Corner Time

You fondle my tits while I do the washing up. I wasn't expecting you, so the sudden grab makes me jump and very nearly lose control of my bladder. The odds have been stacked against me, of course, but that's no excuse.

"Tell me sweetie, how long has it been since I denied your bathroom access?" you ask me.

"Uh, four... Five hours?" I respond sheepishly.

"Well, which is it then? It can't be both four and five!"

"S-sorry, I'm pretty sure it's five..."

"Well you're wrong, it's only been a little over four hours since the start of your shift. But look on the bright side, that's more than halfway!"

You're trying a little experiment on me: do I make a better slave girl when I'm desperate to pee? When I woke up this morning you put me on bathroom denial before setting me on an eight hour housework shift. While you sit around playing video games and handing me drinks, I slave away doing the chores and tending to your needs

Just this morning I have:

Cooked breakfast

Dusted the shelves

Vacuumed the hallways

Given you a blow job

Folded the laundry

Washed the dishes

All under the pressure of a screaming bladder. Though my conscious mind finds it hard to focus under these conditions, I approach every task with a sense of urgency that I couldn't get from any cup of coffee (though you were more than happy to buy me a large cup of coffee this morning).

"I'm very impressed with your housework sweetie" you say teasingly, "maybe if you run out of chores I'll even let you use the bathroom early".

My heart skips a beat at the thought.

"I... I'd like that very much, master".

"Good!" You say cheerfully as you crack open a can from the fridge, "Why don't you have a beer? Just a little something to help the time go by."

This is the third alcoholic drink you've given me today. You lean on the counter watching me, and I hesitantly take a sip. You shake your head at me, so I take another. You raise your finger slowly, lifting up the bottom of the can and making my head tilt upwards, causing me to drink much more than I'd have liked. You lower your hand, satisfied.

"Good girl" you say, "I expect you to finish that before you recycle it. And once you've taken out the trash I want you to organise my bookshelf - alphabetical by author".

You lift up my dress and give me a big smack on the bum, causing me to yelp before you walk away. As per your request, I'm wearing my 'housewife' dress, knee high white socks, no shoes, no bra, and the smallest pair of panties I own.

I struggle with taking the bins out (on account of not having shoes) and I really struggle to organise the bookshelf. You sit in front of the TV, the bookshelf in view, and you keep criticizing my methods.

"The letter 'K' comes after 'J', darling... try not to separate multiple books from the same series..." and so forth. I can hardly keep focus because I need to pee so badly. I must look manic to you, I keep reading the same spines over and over, I put the books into place with such force it rattles the shelf. I've been at this bookshelf for at least ten minutes and I swear it's less organised than when I started.

My raving is interrupted by your command, "Get me a drink." you say bluntly.

I drop what I'm doing and waddle to the kitchen. I pour you out a white wine and waddle back to the living room with the glass balancing on a tray. I'm practically dancing as I enter the living room, consumed by my desperation, and in a moment of utter clumsiness I trip on the kitchen table. Your glass falls onto the floor, breaking cleanly into three large pieces.

You're mad at me.

"I'm so sorry master!" I beg, picking up the

gass shards, "I'll get the mop!"

"You will do no such thing!" You yell, putting your videogame on pause. "You've got a perfectly good dress, use it."

With a lump in my throat, I kneel to the ground in front of the spillage and start mopping up the puddle of wine with the end of my dress. Though in my shame I don't dare look up from the mess, I know from the shadows on the floor and the sounds of leather on metal that you're removing your belt.

Once the floor is dry I'm left with a wetness at the bottom of my dress. I feel so ashamed that I don't look you in the eyes.

You grab me by the hair, bend me over the table, and pull my panties down to the floor. You use your folded belt to spank me repeatedly, I lose count of how many slaps you give me but it's enough to make my asscheeks turn red. My eyes are watering, though I'm thankful that my bladder has not yet completely given out.

Once you're satisfied that my ass is sufficiently red, you tie your belt around my waist just tight enough to place constant pressure on my bladder.

You bark your next order at me.

"Now go over to that corner and think about what you did! Keep your panties around your ankles and keep your dress lifted so that your ass is on full display... I said go!"

And with one hard final slap from your dominant hand, I bunch up my dress and waddle over to the corner of the room, my panties around my ankles like a loser.

I don't know how long I'm stood in that corner, feeling sorry for myself. My ass stings so badly and my bladder is screaming at me. I dance a little on the spot as I try not to wet myself, and every time you catch me you tell me to hold still and add another 10 minutes to my corner time.

It's been too long, my bladder can't take this.

I try not to let my piss come as a forceful stream, but I fail. My urine almost immediately hits the ground beneath me, splashing onto my feet and pooling on the lino floor. I close my legs and try to slow the flow but nevertheless my urine runs rivers down my legs, absorbing into my white socks and my panties, leaving me completely soaked from the waist down.

I let out a loud cry now, one that you notice but do not acknowledge. You just sit there, watching me humiliate myself.

I spend a good minute emptying my bladder, crying like a little girl, before it finally came to a stop. I'm now stood in a large puddle of my own piss. Tears run all down my face, which (like my ass) is bright red from embarrassment. I can't stop loudly whimpering.

You approach from behind me, causing me to flinch. Gently, you grab each side of my piss soaked panties, pull them up my legs, and put the band around my waist. I'm now wearing them properly, and I feel their wetness on my body inescapably. Another reminder that I've just wet myself, in case I didn't know already.

"Drop your dress, baby girl".

After a moment of hesitation I do just that. I don't say anything, I don't want you to hear me speak through a quivering lip.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to mop up that puddle using nothing but the clothes on your back. If your dress and socks aren't enough, use your hair if you have to. Then, you're going to put your clothes back on, stand in that corner, and marinade in your own accident until I say so. Understand?"

I do a gentle nod.

I fall to my knees, pull my dress over the top of my head, and start mopping. My tears don't add much to the puddle. My dress won't be enough, I'm definitely going to have to use my hair.

I hear you unzip your jeans. You've started masturbating.