Ariane smiles as she tells me she has a job for me, cleaning for Madame Fanta in the 16th arrondissement. Madame Fanta, her most demanding client, her best client, she needs a good job to be done, she knows I will do it, she has chosen me specially. She tells me Madame Fanta has ordered a deep clean and smiles again. I feel a little uncomfortable. But I need the money. I have come to Paris from provincial Angers and quickly found a flat. My first job didn't work out and I signed up with a domestic cleaning agency, cleaning the homes of the wealthy and privileged. Some clients are fine, some treat you like dirt, but most have one thing in common. They are messy and untidy. One client is, as I realised, a high-class escort who uses her flat to see clients. But bagging up used condoms wasn't the worst job I have done. You might say it's demeaning but I enjoy doing menial work for difficult and demanding people. I love putting on rubber gloves. The smell of a fresh pair is intoxicating. My job enables me to live out my submissiveness. And so I come out of the lift in the luxury apartment block and knock on Madame Fanta's door.
I am Fanta. I get my way. Always. I always get the cleaners I need. Some cleaners I actually get to do cleaning. That's when I order a clean. When I order a deep clean Ariane knows to send me a pretty, submissive girl who will be my plaything for a couple of hours. Do they know what awaits them here? I rather think they do. Clemence does I am sure. Clemance is a very pretty redhead. Her hair is gorgeous. Everything about her demeanour screams submission. She gasps audibly at the sight of my gloves and boots. She bows her head and curtseys. I think for a second that her legs are going to buckle and that she will prostrate herself on the floor before me. I beckon to her to come in, saying nothing. Who needs words? Sometimes, that kinky, sexy vibe is in a world beyond language. She knows why she is here. I push her gently down onto the sofa, motioning to her to say nothing and keep still. Then I speak, ask if she is OK and she bows her head and the 'oui Madame' that comes out is barely audible.
Green gingham dress, boots, that severe bun. Those gloves, I cannot take my eyes off the gloves, the gloves whose gleam says, Clemence, you are mine. I look around the room. It is clean, it is immaculate, and I realise what I am really here for. I am relaxed, I sense that Fanta is going to use me, even before she takes the rope out. I want to be used. Even as I packed my bag with cleaning materials and two pairs of rubber gloves I had a nagging feeling that I might not be using them.
I love shibari, I love the ritual of the tying, I love the way restraint takes people out of themselves, how each knot chips way at their ego, the more knots the greater the humiliation. I give Clemence plenty of knots. Not that she needs humiliating. She is humble and submissive already, she does not resist as the ties go round her, as I map her body, her lovely body that I am already exploring with predatory eyes. I look into her eyes, see resigned acceptance, see a hint of fear too. I love the look of fear in a submissive's eyes, I feast on it, the look of someone who knows they are safe in my hands, safe and happy in the sweet cocoon of the rope yet feel a nagging doubt. That doubt is the seed the dominant plants in the mind of the submissive, the seed from which grow the sweet flowers of deep submission, deep joy. I finish the tie, take the ball gag, open her mouth and push the ball in. I pull the straps round, fasten it at the back. She is motionless. She is anxious. She has no need to be, of course, she is here to serve me and what more could she want? She is starting to dribble. I want to laugh but know I can't. I will retain a stern demeanour, I will remain poker faced.
As the rope is pulled tight the first time I feel release, I will be safe in her hands, I will submit. The room turns soft and hazy as the ropes tighten around me. I drift into a world where only Madame exists for me, a world of service. I can't think, try as I might, what she is going to do to me. I just know I want it. By the time the strap of the ball gag has been pulled tight and I am dribbling. A little stream of submission flows down between the stiffening peaks of my breasts, irrigating me just as I know I am getting wet inside. I have known Madame Fanta for ten minutes. I know I adore her. I know I need her to take me, use me.
Domination is a performance. I go to the table and begin to trim a pot plant. Nature too must bend to my will. The scissors are the tool I use, the scissors. She sits with her back to me, sits in that dreadful uncertainty that will heighten her submission. I cut a little branch here, a leaf there. I let her anxiety build, knowing her mind will let me in to mould it, shape it as I trim the plant, make my will her will, so that already craves the things I want to do to her. To use that uncertainty to build into desperation and neediness. To use a woman is only half a delight. To make her want it first is a total delight. She has to want me because I want her. I lift my dress, slide a gloved finger underneath and into my wet, juicy cunt. I am gagging for it. I slide a shoulder strap down and expose one of my little breasts, its nipple hardening as I look at her, still, silent, waiting. I stop, pause a little longer, then I walk round. I can't wait any more. I press the cold blades of the scissors against her flesh, feel her shudder. I cut through the rope where it binds her legs. I look at her again. There is a moment of tension, But I think she knows what is coming next.
Someone told me once that the control of a man, ownership of his soul comes through denying him. With women it is the other way round. You make a man plead for his orgasm, edge him, deny him, and break his will. With a woman, they said, edge her, edge her again but then make her come and the power of the orgasm will make her yours. As soon as I see Madame Fanta looking at me with intent, as soon as she moves that gloved hand, gleaming in the lights, I know she will break me with orgasms. I gasp as a finger goes in, gasp as she touches my clit. She puts a finger inside me. I am wet, very wet, the gloves glides into the slick of my juices. She works the finger in and out, she massages my clit with her thumb. She brings me to the edge and leaves me there. I don't look at her, I can't, I mustn't. I have no voice here, I have no say, I am not a person anymore, I am her plaything. A thing, I want nothing else.
I bring her to the edge, she gasps and whimpers. I am going to leave her there for now. But I need to spank her. I desperately need to spank her.
I feel another coil of the rope loosen and fall away. I want to stay tied, I want to be immobile and helpless, I feel vulnerable as I am stripped of the ties, as she takes me over her knee, and hard slaps of her hand land on my buttocks. My clit is engorged, it is rubbing my dress, it is rubbing her. I want to come, I long to come, I need to come, yet I must not. I tighten even as I need to relax into the spanking. It stings, it hurts but I need it to hurt, I want to suffer until I enjoy it. I wriggle on her lap, I rub my clit until I feel orgasm approaching.
I feel Clemence wriggle, I know what she is doing, I feel it, and I know I must stop it. She will come when I decide, maybe I will make her come and come again until she begs for it to stop. Or maybe one orgasm will be enough, a resolution of the agony. I take away, I give and she thanks me for both as her submission grows. But first, she has to pleasure me. I turn her over, remove the gag and ride her, make her lick me, then suck my clit. I will then come again.
She is on top of me, I smell the bouquet of her cunt, perfumed with arousal. She has denied me again, but I cannot deny her. Her face is full of desire for me, for the orgasm she rightly demands. By the time I leave her, I will be more than her cleaner. I will be her slave. I love the feel of her stubble against my cheek as I take her clit into my mouth, I suck and taste, as I feel her coming, she rides me more and more vigorously.
God, I am so horny, I am needy as never before. I ride her, ride her hard, feel her tongue against my labia, against my clit before she takes my bud and sucks, sucks until I can take no more. I edge myself as I edge my subs, I hold myself back as long as I can then let myself go. I come with a long moan.
That moan is performance I know, but only half performance. She is as needy as me, it is neediness that binds us together, and that is the most powerful bond of all. I need to come again, please let me come Madame Fanta please release from this torment of seeing you enjoy what you deny me. I need it too, I do, I do. Then her hands go in, her fingers, two fingers in my cunt, her thumb on my clit. This time I know she will not deny me. I work her clit even harder,
I come. But I have not finished with Clemence. I pull her up onto the sofa. The ropes around her upper body now hang loose, she is away in those distant lands of subspace, but I am not going to let her enjoy it, yet…
She grabs a handful of my hair, and yanks my head up. It hurts. God how it hurts. I am pulled back to the moment I was drifting away from. The moment in which I stare my subjection in the face. She twists my hair again. I let out a cry. She is overwhelming me with sensations. And then she spanks me harder than before. She wants to make me suffer, she is making me suffer. I yelp, I start, she has taken me to the point where pain and pleasure have blended into one, but she denies me still, she denies me orgasm, she denies me subspace she denies me even as she gives.
My God, I love this woman! She takes whatever I want to give her, she is here for me, I have never had a woman so lovely, so submissive, so…
I am spent. I have no more to give, nothing, but she wants more, and I must keep giving…
She gets to come. She gets her reward before I torment her further. The rhythmic rubbing of shaven pussy on shaven pussy, the gymnastics of slim, toned bodies. I work out daily, that is the pain that earns my pleasure, the sculpting of the body that makes any woman want me, that gives me the suppleness to take up any position, and we move against each other and come together.
The orgasm explodes through me. I am still feeling the aftershocks. She sits me up, reapplies the gag and ties me again. But I want this. The calm after the storm, the safe harbour of the ties, the place where I can focus on Fanta, like how, as a pious little girl, I knelt in church and adored the Blessed Sacrament. My body is mute and immobile and my mind, as it processes the sensations and the emotions, slowly comes to rest, to rest in her presence, to connect with her devious mind. To worship.
I take her to the table. She is spent. I have one more torment for her. She will watch me eat cake, she will sit opposite me, bound and gagged. She will have it burned into her brain that when she is with me, I am in charge. I do what I like. She does what she is told. She is in a state of post orgasmic bliss mixed with deep subspace and I will keep here there. I love her. I will look after her.
Madame Fanta has tea, camomile tea I think. I like camomile tea and I am thirsty; my tongue is dry from pleasuring her. But I must sit here motionless and watch. She has cake too, a soft confection of cream and jelly, shiny as her gloves in the glare of the lights, the consistency of lube, luscious as labia. I like cake but being denied cake as she eats is not the point of this. She is denying me what the cake represents. She takes me to climax. She denies me. She ties me up to set me free. She gags me to make my soul sing. As she takes a slice of cake in her hand, squeezes it to a mush in her gloved fists, pushes it into her mouth so that jelly and cream dribble down her chin and make me want her to kiss me, to take the cake into her mouth, draw me close, and feed me as we kiss, feed me with the fruit and jelly. I feel I could come without being touched, but I fight it and the longing makes me want her more.
I untie her, remove the gag and she mentions cleaning. Cleaning! Clemence did you really think I book pretty young girls like you to do my cleaning?
I knew she had booked me to use me and, once I realised what she wanted, I wanted it too. But I want to clean for her, I need to clean. I could stay here all night, my knees digging into the hard floor as I scrub and scrub until her floors gleam like her gloves and my hands are raw. Please, Madame Fanta.
I pick up the plate with the remains of the cake and tip the mess of jelly and cream onto the floor. I tread it in with my boot and order her to lick it up, polish the floor to a shine and clean the boots.
Oh my God, the boots! She sits down, tugs the boots off and throws them to me. She puts on a pair of flat sandals and leaves, telling me she will be back in an hour to check my work. I kneel and lick greedily at the cake, the cake that she has kneaded in her shiny gloved hands. I am eating of her magnificence, and this feels good. The hungry She has filled with good things.
I shut the door behind me and make my way to a nearby café where I order a café crème and take out my phone to watch her on my home CCTV. I see her on her knees, naked, polishing the floor, working quickly and diligently before starting on the boots. She takes polish on a brush which she moves in quick small circles, bringing my boots to a shine. I know this is a work of love. When she lies on her back, draws up her knees and parts her legs, taking the boot and massaging her clit with the low heel, I know I have to join her. I put out my cigarette, go to the toilet where I sit down, pushing my knickers to the side. I am wet again. I rub my bud in synch with her and we come together. Yes, she is mine, but I know too that I am hers.
Exhausted by orgasms and cleaning I must have fallen asleep on her floor. When I come round I am lying on the sofa, curled up in a blanket. Madame Fanta stands over me, kissing me gently.
You have done a good job Clemence. Thank you. But you need to go now.
I know I have to go even though I don't want to. At home in my tiny room, I play the day back in my mind. I put on the new yellow rubber gloves I didn't use when I cleaned for her and frig myself with the grip pattern on the palm. I am about to come when my phone rings. It is Ariane. Madame Fanta needs another deep clean tomorrow. Am I available? Yes, Ariane. Yes. Yes! Yes! One more rub with my rubber-gloved hand, and I come with a loud moan.