A Brat, Her Mistress, A Wet Sunday Down Under

Rat-a-tat.

Rat-a-tat?

“Hey, I’ve forgotten my key…”

Rat-a-tat-tat!

“Hurry up little whore—"

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat!

“Get your bloody arse into gear and open the front door.”

“So sorry, Miss. I can’t.”

“For fuck’s sake, whyever not. These groceries aren’t getting any lighter.”

“Following orders, Miss. Sorry.”

“What … Whose?”

“Yours, of course, Miss.”

“Never ever suggested not letting your Mistress into her own apartment.”

“Sorry; you did before. Granted not in so many words.”

“Not in so many words … What, you disobedient little whore!”

“So sorry, Miss … Not in so many words, Miss.”

“And—”

“And nothing … Miss. I’m obliged to always address you as Miss. I’ve rectified my error … Miss.”

“But I heard that patented suppressed snigger of yours. Methinks you’re still being a brat.”

“I so don’t know what you mean … Miss.”

“Only a brat would frustrate her Mistress by not opening the fucking door.”

“Not so, Miss. A good girl remembers her Mistress was crystal clear about not unlatching the door.”

“For God’s sake, unbelievable. Are these words clear enough for you, then? Open the fucking door now, you naughty little whore.”

“Ay--”

“I heard that giggle. You only laugh like that when you think you’ve been a clever clogs and sucked me into one of your bratty games.”

“Sometimes, maybe … But now I surely will, since I’ve just heard Miss smirking.”

“You can’t hear a smirk.”

“Now you’re just being overconfident, Miss.”

“Okay, then; indulge me … Why won’t you open the door and let me bring the groceries inside?”

“Because, you said before you left for the store … and I quote: ‘You’ve been a bloody brat all afternoon. So, naked and collared on your knees in the corridor … And don’t move. I want to see picture-perfect obedience when I open the door on my return,’ … Remember, Miss?”

“Of course, I remember. For fuck’s sake, let me guess … You’d have to move to open the bloody door.”

“Exactly, Miss. And surely you’ve now realized I’m just trying my hardest to be a keener for you.”

“Dear God. You so deserve to be punished for this.”

“Sorry. But I’m being a good girl, Miss!”

“A literally-minded fucking brat, more like. Perhaps I’ll make you reflect on your misbehaviour by counting rice.”

“I checked; unfortunately for you, it turns out there’s not enough rice in the pantry. Unless, perchance, you bought some at the store, Miss?”

“No … But I’ll manage.”

“That tone of yours is way too smug … Fucking hell, you bought risoni, didn’t you, Miss?”

“The best pasta for both vegetable soup and wicked little whores, given it’s rice sized.”

“Wanna compromise, Miss?”

“Compromise! That’s what insolent subbies always end up saying when the siren call of topping from the bottom has wrecked their arguments on the rocks of logic.”

“I’m just trying to be adult about this—”

“You, adult!”

“Stop laughing, Miss.”

“I will if you will. Okay, then, how does this sound? … When I hear the door unlatch, I’ll count to ten.”

“Deal.”

“Deal, what?”

“Sorry, Miss … Deal, Miss.”

“That’ll give you enough time to fall to your knees … And, given your liking for roleplay, we’ll both fantasize that you really were a good girl who didn’t move.”

Click, clack.

“One, two, three, four and five … Six, seven, eight, nine and ten.”

Slam; click, clack.

“Impressive. My little whore is an accomplished actress; that’s so sweetly submissive. You’d never guess you’ve been tempting fate all morning by skating across increasingly thin ice.”

“I’m Canadien; skating is what I do best, Miss. Well, that and being a total give’er when French kissing down under.”

“Pucking hell … Butter so doesn’t melt in your mouth.”

“Ha, ha. Praise the Goddess we’ve got your one and only hockey joke done and dusted for the weekend.”

“What!”

“So sorry, Miss … Praise the Goddess we’ve got your one and only hockey joke done and dusted for the weekend … Miss.”

“What will it take for you to accept that Aussie humour rocks?”

“Hell freezing over, perhaps, Miss.”

“Your arse so continues cruising for a bruising.”

“Au contraire, ma chère; I’m just educating you on the facts of life: Canadien humor rocks.”

“What!”

“So sorry. Just educating you on the facts of life: Canadien humor rocks, Miss … Though, on more mature reflection, I’m beginning to wonder if Mistress may have a point.”

“Ah, is that the first sign it's dawned on you that you’re overstepping the mark?”

“No comment, Miss.”

“No surprise there. Tell me, then, what explains the perky state of those nips of yours? This morning’s bratty blade running or subsequently, being on your knees, quietly contemplating Mistress’s cunt?”

“Um … Is Mistress requiring complete honesty, Miss?”

“I thought as much; once a brat, always a brat.”

“Well, to be fair I’ve now begun to worry I'd gone a tad far with the door.”

“With some justification. After all, I haven’t forgotten last week’s maple syrup incident going tits up.”

“Oh, c’est tiguidou, I love that smile of yours, Miss. It’s so indulgent and loving. Turns me to jelly knowing you love me as I am.”

“Even though you’d test the patience of a saint.”

“Just as well for both of us that you won’t be canonized anytime soon, Miss.”

“Come on, clever clogs, it’s time to actually be a good girl and help me unpack the shopping.”

“But now that smile of yours has turned devious, Miss. Something very naughty has gone through your mind.”

“I so don’t know what you mean. You’ll crawl into the kitchen before you’re allowed to stand.”

Slither, clip. Slither, clop. “Neigh, neigh … Yeeha, yeeha.”

“Horse? You gotta be kidding me; you really are an ass.”

“I’m just being loving; evocatively demonstrating what a joy it is to be Mistress’s beast of burden … Anyway, what’s my derrière got to do with it, Miss?”

“For God’s sake. How many times do I have to tell you that a derrière is an arse? And an ass is a donkey-like animal.”

“That’s the problem with you being a monolinguist, Miss. No real appreciation of me being a cunning linguist … Keeping three languages in mind.”

“Cute … But three? What; English, French and—”

“Australian, Miss. Hee-haw, hee-haw.”

“Perhaps it would be best for both of us if you stop this asinine conversation and open that small bag, baby.”

“Oh? This red lipstick isn’t your usual brand, Miss.”

“The cheapest I could find at the store. It’s not going anywhere near my lips. Rather I’m pondering using it to write, ‘subby slut,’ above your tits.”

“And you call me naughty, Miss.”

“Then perhaps I’ll write, ‘anal whore,’ on your thighs.”

“This is a new fetish, Miss. What’s it leading to?”

“I think I might also add ‘fuck toy,’ above your mound.”

“Mm-mmm, Miss; do you plan to use, abuse, and cum-infuse me?”

“Before that, my inclination is to add a ball gag. That’ll make you drool.”

“But won’t spit soaking my tiny titties risk smudging the lipstick, Miss?”

“I’ll have finished the humiliating TikTok before that happens, baby.”

“Fuck, you’re seriously thinking of revealing to the world what a filthy little whore I actually am, Miss?”

“Others will see your skin smeared with dirty words and sticky strands of your spit and pussy-cream. Unless, of course, you were to use your safe word.”

“I did say I’d do anything for you. And, well … As you’ve bought yogurt, Miss.”

“What! That’s for breakfast. I seriously hope you’re not hinting your consent depends on having dairy smeared over your skin?”

“Maybe. Well, yes, Miss. The upside is you won’t go hungry, you can lick it off my body.”

“I was clear with you after the maple syrup incident. No, no, no more pandering to weird Canadian food kinks.”

“But, while I may have gone a little too far with the maple syrup, you should be cool with yogurt … after all you’re Australian, Miss.”

“That suppressed smirk tells me you haven’t yet cleansed your mind of bratty thoughts. I shouldn’t ask, should I?”

“Perhaps not, Miss. Let’s just say I’d be counting risoni into the middle of next month if I made pithy, yet accurate, remarks comparing the culture content of a tub of yogurt and the Australian continent.”

“Your arse continues cruising for a bruising, you’re such a naughty little poutine—"

“That’s jokes, Miss. Your Aussie accent is not coping with the subtleties of French pronunciation.”

Spank, spank. “Stop laughing!”

“Yeow, yeow. Hurt me, mark me … You know I like it, Miss.”

“Stop laughing, right now!”

“Can’t, Miss. Poutine is so not what you think it is. It’s yummy French fries and cheese curds smeared with gravy.”

“Well, Putin, then.”

“No, Miss, that’s the Russian president.”

Slap, slap. “In every language known to man or woman, you’re a naughty little whore in need of a good spanking.”

“Then, as a proud Quebecois brat, please address me as putain, Miss.”

“Dear God, language lessons from a North American … Oh, look at this, isn’t the organic zucchini ginormous.”

“It’s a huge courgette, Miss … You’ve changed the subject. You’re testing me, aren’t you?”

“Testing? I so don’t know what you mean … Just be a good girl, sit up on the kitchen bench, and spread your legs.”

“Yippee. So that’s why you got a BBC from the store, Miss.”

“BBC?”

“Bloody big courgette, Miss.”

“And to think you’re rude about my jokes.”

Thrust, squelch.

“Oh, God, Misss.”

“Feel the stretch in your needy cunt.”

Thrust, squelch.

“Mmmm …”

“Going to be a good girl for me?”

Thrust, squelch.

“Oui, oui, oui …”

“No more being a brat?”

Thrust, squelch.

“Fuck, anything … So need to cum.”

“What!”

Thrust, squelch.

“Sorry, fuckkk. So need to cum, Misssss?”

“Then what’s the toy called, you naughty little putain?”