by MiaACTION
He promised Mia that he would be waiting at her doorstep every afternoon at 3 PM when she arrived home from work. During each encounter, he was expected to wear a t-shirt that simply read “WELCOME” in black, bold letters.
he was expected to be waiting patiently, splayed out on his back, ready to accept Her boots on his groin, torso and face. She explained to him that it was especially important that he was ready for Her on rainy days, to be sure that Her boots were properly cleaned before entering Her house. The rainy days were particularly unpleasant for him. If mud made its way into the crevices of Her boots, he was to use his tongue to dislodge it until the boots were licked clean.
Sometimes on days where She was particularly stressed, She would use Her doormat more aggressively. Commenting on how especially dirty her shoes became on the commute home from the office, She’d take Her time wiping Her feet against his slacks. If She was in a really fowl mood, She would take sadistic pleasure in stomping his testicles for good measure, putting her full weight on his stomach and jumping up and down.
She would tell him about all the mind numbing stupidity She was expected to put up with at the hands of Her male coworkers, who were, as she relayed to Her doormat, largely incompetent. She confided in him that She fantasized about fashioning a walkway beginning at the start of Her driveway, leading all the way to the front door, comprised of Her male colleagues. All the men who expected that She laugh at their cringe-inducing jokes. All the men who insisted that they are “huggers” and grab at Her with the emotional intuition of a goldfish, completely oblivious to the fact that Her face contorts with disgust any time one of them comes within five feet of Her. Every time She’s relegated to “coffee duty” or referred to as “honey,” she retreats wistfully into Herself, eager to arrive home and wipe her hands (and feet) clean of another degrading day at the office. She would count the minutes until She could use and abuse Her doormat. Doormats don’t tell jokes, give hugs, or talk back.
She would take great care to gleefully stomp on every single one of their diaphragms as She made Her way to Her coveted doormat. And finally, She would scrape the vitriol from the workday against the doormat’s teeth, and leave him outside, his business casual attire disheveled, with a mouth full of brown grit.
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