Chapter 2: Shoe wash
At the top of the stairs, Peter simply let go.
He slid from her back, his weight dropping away so abruptly that Julia staggered forward, nearly pitching onto her face. She caught herself on the wall, her breath coming in ragged, wet-sounding gasps. Every muscle in her legs and core shrieked in protest, a burning testament to the journey from the entryway.
Peter landed on the plush hallway carpet with a soft thud and sat there, legs stretched out. He looked up at her heaving form, a slight, analytical tilt to his head. “On all fours. Now. We’re not there yet.”
Julia didn’t hesitate. The pain was a cloud, dense and electric, but his voice cut through it with crystal clarity. She lowered herself, palms flat on the carpet, knees settling. A violent tremble ran through her entire frame.
“Good,” he said, his voice light, almost conversational. He moved behind her, then settled his weight astride her back. It was different from the carry—more centered, more controlling. His thighs squeezed her ribs. “To my room. And don’t take the direct route. I want a tour. A slow one.”
She began to crawl. The distance to his bedroom door was maybe ten meters. It felt like a mile. Each movement was a calculated agony, her knees and hands sliding over the carpet. He was heavy, a solid, immovable mass grounding her to the earth.
“Left here,” he instructed, tapping her side as they reached a junction in the hallway.
She turned, inching past the closed door to the home office. Her arms trembled.
“Circle the rug,” he said, pointing to a round, ornate rug in the center of the hall. “Nice and even. I want perfect circles.”
Julia obeyed, her vision blurring at the edges. Around and around she went, the pattern of the rug becoming a dizzying swirl. The humiliation was acute, glorious. She was his beast of burden, his toy, and the sheer absurdity of circling a rug while carrying a full-grown man made a delirious little laugh bubble in her chest. She choked it down.
“Satisfactory,” he pronounced after the third revolution. “Proceed.”
She crawled the final stretch to his bedroom, pushing the door open with her forehead. Inside, the air was cooler. The bed was meticulously made, a stark contrast to the scene they were creating.
“Stop at the foot of the bed. Now, lie on your back.”
She carefully lowered herself sideways, letting him step off, then rolled onto her back. The ceiling was smooth and white. She spread her arms slightly, presenting herself. Her stomach, pale and flat, quivered with each breath.
Peter toed off his dirty sneakers, then sat down on the floor beside her hip. He didn’t lower himself onto her immediately. He just looked at her, at the faint, red imprints his shoes had left earlier, now overlaid with the strain of the carry and the crawl.
“Bend your knees. Plant your feet,” he said.
She did, raising her knees, her feet flat on the carpet. It created a shallow platform of her abdomen.
Then he leaned back, bracing his hands on her thighs, and settled the full weight of his upper body onto her stomach.
The air whooshed out of Julia in a pained, thin whistle. Her spine pressed into the floor. It was a crushing, intimate pressure, compressing her diaphragm, making each inhale a conscious, hard-fought victory. Her legs began to shake under his hands, but she held the position, her eyes fixed on his face above her.
He reached over, grabbed one of his discarded sneakers, and dropped it onto her chest. The smell of sweat, dirt, and synthetic fiber filled her nostrils. “You missed a spot downstairs,” he said, his tone mild, as if discussing the weather. “Clean it. All of it. Use your tongue. I’ll tell you when you’re done.”
Julia turned her head, her heart hammering against the sole of the shoe. She extended her tongue, a pink, delicate thing, and swiped it along the thick, grimy rubber edge.
The taste was overwhelming—bitter, gritty, profoundly unclean. She gagged instinctively, her body convulsing beneath him, which only made his weight press down harder. A tear rolled from her eye into her hairline. She did it again. And again. Methodically, she licked the sidewall, the tread, working the grit and salt into her mouth, swallowing it down. It was a sacrament of filth.
Peter watched, idly tracing patterns on her trembling thigh with his thumb. “So,” he began, his voice relaxed. “I’m thinking about the program for tonight. Need to work out some of that desk-job stiffness. Got any requests?”
She paused, her tongue against the soiled fabric of the tongue. “Whatever you wish, Peter,” she gasped, the words tight.
“Sure, but I’m asking for ideas. Helps with your engagement.” He shifted his weight, and she whimpered. “Option one: the frame downstairs. Wrists and ankles. I’ve got that new beeswax blend. We could see how high you can count between drips before you lose your place. The punishment for a mistake would be… let’s say, the riding crop. Ten strokes per wrong number.”
Julia moaned, a sound of terror and yearning. She dragged her tongue across a stubborn patch of dried mud.
“Option two is more cardio. Shoulder rides. Full laps of the basement perimeter. But with the ankle weights on you this time, not me. And if you drop me, we start the lap count over from zero.” He smiled down at her. “You remember how many laps it took last time to break you. Thirty-seven, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, frantic, continuing her work. The shoe was becoming damp, a patch of it cleaner than the rest.
“Or,” he said, leaning forward slightly, increasing the pressure on her core until she saw spots. “We skip the games and I just use you. Hard. Until I’m bored. You’d probably prefer that, wouldn’t you? The simple stuff.”
“I…” She choked, cleaning around the shoelace eyelet. “I want… what you want.”
“That’s always the right answer,” he said softly. He lifted the shoe from her chest, examined it with a critical eye. He turned it, pointed to a smear of black grime near the heel. “You skipped this part. Laziness, Julia?”
“No! No, Peter. I’m sorry.” She strained her neck, licking frantically at the spot until it was gone.
He studied the now-glistening, saliva-smeared rubber. Finally, he tossed the shoe aside. It thumped against the wall. “Adequate.” He lifted himself off her stomach.
Julia collapsed, a drowned thing thrown back on shore, sucking in huge, ragged breaths. The relief was so profound it was a new kind of pain.
Peter stood up, looking down at her spent form. He nudged her side with his bare foot. “Up. Go run a very cold bath. Sit in it for ten minutes. I want the dirt off.” He crouched, his hand cupping her damp, tear-streaked cheek. His touch was almost gentle.
“Good girl,” he said, and the words warmed her more than any bath ever could. He walked towards his closet, already moving on to the next thing. “Ten minutes. Then we go downstairs.”