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Once every two weeks, Artemis dusted her study from top to bottom.
Artemis had perfectly designed every piece of furniture in her home to suit her short stature, a stark contrast to the near-inaccessible facilities of Amaurot and Elpis. To someone as towering as Atlas, it was like walking into a dollhouse, everything about 3/4ths of its regular scale. There were very few things she couldn’t reach on her own. Still, she often asked Atlas for assistance while she cleaned.
“Aren’t you pretty? Yes, right there, that’s perfect,” the woman cooed as he settled into place, bare as the day he was born and on all fours against the cold, tiled floor. Slightly sweaty from nerves, his side just barely brushed the wood of a tall bookshelf. Artemis was dressed lightly, in shorts and a plain black sleeveless shirt. Kneeling in front of him, all Artemis needed was a thumb on his lip to urge it open. Atlas’s eyes fluttered closed as a soft ball gag was placed between his teeth and tied behind his head. Small hands delicately brushed his red hair out from under the straps. Opening his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of a smile, he sighed as he felt her soft shoes press against his back one at a time. Quiet humming could be heard above him, as well as the muffled fluff of a duster while she cleaned the topmost shelf.
It wasn’t particularly pleasurable work, nor was it painful. Atlas could take more than this, much more, but there was something particularly heady and mind-numbing to him about this task. Artemis wanted him to be a lot of things in bed: a loyal dog, a mindless doll, a prized stallion; even just Atlas, the Elpis researcher who was hopelessly, pitifully in love with her. The difference was she regarded those things with some level of fondness. There was nothing to love about furniture, though— it only existed to serve its singular purpose. It was cathartic for him, in a sense, to have no expectations other than to obey and not break. His head was filled with cotton as she utterly ignored him.
Artemis’s weight was nothing he couldn’t handle, even as she tiptoed up and down his spine, fiddling with the thick tomes lining the shelves. The only indication of time passing was the soft clunks of books against the wood. That he couldn’t see what she was doing, or even ask, was agonizing. His head tilted toward the ground, the saliva that accumulated behind the gag dripping steadily on the floor. The sound of it, quiet as it was, made Artemis stop her humming.
“Hm, something’s leaking,” she said pointedly, though he could tell she hadn’t turned her head at all, entirely focused on her task. When she finished, she stepped down, surely leaving shoe prints on his bare skin, and repositioned him wherever she pleased before making her way up again. Sweat cooled against his body with the physical exertion of staying motionless even as he was dragged and manhandled.
Every now and then, her feet left his back and she drummed her fingers against his shoulder. It was an innocuous gesture, the sort one would do to keep one’s fingers busy, but it was also a signal for him to check in with her. The only thing he had asked for was a brief moment without the gag, which she allowed straight away. Massaging his jaw, Artemis put the ball back in his mouth when he was ready and continued her cleaning. Each time, the pressure against his aching muscles quickly returned Atlas to his cotton-filled haze.
It wasn’t long until she made her way across the entire bookshelf, leaving it spotless. His arms were getting numb from their prolonged position, but his heart sunk at the thought of no longer being useful to her.
Then, Artemis kneeled at his side again, setting aside a book she’d selected before massaging his stiff limbs with a small but reassuring smile. Atlas was floating on air when she urged him to get up, hardly able to keep his eyes open. Hand in hand, she guided him to where he regularly slept when he visited Artemis: a long, plain-but-comfortable chaise, its cushions the color of spring grass.
He looked at her curiously, no doubt looking ridiculous with drool across his forced-open mouth, but she paid him no mind as she directed him to sit. With little pushes and prods, she positioned him to lay across the length of the chaise on his back, as though he were simply reclining. She removed the gag as well, having no further need of it. Though she chose not to bind him, she lifted his arms above his head in a relaxed stretch and urged them to stay there.
Fingertips drummed against him again, and he pled for her to continue. Atlas tilted his head back, closing his glassy eyes until he was a faceless object once more. Artemis brushed his hair out of his face, her thumb lingering on his cheek scar for only a moment.
Retrieving her discarded book, Artemis stripped down to only her underwear, tossing her clothes across his collarbone carelessly. Then, she sat directly onto his stomach. With his eyes closed, Atlas couldn’t help the small, startled sound that was punched out of him, though the only attention she paid him was a firm pat to his chest. She didn’t care to even look at him— it was perfect.
With a great sigh, Artemis laid parallel to Atlas, her head just barely nestled against the hollow of his throat. Her hair tickled his chin as it haloed over the man’s chest. One of her knees came up, her bare foot dangerously close to his groin. The woman’s weight was evenly distributed this way, and it was easier for Atlas to breathe, though the direct contact after all this time made him dizzy. The man had sobered up a little after the cleaning, but he was still willing and pliant. If it was a bench she wanted, then a bench she would have.
He heard the sound of pages being turned as she read, though he didn’t stir. The two of them stayed that way for a long while, the pressure on his body and the ambient sounds nearly lulling Atlas to sleep entirely, but when he noticed Artemis’s breathing pick up, curiosity itched at him. His eyes slid open as he snuck a dangerous peek at the contents of her book. It was surprisingly small, thin enough for Artemis to hold comfortably with one hand. Over the horizon of her green hair, he could hardly read the text, but any attempt to do so was interrupted when he heard a delicate moan, as lovely as birdsong. Artemis’s elbow flexed in his peripheral vision, and he knew she had slipped a hand down her underwear. She arched her back indulgently as she gasped and mewled. Her toes curled cruelly against his flaccid cock.
Atlas gulped. It would be a long, long day.