Maria hated cleaning, but she’d been dating Carlo a while and you could only insist on going to a lover’s place instead of yours for so long before they wondered if you were a roaming jewel thief. There came a point in the evening—when the afterglow faded and the takeout containers cooled on the coffee table—where her apartment’s clutter became impossible to ignore. A stray sock in one corner, her coat draped over a chair like a shed skin, a mountain of half-read books slouching against the armrest. She saw it all now, and she groaned to herself.

“God, don’t look at this disaster,” she muttered, hauling herself off the couch to drag the containers from dinner to the kitchen sink, stacking them on top of the dirty dishes there. “Seriously, avert your eyes.”

Carlo, sprawled on the couch in his underwear, only grinned, enjoying the sight of her body as she moved around the space. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “At least you know where everything is, right?”

“Sure,” Maria said, “it’s fine when it’s just me.” She came back to the couch and snuggled up with him, tugging a nearby blanket across their laps. “I don’t know. Cleaning just feels pointless. Like, it never ends. Why bother when you’ll just have to do it all again the next week?”

Carlo’s deep voice was teasing. “I’m afraid this is what you signed up for when you became an adult, babe.”

Maria pressed her face into his chest, planting a kiss among the soft, curly hair. “Noooo, I never agreed to this! I was tricked!”

She looked up at him. “Your place is always spotless. How do you put up with it?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Order is sexy.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please.”

“They say if you love your job, you never work a day in your life,” he added.

Maria groaned dramatically, squirming away from him. “That is not a convincing argument! You cheese ball.”

He pursued her across the couch, draping his body over hers, and soon they were kissing passionately again. The sun was going down, the city glowing outside the windows. Maria let herself melt into Carlo, but not before taking another secret inventory of the room’s mess. Maybe she shouldn’t be ashamed. But maybe she should care more.

Carlo, noticing her distraction, lifted his head up from nibbling on her neck. He fixed her with a look—affectionate, with a glimmer of mischief. “You know,” he said, “I could hypnotize you to love cleaning.”

Maria snorted so hard she nearly choked. “Hypnotize me? Into being, like, a happy little housewife? Yeah, right. Good luck with that, Svengali.”

Carlo widened his eyes like Bela Lugosi playing Dracula. “Ooooh, my pretty,” he said. “Don’t underestimate my power. Soon I’ll have you begging to polish my floor.”

Maria laughed.

“In a sexy outfit,” he added.

“Hah!” Maria smacked him gently with a pillow. “Only if you’re scrubbing right next to me.” It was an outrageous idea. But her cheeks were flushed.

He leaned forward, the weight of the tease lingering. “What have you got to lose?”

“My free time? My dignity?” But she swung her legs onto his lap, wiggling her toes, feeling bold and a little excited. “Alright, Svengali. Show me what you’ve got. Make me want to clean your place. Or mine. Or, hell, anyone’s.”

Carlo’s fingers closed around her foot, gentle and warm. “You sure?” His tone was pure mischief. “Because you might not be able to stop. You might find yourself dusting strangers’ doorknobs in the middle of the night.”

Maria snickered. “‘Dusting their doorknobs’ is one I haven’t heard before. Get on with the foot rub.”

“With pleasure. Lie back and just let me take care of everything.”

That sounded good to her. She folded into the corner of the couch and rested her head against a cushion, legs extended into his lap. Carlo watched her intently while his strong fingers kneaded the muscles of her feet. Her skepticism was obvious, but she was already sinking deeper into the cushions, lulled by the pleasant sensations flowing up from her arches.

“Just relax,” he murmured, voice lowering, drawing out each word as if it had its own gravity. “Let me do all the work… for now. All you need to do is listen to my voice and notice how your body lets go.”

She tried for a comeback, but it faded into a half-hearted murmur as his thumbs pressed just the right spot, and her jaw slackened with a tiny, involuntary sigh.

“Every muscle melting,” Carlo intoned, softer now, the rhythm of his touch matching the slow drift of his words. “Heavier and heavier, from your toes all the way up. The more you listen, the easier it gets.”

Maria’s thoughts drifted; the list of things she needed to do tomorrow floated away, replaced by a pleasant haze. She tried to say something witty but all she could manage was, “Mmmmm, baby. S’good.”

“It does feel good, doesn’t it?” he continued, encouraged by her response, thumbs tracing in little circles. “Letting go. Just listening. Not having to do anything except enjoy. Just be open. Obliging. Obedient. Doesn’t that sound nice? Helping someone you care about. Making their day easier. When you serve, and obey, and don’t have to think at all.”

Maria gave a drowsy giggle. “You’re such a dork,” she mumbled, but it was hard to string words together. It was hard to follow Carlo’s words, too. They seemed to break up into pieces and sink into the soft, receptive depths of her mind. His touch and voice wove together, pulling her down into a place where teasing felt like too much effort.

So did talking. So did thinking.

“You don’t need to do anything right now,” Carlo said, softer than ever. “Just listen and feel how easy it would be to let me guide you. If I asked you to do something for me, you’d want to, wouldn’t you? You’d enjoy it, because making me happy feels good.”

Somewhere inside, Maria agreed—she felt good, and she enjoyed making him feel good. It all felt true in that soft and floaty moment.

He might have said some other things, but all she could focus on was how intense the pleasure was getting. It radiated up out of his fingertips, through the sensitive soles of her feet, up through her limp legs… filling her pussy with liquid heat. God, she wished he’d just start touching her there.

But then he squeezed her foot, and her focus snapped back to his voice. “When I count to three, you’ll wake up. Still relaxed, still feeling good, still free to do whatever you want. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll wonder how sexy it could feel to serve me.”

“One… two… three.”

Maria blinked. The room came back into focus; the mess, the city, Carlo’s face, happy and a little smug.

She yawned, stretched, toes flexing in his lap.

“Well?” he prompted, grinning. “Are you overcome by the urge to clean?”

“Honestly?” she said, “I feel an urge to fuck until we fall asleep, and leave the mess for my future self.”

Carlo snickered. “Hopeless.”

As he gathered her up in his arms again, returning his lips to the spot on her neck where they belonged, she whispered, “If you want your own private maid, you’ll have to do better than that.”

He kissed her sensitive skin. “Challenge accepted, baby. We’ll see what happens next time.”

Maria rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, warmth blooming in her chest. While she surrendered to his kisses, the ridiculous idea lingered: wearing an apron, gloves, maybe nothing else, scrubbing Carlo’s pots and pans. For a moment she imagined it—then shook it off, reaching for the outline of his big, stiff cock, waiting to escape from his underwear. She obligingly helped it.

The apartment was still a mess, and Maria was still trying not to give a damn. But as he slid himself inside her and she clamped her thighs around his hips, she thought about how hot his “hypnosis” had gotten her, and what might happen if she let Carlo really have his way with her mind.

The next time Carlo came over, Maria threw open her apartment door, dramatically waving him inside. “Welcome back to my palace of chaos,” she said, flashing a wry smile. “If you brought cleaning supplies, I’ll kill you.”

Carlo laughed, stepping over a pile of shoes that hadn’t moved since his last visit. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied lightly. His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Not when we’ve already got better tools.”

“Oh, right,” Maria said, giving him a playful shove. “Hypnosis. How could I forget?”

Yet her heartbeat quickened at the memory—the gentle spirals his thumbs made against the sensitive soles of her feet, the warmth of his voice, the way her mind felt like it was melting despite herself. She shook her head slightly, chasing the thoughts away, and ushered him toward the couch.

Soon she sprawled comfortably across the sofa cushions, legs draped casually in Carlo’s lap, feigning total disinterest. “Ready to admit defeat?” she teased.

Carlo’s smile deepened, relaxed but assured. His fingers slid gently around her ankle, beginning a slow, rhythmic pressure into the muscles of her calf. “Big talk for a girl who’ll do anything for a foot rub.”

“Let’s not say anything,” she laughed. But even as she spoke, her eyes drifted shut almost involuntarily, enjoying the sensation of his firm touch sliding upward along her leg. “But, like, if you want to rub my feet every time you come over, I won’t stop you.”

His murmur was warm and soothing. “If it makes you feel good, babydoll.”

It did make her feel good. She felt herself sinking deeper into the couch, breathing slowing, a sigh of pleasure escaping her lips as he shifted from massaging her legs to gently stroking the sensitive skin behind her knee. Something about the rhythm of his touch, combined with the gentle cadence of his voice, made her head pleasantly fuzzy.

“Just relax now,” Carlo murmured, his deep, velvety voice inviting her closer. “Feel how nice it is when I take over…when you don’t have to think at all.”

Maria meant to make a joke, meant to push back lightly, but her lips barely parted, the words melting into a quiet, vague hum instead. Pleasant tingles ran up and down her heavy limbs, her resistance slipping away like water through her limp fingers.

“It feels good to listen,” Carlo droned, fingertips rubbing her thighs. “It feels good to let go.” He repeated those words, again and again, massaging his way back down to her feet. By the time he was pressing his thumbs into her heels, it felt so good she was chanting the words right back to him.

“S’good to listen… good leggo,” she muttered. “So good…”

“And it feels even better when you help me, Maria. Helping me, serving me, obeying me…each one feels even nicer than the last.”

His words curled deliciously around her mind, igniting little sparks deep inside her body. She felt heat blooming between her thighs, gentle yet insistent, a reaction so sudden it startled her. Maria shifted slightly, trying to refocus, but Carlo’s fingers traced those small, relentless circles against her skin, and her thoughts dissolved again.

“You’re realizing just how much you like doing as you’re told,” he murmured, his voice hypnotically rhythmic. “Obeying me gives you pleasure. Helping me makes you wet.”

Maria’s pulse quickened, a flush of heat sweeping through her body. She wanted to protest, to tease, to deny, but she could only lie there with her legs spreading open at his touch, warm and helpless. A shiver ran down her spine.

His powerful hands rubbed up her legs until he gently touched her pussy—so gently it teased her. Maria moaned.

“You are wet, baby,” he cooed to her, smiling. “It feels so good, doesn’t it?”

“So good,” she whispered, automatically. She shifted her hips, trying to grind against his fingers.

He gave her only a little of the pressure she craved. “So wet, babydoll. Wet when you serve. You get wet when you serve, Maria. Go on and say it for me.”

She took a long, deep breath, her eyelids fluttering, and sighed as she surrendered. “I get wet when I serve…”

“That’s my good girl,” Carlo said, and gave her the reward he knew she needed: he fingered her to orgasm.

When Maria’s lingering moans had faded, Carlo drew back. His fingertips brushed the edge of her jaw as he softly coaxed her awake. “Come on back now, Maria. Slowly and gently.”

She blinked awake, momentarily dazed. The room came into focus gradually, her mind swimming back to the surface. Embarrassed, she sat up quickly, tugging at her sweatshirt, realizing she was naked from the waist down. She didn’t remember how that had happened… but she remembered how good Carlo’s fingers made her feel.

“See?” she said, forcing bravado into her voice. “No desire to clean up! Totally unmoved.”

Carlo tilted his head, eyes teasing. “Sure. Totally unmoved? Or maybe you’re totally reprogrammed, and you just don’t know it.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, yet she felt strangely exposed—and not just because she was half naked.

“Don’t get cocky,” she shot back. But even as she spoke, she was gathering up the abandoned drink glasses on the table, stacking them without thinking. Her heart skipped as she realized what she was doing, and she quickly set them aside.

Carlo had noticed. His smile widened just a fraction.

“Don’t say another word,” she warned, cheeks flushed with more than embarrassment.

He raised both hands innocently. “I wouldn’t dare!”

But his eyes said enough—warm, approving, knowing. Maria felt something shift inside her, subtle but undeniable.

“Besides,” he said, “you’re so easy to hypnotize, who knows what would happen if I did?”

She pulled her panties from between the couch cushions, balled them up, and threw them at him.

Two nights later, at Carlo’s tidy apartment, they ended up curled together on his couch, half-empty glasses of wine on the coffee table, as usual. Maria sighed comfortably against his chest, secretly relishing the neatness and warmth of his space.

“Wanna give it another shot?” Carlo suggested lightly, lips brushing her ear.

Maria hesitated only briefly, a quick flutter of nerves in her belly, before nodding. “Huh? Oh, hypnosis again? Ok, go ahead. Impress me.”

His hand settled at the nape of her neck, gently guiding her head onto his shoulder. His thumb stroked softly across her skin as his voice dropped into that familiar, soothing cadence. “Relax, Maria… Listen to my voice. Remember how good this feels when everything fades away but my touch…”

She hadn’t expected herself to drop so fast: she’d hardly processed the word “Remember” when she felt her body going limp, limbs leaden, warmth enveloping her like a favourite blanket. Carlo’s fingers made circles around her temples, and his voice wove seamlessly into her thoughts, soft and persuasive.

“Every time you obey me, you’ll feel warm and wonderful,” he said, and made it sound so seductive. “Every little act of helpfulness brings pleasure, arouses you so deeply.”

Maria felt her hips shift involuntarily as desire grew inside her. She wanted more, even though part of her still struggled against admitting it.

“Doing what I ask makes you hot, makes you needy,” he continued confidently. “You can already feel it, Maria. You’re my good girl, and you love to serve and obey.”

The words filled her mind like incense, heady and irresistible. The part of her that wanted to deny them was deep asleep. She let them in, the thoughts of service, let them flood her body with thrumming heat. Her pussy throbbed softly, eagerly, aching for Carlo’s touch. Soon he obliged, every stroke of his fingers reinforcing his suggestions.

She awoke nestled into Carlo’s side, feeling hazy and vulnerable. Without thinking, she reached out to smooth the fabric of his shirt, tidying imaginary wrinkles. Realizing what she’d done, she flushed deeply, jerking her hand away.

Carlo’s amused gaze caught hers, his voice quietly playful. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

Maria forced a laugh, her heart thudding. “It was just reflex.”

“Sure,” he said lightly, leaning in to kiss her neck, making her shiver. “Just reflex.”

Late that night, after he’d dropped her off at home, she found herself alone in her kitchen, scrubbing her countertop with unnecessary care. A strange excitement fluttered in her chest. She paused abruptly, shaking her head.

This is silly, she told herself firmly. Just a silly game.

Yet even as she put down the cloth, she felt it—an echo of Carlo’s words in her mind, a subtle pulse of heat between her legs. He’d made her feel so good, with his body… and with his mere words.

She picked up her phone, hesitated, then typed a playful message:

If I start polishing your silverware, you’re in trouble.

His reply came almost instantly.

Thinking about cleaning my place? Good girl. I’ll find a cute apron for you to wear.

Maria stared at the words on the screen, heart hammering.

This was just a silly game… and she was getting excited about losing it.

Carlo’s place always made Maria feel a little out of her element. The floors gleamed, the counters shone, the books were lined up like obedient little soldiers. It was order of a kind that would have made her mother weep with gratitude. She stood in the entryway, dropped her overnight bag on the floor, and scanned for any sign of chaos, finding none.

He greeted her with a kiss, brief but warm and deep, then ducked into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “I’m fixing drinks—make yourself at home, babe.”

But Maria hovered, oddly restless. The urge to mess something up—to tip over the tidy umbrella stand, to unalphabetize the bookshelf—buzzed in her veins. Instead, she drifted after him, watching him pour Cinzano rosso with clinical precision.

“You know, I think your kitchen’s cleaner than my old dentist’s office,” she said.

Carlo smirked, glancing at her sidelong. “I could teach you my ways.”

“Oh, yeah?” She folded her arms, arching a brow. “You’ll have to hypnotize me a lot more before I keep anything this clean.”

He turned to her slowly and smiled. He picked a feather duster up off the counter—he’d just had one sitting there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Here,” he said, “make yourself useful.”

It was a joke, but something inside her flickered. Maria quipped—“Excuse me?”—but the words dried up in her throat. She took the duster, feeling the ticklish softness against her palm.

She… dusted. At first, she made a show of it—elaborate, ridiculous swoops, dancing the duster over the countertops, mugging for Carlo’s benefit. But the act faded quickly. The quiet repetition of movement, the feeling of doing something for him, became almost… nice. She moved to the bookshelf. With every swipe, her mind seemed to quiet, her focus narrowing to the task and the faint sound of ice cubes as he readied their cocktails.

The more she cleaned, the more she noticed the heat between her thighs, the gentle ache building inside her. God, she was dusting his shelves, and she was getting wet. It was humiliating. It was delicious.

She risked a glance at Carlo. He was watching her over his shoulder. He had a silly grin on his face, but his eyes were smouldering. Her cheeks burned. She stretched up on her toes to dust the top shelf, arching her back on purpose.

Carlo came up behind her, put his arms around her waist, the drinks apparently forgotten. “Bedroom,” he said, his voice husky. “Got something for you.”

Curious and nervous, she padded down the hallway, heart thumping. Laid out neatly on the bed was an apron, frilly and obscenely short—clearly not designed to protect one’s clothing. Beside it was a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves and thigh-high stockings with lacy tops.

She burst out laughing, the tension snapping. “Wow. You have a really specific fetish, huh?”

He walked up behind her and put a hand on the small of her back. “You don’t have to put them on. But I think you’ll enjoy it if you do.”

She tried to come up with a retort, but nothing landed. The memory of his voice, gentle and inexorable, pulsed in her mind: serving me makes you wet… obeying makes you feel good… my good girl… She shivered.

She picked up the stockings, feeling the silken fabric slide over her hands. Stripping felt inevitable—she undressed quickly, her skin prickling in the open air, aware of Carlo’s eyes on her.

The apron was a joke: it covered almost nothing. The stockings hugged her thighs, framing the curve of her ass and the bare stretch of skin above. She tugged the gloves over her wrists, trembling with anticipation and embarrassment.

She turned to face him, cheeks pink, lips parted. “There. Do you like how silly I look?”

He crossed the room, his desire obvious and overpowering, and cupped her cheek with his hand. “Kneel,” he murmured, and she obeyed, the word sinking through her skin, down to her bones.

She looked up at him. He pressed his finger against her forehead, and her eyes rolled up automatically to focus on it. “Close your eyes,” he said, “and listen to my voice.”

She did. The room faded. His words wrapped around her, tugging her under. “Good girl, Maria. So helpful, so obedient, so ready to serve. The feeling of rubber on your hands, the pressure of stockings on your thighs—the outfit reminds you that you’re mine to command, and serving me is the only thing you want.”

Maria’s breath deepened, her mind filling with cotton. She couldn’t deny his words. She felt the carpet under her knees, the tightness of the apron around her waist, the slickness of the gloves—the slickness of her pussy. Every sensation sparked her arousal. She felt lost, submissive, eager.

He told her to open her eyes and handed her a sponge. “Serve me,” he instructed. “Clean for me.”

She crawled to the kitchen, her skin flushed and her nerves humming, and began to scrub the tiles. Each motion—back, forth, around and around—sent a delicious shiver through her. Soon she was aware of nothing but the work, the skimpy outfit, and the molten need building between her legs.

Carlo’s hand traced over her ass as he walked by. “That’s my good girl.”

He put down a bucket of soapy water and leaned against the counter to sip his cocktail and watch.

A whimper slipped from her lips, and she scrubbed harder, desperate for more of his touch, his praise. Maria’s world was the scent of soap, the rhythm of work, and the hungry pleasure building with every stroke of the sponge.

Time passed. Carlo finished his drink and stood over her, arms crossed. Her benevolent taskmaster. The tile was getting so clean it practically squeaked beneath her sponge, but Maria barely saw it. Her vision swam, glazed with sweat and the daze of deep trance.

She scrubbed on hands and knees, the apron fluttering against her bare hips with every movement. The stockings framed her thighs, cool and tight, while the rest of her body felt feverish and open. She knew how she must look: ridiculous, obscene—a parody of domestic bliss, scrubbing away like the sluttiest little maid slut. But she was serving Carlo, and that was all that mattered now.

His gaze weighed on her, electric. Every time she crawled a little closer to where he stood, her heart thudded harder, her arousal growing almost unbearable. She was desperate for him to say something. To touch her. To reward her.

“You’re doing so well, Maria. Keep going, my good girl. Serve and obey.”

Serve and obey. Pleasure raced up her spine. She scrubbed harder, her ass swaying, presenting, hoping. It felt so good to work for him, to feel her mind stripped of everything except obedience, service, and the impossible lust throbbing in her core.

You hate cleaning, she thought, distantly. She could remember hating it, could picture her younger self scowling when her mother gave her chores, dragging her feet, muttering under her breath. But that part of her felt dim and far away now—like a dream from another life. All she wanted was to please Carlo. To make him proud. To make him want to—want to fuck his little maid slut.

A bead of sweat slipped down her neck, disappearing between her breasts. She moaned, lost in the rhythm—scrub, rinse, wring out, repeat. The harsh scent of lemon cleaner stung her nose, the latex gloves crinkled with every squeeze, the cool air kissed her bare skin.

She heard Carlo step closer, slow and deliberate. Maria’s heart leapt, breath coming in shallow gasps.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. His eyes were dark, hungry, shining with approval. He crouched beside her, one hand stroking her stockinged thigh, the other squeezing her ass. She was dripping. She hoped he could feel it.

“Who are you cleaning for?” he asked, voice warm and possessive.

Maria bit her lip. The answer came unbidden, burning in her mouth. “For you, Carlo. Only for you.”

He leaned in close. “Why does it feel so good, Maria?”

She whimpered, body shaking. “I don’t know. Because you want it. Because you told me to. Because I… can’t stop.”

His hand slipped between her thighs, finding her soaked and trembling. She moaned, grinding back against him, desperate for more, for anything.

He made her pause, made her hold perfectly still, sponge clutched in one gloved hand, knees pressed to the floor. “You know what you are?” he whispered. “You’re my perfect little maid. My good girl. My fucktoy, cleaning and serving until you can’t even think.”

Something inside Maria broke. The humiliation, the pride, the pleasure—she surrendered to all of it. She was nothing but lust and obedience.

“Oh, God. Please,” she whimpered, tears stinging her eyes. “Please, Carlo. Please, please fuck me, please.”

He knelt behind her, dragging her hips back, her knees sliding on the cold tile. His cock pressed hot against her, sliding inside in one long, glorious stroke. She sobbed his name, her hands gripping the floor, her body writhing with helpless joy.

He held her down, apron bunched at her waist, gloved hands splayed out, her cheek on the tile. Each thrust drove her deeper—into herself, into his service, into the role he’d made for her. She chanted his name, his words, her voice breaking:

“I’m your good girl. Good maid. Your fucktoy. Yours. Yours—”

Her orgasm crested like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, shaking her apart from the inside out. She collapsed on the shining floor, still trembling, still clutching the sponge like a lifeline.

Carlo gathered her up, kissing her sweaty hair, stroking her face with tender, reverent hands. “You did so well,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”

Maria melted, basking in the afterglow, the praise, the dizzy sense of being owned and cherished. Every muscle was soft, every thought dissolved into perfect, obedient warmth.

She laughed weakly, voice hoarse and sweet. “Pretty sure I still hate cleaning, you know.”

Carlo fetched the drink he’d made her from the counter, though the ice cube was long melted. He offered it to her. “Not anymore, you don’t. Not for me.”

“Not for you,” she echoed in a whisper. She grinned, already aching for the next time. Her mind hummed with pleasure, anticipation, and the delicious certainty that—for Carlo—there was nothing she wouldn’t do.

THE END.