You lay helpless on the floor, still hogtied and gagged, your heart pounding in your chest from the overwhelming sense of humiliation and panic. The ropes bit into your wrists and ankles, keeping you locked in a degrading position, Jess’s socks still crammed into your mouth. The taste was unbearable, salty and suffocating, but you had no way to remove them.
The silence in the room was suddenly shattered by the unmistakable sound of a heavy door creaking open, followed by slow, deliberate footsteps. They weren’t the sharp click of Courtney’s heels or the light taps of someone more familiar—they were heavier, more purposeful. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as you strained to see who it was.
And then you saw her: Amina.
Amina, the Brazilian cleaner, stood in the doorway, her towering frame silhouetted by the light from the hall. She was enormous—at least 6’5”, towering over almost everyone in the office, her presence dominating the room the moment she entered. Her muscular build, honed from years of physical labor, was impossible to ignore. Her skin was a rich, deep bronze, glowing under the dim office lights. She wore her usual uniform: a tight, button-down maid dress, black with white frills along the edges, hugging her wide hips and broad shoulders. A white apron hung loosely around her waist, worn from years of use, with its strings tied in a neat bow behind her. Her feet were clad in large, worn-out black flats, dull from years of scrubbing and mopping floors.
She stopped in her tracks as her eyes fell on you, her mouth slightly open in surprise. But that surprise quickly morphed into something else—something darker. A slow, satisfied grin spread across her lips as she took in the sight of you, bound, gagged, and helpless on the floor. Her dark brown eyes gleamed with cruel amusement.
“Well, well,” she said, her thick Brazilian accent curling around the words. “What do we have here?”
She took a few steps forward, her flats making soft thuds against the floor as she approached. You tried to squirm, but the ropes held you tight. The taste of the socks gagging you made it impossible to speak, and all you could do was look up at her in desperation.
Amina crouched down next to you, her large, calloused hands resting on her thick thighs as she examined you more closely. Her grin widened.
“I never thought I’d see you like this,” she said softly, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “All those years, you treated me like dirt. Mocking me for being ‘just the cleaner,’ like you were better than me. And now? Look at you.”
She straightened up, pulling her phone from the pocket of her apron. You froze as she held it up, pointing it directly at your face.
“Let’s take some photos,” she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “I think everyone will want to see this.”
She snapped several pictures, the soft click of the camera filling the room as she documented your humiliation. She walked around you, making sure to capture every angle—your face flushed with shame, the ropes binding your wrists and ankles, and the gag stuffed in your mouth. She even zoomed in on the socks, her grin widening as she took a close-up of the gag Jess had forced you to wear.
When she was done, she tucked her phone away, looking down at you with a newfound sense of power. You could feel her gaze burning into you, her presence overwhelming as she stood over you, arms crossed over her broad chest.
“I have to say,” she said, “this is the best thing I’ve seen in years.”
With surprising ease, she knelt down and began untying the ropes, her strong fingers working quickly to release your wrists and ankles. Even as she freed you, though, the weight of your predicament only deepened. You knew she had the power now—those photos could ruin you. As she pulled the last rope free, she yanked the socks from your mouth, leaving you gasping for air.
“There,” she said, standing up again, towering over you like a giant. “Now, I think it’s time for you to do something for me.”
You stared up at her, your mouth dry, too humiliated and afraid to speak. She placed her hands on her hips, her apron shifting slightly as she did so, the frilly edges swaying. The dirty flats she wore looked even more worn from this angle, the faint scuffs and dirt on the toes a reminder of all the times you had dismissed her, made jokes about her behind her back.
“You see,” she began, her voice low but full of authority, “for years, I’ve had to scrub these floors, clean up after you. You made fun of me, humiliated me. Now it’s your turn.”
She reached into a bag she had slung over her shoulder, pulling out an old, frilly white apron—the same kind she had worn for years. Without warning, she tossed it at you. It landed in a heap on your lap.
“Put it on,” she ordered.
Your hands trembled as you picked up the apron, the fabric soft and worn in your fingers. The humiliation of the situation washed over you like a tidal wave, but you knew you had no choice. Slowly, you slipped the apron over your head and tied it behind your back, the strings digging into your waist as you fumbled to secure the bow.
Amina smiled, satisfied with your obedience. “Good. Now, let’s see how well you can clean.”
She stepped back, kicking off one of her flats and placing her large, nylon-clad foot on your chest, forcing you to the ground. The pressure from her size was overwhelming, her foot warm and heavy against your body.
“Kiss it,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.
You hesitated for only a second before bending down and pressing your lips to the dirty sole of her nylon. The taste of sweat and dirt filled your mouth as you kissed it, the weight of her foot pressing down harder with each second.
“Lick it,” she added, watching you with a smug smile. “Clean it with your tongue.”
You obeyed, your tongue darting out to lick the sweat from the sole of her foot. It was degrading, more than anything you had ever experienced. The years of mistreatment and mocking her position were now coming back to haunt you in the worst possible way.
Amina finally lifted her foot, placing her shoe back on and stepping back, watching as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.
“That’s better,” she said, her voice filled with satisfaction. “Now, I think you’re ready for your new job.”
She bent down, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt and hauling you to your knees with frightening ease.
“You’re going to crawl to Courtney’s office,” Amina ordered, pointing down the hallway. “And you’re going to beg her to be the cleaner from now on.”
You froze, staring at her in disbelief.
“Or…” she said, pulling out her phone again, “I send these pictures to the entire office. And maybe even Scarlett. How do you think they’ll react to seeing you like this?”
Your heart sank, the reality of the situation crashing down on you. You had no choice. Slowly, painfully, you got onto all fours, the frilly apron hanging loosely around your waist as you crawled toward the door.
Amina followed behind, her heavy steps a constant reminder of her presence, her power. You could feel her eyes on you, watching every humiliating movement as you crawled down the hallway toward Courtney’s office. Your mind raced with the unbearable shame of what you were about to do.
When you finally reached the door, Amina leaned down, her breath hot against your ear.
“Now,” she whispered, “knock and beg.”
You raised a trembling hand, knocking softly on Courtney’s office door. The sound echoed in the empty hallway, and you swallowed hard, preparing yourself for the next wave of humiliation
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