Catherine Gets Cleaned

(Written for a real-life Catherine who likes brushes and cleaning.)

"So, you have all the documentation for the new cleaning system, you have a set of passcodes...that should be it for now," said the sales representative for the cleaning company. "We'll activate the system in one room only for a week's trial run. We'll be available 24x7 for support, and we'll meet with you next week to activate the rest of the system."

Dorothy Sloan, the CEO and owner of Sloan Industries, said, "Let's activate my office for the trial run." Dorothy was a handsome, tall blonde who was approaching 50. She had a chronic look of fatigue, quite natural for a woman who routinely worked 20-hour days; but it combined well with her quiet aura of authority and her impeccable manners. She was a private person, but was liked and respected by her employees.

"Are you sure we should start with your office?" said the sales rep. "Remember, there are always a few kinks to be worked out after activation."

"I know every paper on my desk. If your robots destroy anything, best they do it there," said Dorothy. "And no one goes into my office after hours except me."

"Very well," said the sales rep. "Be sure to memorize all the passcodes."

"I've memorized them already," said Dorothy.

----

It's true that Dorothy's office was never used by anyone else after hours, but her personal assistant, Catherine Jones, had a key.

Catherine had begun working for Dorothy four years ago. She had just ended a romantic relationship at that time, and was able and willing to throw herself into a job that involved hard work, long hours, and around-the-clock availability. The money was great, but Catherine had no time to spend it.

Though she preferred to hide in shapeless business attire during this period of her life, Catherine was a beautiful girl, with a perfect figure that was both slender and pleasingly curvy. She kept her natural red hair tied back in a bun and used little or no makeup, but her light, freckled complexion looked good without any help. Despite all her efforts to be plain, coworkers and business associates hit on her regularly. But none of them got to first base.

People assumed that Catherine was nursing a broken heart from her last affair, but the truth was more complicated. Six months after she had started the job, Catherine was surprised to realize that she had fallen head over heels in love with her boss. She had never had a lesbian relationship in her life, and had always thought of herself as a committed, though rather hard to please, heterosexual. But there was no denying the facts: she had begun to live for those moments when she stood by Dorothy's desk or walked alongside her in the halls, briefing her on the results of a product test or keeping her informed about the progress of a deal. Dorothy was unfailingly polite even when giving orders, and would chat pleasantly with her at moments when the pressure of their business life would abate. But the CEO was a rather reserved woman, and showed no particular interest in Catherine as a person. Catherine accepted this state of affairs, and was quite content working 60 or 70 hours a week alongside Dorothy. When she had a moment to herself, she would spin lurid fantasies about being stationed under Dorothy's desk, her only job to give Dorothy sexual relief from the pressures of the day. Or she would picture herself sitting quietly on the floor by her boss's chair, Dorothy idly resting a slim hand on Catherine's red hair while turning the pages of a report. Mostly, though, hard work kept Catherine's mind off sex.

The afternoon that Dorothy okayed the prototype robotic cleaning system, Catherine was holed up with the firm's accountants, working on a financial report for the board of directors. She went home at 9 pm, planning to finish the report that night; but she had forgotten that a crucial document had been messengered to Dorothy that afternoon. At 12:30 in the morning, she drove back to the office, wearing the workout clothes in which she lounged around her apartment.

Catherine disabled the office security alarms and headed straight for Dorothy's desk. She knew her boss's habits so well that she was able to find the document without a search, though she had never seen it.

Then Catherine heard something stir in the dim light and whirled around, her heart in her throat. A small, cylindrical robot was crossing the far end of the room. Its rotating head seemed to contain a set of sensors, and they were pointing directly at Catherine. In the shadows behind the cylinder, Catherine saw another robotic shape, tall and column-like, sliding noiselessly in her direction.

The robots were all modules of the same computer application. On their first active night, they had already made a preliminary pass through the office and cleaned every object in it. But now they were confronting something new.

The system was designed with the capacity to identify employees, and even to categorize non-employees properly. But, so far, the only human profiles in the system were Dorothy's and the engineers who created the system - and all of these were administrator profiles. With no employees in the system yet, the routines for identifying non-employees were bypassed.

Deciding that Catherine must be an object, the system did an exhaustive catalog match on her. The whole process took less than a second - about the time it took Catherine to freeze in panic, start hyperventilating, and turn her head toward the door to check her escape route. The results of the catalog match came back: Catherine was, with a high degree of probability, a standing lamp. And she was exhibiting structural instability.

Catherine's sudden lurch toward the doorway confirmed the diagnosis of instability, and the robots sprang into action. The tall robot quickly glided to a position alongside Catherine and shot a plastic band toward her ankles. As the robot pulled the band tight around both her legs and neatly fastened it, Catherine toppled forward, only to land on a terrycloth-covered airbag extended by the cylindrical robot, to protect Catherine from nicking or scratches. Before her first bounce, another plastic tie was fastened around Catherine's neck, not tight enough to damage the product. After lifting Catherine gently to an upright position, the tall robot stabilized her with more plastic bands running from her neck and ankles and fastened to the floor and ceiling with suction cups. When she persisted in flailing her arms about wildly, her wrists were encircled and suction-cupped to opposite walls.

Catherine screamed like a banshee, hoping that someone was in the office to hear her. Disheveled, terrified, and stretched into a crucifix position in a matter of mere seconds, she had no idea what was happening to her or why. The only result of her struggles was to prompt the robots to cinch her midriff with plastic just above her waistband and fasten it to the walls.

Satisfied at last that the lamp had been adequately stabilized, the cylindrical robot approached it with arms extended and began investigating its surface. No sooner did the robot's arms make contact with the screaming redhead than it stopped dead, trying to process the unexpected presence of her sports clothing. Another full catalog check failed to reveal any item with this kind of upholstery or dust cover. After sending off a message to the asset database about this irregularity, the cylindrical robot did a quick topological analysis of Catherine, and devised a plan to remove her coverings and reserve space for them in storage.

Once the plan was created, everything happened very quickly to the overwhelmed assistant. A special storage robot, looking something like a tank with arms, wheeled up to her and pulled her tennis shoes off her feet. The tall robot reengineered the system of plastic ties, reattaching Catherine's wrists to the ceiling and her ankles to the floor immediately beneath her. Then it pulled the horrified girl up by her wrists so that she was suspended in mid-air in an upright diving position. With Catherine positioned for removal of her dust covers, the storage robot moved in again and deftly yanked the sweat pants down Catherine's legs and over the plastic ties. Catherine hadn't put on underwear that night - her red bush, untrimmed for a long time, was suddenly exposed to the unfazed trio of robots. A moment later, she was helplessly waving her C-cup boobs in the air. The tall robot detached the suction cups long enough to retrieve Catherine's coverings and turn them over to the storage robot, who swallowed them in a front hatch and exited.

Now naked as the day she was born, the perfectly formed redhead was lowered to the floor and placed into her crucifix position, once again cinched too tightly to move. Losing hope of summoning help, Catherine was crying softly and whimpering nonsense syllables. Mortified at her public nudity, she was flushed from head to toe, her pale, translucent skin mottled with red patches.

The system scanned Catherine and decided that she was ready for cleaning. The cylindrical robot spread a plastic shield around Catherine's feet to protect the office floor, while the tall robot extended two metal arms, mounted with numerous small nozzles that could be rotated to spray in any direction. Without warning, the robot expelled a thick cleaning gel out of both arms, all the while circling the sobbing girl and moving its arms in complicated computer-controlled patterns. In less than four seconds, every square inch of Catherine's bare skin was coated with sticky, clear soap.

While Catherine sputtered and tried to clear the gel from her mouth and nose, the tall robot retracted the nozzles and replaced them with small horsehair brushes with stiff brown bristles. The bristled arms moved in on the crucified redhead from both sides, vibrating rapidly.

At the moment of first contact with the brushes, Catherine let out a bloodcurdling scream. She felt as if the brushes were flaying her alive; her sensitive skin registered the vibrating touch of the stiff bristles as excruciating pain. One set of brushes made first contact with the back of her neck, quickly blazing down and across her back; at the same time, another set started at her ankles and quickly invaded the sensitive flesh of her knees and thighs. The soap that coated the naked girl quickly turned to a thick white froth wherever she was scrubbed.

Out of her mind with pain, Catherine thought she was bleeding to death, although her skin was unbroken. As if to remind her that her journey was only beginning, the brushes rotated quickly around her and found new and more delicate regions of her body to attack. Feeling as if she was burning at the stake, Catherine passed out for a few moments, long enough to miss the robot retracting its horsehair brushes and replacing them with more flexible tampico bristles.

Her whole body glowing red through her coating of white froth, Catherine woke to the most peculiar sensations. The new brushes were doing detail work on her: moving between her lips and chin, then her nose and lips; at the same time pushing between her toes and around her toe cuticles. The scream of pain which with her nervous system had greeted the horsehair brushes was still reverberating through her shocked body, but it was gradually transforming into a burning sensation that became warmer and stranger as it sank into her muscles. The detail brushes were roaming her body freely, like little flames of hot fire on the surface of a smouldering pile of embers. Her self-control shattered by the horsehair ordeal, Catherine was crying and whimpering like a madwoman, her self-control shattered. But what she was feeling now was too strange for her poor abused brain to process. As the twin robot arms slid the vibrating brushes behind her ears and around the circle of her navel, her cries suddenly broke and turned to low, growling moans.

Thinking and feeling on an animal level now, Catherine was beyond shame and dignity. If there were a person standing in the room, he wouldn't have been able to tell whether the soap-caked naked girl was shuddering in pain or pleasure as the tampico brushes advanced inexorably toward her private parts. Her tortured skin was now incredibly sensitive to touch, and it seemed to her as if she could feel each individual bristle as it separated from the others and scraped across her raw body. All sense of the shape and integrity of her body was gone: her whole being existed right at the spot where the bristles were focusing her senses.

In the white mask of Catherine's foam-covered face, both her eyes suddenly popped open, round as saucers. Two things had happened at once. The top set of detail brushes had arrived at her nipples and were circling them, coaxing them outward to clean the place where they met her areolas. And the lower brush plunged from her back down into the deep cleft of her ass, gliding unbearably across her asshole and burrowing between her pussy lips to reach her clitoris.

The poor girl's moaning dropped an octave as her voice cracked. Even her confused mind knew that she was suddenly, unbearably turned on. How, when she was still in such agony? She had passed through all the preliminary stages of arousal when she was in too much pain to notice; now she was suddenly in the end game. Her round hips, held tightly in place by the plastic ties, instinctively tilted upwards as far as they could in a pathetic, undignified attempt to keep the brushes between her lips, even while she continued to growl and moan like a trapped animal. The part of her brain that governed her actions had been blown out by her ordeal; but every other part of her was more achingly alive than it had ever been.

Naked and soaped, Catherine hung in her ties, staring dully ahead and making weird little grunting noises, as the brushes withdrew from her body. The capable woman who had walked into the office 15 minutes ago was now a quivering heap of glowing-red flesh who couldn't remember her own name. But the single word "No" escaped her lips as she saw what the robots were about to clean next.

A split-second later, a long, cylindrical brush with soft bristles, designed to clean whatever crevices in the furniture that the system had detected, invaded her mouth, stopping exactly at the rear of her throat. At the same exact moment, a similar brush behind her pushed between her plump ass cheeks and entered her rectum, rotating her hips as far back as the ties on her ankles would permit. And a third, thicker brush met with no resistance as it slid deep into her sopping-wet cunt.

All the brushes started rotating at the same time. The internal cleaning lasted only for a few seconds, but those seconds seemed to last forever for the triply violated redhead. Tightly bound and held stationary by the impaling brushes, Catherine shook violently as if she were being electrocuted, her eyes rolling back in her head. It was the biggest orgasm she would ever have in her life, but she lost consciousness before she could identify what was happening.

As far as the robots were concerned, the cleaning of the lamp was complete. While the cylindrical robot attached a water pump to the plastic carpet protector, the tall robot extended its water nozzles and quickly dumped 50 gallons of water over Catherine. Specially aimed nozzles washed the soap out of her hard-to-reach areas. Then a series of infrared heating units surrounded Catherine and pulsed on and off for 30 seconds.

When the rinse was over, Catherine's curvaceous body was once again exposed. Her flushed, mottled skin looked as if it had been dipped in pink dye and allowed to dry unevenly. Her hair looked like a scarecrow's. And her brain was functioning at a six-month-old's level. But she had sustained no serious damage, and she smelled very clean.

The system was now ready to polish Catherine. The tall robot extended a long applicator that looked like a jai alai racket, filled with some semisolid paste. Making several turns around the naked executive assistant, the robot smeared her thickly from head to toe in the waxy, clear contents of the scoop, distributing the paste evenly so that each part of Catherine's body was covered about one quarter inch deep in the sticky stuff.

Still stunned by her life-shattering orgasm, Catherine began to stir under the constricting, fast-drying material, making little mmmphing sounds behind her now-sealed lips. Her eyes were waxed shut as well, so she did not see the set of soft, circular spinning discs covered with lambs' fur that approached her from both sides, then slid into her waxy coating with a loud whirr. Suddenly wide awake, Catherine felt as if she were being tickled to death. One of the spinning fur discs was moving across her neck from one tense shoulder to the other: another was polishing in a circle around her convex navel; a third was working on the soles of her feet, which were now baby soft from her rough brushing, and very very sensitive. Immobilized by plastic ties and mummified in her coat of wax, Catherine had no outlet for the unbearable tension in her muscles - she could only wriggle slightly and make desperate, muffled throat noises. The robot had no mercy, and Catherine was nearly insane from the teasing touch of the fur pads by the time she was fully polished.

In a surprise move, the robots snipped Catherine's plastic bonds and did a last bit of detail polishing to smooth out the areas around the ties. Though Catherine's brain was not functioning very well, some part of her wondered whether she could try to escape now. But her weakened body didn't seem to be responding to her commands, and Catherine remained still like a good little lamp while her detail work was completed.

The system appraised the situation. Catherine was standing in her crucifix position, looking almost serene and very shiny: the dim night lamps in the office were reflexing off her dazzling waxed skin and making exotic patterns on the wall. Her red hair was slicked against her scalp and pubic area, looking almost painted on. The transparent wax did not hide any of the girlish details of her anatomy, and her turgid nipples and swollen labia hinted at her helplessly aroused condition.

Catherine was making tentative attempts to move, but nothing was happening: her coating of wax, heated and dried by the friction of the brushes, was surprisingly tough. She rocked back and forth a little, and mmmphed quietly in surprise.

As the lamp unit seemed now to be structurally stable, the robots' next task was to position and equip it. Analyzing the vaguely similar standing lamps in its database, the system selected a proper position for Catherine. While the cylindrical robot positioned itself right under Catherine's girl parts, the tall robot extended an arm behind her and pushed her back forward and down, so that her stomach was resting on the top of the little robot. Then Catherine's arms were bent at the elbow and repositioned so that each hand was posed next to one of her pretty breasts, about a foot away on either side. Her hands were balled up into fists, with a little space between her circled fingers and her palms. And her feet were pointed outward for support, with each of her toes uncomfortably spread wide, then angled to grip the carpet. The wax was stiff enough that Catherine's body parts more or less stayed where they were put.

Now bent forward at the waist, looking a little like a ship's figurehead, Catherine was still trying to wriggle free of her waxy casing. The wax was strong but not immovable. First one of Catherine's splayed toes popped back to a normal position. Then the wax at her right shoulder cracked, and her right hand opened and closed a few millimeters. At last a sideways twist of her hips cracked the wax in her pubic area, giving her thighs a tiny space to move in.

But this last development was Catherine's undoing. Both robots rotated suddenly toward Catherine when the wax over her pussy broke open. Their sensors detected several trickles of clear liquid dripping down Catherine's waxed inner thigh. The poor girl's earlier massive orgasm had left her nether parts in a state of swollen, liquid surrender, and the fierce tickling of the lambs' fur discs had triggered a set of aftershocks in her dripping sex organs.

As far as the system was concerned, Catherine was dirty again and needed another cleaning. The night was long, and there was plenty of room in the cleaning schedule for the extra task.

So Catherine's ordeal began again. The carpet protector was spread, and Catherine's pussy and legs received another thorough horsehair brushing, then detail work from the tampico brushes. This time the room was quieter than before, as the encased girl could only mmmph her despair. Several cracks in the wax appeared as the rotating brushes scoured Catherine's asshole and cunt - but she received a new, full-body coat of wax and another all-over buffing.

If only Catherine could have controlled herself enough to stop herself from orgasming during the exquisitely ticklish buffing, her nighttime torture session might have ended. But the system had now added Catherine's pussy juice to its list of foreign substances to be detected via analysis of air particles. So, even through her new and unbroken coat of wax, the system could detect that Catherine was still a dirty piece of furniture. Another harsh cleaning was ordered, this time for Catherine's entire body: and another coat of fast-drying wax. And then another.

Finally Catherine managed to pass the system's finely tuned detection of her sex juices. She stood very still and shiny in the middle of the room, curved into her assigned lamp position. There was no hope at all of her moving any part of her body. Even after two coats of dried wax, she had realized that escape was impossible - and now she had been waxed and hardened four times. She moved exactly as much as all the other furniture in the office.

The system's final act was to refurbish Catherine The supply robot arrived with light fixtures, which fit perfectly into each of Catherine's curled-up hands. Transparent electrical wiring tape was run from the fixtures up Catherine's arms, down her back, through the crack of her ass, and down the inside of one of her legs, where it was connected to a cord and plug.

Catherine was lifted onto the supply robot and transported to the corner near her boss's desk, where she was positioned immediately behind and to the right of Dorothy's chair. The robots plugged Catherine in and created an entry for her in the table of lights to be turned on and off on a daily schedule. Then they ran a system test on Catherine. Both her light bulbs went on at once, reflecting light off her gleaming body, and illuminating her hanging breasts with a torchlike glow. After testing every possible configuration of Catherine's bulbs, the system switched her off. Then the robots returned to their regular routines.

Hours passed. All sorts of humiliating thoughts flitted through Catherine's head, but no one would ever guess her anguish from her perfect, lamplike stillness. As morning approached, the tall robot made the rounds of the room with a feather duster, to remove the night's accumulation of dust. As soon as the feathers touched Catherine's ears, she realized that the worst torture had been saved for last. Every fiber of her being wanted to recoil from the devilish touch of the duster - but she couldn't move a muscle. The feathers delicately worked their way down her naked, embarrassingly extended body, invading every crevice with their spasm-inducing touch. Each time she thought the worst was over, the feather found a yet more vulnerable spot: worse than her ears were the rigid, blood-swollen tips of her breasts; worse than that was the lingering visit to her protruding inner pussy lips and her asshole; and worse even than these were the feathers' final invasion of the gaps between her wide-spread toes.

Catherine had blacked out from the soft torture by the time the feather duster was through with her - yet to outward appearances she was as calm and patient as any inanimate object, waiting for her beloved Dorothy to put her to use when she arrived in the morning. It seemed likely at long last that Catherine's boss was going to take notice of her....

The End

 

 

22.12.09