Stormy lifted the apron and tossed it to the side. My cock was so ready for him that it quivered as he stared. “Spread your legs.”
Gulping, I did as he ordered.
“Stroke it. Slowly. I want a show.” I put my hand on myself and began a measured tug that sent swirls of goodness tumbling in my belly. He went away with a pat to my shoulder and came back not long later with a bottle of lube. “Keep going.” He drizzled my cock with the slick, and I moaned as the friction decreased in a fantastic way and I had a slippery grip on myself. My arm sped up without orders from my brain—it felt so good—and I rocked my hips. “Slow.” He darted off and came back to wriggle the list at me and wink. “I’m going to check your work, Pookie.”
My heart stopped, and as soon as he was out of sight, I jerked myself as fast as I could because I knew I hadn’t done anything right, or even half of what he’d told me. Something started to smell funny and burned as I strained and panted. I glanced at the oven and bit my lip.
“Oh, Pookie. This is unacceptable,” Stormy called from the living room. He came back with my abandoned broom and a scowl. “I didn’t ask for much. Stop.” He leaned the broom against a counter. I gave myself a squeeze and whimpered but did as he said, rubbing my hand clean on the apron. “Did youtryto do everything on the list?” He crossed his arms and pursed his lips.
“No….”
I moaned as he reached over and flipped the apron to cover my hard-on. We both looked at the obscene tent.
“Finish this list.” He let it flutter onto my lap, and I sighed.
“But—”
“Oh, damn it,” he grumbled as his nose wrinkled and he went over to the oven.
Stormy bent, giving me a great view of his ass in those pants, and opened the oven door. White smoke trailed out toward the ceiling. He cursed, grabbed an oven mitt, and then tugged the blackened chicken out. The pan clattered on the stovetop as he straightened and shifted to glare at me.
“Did you just… put this in here without anything else? Not even water?”
“I told you I don’t know anything about cooking.” I smacked my hands at my sides on the table, and my position in this charade rushed in on me. I felt ridiculous as I drew my legs up to sit cross-legged.
He sighed. “While that’s true, you are literate. You’re not stupid.” He shook his hands in my direction. “You could have looked up a recipe. Maybe you don’t get it yet, but this is more about effort than perfection.” He slammed the oven door closed and pointed at my sad hard-on that hadn’t gotten the memo I was in deep shit with my Mister. “You don’t touch that until you finish the list I gave you.”
“But—”
“Go. Now!”
I slid off the table and felt about two inches tall as I grabbed the broom. I swept the apartment, swearing every time I bumped my unbelievably hard cock—why won’t it go down?—and when I returned the broom to the laundry room, I found a bucket and rags with a big bottle of soap sitting in it. Stormy was at the kitchen table with his laptop open when I came back out, and he glared at me. “You applied to one job, and the salary is terrible.”
“How do you know what I did?” Oddly, I was offended he’d snooped on that part of my day, even though he’d told me to do it.
“I know how to check my computer history. You’re in trouble. I shouldn’t have had to tell you to search for a position that would let you live on your own.”
My gut sank and I didn’t look at him again as I went to fill the bucket at the sink. I felt like the last idiot standing at the beginning of a musical-chairs competition, when only one seat had been taken away. I should have been able to do all of those things on his list. Hell, he was probably right, and I could have if I’d tried—but I hadn’t.
I scrubbed all of the floors. To my humiliation, he had to come and show me how to wring the rag out and wipe up the excess so there wasn’t a huge puddle of dirty water everywhere. When I was finished with that awful chore, I went and peeked into the kitchen, but he was busy fixing my fuckup with dinner, so I didn’t tell him I had no idea how to clean a shower. When I got into the bathroom, it wasn’t dirty anyway, and I just wiped everything down. I could have done that earlier.
He was right, though, and I hadn’t even tried.
“You didn’t do the floor in here,” Stormy snapped and jabbed a finger at the kitchen floor as I went to sneak past him and put the bucket back in the laundry room. “I’ll clear out so you can do it.”
He snagged his laptop and went into the living room, and I had a pity party for myself. If I’d done all this stuff the way I should have while he was gone, I would have gotten off almost an hour ago.
I was on my hands and knees scrubbing my way out of the kitchen toward the living room when he came up behind me. I glanced back and was surprised and a little apprehensive as he settled on the floor on his knees. My cock throbbed and ached, and I was completely embarrassed because it had been that way since he’d walked through the door.
“Hm. I shouldn’t have had to yell at you.” He ran his hands over my ass, and I shivered with his light caress. “What do you think? Am I right?” He patted my left asscheek, but it didn’t hurt.
“Yes, Mister.”
“Yet, you made me do it.” He leaned his weight against my back. “Keep working.”
His hand slid under my apron and around my cock, and I shivered as he began to stroke me. My precum slicked down my shaft and I whimpered. Not nearly long enough later the tight pleasure of his grip sent me spilling over the edge, and I trembled and unloaded onto the floor, gasping as sweat stung my eyes. He wrapped an arm around my waist and sat me back with him, then pointed at the globs of my cum on the floor.
He stood, and I glanced up at him. With a smirk, he stepped over me onto the clean kitchen tiles, padding across them in his socks until he reached the stove. He pulled something out of the oven that smelled amazing, though I wasn’t sure what it was because the foil on top hid the food.
