaner, before hissing as she felt the plug shoot a pulse of pain through her body.
Fuck it. She wasn't going to get this done with the plug inside of her, might as well bend the rules a bit.
Portia relaxed, sighing with relief as her hole finally contracted back to normal. Looking down at the plug, she was surprised at just how small it was-only a few centimeters, all told. But this was no time to dwell.
She snatched up the Windex and the cleaning rag, hurrying over to the window and wasting no time. She sprayed along the surface of the glass, an almost unbroken stream for ten seconds, getting as much as she could on the window before scrubbing with the rag. The window wasn't too bad, thank God-only about a minute or two of furious scrubbing was necessary.
Dashing back to the cleaning supplies, Portia put back the Windex and the rag, looking down at the plug she left sitting on the bed. Should she put it back in? Should she hide it? What if they check later? Was there enough time?
Portia's ears pricked. Distant footsteps, coming up the stairs.
Well, it was now or never. She grabbed the plug, reached back, bit her lip, and pushed.
If you've never roughly and suddenly shoved a butt plug into your hole without lube before, here are two pieces of advice:
- Don't do that.
- If you absolutely must, don't bite your lip immediately before doing so.
As Heather stepped into the bedroom, followed by Seraphine and Charlotte, she saw Portia sitting on the bed, on the verge of tears, breathing heavily and holding her hand to her bottom lip.
"Portia?" Heather tilted her head. "Are you quite alright?" It was an unfamiliar tone from her; she had covered the entire spectrum of smug, but the seemingly genuine concern in her voice was unexpected.
With a shuddering sigh, Portia nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Heather smiled. "Well, let's take a look, shall we? Stand up off the bed, dear."
Portia groaned, standing up. Heather stepped over to the bed, tracing her hand over the comforter before lifting up the corner to check the sheets. "It's neat enough," she said. "And you flipped the mattress?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good girl." Portia blushed and scowled; still, she kept her mouth shut.
Heather looked over the nightstand, checking its surface, running a finger over the lampshade. Silently, she moved on, circling the bed to the other nightstand. This, too, got another close look, the Cinccino checking for dust like a scientist looking for cancer cells.
The wardrobe, the desk, the windowsill-all of them analyzed in silence, nothing in Heather's regal expression hinting at what she was thinking. She moved on to the floor, checking for stains or scuff marks. Portia swallowed, looking like an accused murderer anxiously waiting for the verdict.
"Do you think this floor's clean enough, Charlotte?" It was the first word spoken in five minutes; Portia flinched, making Seraphine smirk. The Eevee glared at her before turning her attention to what Charlotte had to say.
"For a first-timer," the Weavile said, "it's not half-bad. A lot more thorough than you'd expect from her." Portia sighed in relief, ignoring the passive-aggressive dig at the end. Heather looked unsure.
"Well, there's no missed spots," she conceded. "I don't think it's as deep a clean as I'd have liked." Portia tensed up again. That nitpicking bitch!
"If she had the whole morning, you'd be right," Charlotte said. "But I wasn't the one who said she should only get an hour." Heather blinked, caught slightly off-guard; Portia grinned despite herself.
"Very well," Heather said, at last. "For the time she was given, it's decent." The Eevee beamed. Victory!
Heather looked over her shoulder, frowning. "Oh? But what's this?" The Cinccino walked over to the window, and Portia felt like she swallowed a stone.
"More streaks than I'd like," Heather remarked, eyes scanning the glass. "I'm sure you expected more from her than this, didn't you, Charlotte?" She gave an innocent-seeming smile. Portia balled up her fists, stomach roiled with anger and fear.
Charlotte didn't seem fazed. "Not particularly," she said. "I know the first time I cleaned a window there were streaks everywhere." She looked over the streaks, as well. "Besides, it's a pretty minor fix. Just have her go over it again if it bothers you that much."
Heather clicked her tongue. "You're not going soft, are you, Charlotte?"
"Not at all," the Weavile responded, coolly. "I just know what to expect."
"But surely-"
"Of the three of us," Charlotte said, a hint of steel in her tone, "who's the only one who's cleaned for a living?"
Heather opened her mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. Portia was fit to burst from schadenfreude.
"Fine," Heather said. She turned away from the window, going back over to Portia. She folded her hands in front of her, looking at the Eevee with that familiar expression of disdain.
"Considering the time limit, and considering your inexperience," she began, sourly emphasizing that last word, "you did a better job than I expected. Particularly with the dust."
"Thank you, ma'am," Portia responded, cheerfully. She never thought it'd be so satisfying to get grudging praise.
"Now, bend over the bed, please. I'll take that plug out."
Thank God for small miracles! The Eevee turned herself around, bending over the bed and presenting herself for Heather to finally relieve her of this damned-
"Did you take the plug out?"
Portia tensed up, looking over her shoulder to see who said that. Seraphine.
"I'm sorry, ma'am?"
"Charlotte used lube before putting it in, didn't she?" The Sylveon stepped over to Portia, flipping her skirt up and spreading those brown-furred cheeks. "This looks like it was shoved back in dry."
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. How the fuck could she tell? Portia thought quickly.
"It fell out a couple of times," she said. "When I went to bend over and stuff. I guess the lube wore off after a bit." OK, so far so good. "You know how I was all out of breath before you all came in? It was because it had fallen out when I was cleaning the windows, and I had to push it back in really quick, or else you'd think I was doing the whole thing without it and I didn't and-"
"Calm down," Charlotte snapped. Portia hadn't heard that tone since last night's dinner-she shut up immediately, embarrassed after running her mouth so nervously.
Someone's hand reached in and pulled out the plug, and Portia exhaled, relieved.
"Finish cleaning the window, now," Heather said, curtly. "Sera, Charlotte, come along. We're meeting the Vogel twins for lunch. As for you, Portia, there's a list downstairs for you to complete before we get home. We'll leave out something for you to eat."
Portia picked herself up off of the bed as the three dommes left the room. She picked up the Windex and the rag, walked back over to the window, and started to clean again, whistling as she did so.