Chapter 8

The next morning found me down on my knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. It was eight o'clock on a Saturday, no less, and I'd already been down there for an hour, scrubbing! Normally I would still have been snuggled in bed, dreaming wonderful dreams.

Unless I was at the town pool, of course, which (checking the time) would have just been opening, were it summer. God I wish the school pool would open!

But back to my situation this morning. I was getting what Mom and Elaine -- I mean Mistress Elaine -- call "an attitude adjustment." After reading the letters from Worthington, and questioning me in detail, the consensus they had reached -- I was a mere spectator to their deliberations -- was that I had been arrogant and disrespectful toward Mr. Worthless...

Worthington, I mean. Worthington. Worthington, Worthington, Worthington.

The other name, what I called him, that one with "less" in the middle, is to be banished, never to pass my lips again. But, while the thought police will do their best to wipe that other name from my mind, I feel they are destined to fail, no matter how hard they try. But I will do my best to pay lip service to their wishes, under threat of grievous punishment.

It was explained to me, that no matter what kind of a moron Mr. Worthington was -- and they did acknowledge he has his flaws -- he was an adult, he was faculty, and as such he deserved more respect than I had shown. They carefully explained to me the difference between the individual and the office which he holds, how there have been Presidents of these United States who were weak or corrupt or just plain stupid, but they were President, and as they occupied that office they deserved the respect of being addressed as "Mr. President."

Even if they were jerks.

Thus I was getting my attitude adjusted, which explains my humiliating position on the kitchen floor, wielding scrub-brush and rag.

And, before anyone gets all huffy about child abuse, let me make it clear I am participating of my own free will. I was told before I went into this some of what would be demanded of me, and that any dom/sub relationship should have, for the safety of all concerned, an escape hatch, as it were -- a "safe word." I have one -- I'm not going to tell you what it is -- but if they demand of me anything I really feel I cannot do, or that it places me in real danger, all I have to do is use it and the game stops. I'll still be punished -- grounded for a week -- but the shackles come off, I get up off my knees, or whatever, and life goes on more normally.

As to why I need this attitude adjustment, when questioned by Mom, I had to confess that as my frustration with Worthington had increased, certain disrespectful words such as "idiot" and "moron" and -- uh -- "dick-head" -- might have escaped my lips at a volume such that he might have heard it -- even through a closed door. Perhaps I -- uhm -- glossed over some of the less savory aspects of my interaction with -- that -- man. I have a temper, I admit it. In his letters home, Mr. Worthington had quoted me accurately, much to my embarrassment.

Oh, about the dog collar on the table when I got home yesterday? That is around my neck as a reminder that since I had behaved like a bitch I was to be treated like one. At the moment that treatment consisted of being down on the floor on all fours, wearing that collar, along with cuffs on my wrists and ankles -- all very sexy black leather, with shiny fittings.

Reaching the sink side of the kitchen I crawled backwards a foot and began working my way back across the floor, my chains rattling.

Chains?

Yes, chains. There was a shining chrome slave chain around my waist, cold and heavy rather than light and decorative, the kind of chain used for leashes for big, strong dogs -- very decorative but unforgiving. A matching chain, about a foot long, joined my wrist cuffs. The chain linking my ankle cuffs was a little longer, maybe eighteen inches, so when I walked I shuffled, if they saw fit to let me stand. Crawling was just as awkward.

At the moment a chain in front, from my waist links down to the ankle chain, was short enough to keep me from straightening my legs to stand. Another chain, from my collar to my wrists, meant I couldn't lower my hands past my belly button, or raise them much above my head. I was lucky I could scratch my own nose. I sure as hell couldn't scratch my butt, or that nagging itch in my crotch.

I'd tried, by raising my feet and humping my pelvis, to work the waist-to -ankle chain into my slit, but hadn't had much luck. Very frustrating.

Collar, cuffs and chains were all I was wearing. It was, Mistress Elaine took care to point out, more than a real bitch would get to wear, not that it did anything for my modesty.

After checking I'd finished my homework they'd put all the cuffs and chains on me at bedtime, locking them with shining chrome padlocks, the key to which Mistress Elaine wore on a chain around her neck, so it nestled cozily in the attractive space between her delicious breasts...

Ahhhhh! I've got to stop thinking like that!

Anyway, I'd slept in those chains. If I hadn't been so tired after my, shall we say, adventuresome Friday, I probably wouldn't have slept at all, even without the chains. They'd taken my covers and my pillows, leaving only the snugly fitted bottom sheet. It's amazing how a simple lack of covers adds to the feeling of vulnerability. The chains forced me to curl up in the center of my bed like the bitch I was, my head on my paws, and I soon slept soundly, my bedroom door wide open (bitches don't deserve privacy), oblivious even to the sounds of carnal revelry emanating from Mom's bedroom.

Getting down the stairs to the kitchen this morning had involved -- well -- call it sort of a butt-bounce process. As a result I had rug-burns on my ass.

Now, up at dawn, nourished by a bowl of cold, dry granola (chosen for its resemblance to dog kibble) sucked from a bowl on the floor (no spoon, of course) I was down on the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, my bare butt in the air, dipping a scrub brush into a bucket of hot, pine-cleaner-scented water, and scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, following up by drying and polishing the just-scrubbed portion of floor with a rag -- an old hand towel -- which I periodically squeezed out into another bucket.

They had debated making me use a tooth brush, but relented so the job would be finished sometime this century.

So, using both hands together because of the short chain linking them, the routine was to rise up on my knees to dip the brush in bucket number one, scrub as much floor as I could reach, given the limits of my chains, then return the brush to bucket one. Then I'd take the rag and wipe and wipe and wipe, pausing to wring it out into bucket two, until the floor was shining clean and no more than damp.

I crawled on sore knees, painstakingly moving the buckets, to repeat the process on the next patch of floor. I figured I did about a two-square-foot patch each time, going from one side of the kitchen to the other, backing up about a foot and then scrubbing my way back across to the other side, a couple of feet at a time, and -- well, I'm sure you get the idea. Because I had to use both hands on the brush, I couldn't even brace myself with one hand and scrub with the other. It was also awkward because I didn't want to put the buckets on the portion of floor I'd just cleaned, so I had to be kind of a contortionist as I moved the buckets and reached to use them.

The kitchen is about twelve feet by fifteen feet, and I was working my way down the long axis.

You do the math.

My hands were like prunes. My knees hurt. My back hurt. My wrists hurt. My shoulders hurt. My toes hurt. Even my neck hurt -- you try staying on your hands and knees, holding your head up for an hour. So from time to time I'd stop and rest my head on my paws -- I mean, hands -- and try to stretch my back. If I rested too long, someone would come in and give my naked ass a swat with a rolled up newspaper -- and no, these were not sleep-in ladies.

I was in masochist heaven. Something about it -- the restriction, the exposure, the humiliation, the degradation -- was turning me on something fierce. I was as frustrated as I'd been when I'd stupidly managed to tie myself to Mom's bed, maybe more so, and I couldn't do anything about it. They hadn't even had the decency to fill my cunt with one of their delicious vibrators. Surely they had a way to secure something like that within me.

I can't reach my pussy, remember?

Which, for some reason, puts me in mind of a silly riddle:

Why does a dog lick himself?

Because he can.

Ho ho ho.

Believe me, if I could have licked myself, I would have.

I heard footsteps and looked up to see Mistress Elaine -- yes, that's what I'm supposed to call her for the next two days, when I'm permitted to speak at all -- coming through the door, stepping right on the cleaned part of the floor. She was wearing knee high, stiletto heeled boots, a collar and wrist cuffs, and a bustier, all shiny black with lots of chromed rivets and grommets and spikes and stuff.

No panties.

Okay, maybe her costume sounds a bit over-the-top, like a caricature out of some bad B & D comic like I'd seen on the internet, but on her it was dramatically effective. She's not very tall, not as tall as Mom, or me, but she has a very fit body, with firm, high breasts (the bustier no more than a fashion statement), a trim waist, well-proportioned hips and shapely legs. She maintains only a narrow landing strip of dark hair above her otherwise smooth pussy.

Oh, and as I learned last night, she'd recently added a tattoo of a hummingbird high on the inside of the front of her right thigh, its long, thin beak pointing suggestively at the pink petals of her cunt. In an act to symbolize their intimate relationship, Mom had obediently acquired a matching one on the inside of her right thigh. I presume when they humped each other the tattoos danced together.

My mom! With a tattoo!!

They were really very discreet decorations, though a bathing suit would reveal their bodies and heads, the long slender beak vanishing into you-know-where. Mom had blushed when Ela -- I mean when Mistress Elaine -- had ordered her to disrobe to reveal her decoration. I wondered how she'd felt as she'd had it inscribed on her bare flesh. Was the artist male or female? How much had it hurt? Had there been much blood? Had Mom licked away Mistress Elaine's blood as her tattoo was applied, and vice versa? I wished I'd been there.

Would I have the nerve to be similarly decorated, should Mom permit it? The thought made my pussy weep.

In case I haven't mentioned it, Mom's pussy is now bald, not even a landing strip. Mom confessed she enjoys letting Mistress Elaine regularly wax her. I believe they call it a Brazilian wax. She said they'd discussed electrolysis, but that she prefers the regular personal attention and stimulation of the waxing. There was some talk of me becoming similarly denuded. I still haven't decided how I feel about that.

But back to Mistress Elaine, who stood looking down on me. I thought she'd come in to see how I was doing. Maybe she'd be pleased to see that I was almost half done. Maybe I'd receive praise, perhaps even a pat on the head, or maybe a swat on the butt.

But I was wrong. Oh, was I ever wrong.

Spreading her legs she humped her pussy forward, fingered her labia apart, and proceeded to pee on the floor, right where I had finished scrubbing only twenty minutes earlier! Her yellow flood spattered down, hot and pungent, spreading wide on what had been a spotlessly clean floor, a few stray splatters landing on me.

All I could do as Mistress Elaine relieved herself was sit back on my heels and watch, dumbfounded, until the cascade died away with a few final fragrant spurts.

"You missed a spot." Mistress Elaine pointed to her puddle. "Now get over here and clean me up, bitch."

I had no doubt as to exactly what she meant. There wasn't a scrap of toilet paper, not a hint of even a tissue or paper napkin to be seen. And, oh my, oh my, oh my, I didn't even hesitate. My mouth and pussy watering profusely, I shuffle-crawled over to her on my hands and knees, right through the cooling pond of her piss. It was slippery and I went down awkwardly on my chest and had to struggle back up on to my hands and knees, piss dripping off my stiff nipples.

I finally reached her. Rising to my knees, I started to put my hands on her naked thighs, then realized I'd be getting the piss I'd just crawled through all over her legs if I did that, so I tried not to, tried to get my face up into her crotch to lick away the lingering droplets of her urine, but of course I failed and had to paw her thighs to brace myself.

I was aware of Mom coming in, moving around behind me, straddling me, and the next thing I knew I felt a hot shower of pee on my back and ass even as I slurped up the drops clinging to Mistress Elaine's pussy. She had a grip on my head, pressing my face into her fragrant crotch.

So I licked, and licked, her landing strip rasping against the end of my nose, and as I did my own body steamed with lust. I remembered the horniness from the day before, when I'd peed with a bunch of boys watching me, and what I was doing now made me even more horny, and triggered another urge in me as well, and I wished I hadn't used so much water to wash down my dry granola breakfast.

"Inside, too," Mistress Elaine ordered, as Mom's cascade dwindled and she stepped back to witness my humiliation. Mom wore her own collar, but nothing more. Mistress Elaine put an arm around her and fondled her breasts before pinching her nipple, making Mom moan.

Using my fingers I parted Mistress Elaine's pussylips and probed deep with my tongue, wiping away the last remnants of her salty, pungent pee, and all the while the heat in my own pussy flared higher, along with the urge to pee myself. Mistress Elaine of course enjoyed my oral attention immensely, pushing her pussy forward and purring happily.

When I had cleaned her pussy to her satisfaction, which resulted in a mild orgasm on her part, I turned to repeat the process on my mother, licking her smooth twat clean, bringing her to a quiet coming as well.

I finished by licking off what my hands had left on their thighs before I sat back on my heels, their pee running off me, looking up at the two of them pitifully, desperately trying somehow to get them to understand that I needed to go to the bathroom myself. If I could have I would have pressed my pissy fingers into my pussy, but I couldn't, so all I could do was squirm, pressing my thighs tight together.

Talk? Talk to them you say? Just ask? Oh no. They'd given me a choice. I could promise to be silent for two days, responding only to direct questions, or they would silence me with a ball-gag. Me? Silent for two whole days? Now that was a challenge, and you know how I feel about challenges. But, to make it even worse, Mom had made a bet that I could do it without the gag, the wager being seven consecutive days of servitude for the loser.

Unless specifically asked, if I spoke a single word this weekend Mom would be Mistress Elaine's slave for a week. I couldn't do that to her!

"Now, clean up this mess, and don't soil your nice rag with my filth," Mistress Elaine added.

For a moment I was confused. I'd need another rag. Only, there wasn't another rag. I looked plaintively up at her, and she looked down on me, an empress to a scullery maid, and licked her lips, and I understood. Oh, did I understand.

"But first, get the splatters on my boots," she added imperiously. Steadying herself with a hand on Mom's shoulder she raised a spike-booted foot to me, and I licked her shining footwear clean. I had to lick even the soles and the heels, so she could carefully step back out of the puddle without tracking it around. I did the same to Mom's bare feet, licking them clean of her tangy urine, guiding each foot back down clear of the puddle on my formerly clean floor.

The puddle of piss presented another challenge. I tried licking and discovered that while dogs and cats can lap up liquids quite efficiently, my tongue lacked the required dexterity. I would have been at it for a month. I solved the problem by pursing my lips and sucking it up like a Shop Vac, long slurps. The sucking action accentuated the pungent fragrance of Mistress Elaine's piss as it filled my mouth before being swallowed.

Once I'd sucked up most of the puddle I lapped at the film left behind, thankful that at least the floor had been sanitary before they had peed on it. By the time the floor was dry enough I was in agony from the need to pee myself. Somehow Mom managed to interpret my desperate squirming and explained it to Mistress Elaine.

"She can just go on the floor, and then clean it up!" Mistress Elaine proclaimed.

"Oh, no, please, Mistress. She is housebroken now," Mom pointed out unhappily. "We don't want to break her training."

I presume you've figured out the pecking order here, with Mistress Elaine at the top and me at the bottom, Mom in the middle. The dom/sub roles I'd seen hints of in Dr. Smathers's office had matured.

"Oh, very well. Dee, come!" Mistress Elaine snapped her fingers as she went over to the door to the back yard, her heels clack-clacking loudly as I scrambled to follow on hands and knees as fast as the chains allowed. I was sticky and smelly with the drying remains of my mom's piss. Taking down a leash from a hook on the wall -- how long had they been planning this? -- she snapped it to my collar, opened the door, and led me outside into the cool morning air. Navigating the harsh concrete steps was a painful challenge, and I welcomed the sweet, soft, dewy wet grass under my scraped and burning knees and palms.

Relishing being outside in the open air, even in my role as a pet, even as desperate as I was to pee, I sniffed the grass, explored the scents, looked at the yard from my dog's-eye, view until Mistress began impatiently jerking at my leash. I carefully selected a spot with the softest grass. Then, out there in the open, in full view of the neighbors, I spread my knees as far as I could, squatted like the bitch that I was, and released my own flood, the rich smell swirling around me, relishing the relief, wondering if the lawn appreciated my offering. I'd gone beyond my assigned reading in bio and learned that pee -- urine -- is rich in nitrogen, the result of my body breaking down proteins, and that plants loved it.

Then I was left with the problem of wiping myself. Believe me, if I could have licked myself like a dog, I would have. I'm limber, but not that limber. Mistress Elaine solved it by ordering Mom to do for me what I'd done for them only a few minutes ago. Down on her knees at my ass, the touch of Mom's tongue on my pussy was almost enough to make me come, but Mistress Elaine stopped her before I could. Then, before being allowed back in the house, she turned the hose on me to wash off the piss I'd rolled in and been showered in. There was a moment when the water washing over me was warm from having been in the hose, but it quickly turned icy cold.

The whole scene left me unbelievably horny!

But there was no relief. It was back to the kitchen floor -- I had to go back over the area where they'd peed -- and it was lunch time by the time I finished by the back door. Mistress Elaine unlocked the chain from waist to ankles, letting me stand so I could serve my mistresses in accordance with their exacting instructions. With my wrists still chained, both together and to my collar, making sandwiches -- ham and Swiss and lettuce on Jewish rye, mustard for Mistress Elaine, mayo for Mom -- was a challenge. Nor did they release my ankles, making me shuffle madly back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, keeping the chilled Chablis flowing, bringing some condiment, taking away another -- anything to keep me moving.