Entry Three: Bleach

The noise of the shower being turned off sounded from the floor above, followed by heavy but most unsteady footfalls leading to their bed. With an exhausted moan, Petunia Dursley dropped to her knees in her kitchen. The movement made her frilly peach dressing gown flap open to reveal the pale pink apron she was wearing underneath. At this time of night, there was no one there to get excited by that sight.

“Must… get… every… last… spot…” Petunia panted as she began scrubbing the linoleum floor by the workbench and sink. Above her, the stand mixer and fancy espresso machine they’d only used twice in as many years towered, silent witnesses to her insistent rubbing. Her wrists hurt, she’d tugged and toiled and used that little twist at the end that he loved, and the stand mixer and espresso maker had seen it all. They’d formed a backdrop to Vernon’s sweaty forehead and his back slicked brule crème-dripping hair and his quivering walrus moustache, all towering above her as she crawled on all fours towards him, her hair in purple and turquoise rollers and her pink apron tied with a great big bow over her naked, bony back. It had set his jowls aquiver and made him attempt to peer round his own belly to get a better view of her. She’d stopped between his legs, her knees firmly on the floor while she pulled on her bright yellow dishwashing gloves with a resounding snap over each hand.

Those same dish gloves were hard at work again, Petunia panting and panting as she forced one of her most well-loved implements, a sponge with both a coarse and a soft side, over and over the spot on the linoleum where her husband’s semen had splattered an hour ago with a force that likely amounted to several horsepowers. It had arched a bit, some spilling over her gloves and oozing between her rubbery yellow fingers, but most of it had made off-white ribbons on her floor.

“Every… last… drop…” she grunted, placing her head level to the floor and sniffing loudly. The overpowering smell was of pine soap and rubber.

Before he made such a mess he had been exquisite, though. Stood there peering at her, he had blinked contentedly with the impressive purple vein pulsing at his temple as she played hide the sausage with his dick. Into her mouth, out of her mouth, into the rubbery glory of her left hand, out again and surprise! into an errant hair roller.

Hours of fun it could’ve been, at least if you asked Petunia. But it was the cleaning up afterwards that provided her with the real thrill.

“Gotcha!” she whispered extatically, squirming with pleasure as the sponge rubbed the spot her mind knew was there, at just the right angle. Just the right angle…

Shivering, but not from the cold, she rose and looked around with gleaming eyes, her line of vision landing on the faux-marble of her work surface. Her husband’s immensely proportioned backside had rested on it as he caught his breath afterwards, looking proudly from the mess on the floor to Petunia by his side. She had undone the bow at the back of her neck and let him gaze in awe as the top of her apron fell, the bands that had tied it slithering down her sharp pink nipples, the texture of them not unlike the rubber in her gloves. Vernon loved them.

“No touching,” she had told him, then hit across his fingers with a spatula when he disobeyed.

She sprayed energetically with branded washing-up liquid mixed with vinegar all over the work surface, then used her trusty dishcloth to lather every last inch, every last corner. With a moan she realized she’d have to do the stand mixer and the espresso machine, too, they might’ve shone like they were freshly polished, but she could not be sure, could never be sure. Her husband might’ve grabbed one of them just as he climaxed all over her fingers, or maybe some of the pesky, not-so fairy liquid he produced had splattered all the way there? She’d never know for sure, and the only way to set her mind at ease was to scrub them both down, hose them down with the washing-up liquid and really put her back into it, sponge this time, the soft side always for the espresso machine.

Her arms ached as she finally stepped back, eyes squinting at the fruit of her labour. Everything shone.

“Now then,” she murmured, feeling a certain stirring at the smell of it all, the look of the gleaming metal on the espresso machine, “now we need to set to work at the real scene of the crime.”

The kitchen table was near the drawn curtains. Petunia had gotten double curtains after the first time; they could not risk any of the neighbours…

She hauled it all over to the table, the mop and bucket, all of her sponges, the dishcloth, the brush, the soap, all the soaps she had and then some. Big bottle of vinegar. Bicarbonate of soda and three lemons.

Shivering with anticipation, she smelled one of the lemons. Here, on this table, she had instructed her spent but soon-to-be re-aroused husband to get up on all fours on. The table had groaned almost as loudly as Vernon had, but one of them had sounded excited. They didn’t often find the time, these days, not with Dudley and that awful boy in the house.

“Mwaahh…” Petunia mouthed against the lemon. Earlier, bowing her head to him, her mouth had touched something quite different. Lips and a bit of tongue. The lemon brought sharpness to them now. Sighing happily, she went over to the cutting board and cut the lemon. It meant a little detour, what with her needing to wash the knife and chopping board and dry them and put them away. But good things come to those who wait.

That’s coincidentally what she’d told Vernon, after warming him up with her mouth and then leaving him there, trembling on the table, his excited member nestling into the furry happy trail in his swinging folds of belly.

She’d walked around him and placed a dishcloth in his mouth, followed by a meaning look at the closed curtains. Then she’d invited him to watch her open a fresh tub of lard and subsequently begun greasing up the handle of the same spatula she’d used to spank his fingers with.

Spotting greasy remains of the lard left on that side of her kitchen table, Petunia hiked her dish gloves up over her elbows and set to work. Every rubbing motion brought her a little bit closer. The soap, first, on a sponge, then the lemon halves, one in each hand, cut side massaged into the table and spreading its wonderful smell and cleansing power. Then a wipe-down with a fresh tea towel, then the sponge again with more soap. Hot water was needed, maybe it was time for the bicarbonate of soda…

Groaning almost as much as Vernon had when she dipped her rubber-gloved fingers into the tub of lard, then into his arsehole, she scrubbed and scrubbed, heat rising in her centre, bubbling almost, a bit like the alchemical mix on her kitchen table. She’d fucked him so hard with the business end of the spatula that he had collapsed in his own come in the middle of the table, wheezing moans muffled by the tea towel. The spatula had slipped out of Vernon and landed with a wet splatter on the floor.

Out of breath like she’d just ran at full speed through Little Whinging, maybe with some eagle-eyed neighbours at her heel, Petunia dropped the sponge and the ragged half of a lemon.

“There’s nothing else for it,” she whispered, eyeing the floor where it had dropped, the thing she’d disinfected twice in boiling water on the stove, “I’m left with no other option.”

Her body was reaching its fever pitch, the way it had built and built in her ever since he’d had his first. Unsteady on her feet she went to the cupboard under the sink. With every step towards it she felt her thighs rub together, sending little sparks further up. Teetering on the edge.

There it was. A great big canister of it.

She heaved it out of the cupboard with a grunt but couldn’t contain herself. Gloved fingers shaking, she unscrewed it and had a sniff. It was so overpowering her knees buckled.

“I’m coming!” she keened, rubbing her wrist with its yellow rubber glove between her legs and tipping bleach over the floor with the other.