*Brat's POV*
Mistress is at work so of course, I'm laying on the floor disassociating. I know I have to do the laundry and make dinner... but floor. I'm on our bedroom floor right now staring at the ceiling. It's half covered with a mirror so I'm trying to win a staring contest with myself. (I'm losing) At some point in my wonderful performance as the most perfect househusband I remember I need to shave. I put my arms behind my head, prepared to do the most epic sit up when I remember I haven't worked out in... since... uh... well high school PE... why is Mira with me again? Oh yeah, I'm awesome. I'd do a dramatic hair flip if I had long hair and wasn't so lazy.
I roll until I hit the dresser and grab onto one of the handles and attempt to hoist myself up but end up pouring socks on myself instead. It's only a couple though because I haven't done the laundry in a while. I need to do things. Mistress works so hard so we can have a good life and I can't even do my chores. I grab onto another handle and drag myself off the floor. Colors attack my vision and nausea floods through me. "Eh..." I should drink water. I walk over to the bathroom and may or may not run headfirst into the door frame because my eyes don't want to recover from the head rush.
I stumble into the sink. Yes, into. I hit my head on the faucet as I seem to attempt to dive into it. I turn the water on and let it pour into my mouth. And because I seem to have zero brain cells today, I drown a little. And in a miraculous feat mange to hit my head on the faucet again as I try to escape from my own stupidity. Maybe I should have listened to Mistress when she said not to put whiskey in my coffee this morning... but what can I say, I'm a brat.
*Mistress's POV*
I'm going to cut off my feet, and then I'll gather the severed appendages and stab this man through the eye with the heel of my stilettos, if he doesn't shut the ever loving fuck up. My idiot supervisor has been fucking yapping at me for what has to have been twenty minutes in the hallway. My feet fucking hurt asshole. I don't care about your wife or your ugly kids. I care about my feet and they hurt. I try to conjure a happy image, and come up with Brat doing the laundry. But we all know that's just fantasy. He's not exactly lazy, more so his litany of mental illnesses burning him out. However I'd be nice if he could manage the laundry before I have to whip him.
My supervisor, a grimy little man, grabs my arm and asks if I'm paying attention. Ew. "Oh I'm so sorry sir." I'm not sorry you pathetic excuse for a human."I was just thinking about what you said a minute ago." I force a laugh. I may have a tad bit of anger issues... uhhg, why is Oakley even with me. I go back to wondering how I'll ever escape this misery and if I'll have to resort to murder to escape this conversation.
*Brat's POV*
Ok, shower time. Cue the confetti because I'm actually going to do something. I've got the shower cranked up to about a billion degrees and have lit my favorite scented candle. Ready. I try to remove my pants and end up getting into a brawl with my sweat pants. Not to brag but I totally won. I don't know why I can manage pants but if my shirt exists, I'll perish but at least I look good. I hop into the scolding shower and slip on water. I mean there should have been a wet floor sign. After I right myself heat floods into my veins and I think I might just stay here for the rest of my life.
As I start washing my body I wonder if Mistress will want to use my hole when she gets home. I might as well wash it. I kneel on the floor of the shower and spread my legs. I wish she was here. I bet she'd hold my chin up and force me to make eye contact with her while I cleaned myself up for her. She'd run her nails along my scalp and call me all kinds of degrading names in the sweetest voice... and I'm hard. Congratulations me, now I'm horny and about to stick my finger into my ass. I could wait a little, I could back off... I know what's going to happen... but I'm a brat, what else would I do?
