Flash Fiction #38: Submission “Lick my boot, you dirty little bastard,” the dominatrix bellowed at the man, and the man did as commanded. She grabbed him by his leash and hauled him into the kitchen. “Now the floor – right up to the edges – I want to see you lap up every last spot of dirt.” The man went at the filthy linoleum with gusto. “Now scour the taps,” she demanded. He bent over and worked his tongue into the zinc spout. “Not like that, you grubby turd – with vinegar and lemon juice.” The man’s forehead wrinkled beneath his gimp mask. “You heard me!” the dominatrix thundered. “I want to see my face in those things!” She thrust the goods into the man’s hands and he went to work. The demands only got less kinky from there. “Take out the rubbish!” “Go to Sainsbury’s and get my shopping!” “Collect this undelivered parcel from the post office.” “Pick the kids up from day care!” After a while it didn’t seem like fun anymore, particularly a month later when the man found himself stood opposite a wedding congregation, his bondage gear exchanged for a three-piece suit. “Say “I do”!” “Put that ring on my finger!” “Smile for the photographs!” “Thank the bridesmaids in your reception speech!” No, this wasn’t what hed signed up for at all, but then, as so many had discovered before him, there is no safeword for marriage.
Posted on: Tue, 02 Sep 2014 09:23:06 +0000
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