Foreword

Dear readers,

Kink can touch on some pretty delicate themes, at times. This is especially true for kinks that revolve around emotional sadism, counterphobia, and depictions of events that are either traumatic, fundamentally unjust, or both.

Readers who have read my FALL OF WOMEN stories will be familiar with the refrain I always use, when introducing those stories: my kinks are not my politics. It’s actually a refrain I borrowed from All These Roadworks, and for a very good reason. While this story does not deal with misogyny kink, it’s still pertinent for it to include the disclaimer you’re about to read, for the purposes of clarification.

The story you’re about to read features characters with Arab names. This is, emphatically, not a story about raceplay. Even so, it’s important to clarify that that’s not my background. The motivation for this naming convention is that this story started out as a commission, and a very detailed one at that.

The person who commissioned the story is half Moroccan, half Palestinian, and it was important to them that the names of the featured characters reflected this; that they “rooted” the story the way they wanted.

It’s important to note, however, that the story is not set in Morocco (or anywhere else in North Africa and the Middle East). While the featured characters have Moroccan names, they are intended to look like second or third generation immigrants into a quasi-US-looking (but not overtly defined) social environment. As such, outside of their names, the characters aren’t connotated as Arabs in any significant way.

While misogyny kink and raceplay are absent from this story, it does feature classism kink as one of its major themes. This is not meant to glorify or excuse real-world issues of economic inequality in any way, because once again, my kinks are not my politics, and this is a story, not a manifesto. Classism kink has a similar appeal to me as misogyny kink does: a counterphobic exploration of what is an otherwise horrible and traumatic issue in the real world.

I like playing with these social concepts, fears, taboos. I like to explore the way they become fetishised in our minds, and try to depict them from different (sometimes polar opposite) angles in different stories.

With this clarification out of the way, all that’s left for me to say is: stay safe, happy reading, and enjoy the story!

Chapter One: A Spoonful Of Meekness

“How do I look?”

Alia twirls in a deep green dress before me, giggling for all the world like we haven’t spent most of the afternoon trudging through the mall. Still, I’m a good sport, so I give her a smile.

“Very pretty, Alia.”

God, I feel like I’m in the Say the line, Ralph! scene from The Simpsons.

“You should try some of these dresses yourself!” Alia says, picking another dress to try out. “Come on Zainab, live a little!”

“I’ll pass,” I say, stifling a groan. I swear, Alia’s memory can be awfully selective at times. As if I could actually afford anything they have on offer here. My family isn’t poor or anything, but the neighbourhood we live in is a bit too fancy for our current finances. We have to be careful with our budget.

Alia sees me as a friend first, but I can tell the money problem is completely alien to her—never even crossed her mind, and why would it? She’s a trust-fund child, down to every bratty, entitled element of the stereotype. And a good friend, nonetheless… but I do wish she were a bit more considerate about this stuff.

I give a weary sigh. Truth is, even if I had the money, I would likely buy nothing here anyway. Places like these don’t have clothes for big-boned, plain-faced girls like me, and I feel even more average than usual when pitted against Alia’s lithe grace.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not commiserating. I know I’m smart, I’ve always worked hard for everything I have, and I’m no less a person than Alia just because of my family background. Still, sometimes it does get to me—usually, when we’re at the mall.

It’s just a little frustrating to see how easy everything is for her. If it was just the money I could understand it, but Alia lives a life straight out of the cover of a glossy magazine with no effort whatsoever.

As if to prove my point, she emerges once more from the changing room, this time in a flowery summer dress that’s ten times as expensive as you’d guess from merely looking at it.

“What about this one?” A flash of mischief goes through her eyes.

“Looks pretty too,” I say, evenly. “They all do.”

Alia giggles, retreating back into the changing room, and leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Of course she has an easier time than I do when it comes to picking clothes. She’s petite, and cute, and rich. Even without makeup she looks so effortlessly pretty—and knows it. The clothes she picks “at random” seem to bring out the shine in her long hazel locks, and match the honey-gold in her clever eyes.

It’s the one interaction in our friendship where I feel, not simply restricted in my means compared to hers, but truly jealous. I’d rather stay home, but I guess she loves the attention too much to just go to the mall by herself. She gives me an innocent look every time she asks me to accompany her, but I know her well enough to see the clever manipulations behind the angelic persona. Sometimes I flatly say no.

But when I do say yes, I’m left playing cheerleader, repeating “you look so pretty!” for hours on end, then carrying her new purchases like some kind of gopher.

Alia and I aren’t normally like this—I won’t let anyone push me around—but as in all friendships, it pays to make concessions at least some of the time. I balance it out with my “outspoken rule”: I am always vocal and assertive when I feel my boundaries are being violated.

I have to admit that today I’m regretting the shopping trip more than usual. We’ve been at the mall for most of the afternoon, and I’m so tired. Alia is seemingly intent on purchasing half the mall’s stock, and predictably, I haven’t bought anything.

Besides, my mind isn’t on clothes at the moment. Alia and I are both in our senior years, and where I fret and worry about the future, she sails through life without a care in the world. Were it not for my full scholarship, I would never have gotten this far, but what next?

I try to ignore the knot of dread at the pit of my stomach, but I’m not doing a very good job of it.

As I stare at Alia, who is giggling with the cashier and flashing her father’s credit card, I realise the absurd paradox that comes with wealth inequality. I need a job, but she doesn’t: her trust fund is more than enough to sustain her lifestyle indefinitely, and that’s without counting her family’s liquidity and real estate assets. And yet, paradoxically, she’ll have her pick of jobs when she’s done. I won’t.

Still, it looks like the shopping binge is finally over. I’m carrying all the clothes, obviously, but so long as we leave in a hurry, I don’t really mind being a pack mule. Alia hasn’t lost a bit of bubbly enthusiasm though, alternating between her phone, and a rapid-fire monologue about the week’s upcoming parties.

I only half-listen, until I hear her say, “Come clubbing with me tomorrow night!”

I don’t have the emotional energy, or the money, to deal with this. And I’m more than a little miffed that Alia is going on and on about parties after we devoted the entire afternoon to her pastimes, when anyone with functioning eyes could tell I’m mentally in a bad place at the moment. She could take at least five minutes out of her day to be considerate and supportive about it!

I know she means well, that she isn’t being an emotional vampire or anything—hell, on some level, this might be her way of being supportive: trying to distract me with fun. Still, I am annoyed and I feel like my needs aren’t being addressed. And that means one thing: it’s outspoken rule time.

“No, Alia. You know I don’t like it, and besides, I have to study. I need to actually worry about my grades, and you know it.”

“You’re right, no problem! Just make sure you don’t burn out, alright?” The smile never leaves Alia’s face. Even when being rebuffed she manages to be perfectly graceful. On some level, I admire that, and I feel better for enforcing my boundaries. Alia and I might not be fully on the same wavelength, or members of the same social circles, but as friends, we are equals.

Alia’s composure doesn’t last long past the exit to the mall, though. Her smartphone vibrates to a new notification, and upon checking it, she switches to full brat mode again.

“Un-fucking-believable!” She mutters to herself. “My dad isn’t picking us up!”

I cringe internally. As if the man had nothing better to do in his life? Alia at her best is a really great friend, but damn she has a selfish streak. “We could take the bus? The stop is right over there.”

Alia’s face contorts in vague displeasure. “Ewww. No way, Zainab! We’ll call a cab. My treat.“

Of course the princess is too good to take the bus like the rest of us mortals. I roll my eyes, but I shut up—I’m not paying, after all, and by the time we do come home, we’ll hopefully get to do something we both enjoy, like watching some Netflix, or looking at recipes.

Alia and I are technically neighbours—which is how we became friends in the first place, during our childhood—but that’s where all similarities between our homes end. My parents got a hold of the cheapest middle-class unit they could, but Alia and her family live in a veritable mansion, surrounded by a walled garden that has hosted more parties than I can count—either here in the shade of the trees, or by the pool in the backyard.

The house itself is a sprawling, three-floor extravaganza whose carbon footprint I don’t even want to think about. Honestly, I’ve always thought it was a little impractical, the kind of place that would require an army of maids to clean and maintain at all times.

I’ve been here countless times since my childhood, so I don’t really take the time to take in the luxury and elegance as Alia and I make our way through the place and up to her bedroom. I say “bedroom” but that’s selling it short: the room is huge, with a king-sized bed, an expansive desk, plenty of furniture, and of course a walk-in closet that is just slightly smaller than my own room at home.

I help Alia sort and put away her newly purchased clothes, trying to ignore the small flashes of envy I feel. I wonder how much money I would have to earn just to be able to afford half of this closet’s content over a long period of time.

Oh, well. I have the brains and the determination to see me through any obstacle. If a walk-in closet like this is what I want, I’m sure I’ll get it eventually. I just need to land the right job after college.

If I can land any at all…

Still, I’m here to have fun, not sulk. With the clothes sorted, Alia and I head back downstairs. I step over a stray set of slippers (Alia’s, of course) as I make my way to the living room, then crash on the sofa, exhausted. Finally, my weary limbs are getting some relief. I don’t care what other plans Alia has for the day, but I’m not moving away from the couch.

“You stay here and rest,” she says, basically hopping between each foot in excitement. “I gotta call Yasmin a sec. Totally gotta brag about what we just bought!”

What you bought, I almost say, but then nod my assent. I really dislike Yasmin—she has all of Alia’s flaws, and none of the positives—but admittedly I can use the downtime. My friend, high-strung as ever, rushes out of the living room, presumably back to her room, to make the call, and I stay, lounging on the sofa.

I don’t stay alone for long, though. Soon enough, the front door opens again, and Anbar—Alia’s younger sister—steps in. She’s built very differently from her sister, with a short crop of lighter blond hair that brushes her shoulders, and more of a tomboy look—unisex jeans, a loose shirt, and very little of the grace and innocence that so characterises her sister. She’s also quieter and a bit of a loner, but not at all unpleasant. We know we like different stuff, but we’re still cordial to each other.

“Hi, Zainab,” she says with a nod, munching on a pack of chips. God knows how she can maintain her good figure with all the carbs she eats… if I transgressed on food one time for every three of hers, my acne would explode, not to mention the instant weight gain. This family really does get all the blessings.

“Hello, Anbar!” I say, with a smile. “How are you doing?”

“Good, thanks,” she says without looking me in the eye. “Enjoy your time with Alia!” Then she slinks back into the hallway without a further word, doubtlessly to go back to her room and play videogames. Oh well, to each their own.

Time marches on, and there’s no sign of Alia coming down again. I find myself lightly dozing on the sofa when a sudden rustling awakens me. It isn’t my friend, though. It’s the… least charming member of the household, Sanae. Successful psychiatrist, local queen bee among the well-to-do, and more importantly from my perspective, Alia and Anbar’s mother.

She looks freakishly younger than she is—mostly thanks to her blemish-free skin. Were it not for the darker, almost brunette colour of her hair, and the fact that she has straight bangs rather than flowing locks, it would be impossible to tell her apart from Alia. She sits royally in a plushy armchair, one leg crossed over the other and a mug of tea on her lap. She doesn’t offer to make me any, but gives me a tentative, circumspect smile.

She’s always been cordial to me, but in a way that feels a little off. I don’t think she sees me as good friends material for her eldest daughter, which irks me more than a little, but I’m glad for the veneer of civility. Sanae is the kind of person that smiles a lot, it’s just that the smile never quite reaches her eyes. No… those are always cold and cunning.

We exchange pleasantries and I tell her about the day and Alia’s new clothes, but she seems to be only half-listening. I kinda wish she would just get up and go drink her tea somewhere else—I was basically about to doze off on the sofa anyway—but this is her house, and I shouldn’t be discourteous.

“It was very dutiful of you to accompany her,” she tells me abruptly, and I find that a rather…. peculiar turn of phrase, but whatever. “You look worried, though, if I may say so. Is something the matter, Zainab?”

I raise an eyebrow. Sanae is not the kind to show such quasi-maternal concern to her daughters’ friends, especially those born without a silver spoon in their mouths. Where’s the concern coming from?

I don’t really want to open up to her, either. I mean, I guess I owe her kudos for spotting my discomfort at least, Alia has been completely oblivious. Still, I sense Sanae has always looked down on me, and I doubt she would find my worries about the future relatable anyway.

Whatever else can be said about Sanae, she knows how to read the room. Her daughters definitely take from her when it comes to perception, although perhaps with less social skill. She gives a half-embarassed smirk, probably realising what my line of thought is, and waves a hand. “It’s fine, you don’t need to talk. You can just relax, and listen. Who knows, I might have some useful pointers for you, after all.”

Relax and listen. Yeah, that’s easier. I can catch some rest while Alia does her thing. My eyes wander around the room—the fancy library, the fireplace, the sprawling sofas—until eventually I settle to focus on Sanae’s teaspoon, swirling and clinking against the rim of the mug.

It seems random at first, but it’s almost like there’s a rhythm to it, a musical quality. The clinks follow each other like a high-pitch beat to a rhythm I can’t really put together. The ripples across the surface of the tea swell and break like a rolling sea I might get lost in, and the arcs the spoon traces in the liquid… they have a beauty all of their own. The beauty of the spiral.

“Worrying is a perfectly natural state, Zainab. It’s the response to a problem. You’re a clever girl, and you know you have a problem.”

“A problem,” I repeat in a low, whispering voice I almost don’t recognise as my own. This situation feels… odd. This doesn’t sound like a normal conversation to have. Definitely not while my eyes are glued to the spoon as it races across the mug.

“You’re simply in the wrong place,” Sanae tells me in a tender, lulling voice. “You’re not where you’re supposed to be. You worry about the future because of the mismatch between what you are, and what you’re supposed to be.”

“Supposed…”

Sanae ignores my half-formed responses, marching on as if I haven’t spoken at all. “Supposed, yes. You act far above your station, Zainab. So prideful… it’s rather unbecoming. And as you can see, it hurts you, too. I’m here to fix that. To help you.”

Something is wrong. I don’t mean what Sanae is saying, at least the words themselves—I think? I’m not really following them. No, it’s the way she’s speaking to me, the condescension dripping from her every word. I can’t shake the feeling that the walls are closing in around me. If only the spoon would stop moving, then maybe I could focus.

“You’ve always been a fighter, Zainab,” Sanae says, her delicate fingers handling the spoon lithely and gracefully, like a musical instrument, or… like a weapon. “But it’s time to stop struggling. Then, all worries will go away. You’ll finally be at peace.”

I don’t have the energy to repeat anything back at her this time, and when the spoon stops, I find I still can’t look away. Now that worries me. It’s hard to figure out what exactly I’m feeling through the drowsy morass that’s descending over my brain, but I can’t quite figure out what’s wrong. I should be able to look away from the spoon. It’s not even moving anymore!

So… why can’t I? Should I be scared? Relaxed? Both? Neither? I can’t…

Movement at the periphery of my vision. My eyes don’t react—they’re still glued to the mug and the spoon, now resting on a coffee table—but I perceive it nonetheless. There’s nothing relaxed about the way Sanae rises from the chair, striding towards me with the measured step on a predator, ready for the final pounce. She bends down and grabs something from the floor—Alia’s pair of slippers.

“So let’s take away your ability to fight,” says Sanae, stepping right in front of me, as my mind’s eye keeps visualising the spoon. “Let’s put you in your place. You’ll be happier for it.”

Then, the slippers cover my face, clouding my vision. They reek of Alia’s foot sweat—an offensive, disgusting smell that engulfs my nostrils as Sanae talks to me in a sharp, whip-like voice that takes all strength out of my limbs. I don’t understand the words, though, except that they go on for a long time, and involve Alia and Anbar… somehow. For a moment, there is only the smell. Then, everything goes dark.

I jolt awake at the sound of Alia rushing down the stairs. There’s no trace of Sanae, or her cup of tea—she must have left after I dozed off. I must remember to apologise to her—our conversation was pretty disjointed, probably because I was on my way to an impromptu nap. In fact, my recollection of it makes zero sense—I don’t remember a word she said, but I do remember a spoon, and a strange twinkle in her eyes. Must have been a dream.

“You won’t believe what Yasmin had to say,” Alia tells me in-between giggles as she enters the living room. Upon spotting her slippers, she decides to kick off her sneakers. I rub my eyes, still feeling groggy—and then I smell it. The stench of Alia’s sweaty feet.

Ugh. Trust her to be so inconsiderate about this stuff. We’ve both been walking all day, we both have sore feet, but I haven’t taken my shoes off. Ok, I’m a guest in Alia’s home, but the smell is really unpleasant, and there’s no way she doesn’t know or notice. I swear, somehow it’s like my friend thinks normal social rules don’t apply to her.

Which is why I follow the outspoken rule; hell, arguably it’s why I created it in the first instance. I clear my throat, ready to chastise Alia for her behaviour and ask her to put her shoes back on immediately—

And I don’t. All that comes out is a croak, which Alia promptly ignores. The fierce defensiveness I would normally feel about my boundaries is gone. I reach deeper within myself, looking for the combative spirit I’ve cultivated all my life, and all I find is passivity. Alia is metaphorically stepping over my boundaries, and I’m not lifting a finger to stop her.

For some reason, that makes me panic, but even this doesn’t manifest outwardly or create a disturbance. My breathing stays the same, as does my heart rate. My fear is purely conceptual, like I know I’m about to step into some kind of trap. I rub my temples, trying to focus, but it’s hard to even hear my thoughts over Alia’s foot stench!

Unaware of the frantic search going inside my mind, Alia crashes down on the couch next to me, popping her stinky feet on the sofa—I mean, really? But again, I say nothing. She gives a lazy stretch, contorting like a cat.

“Ahhhh,” she groans, “man, can a girl get sore after a solid day of shopping. You should totally give me a foot rub and make it all better!”

I gather my thoughts to tell her off for even jokingly suggesting I would do such a thing, but before the words can come to my lips, my fingers have already wrapped around Alia’s left foot. More, they have begun to gently knead it, looking for stress in the muscles and slowly massaging it out.

I look up at Alia, my face red with embarassment (and probably contorted by my disgust at her foot stench). She stares back at me with a raised eyebrow. What’s going through her mind? I am never this meek, not ever. And this is a very odd thing to be compliant about. Feet, of all things? They’re gross as hell!

“Take the socks off, please,” she says, in a tone that sounds half-curious and half-disbelieving, as if she’s expecting me to play a practical joke on her. “I can’t really feel the massage with the socks in the way.”

Again, I want to tell her off, and again, my body is way ahead of me. Before I know it, I’m staring at Alia’s naked feet, and worse, my fingers are touching them—clammy film of sweat and all. Under Alia’s watchful gaze, I work her feet like I’ve done countless foot massages before, which of course, I haven’t!

I push in circular patterns from the heel to the sole, pulling delicately on each of her toes to make the joints pop and work out the stress. Then, I resume with my thumbs, pressing in circles all along the arch and the ankle, and then back down to the heel.

“You’re so good at it!” Alia says, in a tone of admiration that sounds like, why am I only finding out now? And perhaps a little I could have used this before!

“Never done this before,” I say, although it comes out a lot softer than I’ve intended. “This is my first foot massage.”

Alia’s clever eyes are inquisitive as they study my face. I can almost see the gears turning inside her brain, the sadistic streak rearing its head. She doesn’t know what’s going on, and for that matter neither do I, but she’s smelled prey, and she won’t let go.

“You’re coming with me to the club tomorrow night, okay?”

The mere fact that she’s revisiting the subject upsets me. The fact that she’s deliberately doing it as a way to test my reactions disturb me. But it’s my meekness that really scares me. I’ve always been the only real check on Alia’s penchant for casual bullying and mean snobbery. And now, that check is gone.

“Of course, Alia,” I say in a low voice. No, not just low. Demure. Respectful. Obedient.

Submissive.

What is happening to me?

Alia flashes me a slow grin of triumph, looking at me with a glint in her eyes—curiosity, but also ambition. It makes my knees quiver.

As her foot stench wafts around me and deeper into my nostrils, Alia speaks to me in a hesitant voice, as if trying to find her footing on new ground. Literally and metaphorically, perhaps.

“I don’t know what’s up with you today, but I like it when you’re so agreeable. It suits you.”

The words send shivers down my spine as I continue my massage. But they could never prepare me for the positive spasm of anticipation and fear caused by what she says next, as her grin widens and her voice grows lower, like a feline purr.

“I wonder what else you’ll do for me… and let me do to you.”

Chapter Two: An End To Freedom

I’m in hell.

I’m walking through Alia’s front door, and I’m in hell.

And not in one of the nice circles, oh no. This entire evening has been a gradual, but unstoppable descent into my worst nightmares.

I’m wobbly on my feet. My heels – which I hate wearing – have hurt my feet, my cocktail dress is a pallid imitation of Alia’s that only seems to emphasise rather than reduce our differences in wealth and status, and I’ve lost a good six hours I could have spent studying, prepping for early bedtime, and therefore rising bright and early tomorrow morning.

And that’s only the first circle of my own, personal hell – as I am reminded by the sound of the front door shutting behind us, ominously, trapping me here.

“Anbar!” Alia shouts, leaving me dumbfounded by the door as she storms down the main hallway. “Anbar, I was right!”

I don’t know what Alia is talking about, and I’m not sure I care. I need to understand what’s happening to me. Agreeing to accompany Alia to the club is only the beginning. Once there, I didn’t even get to let loose, or enjoy! The club sucked – sweaty people who’d spent way too much time on their feet, obnoxious music, overpriced drinks, bathrooms that were constantly occupied by people either vomiting or having impromptu sexual encounters.

And that was the least of it! I had to wait on Alia, hand and foot. Hold her purse, grab her cocktails, play second fiddle while she flirted with guy after guy.

I got the skin-crawling impression that Alia was using me to bump up her own stocks. Her chosen quarries would look at her, then at me, then back at her. No words were needed. She was beautiful, wealthy, the hazel-haired, honey-eyed goddess with a smile that lights up the whole room. And I? In my cheap dress, thick-set, on wobbly heels, holding her purse like some kind of abused PA? I was the loser.

I’ve always known Alia can have a mean streak, run roughshod over you if you let her. That’s why the outspoken rule exists. And yet I have been completely unable to invoke it tonight. Not even once. Ever since she’s asked me about that damn foot massage, it’s like I’ve been on autopilot.Everything she says is law. Hell, I’ve even followed her here, rather than go straight back home, as any sane person would have done.

Like I said: I’m in hell.

This is the first time I’ve been out of Alia’s sight since this afternoon. I think she’s storming Anbar’s room or something, I can definitely hear rapid-fire giggles of excitement coming from that direction. My eyes slink towards the handle to the front door. Should I make a run for it?

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know if physically getting away from Alia will help. But at this point, what do I have to lose? Sure, she might be upset, but I can always use it as a pretext to tell her off for bossing me around all evening. Maybe I can start to re-establish some boundaries, then. Maybe at least some of this damage can be undone.

My body is fighting me, resisting me as I painfully inch towards the handle. It’s like I’m trying to escape the orbit of some dark planet. I know Alia wants me here… but I think my despair is winning. I extend my hand towards the handle… closer and closer…

“Ohhh, Zainaaab!!”

The weight of the entire world crashes down on me, and I almost let out a scream of frustration. I was so close!

“Come on up! We need to show Anbar!”

God, even with the supernatural pull she can now exercise over me, Alia still manages to sound like an insufferably spoilt brat. And yet, there is no room for defiance, or even passive resistance. My body is way ahead of my thoughts, and is enthusiastically climbing the stairs to the second floor, basically frog-marching towards Anbar’s bedroom.

I don’t know what’s going to happen in there. But I know that a decaying orbit around a dark planet never, ever ends well.

I step into Anbar’s room, and hours of accumulated foot scent slam over me like a tidal wave. What little remained of my confidence drains out of me in a sad hiss, and I feel myself physically deflating under the gaze of the two imperious sisters. I feel like a passenger, awaiting to know my fate.

The place is a mess of tangled blankets, clothes thrown in every direction, and crumpled snack packaging scattered over every hard surface. I truly do not envy Anbar’s maid. She’s reclining in her gaming chair, socked feet crossed at the ankles. Her headphones lowered so as to listen to Alia, who’s standing by the chair, staring at me with an arched eyebrow.

The visual contrast is something to behold. Even disheveled from a night of clubbing, Alia looks like the cover of a magazine, fashionably and effortlessly in command, a centre of gravity on kitten heels.

In her jumper and yoga pants, Anbar looks more like a cave-dwelling dragon, watching over her hoard of nerdy posters, gaming equipment, and – well – trash no one’s cleaned up yet. Less glamorous, perhaps, but fearsome n her own way.

A goddess, and a dragon. And me, I think, gulping: a lamb to the slaughter.

“I told you, sis,” Alia says. “I was right.”

“Right about what?” I ask, and even then takes all my available willpower – coming out in a feeble, unassuming tone of voice that makes me feel incredibly small.

“You hear that?” Alia tells Anbar. “She sounds like a fucking mouse.”

Anbar ignores her sister, boring into me with inquisitive eyes. “Big sis here told me you’d basically become a wimp overnight, that you were doing everything she says. I didn’t take her too seriously, so I told her, if she does come clubbing with you, you let me know.”

“She did come clubbing!” Alia jumps in, before I can reply. I lower my gaze and let her talk for me. God, this would be slightly less tolerable if they opened the bloody window. Between Alia’s sweat from the night, and the pungent odour of Anbar’s feet, I can barely hear myself think!

“Beyond that,” Alia continues, “I’ve bossed her around all evening, and she didn’t even put up a fight!”

Anbar shrugs, swivelling away from me on her gaming chair. “Maybe she’s just weak-willed.”

Alia shakes her head. “If that were true, I would have stamped out all of her resistance a long time ago.”

Hearing my friend talk like this sends a dagger through my heart, and my eyes water – and not just from the foot scent. I know Alia respects only strength. Now that I inexplicably find myself defenseless, her view of me is already changing. Will I still be a friend to her, by the time this is over?

I want to question whether I want her as my friend still, but this damn foot scent… I can’t focus. I can’t question my loyalty and affection to Alia.

“Sis, what do you want from me?” Anbar rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Maybe you just wore her down over time. What do I know?”

Alia’s foot taps irritably on the ground. She’s powering up her brat-self. Normally, that would make me roll my eyes, too, but instead it sends a cold shiver down my spine. The idea of Alia being displeased is almost physically repulsive to me.

“I swear, you can be smart when you try, sis,” Alia says. “You’re not listening to me. This isn’t normal. She isn’t just yielding to my magnetism,” she says, running a hand through her mane like she’s posing for a perfume ad or something. “She’s doing everything I tell her!”

Anbar swivels back in her chair, turning more purposefully towards her sister.

“Define everything.”

Alia spends a moment deep in thought – but only a moment. “Ok, a demonstration. Zainab – get down on your fucking knees.”

The sudden meanness in Alia’s voice makes me melt in fear and horror. I recognise the tone – it’s the one she uses with her family’s maid, butler, cook, hairdresser… the tone for people she thinks of as less than human. I would be paralysed, but thankfully, my body obeys before my brain can even process what is going on, and my knees hit the posh wooden floor with such force that it creaks.

God, this is so humiliating. Worse, there are so many layers to my horror. I’m kneeling before someone! I’m doing it because I was told to. That someone happens to be my sadistic rich friend and her bossy sister. I have no control over my actions, and I can’t stop!

Alia crosser her arms and looks at Anbar expectantly, as if to say, see?

Anbar brings her hand to her chin, and crosses one leg over the other, pensive. Ugh, now the foot stench is even stronger! It goes to my head like a drug, and I feel more passive than I ever have in my life.

“Ok, that is weird,” Anbar concedes. “Maybe she’s done something horrible behind your back, and is crushed by guilt, or something.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“But what else could it be, Alia? Even our maid wouldn’t kneel just because we ask, and we’re literally paying her!”

Anbar’s words hit me like a sledgehammer. Blood drains from my face and I gasp as my stomach ties in a knot. God, she’s right. I’m debasing myself in a way not even an exploited worker would ever consider. At least they’re doing it to survive. What’s my excuse?

“But that’s what I’m saying! What’s causing this?”

At this point, the two sisters are completely ignoring me, their words flying overhead while I wait on my knees, submissively. There is danger lurking in this conversation. They’re looking for the root of my meekness, but were they to find it, would they set me free? Somehow, I doubt it.

Goddesses and dragons have no use for people like me. Big-boned, plain-faced girls with no avenue in life except hard work and long odds. They’re raised to exploit every easy opportunity that presents itself, right from the very first day. They don’t play by our rules.

Well, they do have a few uses for people like me… but not the kind of use I would even remotely like to contemplate.

Regardless, I have no input on this discussion. No control over how it will go. All I can do is wait.

I truly am in hell.

“Wait,” Anbar says, drumming her fingers on the chair’s armrest, and bringing my attention back to their conversation. “You said this all started with a foot massage.”

Alia nods. “I didn’t even mean it when I asked! I was just, you know-“

“Fucking around and waiting to find out,” Anbar finishes, “as one does. Well, sis, I think you struck gold with that request.”

Alia pouts her lips, the way she does in those rare occasions where she’s not in control of a conversation. “What do you mean?”

Anbar cocks her head in my direction, an evil smirk playing across her lips.

“Zainab is a foot fetishist.”

What? No!

Alia looks from Anbar, to me, back to Anbar, and again back to me. “No way!”

“Think about it,” Anbar says, with a tone of excitement. “She gave you a foot massage without complaint, and has been doing your bidding ever since. She’s on her knees, Alia. What more signals do you need?”

I have just enough motor control left to shake my head with all my might. This one thing, I’m certain of, even above the cloudy, hazy effect their foot scent had on me. I’m not in denial, I’m not secretly turning a kink into a phobia or viceversa. I just have precisely zero interest in feet, or in girls for that matter. Nothing about this situation is even remotely erotic. If it were, it might be slightly less intolerable.

I look down, trying to suppress the wave of panic that threatens to overcome me, while Anbar swivels away from Alia, focusing on the screen once more. I need to get a grip. I want my normal life back. What is happening to me?

I look up to find Alia towering over me. One thing I can’t deny – and I hate myself for admitting this – is that looking at her from below seems appropriate. She looms over me in splendour, beautiful and terrible, and I feel weak and harmless as a mouse.

“Is it true?” She asks, prodding my thigh with the point of her heels. “Is it a fetish?”

Anbar groans in the background. “If the answer is yes, you two need to get a room.”

Alia ignores her sister, resting her foot on my thigh, the heel pressing into my flesh. “Do you actually like me using you as my doormat? My errand girl? My… bitch?”

“That’s it, get a room!”

I ignore Anbar, too – much as that goes against my instincts – and muster what little confidence I have left to look up at Alia. She’s staring down at me like I’m dirt under her shoe. The heel is pressing into my thigh, hurting me, but I can’t find the words to tell her – or even beg her – to remove it.

I must accept that I have no spare capacity. I can only accomplish one task at a time. And now, what matters above all else is dispelling this misconception once and for all, before things spiral even further out of my control.

“No.” I say, and it’s the most confident I’ve sounded since that cursed foot massage. Alia notices, too, blinking. I want to tell her that I find feet gross as hell, but even worse, that her attitude is repulsive. That I am her friend, and as much a person as she is. That I’ve always been there for her when she needed me. That we have so many happy memories together that she’s sullying. That I will be treated as a friend, or walk out of her life.

But I do none of that. I can’t stand up to Alia like that anymore. The words that come out of my mouth surprise even me.

“Respectfully, Alia, I’m not into feet,” I say, “or girls for the matter. There’s nothing wrong with your feet, they’re very pretty.” What? “And I’m sure there are others out there who will consider themselves lucky when they get to service them.” What?! “But I get no enjoyment out of this.”

I flinch internally, awaiting Alia’s inevitable temper tantrum. I can’t stand her disapproval… but thankfully, her reaction surprises me. She removes the foot off my thigh, nods thoughtfully, and says, “Good.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Surely now that she knows I’m not actually enjoying this, she will let me go, right?

“Except for the fact we’re back to square one,” Alia mutters. Then, as if on an afterthought, she turns to Anbar. “You need a shower, by the way. Your gaming friends might not notice you’ve worn the same pair of socks for the past week, but trust me, I do.”

Anbar goes suddenly rigid, her spine completely stretched out, her eyes wide open. She swivels slowly on the chair for dramatic effect, turning towards Alia.

“You’re a genius, sis.”

“Because I’ve mastered the arcane art of personal hygiene?”

“Don’t you get it?” Anbar says, rising from the chair. “Wait, let me check.”

Anbar stands up and draws closer to me, circling me like a predator.

“Bow down to me,” she says at last. “Bow the fuck down like I’m your goddess, you filthy worm.”

The words cut through me like a spear – belittling, humiliating, outrageous – but of course I immediately prostrate myself, pressing my forehead against the ground. Anbar stops mere inches away from me.

“Damn, you look good when you grovel at my feet like a fucking slave,” Anbar says, laughing. “Look at you, no resistance as a younger girl reduces you to her lapdog. You should have been in this position from the start.”

I snivel, trying my best not to cry, but Anbar gives me no quarter. “Answer truthfully,” she says. “How do you feel?”

“Humiliated,” I say without hesitation. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this to me? I-“

“Enough,” Anbar cuts in, silencing me. One of her feet prods my forehead. “Now breathe in.”

I do so, and cough – God, her feet taste so rancid that my eyes are watering up. Just smelling them deprives my limbs of what little strength I had left.

“So how are you feeling now?”

I sit back up, rolling on my heels. My voice comes out mousy and pathetic, and the words my brain picks for me are even worse. “Weak… please Anbar, please have mercy of me.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Anbar mulls, turning to face Alia. “It’s our foot scent!”

Alia blinks once, twice, processing. Then, she makes the connection. “I thought we agreed Zainab isn’t a fetishist!”

Anbar’s head bobs up and down. “That just means she doesn’t enjoy it. Look, I don’t know what’s causing this but… think about it. Was she equally passive at the club as she’s being here?”

“No, you’re right. She’s way weaker here.”

Oh God. Oh God. Surely Anbar cannot be right, can she? How can that be physically possible?

“Look, let’s test this again.”

Anbar resumes circling me, with none of Alia’s lithe elegance – she stomps down with each step like the Tyrannosaurus rex in Jurassic Park. She has the same kind of animalistic, predatory power – its own kind of magic. Moments later and the younger of the two sisters is also looming over me, placing me in her shadow.

I managed to survive the goddess’s judgement. Will I survive the dragon’s?

Anbar flashes me an evil grin – when they do this, you really can tell they’re sisters – and lifts a socked foot in the air, moving it ever closer towards my face in circles.

“Stay still,” she orders, and I comply… until her foot smacks right atop my nose and lips, pushing me backwards until my head hits the wall. I’m trapped between it, and Anbar’s foot, and her sweat-drenched sock is sending so much horrible scent up my nose that I feel like I might faint.

But I don’t move.

“Breathe in. Deeper. That’s it, that’s a good girl…”

I’m starting to fear Anbar may be right. The scent is awful, truly disgusting, but in a way also intoxicating. With every passing breath, I feel more stupid, more docile, more compliant… more submissive.

“I was right,” Anbar tells Alia, smugly.

“It isn’t just my feet then,” Alia says, thoughtfully. “It clearly works with yours too. I wonder what it means.”

“Personally,” Anbar says, chuckling with amusement, “I wonder what else she’ll let us do now that the smell is making her foot-stupid.”

Anbar’s foot travels down my face and chin, then traces my body clumsily, leaving a trail of fluff and sweat in its wake that makes me feel icky and gross. Eventually, it reaches the hem of my dress…

God help me. Is Anbar about to sexually molest me? Please wake me from this nightmare!

Anbar’s foot reaches underneath my dress, fumbling from left to right between my spread thighs, and eventually, it finds its target. It lands on my crotch, not painfully, but firmly enough to let me know who’s boss. I find the contact repulsive, and I squirm in place – but I can’t move away.

“Yep,” says Anbar, retreating her foot. “It’s dry as the Mojave desert down there.”

“I can’t believe you just did that,” Alia says with a gleeful giggle, like she’s just gotten the latest over-expensive present from her rich daddy. I don’t even try to stop the dread anymore. I’ve fallen into it, like a pit of despair. Only my new meekness prevents it from showing outward. My demeanour remains calm, while my mind is a hand’s breadth away from becoming unwound.

If Anbar is right, that is all thanks to their foot scent. It sounds impossible, but what alternative explanation is there?

Anbar’s foot snaps back upwards, slamming against my throat, and nailing me against the wall. That sends a message – my consent is irrelevant here. They’re not letting me go. I’m at their mercy.

Alia joins her sister by the wall – she’s taken her heels off, and I’m terrified of what is to come. My worst fears come true. She’s more flexible than her sister, and her foot lifts in the air with a ballerina’s grace – before landing squarely atop my head.

My cheeks are so red with humiliation that I’m heating up. It gets even worse when Alia starts dragging her foot back and forth on my head, rubbing her clubbing night’s sweat into my hair.

“I’m happy you’re not a fetishist,” she tells me. “I don’t want you to enjoy this. I don’t want this to be about you or your pleasure at all. It should be about me. It is only right.”

I look up at her, tears forming in my eyes. My friend… what have I ever done to deserve this treatment?

“Oh, come on, miss me with that sentimental bullshit,” she says, wiping the tears from my eyes with her toes, before returning her foot to my head. Anbar’s own foot is still pressing against my throat, keeping me in place.

“This is such an aphrodisiac,” says Alia in a husky tone. “You’re not just going along with me to get off. You’re not yielding to my every whim and demand because it’s your kink. You’re not obeying me because you like this. You obey because I want you to. Tell me that isn’t super cool!”

There’s an edge to her voice I’ve never heard before. It terrifies me.

“It’s hilarious that, of all the things it could have been, this is what finally put you in your place. You’re not even a fetishist, and yet here you are, powerless to resist!”

“It’s amazing. She always was such a stuck-up bitch,” Anbar says, twisting her socked heel into my throat. “Now? A whiff of our foot sweat, and she’s bowing to our every whim. Never let her spend too much time away from your feet, or the influence might wane.”

“Oh, no worries,” Alia says with a giggle. “I don’t plan on letting her get away from my feet any more than I absolutely have to.”

My life is over. So over. This isn’t a joke anymore, or a predicament between friends, this is… I don’t know. Illegal? Human rights abuse? I don’t even know what this is anymore, except that if not for their foot control, I would be trembling like a leaf now.

“It’s not like she even has the money to go on vacation anyway,” Alia adds with a snigger – another dagger through my heart, yet another today. Even if I had the strength to escape her, I don’t have the means. It’s like I was born to be her prey. The thought alone crushes me. All those years, priding myself of my independence, have led me here, with Alia’s foot resting atop my head, and Anbar’s foot mastering my very breathing.

“We’ll have to do some tests,” Alia adds, pensive. “Find out what works and what doesn’t, for how long… you know, that sort of stuff.”

“Happy to help,” Anbar says. Of course she shows solidarity over something so horrible. “But I want something in return for my assistance.”

“What is it, sis?”

Anbar nods towards me. “I want her to submit to me, too.”

Slightly craning my head up, I can barely catch a glimpse of Alia’s face, currently contorted into a pout. She doesn’t like to share – she wants me all to herself. I honestly don’t know if that would be an improvement or not.

“Fine,” she says at last. “But let’s make something clear. I own her. I’ll happily loan her to you when I’m not using her, though.”

“Works for me,” Anbar says with a shrug. “It’s not like I’m sufficiently invested with the bitch to stake a claim on her. She’s yours, but she has to bow and scrape before me, too. I’m as much her superior as you are.”

“Deal.”

They’ve already thrown themselves at me like I’m a pound of flesh to be fought over, a thing being passed around, with no feelings, no thoughts, and no rights. This is so dehumanising that I feel walls inside my mind collapse and rearrange and shift and narrow. My spirit has been broken.

“We’ll devise a programme to train her,” Anbar says, ruffling my hair with her fingers – and leaning harder against my throat to do that. I leave out a few desperate choking sounds, until her pressure relents. “Figure out how this works, and where we go from there.”

“Sure,” Alia says, and she moves her leg slightly, so that our eyes meet again, her foot still pressing atop my skull. Tears swell in my eyes again. This time, Alia makes no move to clean them away.

“One thing is certain, though.” She stamps down harder, making me squeal in pain. I’m begging her with my eyes to have mercy, but I know I will get none. Alia has no mercy.

“You’ve been busting your ass for years to build up your life. I’m going to have so much fun ruining it all!” she says, grinning sadistically at my desperate whimper of pain. “You’re my toy now, and you’ll keep me entertained. I’m going to take away everything that makes you feel like a real person, until all that’s left is the snivelling bottom bitch I’m reducing you to. And by the time I’m done with you…”

Her foot descends downward, staining my entire face with sweat, finally resting atop my lips.

“You will thank me for it.”

Chapter Three: A Victor’s Light

Alia stands before me in splendor, gleaming with what I can only describe as a victor’s light.

She smiles so brightly that even under the ample lighting of the mall, she somehow manages to stand out. But it’s not a friendly smile.

She twirls before me in her summer dress, holding a pair of heels she’s yet to try on, as I sweat and puff with the weight and bulk of bags upon bags of new clothes… Alia’s new purchases, of course, probably more clothes than I’ve ever owned in my life. More than I and my mum could even afford.

It is my duty to carry them. A servant’s duties.

“I like our trips to the mall a lot better now,” Alia says, her lips curled in a huntress’ snarl. “Don’t you, Zainab?”

The twist of the knife hurts me and makes me wince in pain—which is exactly the point, I’m sure. Alia loves power, but she loves my suffering even more. Emotions crash upon one another inside me like the rolling waves of the sea: anger, indignation at her betrayal of our bond, snivelling fear that she won’t show me an ounce of mercy, the profound humiliation of my defeat. The latter always wins out, and in the end, I capitulate. Like I always do, these days.

I may not be smelling Alia’s feet right now, but she’s made sure to massage my face with her feet at length before we embarked on this shopping trip, and as usual, my old defiance deserts me. I bow my head in surrender, and whisper, “Yes Alia, whatever you say.”

She giggles, pleased with herself at winning yet another exchange, and returns to the racks of shoes behind her, looking for a new pair to try out. It’s a momentary respite from her constant, sadistic assaults, and it leaves me briefly alone with my thoughts.

My life under the sisters’ thumb has been a living nightmare ever since they first discovered my… unspeakable weakness to the smell of feet, for which even I have no rational explanation I can think of. Every afternoon since has been spent the same way: I visit Alia at home, let her use my face as a footrest while she titters and gossips with her friends on the phone, and then graciously accompany her to the mall.

It sounds simple enough, but in a way, it is as horrifying a torture as she could devise for me. We used to come here when we were friends, when we were equals. Hell, it’s the very last thing we did together before she discovered my weakness, and pounced on me to claim me as her toy.

This used to be our visit to the mall. Now, it’s a travesty, a warped version of the past, a mockery of our old friendship, cannibalised into a sick exchange of power. It almost sounds designed to drive home to me how much my life has changed.

Except I know Alia doesn’t really operate that way. This isn’t about me, it’s about her. She genuinely did want someone to carry all the bags, and not complain. Someone to dote on her with overt enthusiasm for everything she tries on. A submissive cheerleader with no will of her own, no needs, and no boundaries. Someone who could never steal the spotlight away from the one true queen.

I am ashamed to admit I play this part well. Alia has always been prettier than me, but now, with my hair disheveled, my eyes sunken in from sleep deprivation and shock, my despondency, my face downcast at my constant humiliations… I really do look like her lackey. I disappear next to her. Attention shifts back to me only when she wants to play with me, to press her foot down until I squirm.

She enjoys it. But not merely because she likes my submission. If anything, serving Alia is proving to be highly educational as to what she actually enjoys, and the knowledge makes me shiver with anticipation, and dread.

There is a sadistic impulse in the mind of many animals, humans included. Surely you have seen it in house cats, or sometimes children. Even well-fed and looked after, a cat will toy with a lizard unlucky enough to enter the house. Lethally so.

It is an evolutionary adaptation, of course—practice for predation. At an abstract level, it’s the brain having fun with a smaller, vulnerable being until it stops responding. And this is what I am to Alia: a bug to squash for fun, to poke at and prod and manipulate. And I never stop responding, which makes me dread that Alia will keep dominating and torturing me on and on, down the years. Maybe forever.

I have to find a way to stop her, but how? Right now, she’s my predator, and her foot is firmly planted on my neck—literally and metaphorically.

Alia sits down before me, one leg crossed over the other, and hands me the heels. Snapped out of my reverie, I put down the bags with a sigh to take them from her, and gulp as she expectantly arches an eyebrow.

She’s training me to act without verbal orders—to recognise her needs from the simplest of visual cues.

The idea to devise a training regimen for me was Anbar’s, of course, but a part of me is almost impressed by how masterful Alia is at carrying it out. She’s programming me, I can feel it. Long afternoons spent resting on the floor, with her feet carelessly splayed out across my face, are taking a toll on me. With her toes mastering my nose, every breath empties out my brain for her to fill with instructions and new truths.

Then come activities like these. Everyday servitude at the mall, taken one step further each time. The foot smell is the anvil, and the days with Alia are the hammer. Squashed between the two, there is less and less space for me. I feel like I’m mentally growing thinner, like there’s less and less of my independent self with every new subjugation.

It kills me how self-assured Alia is in her expectation of unquestioning obedience. And how methodical she is in testing new ways to hurt me.

Being her pack mule is one thing, this is quite another. Of course, I’ve spent a week submissively smelling her feet, much worse than putting their shoes on… but this is in public. People we know might be in this very mall at this very time, and they might happen to see me kneel before Alia like a humble servant. They might take photos, put them online.

Unfortunately, there’s no arguing with the meekness. Where my outspoken rule once stood, now is a wholly different kind of rule. I belong to the sisters, and to Alia in particular. My will is theirs.

Slowly, gently, I descend to my knees, craning my neck up to look at Queen Alia, her left foot swinging and circling expectantly in the air. I hate that I’m getting used to look at her from this position. I hate that for all my internal struggles to resist, from the outside I look smooth, precise, and punctual in my obedience.

“Put it on me,” Alia says with a giggle.

My hands tremble as I hold the shoe ever nearer to her proffered foot. It’s weird to consider I would have never touched such a pair of heels in my life, had Alia not reduced me to this state. I’m uncomfortable on heels, and I always feel they make me look ridiculous—the big boned, plain faced girl trying and failing to look lithe and graceful.

Perhaps more importantly, this pair costs more than our entire weekly household budget. I can feel the amazing quality of the build under my fingertips, the glossy look and feel of it, and it crushes my heart to know that I only get to touch these shoes as part of my duties to Alia.

Even still, there is just enough of me left that I still try to fight. That’s part of why my fingers tremble. I really want to drop the damn shoe, if nothing else.

But Alia has given me a direct command. And so, I elegantly slip the shoe onto her foot in one move, leaving out a whimper of discomfort when my fingertips brush against Alia’s foot in the process—I fear her feet more than I do anything in this world. Hers and Anbar’s, the engines of my destruction.

I repeat the same, humiliating service with her other foot, and all of a sudden, Alia’s imperious mask is forgotten—she stands up, overexcitedly stepping around in the new shoes while looking at them from every angle she can manage. For a fleeting moment, she looks like the bubbly, bratty girl I’ve always known. It’s hard for me to reconcile that brattiness with what she’s doing to me. Sadism is such genuine fun for her. She’s a spoiled puppy, and I’m her chew toy.

“What do you think?”

How many times have I heard that question in the past? And yet, this time, everything is different. This time, Alia steps forward as she asks this, planting her shoe square on my right hand on the floor. I wince in pain as the heel digs into my flesh, crushingly aware of the store clerks throwing sidelong glances at us.

Needless to say, I no longer feel like in the “Say the line!” scene from The Simpsons.

“Those look great on you,” I say, and my voice comes out raspy and breathy, almost worshipful. God, the level of self-betrayal my mind is capable of when it smells feet is enough to make me dissociate hard.

Alia titters in amusement. “You say that every time! I guess I shouldn’t expect a peasant girl like you to understand such things. Your simple brain can’t quite handle the intricacies of fashion.”

At the word simple she twists the heel deeper into my hand. I wince, and not just from the pain. I may be poor next to her, but I’m not dumb!

On the other hand… how many people do I know that let themselves be bullied and subjugated just because they smell feet? Especially among non-fetishists? Maybe she’s right. Maybe she deserves to overwhelm me. In doubt, I choke back tears, and say nothing.

Alia’s face darkens. She clearly was expecting a more noticeable reaction out of me. She snaps her fingers—God, I hate when she does that, and I hate that my body immediately snaps to attention every time—and points to her feet.

“Kiss, peasant girl.”

I throw myself at Alia’s feet with unscrupulous obedience, showering them in kisses. The rich fabric of the shoe feels glossy and luxurious under my lips, whereas her skin is slightly clammy—unsurprisingly so, after many hours with her feet sweating against my face, and then a long shopping binge here at the mall.

It’s repulsive. It makes me shiver to think that, once we go back to her place, I’ll likely have to clean them for her. And yet, there is no margin for defiance or even hesitation, especially this close to the source of the all-conquering smell… I swear I can almost make out the ftzzz and the pops as my brain gradually shuts down, leaving nothing but a dumb, drooling mess for Alia to programme…

“That’s enough, silly,” she says with a giggle, helping me stand up. “Now that you’ve kissed them, I guess I’ll have to buy them! Haha!”

My head feels dizzy and I’m unsteady on my feet. But what really throws me off-balance is Alia’s sudden change in demeanour. She flutters her eyelashes at me in the most exaggerated manner, her face softening.

“I know we’re being so mean to you. Let me make it up to you just a little. Go to the dressing room, and wait for me.”

Gentle tone or not, my body interprets this as a command, and immediately executes it before I can protest, or ask a question. My feet carry me to the nearest dressing room of their own volition, while my mind oscillates between hope and doubt. Dare I believe that a part of Alia actually still cares about me? Or should I know better?

To be honest, the situation is so hopeless that if I don’t embrace the tiniest shred of hope, I might as well jump in front of a moving train. So I cling to the idea with all my might—yes, Alia is having fun at my expense, and horribly abusing the bizarre circumstances of my weakness, but my friend is still somewhere in there. She must be. All the years we’ve spent so close to one another must count for something.

Right?

My heart flutters with anticipation as the curtain to the dressing room is pulled open. Alia stands before me, her eyes glittering with clever amusement, as she offers me a bundle of black clothes.

“Here,” she says with a giggle. “Put it on. My treat!”

I open my mouth to thank Alia, but the feel of the fabric against my hands distracts me. I frown, running my fingers back and forth to get a better feel for the bundle. What is it?

Wait…

I pick what looks like the top from the bundle, and unfold it across my arm, to get a better look at it. And then, as Alia first breaks into a snigger, I gasp with slowly dawning horror.

It’s a French maid’s outfit.

Slick and black, frilled with white, not one of those cheap plastic ones you might get for Halloween, but flexible and soft, designed to let the body breathe. In its own way, it’s of amazing quality, but it’s also unmistakable. My cheeks go red with embarassment, and my eyes well up with tears.

That pleases Alia greatly, I’m sure. Even after all I’ve endured so far, she’s found a way to shock me, to reach past my walls and strike me where it hurts. If I’d shown myself to be more hurt when I was kissing her shoes, maybe I would have been spared this humiliation.

I choke back on the knot at the pit of my stomach. I don’t deserve to be treated like her maid just because she’s far wealthier, prettier, and more popular than I am!

But if I don’t, why can’t I stop her? What do you call a person that is made compliant by the smell of her betters’ feet?

Alia throws me a long look. “Come on, peasant girl. Never turn down gifts from nobility. Put it on.”

I can’t say no to Alia. I can’t shout at her, I can’t outwardly manifest any of the heartbreak and pain currently raging inside me. But I can ask questions, and so, working with the limitations of my mysterious obedience, I blurt out:

“Where did you even get this?”

“Oh, this store has a kinky section,” Alia says, pressing a hand to her mouth to contain her growingly hysterical laughter. “A pretty bland selection if you ask me, but this is just what I was looking for. Come on, don’t keep me waiting!”

The curtain snaps shut as Alia leaves me alone with the outfit—and with my obedience. My resistance all but eradicated, I shed my baggy clothes and—with considerable difficulty, and trembling hands—enter the form-fitting embrace of the maid’s uniform.

If I thought I looked ridiculous before, now I wish the Earth would open up underneath me to swallow me whole. By being so form-fitting, the uniform emphasises how thick and ungainly my body is. My legs don’t look better in stockings, they just look stockier. With no heels to push up my behind, I don’t look racey or tantalising—but saggy.

There is zero grace in how I wear the uniform—even as a servant I look like a failure, a grotesque parody of what a more graceful subject could perform. Alia isn’t making me slut it up in a hot servant’s dress: she’s highlighting my fundamental inadequacy for all the world to see.

For me to see.

I feel all of this, and a lot more besides, in Alia’s judgement. She laughs so hard and for so long that she brings herself to the point of tears, while I stand dejectedly in the dressing room, eyes downcast. My self-esteem is crumbling, bit by bit, and Alia knows it.

She pays for the purchases, and insists I wear the uniform on our way back home. We draw stares from all over the mall, and the contrast couldn’t be more apparent from the outside. Alia strides lithely on her heels, her petite form filling out her dress just right, and she hasn’t got a single care in the world.

Me? I’m a stupid, lumbering mountain of a beaten girl, goofy even in my unassuming flats, in a maid uniform, slaving behind Alia as I carry her day’s catch. I’m sure I’ve never sunk so low at any point in my life so far. And this is only a week into my enslavement.

Which leads me to an even more worrisome thought: what else will Alia come up with to destroy me?

The cab drives us to Alia’s, and as I step into the walled garden surrounding the mansion, the reality of my position clamps around me like a pair of jaws once more. I remember thinking it would require an army of maids to keep this place clean. Well, here I am, approaching the front door not as a friend and visitor, but as a humble servant.

As if to reinforce the point, I immediately step into my get-home routine once we cross the threshold. Alia has been drilling this into me for days now, and looks smugly on as I execute it without prompting.

“Thank you for allowing me into your home, princess,” I whisper, dropping humbly to my knees, all too aware of the stockings stretching around my legs as they fold beneath me. The image of subservience.

Then, I lean forward… and start licking Alia’s shoes.

They’re the new pair she bought at the mall, so I guess I’m housebreaking them… just like she’s gradually housebreaking me. I can’t see her from my prostrate position, but I feel her looming gaze against my neck, her bratty, bitchy judgement as I debase myself in a way that makes me cringe inside.

My tongue runs the length of each shoe, lapping noisily. Alia silently pivots each foot on the sharp heel, allowing me to access the bottoms—they’re still clean, but I know this will not last—and eventually offers the tip and the heel for me to suck like it’s a cock. I slurp and gulp and pant like a dog, and as I softly fellate her heels, I moan around them like a whore, too.

None of which I enjoy. But the ritual must be followed.

Eventually satisfied, Alia steps out of her heels, but it would be a grave mistake on my part to think I’m done. On the contrary, I crawl towards the heels and stick my tongue in them, demurely lapping at the insoles while Alia rubs the bottom of her socks on my head.

“Thanks, darling,” she says, tittering. “You’re the sweetest friend a girl could wish for!”

My insides twist at the mockery of affection Alia’s putting on, but there is no outward hesitation in my response. I turn to face her, prostrating once more, and offering Alia a pair of slippers that were left by the door.

At last, the ritual is done. I sit back on my heels, staring at Alia with big, watery eyes. I need to go home. I need to study, I need to think, I need some time away from all of this…

“Aww, such cute puppy eyes,” she says in the tone one reserves for small children and pets, pinching my cheeks. “You want to spend some more time at my feet, is that it? I know how much you like it!”

The sarcasm dripping heavily from her last sentence clearly indicates that she knows I dislike it with all my heart—but also that I’m powerless to stop it. I give a resigned sigh and brace myself to crawl behind Alia on the way to her room—when suddenly we both perk up.

“Ohh sis!” Anbar calls out from her room upstairs. “Can I have some time with the bitch?”

Alia stomps her foot in annoyance, balling her hands into small fists and pressing them against her hips. “But I’ve been walking around all afternoon! I need my feet cleaned!”

The casual nature of their conversation feels like a whiplash of barbed wire against my skin. Were it not for the foot scent trapping me at Alia’s feet, I’m sure I would flinch away in physical pain at how dizzying my change in station has been. Instead, all I can do is cringe internally, while staring up at Alia with the stupefied, stupid look that belongs on the face of a footgirl.

“Come on! You’ve had her all day, give me some time with her.”

God, they’re arguing over me like they would a puppy dog or a new bycicle.

“Can’t this wait, Anbar?”

“I’ve got something special planned for her! Trust me, you’ll thank me later!”

The words chill me to my bones, but they have quite a different effect on Alia. She still taps her foot in irritation, her face screwed up in a pout, but I can also see the gears turning in her brain. Anbar has been instrumental to my enslavement, and keeps coming up with new ideas to break me.

At last, Alia makes her decision.

“Mmmph, fine. I guess I’ll go call Yasmin!”

And just like that, the pout is gone, replaced by a bubbly, toothy smile. She passes by me in a swirl of her dress, and disappears up to her room.

With a heavy heart, I climb to my feet, and make my way up the stairs, my flats thudding softly againt the polished wooden floor. I wonder what Anbar will think when she sees me in this outfit. I wonder what she has in store for me. I wonder if I’ll ever be a free person again.

But I can only wonder this as a passenger, because my body does as it is told. And so, showing none of the fear I feel internally, I push the door open, and step into the dragon’s lair.

Chapter Four: A Change In Station

It does no good to stand up to dragons. This key lesson has been drilled into my subconscious with such thoroughness that my body doesn’t even hesitate: as soon as I enter Anbar’s room, I close the door behind me, and kneel submissively on the floor.

Alia has her rituals, but so does Anbar. The corner I’m currently kneeling in? It’s the same where she first made me kneel, where the two sisters first dominated me with their feet, as they outlined my future and my enslavement.

Anbar, like always, is sitting in her gaming chair. Normally, the ritual would proceed like this: she would swivel in her chair, turning towards me, one leg crossed over the other, and tell me to “bow the fuck down” before her and beg for mercy.

Normally, but not this time. This time, Anbar swivels towards me… and immediately breaks into a shaking fit of hysterical laughter.

Oh, right. My new maid uniform.

“You… You… did my sister actually just…” Anbar stammers in-between bouts of laughter. She’s laughing so hard that she’s basically wheezing. If I had my free will, I could get up and leave before she even had the presence of mind to start breathing properly again.

Unfortunately, Anbar’s personal grooming is less… punctual than Alia’s. Her room, constantly shut to the rest of the house as she spends hours gaming in isolation, has always reeked of her sweaty feet.

That was a mild irritation, before. Now, it guarantees my compliance as soon as I step into the room. It’s like a hazy cloud of dumbness has engulfed my brain, like tree sap. I am so stupid. So easily led.

“I literally can’t,” Anbar says, finally calming down. “Honestly, I should have thought of that. That’s fucking brilliant.”

I give the tiniest nod, in submissive acknowledgement. How else am I supposed to react?

“Okay, bitch. You know what. I had something planned for you today, but it can wait for a bit. Since you’re in that uniform already, let’s run you through your paces.”

I stare at her in confusion. “What would you like me to do?”

“Address me properly,” Anbar says. Her foot stomps against the ground in irritation, and her eyes narrow at me. Overcome by fear of what she might do, I bow even lower, scrambling to apologise.

“Yes, Goddess. I’m sorry, Goddess.”

She picked the title herself, of course. Just to make it even more obvious that this power trip is giving her a god complex. But can I blame her? I literally have no idea what it must feel like to be in her position. If it’s as thrilling for her as it’s humiliating for me, then… that must be devastatingly pleasurable.

“You should be sorry, you dumb pack animal,” Anbar says, stretching in her gaming chair.

The insult makes me recoil like she’s lashed out at me with a whip. All my life, my brain has been my only weapon against a world seemingly hell-bent on holding me back. And now, my two captors can shut it down with nothing but the smell of their feet.

Anbar’s smirk – so like her sister’s – speaks volumes. She knows how humiliating it is to me to have my intelligence demeaned. She crosses one leg over the other, a foot circling mid-air. I can almost visualise the scent emanating from it, binding me to her will.

“Anyway,” Anbar says, ogling my maid uniform in a way that makes my skin crawl, “I want you to clean my room.”

I let out a soft whimper of agony. This is my very worst fear coming true – Alia and Anbar are maidifying me. I can’t help the sob that breaks past my lips. All the years spent studying late into the night, fighting every day to be seen and treated as an equal, have led me to this moment. Standing before Anbar, a simpering broken mess of a girl, being commanded to clean her room.

Still, with Anbar’s foot scent literally fucking with my head, there is no room for me to disobey. I spring to action, and with a satisfied chuckle, Anbar turns back towards her PC.

By the pristine standards of the rest of the house, Anbar’s room is a pigsty. Crumpled and oily packets of crisps litter every horizontal surface. Empty cans of soft and energy drinks are lined up by the bed and the desk in neat rows. There’s even the occasional banana peel here and there, wrapped in tissue  but then forgotten.

Discarded clothes are piled high in a mountain on the bed – a mountain which will be moved back to the chair when she needs to sleep, and back again the next morning. I’m pretty sure the sheets haven’t been changed in the week since my enslavement, nor have her socks – although the latter point plays decisively against me. The smell is inescapable. 

Still, in a way, that actually makes my job easier, not harder. In fact, I have no equipment here with me – no feather duster, no  vacuum cleaner, no bucket. Anbar has so little consideration for what cleaning actually means that she doesn’t exactly supervise me.

It’s like she’s making me play-act as a maid, while performing the very basic activity of picking up after her own litter, which barely requires real effort at all. And when I think about the alternative – which would have surely involved worshiping her feet…

I shudder. I’d take this any day of the week if it meant never having to worship Anbar again.

Behind me, Anbar is playing one of her favourite games – Among Us – and shouting banter at her friends over the microphone. I’m no gamer, but through sheer exposure to Anbar I know that the game involves correctly identifying impostors aboard a starship. Anbar loves to play the impostor, as one would expect, but it looks like she’s a crewmate this time.

I silently pray for the game to absorb all of her focus. In stupor, I realise I have lucked out – I’m away from Alia’s scrutiny, at least for a little while, and Anbar is more focused on the game than she is on me.

A stronger girl – a smarter girl, one whose brain doesn’t shut down whenever exposed to the smell of feet – would use this opportunity to plot an escape. It would be so easy to go out on to the balcony, down into the garden, and then out of the house. I would be gone before Alia knew any better, and then I could plan my next move.

But I’m no strong girl. And, like Anbar is eager to remind me, I’m not smart either. How can I claim otherwise, when I let myself be reduced to this position? With an internal sigh, I resign myself to enjoying the relative peace, while it lasts.

Which isn’t very long.

“Bitch,” Anbar says, without turning to face me. “In the kitchen. Snacks, now.”

My response is flawlessly obedient. I stand at attention, tucking away the bag I was using to collect all of Anbar’s litter, and bow – even though she can’t see me. “Right away, Goddess,” I say in a breathy, vulnerable voice.

And just like that, I’m outside of her room, back in the long, silent hallway.

My heart is pumping in my chest. As the enthralling scent of Anbar’s feet recedes behind me, I regain a small crumb of clarity. Just a crumb: it would take hours for the intoxication to clear my mind completely. But it’s enough to send my mind into overdrive.

I can hear Alia’s voice, in the distance. She’s locked in her own room, chittering and laughing away with her insufferable posh friend, Yasmin. She thinks I’m still with Anbar.

My body marches down the hall and descends the stairs on autopilot, executing Anbar’s command. But all the while, my mind is plotting my liberation.

The palms of my hands are sweaty as they come to rest on the handle to the kitchen door. I look to my right: no one coming down from the stairs. I look to my left. The front door is right there, one short dash away. The coast is clear.

Except I can’t dash. Not quite. The best I can do is shuffle ungainly in the general direction of the front door, my body unresponsive and uncooperative. It takes a genuine effort of will to disentangle my hands from the handle, and even still my traitorous fingers keep grasping towards it. My subconscious knows nothing but obedience to the sisters, now.

I need saving from myself. That’s worse than being betrayed by Alia, or maidified by Anbar. This is my own brain, doing this to me.

I’m dumb. A clumsy peasant girl. I deserve to spend my life in thralldom to my betters, clean their floor, remove their shoes, kiss their feet – all the time being where I have always belonged, down on my knees.

I deserve to be enslaved.

No!! I scream internally against my self-defeating thoughts, my hands snaking back towards the handle to the kitchen. The internal struggle is so fierce I find myself shaking, mustering all my willpower to disobey, to break free.

I wasn’t always like this.

I used to be a girl with a dream, with a path forward in life. I want social mobility, not just for myself, but for Mum. I want to prove to Alia that having money makes her no better than me, gives her no right to dehumanise me. A week of torture is not enough to break me, it can’t be.

I used to be that girl. And with some effort, I can be that girl again.

With a sense of triumph coursing through my veins, I take one decisive step towards the front door.

And then, the door to the kitchen opens behind me.

“Oh, Zainab! Fancy seeing you here!”

A wave of dread washes over me, my limbs going heavy with sluggishness and fear. No, no, no! I was so close!

I turn around, and sure enough, the house matriarch stands before me. The queen bee, the clever psychologist, the intimidating brunette after which Alia in particular has been modelling herself all this time.

Sanae.

If she finds my new attire amusing, her expression doesn’t betray it. In a way, she looks at me the way she always has: a veneer of civility, masking a subtle kind of contempt, the sneer of a bewitching predator for the prey that was foolish enough to enter its den.

In her unblemished skin and effortless beauty, she probably looks younger than I do right now. Perfume sifts around her like a cloak, whereas her daughters’ foot scent is basically embedded into the tired, stretched skin of my face at this point.

“What are you up to?” She asks me, and while I can’t be completely honest, I know she would see through a full lie immediately. Her brains intimidate me as much as her demeanour, and with my brain still trapped in a meek haze, I’d never stand up to her anyway.

So I settle for a technical truth.

“I was getting a snack for G – Anbar,” I say in a mousy voice, remembering at the last minute not to say Goddess out loud. “Ma’am.” I don’t know why I tack that at the end, and it horrifies me. I’ve never done this before. I always matched Sanae’s behaviour with my own performance of polite hostility, but now I feel like a servant girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

“How dutiful of you,” Sanae says. It’s the same term she used to describe my service to Alia at the mall. “I’m happy to see our little talk had an effect. Don’t you feel happier, now that you’ve found your proper place in life?”

I’m absolutely mortified. I can’t even match her gaze, and my eyes slowly descend to the floor, and to her slippered feet. Words tangle in my throat, and I can’t come up with a coherent answer, except for a broken half-sob.

“That’ll come in time,” Sanae says with a tone that I think is supposed to be reassuring, but simply makes my skin crawl. “The uniform certainly suits you!”

Oh God. My life is so over.

“Now, as for the snacks…” Sanae reaches behind her, towards the kitchen counter, and hands me a packet of crisps. She frowns. “I do wish Anbar ate a bit less of the junk. But no matter, this is no concern for the hired help.”

I may be the help, but I’m certainly not hired. I wonder how Sanae can feel this confident in my utter docility – I can only assume her daughters have informed her of my debasement, which is atrociously humiliating. Still, once again, I opt for silence, and reach out for the proffered snack.

With my fingers mere inches away, Sanae drops the packet. It lands to the ground, squarely between her slippered feet. I see her struggle to hold back an evil smile, and fail.

“Oops.” She says. She gives a plaintive nod towards the ground.

“It’s no issue, ma’am,” I say. Alia’s training is really paying off: my subconscious is now obeying non-verbal commands, based on social cues, and entirely against my conscious wishes.

Moulding me into a perfect servant. One for whom obedience comes as natural as breathing. For whom there can be no second-guessing.

Mere steps away from the front door that would represent my freedom, I drop to my knees before Sanae, and humbly collect the snack meant for Anbar. The matriarch gives me an approving pat on the back of the head – a clear message I’m not supposed to get up.

“Off you go now!”

And so I do, holding the snack between my teeth and climbing up the stairs on all fours like a dog, sniveling and crying all the way. My strength, my pride, my dignity, even my humanity… I’m going to lose it all, aren’t I?

Nothing’s going to be left. Nothing of me.

I docilely crawl back into Anbar’s room, dropping the snack at her feet. I was expecting her to laugh at my predicament, but she takes it in with perfect compunction, focusing on the screen before her.

She snaps her fingers, pointing to below the desk, and once again, my obedience is perfect. I do my best to fit into the crammed space, contorting and twisting until my back and legs hurt, but eventually, my squirming stops. Anbar’s socked feet descend on my face.

The stench is truly insufferable. I’m pretty sure she’s worn this pair of socks all week, and they instantly make my eyes water. I struggle to find an opening for my nose, to get some clean air, to hold my breath – but Anbar’s feet are relentless, and eventually, I have to yield, and breathe it in.

And of course, my higher functions shut down.

I can only think dimly that I envy Anbar’s ability to handle carbs and maintain this figure, as I hear her munching above me. I’m pretty sure if I ate even a third of the crap she does, my weight would skyrocket immediately.

But these are only feeble thoughts, as if in a fever dream. It’s like Anbar’s foot scent is filling my skull and pushing everything else out – not just my intelligence, or my independence, but my ability to focus, as well. I passively let her feet explore every nook and cranny of my face and throat, while dimly listening to her talk to her teammates.

“I’m telling you, Giggly96 is massively sus,” she says at one point. “I think they’re faking tasks.”

Anbar lifts one of her feet, and then returns it to my face… unsocked. I shiver as the clammy, sweaty sole adheres to my face like a mask. Now, isn’t that an absurd thought? Her feet are my face mask, and her foot sweat is my skin lotion. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I see her bend forward, holding something among her fingers – it’s the crumpled packet of crisps, now empty. Even in my domesticated state, I jolt in alarm, squirming and bucking under Anbar’s feet.

Her still-socked foot rises in the air, and then drops sharply against my forehead. The kick slams me against the ground, and my skull is ringing. Still reeling from the pain and the humiliating lesson, I whimper as the used bag draws closer and closer to my lips.

“Be a good maid, and open up,” Anbar tells me, and of course, I obey. She pushes the packet inside my mouth, and her socked foot lifts from my head. Shortly after, it returns unsocked, pressing against my lips… shutting Anbar’s own human trashcan.

Her acrid foot sweat mingles with the salty, oily sheen on the packet to create a unique flavour in my mouth, one I’m sure very few people in human history must have experienced before. And yet, Anbar takes it in stride like it’s the most normal thing in the world, cursing at her teammates for not voting out Giggly96.

“I’m telling you, I saw them vent!” She shouts from above. “Space them, now!”

I lose track of the conversation from there, with many overlapping voices – some laughing, some groaning in disappointment. It’s clear that the impostors have won the game. If I had any doubt about that, Anbar quickly dispels it.

Suddenly and without warning, her feet are off my face, and her chair reels back, away from the desk.

“What a bunch of stupid idiots,” she mutters. “Why does no one ever listen to me?” Then, her clever, bright eyes fix on me, making me shiver. “Well, you do, wimp. Foot slut. Whore.”

I moan softly around the packet of crisps, begging Anbar for mercy with my eyes. But I know there is none forthcoming. She’s in a mood… and she has a free victim to abuse that is guaranteed to never talk back, defend herself, or report her to anybody.

All of a sudden, I am very, very scared.

Anbar physically drags me out from under the desk, intimating me to stay still, with my back against the cold ground. Then, she stands, towering above me, the dragon contemplating her hapless victim.

Her left foot rises to obscure my vision, and once more descends against my face. I take it like a bitch, the bitch I have now become, and quiver in disgust at the sweat being passed down from her sole onto my forehead and cheek.

“I hate when people don’t listen,” Anbar says, her voice laced with venom. “I always know better. You’d never cost me a game like those morons just have. You’re so well-behaved.”

I don’t feel well-behaved. I feel like a worm, squirming weakly under her feet, begging her with my eyes not to crush me. The force behind Anbar’s grinding increases, and I feel my facial features flexing under her weight – a metaphor of my own will, bending and morphing beneath hers.

Her sole comes to rest above my nose, squishing it uncomfortably, and drowning my awareness in her enthralling foot scent. “That’s it,” she says from above. “Breathe it in. Make yourself foot-stupid for me. I like you so much better this way.”

I do breathe in, and it does make me foot-stupid. She’s right. I’m a pathetic freak, and I don’t deserve to be treated any different. This is my life now – squashed under the sisters’ feet.

As if reading my mind, Anbar flashes me a wicked smile – and then climbs atop my chest, with both feet.

She may be in surprisingly good shape considering her diet, but she’s not light. She instantly drives the breath out of me, and her naked heels dig into my sternum, making me wince in pain. But I dare not ask, or even beg, for her to get off.

Anbar starts walking up and down my torso, taking great care to grind and crush my tits beneath her feet, and the symbolism isn’t lost on me. It’s like a fundamental demonstration that she’s the better woman, that my own boobs barely qualify to act as her red carpet, that the lowest part of her still deserves to rank above every part of me.

Sharing her sister’s sadism, Anbar doesn’t shy away from experimenting. She moves one foot to my left hand, crushing my fingers beneath her heel, until it takes all my might – and all her intoxicating foot sweat – to keep me from screaming.

“It’s over, you know,” Anbar says, balancing with one foot over my squished left boob, and another squarely against my throat. “We have you. We’ve mastered you.”

Tears well in my eyes, and not just from my difficult breathing.

“You’re like a horse that’s been saddle-broken. You’ll never be free again. We’ll keep you, Alia and I. Forever.”

Her foot finally lifts from my throat… but then lands against my cheek with such violence that I spit out the packet of crisps on the floor as my head snaps sideways, her weight now pressing it into the ground.

“Look at the mess you’ve made on my floor,” Anbar says, rubbing her foot energetically against my cheek. “You need to be punished.”

I give out a soft whimper as I try to reach the packet with my lips and tongue, to get it back in my mouth, where Anbar wants it. That makes her break out in laughter, and I can’t blame her. I’m horrified at my own debasement. She puts an end to my humiliating efforts when her other foot joins the one on my face.

Thankfully, she’s partially leaning against the closet with a hand, but even like this the weight is almost unbearable. And yet, I take the pain without an ounce of protest. Alia and her have truly stamped out all resistance out of me. I don’t know what comes next, but I don’t see how I can oppose them.

My Queen and my Goddess.

Eventually, Anbar steps back to stand over my boobs, and absurdly, that makes me feel relief. How far down can you fall in just a week? Apparently the answer is this far down, if foot scent turns you into a dumb servant.

Anbar angles her left foot in the air until the toes are pointed straight at my face, and then thrusts down – in my own mind, it looks almost the way that a cock would, as it plunges down to claim a submissive partner. Perhaps that imagery guides my action, thanks to Alia’s non-verbal training, because my lips part seamlessly to let Anbar’s foot into my mouth.

The taste is as atrocious as the smell – pangy, salty, with the texture of her foot clammy from sweat. Moreover, the space between Anbar’s toes is rich with toejam and other granular material I don’t really want to dwell on… but whether I do or not is immaterial. I know I’ll soon be swallowing it. This is what I’ve been reduced to.

“Yeeesss,” she hisses, throwing her head back in pleasure as her foot rapidly facefucks me. “Suck it, peasant. Bow down before your fucking Goddess. Ohh, I can see why men like this. I’ll have to do this to you every day. Take it all, whore. I’ll tell Alia we need to train you to suppress your gag reflex. Shut up and take it – this is a much better use for your mouth!”

The barrage of insults has me crying freely and openly, but doesn’t chip away at my enthusiasm for taking as much of her foot down my throat as I can. I don’t even stop when I hear the door to Anbar’s room open behind me, a fact my brain notes with increasingly horrified helplessness.

“Are you done?”

Alia’s voice snaps me to attention immediately, and I roll my eyes upward to catch a glimpse of her golden, royal figure, standing against the threshold. I may be below Anbar, but I know Alia is my true owner, for better or worse, at least until I find a way out of this curse.

If I ever do.

“Sure,” Anbar says, keeping her foot lodged in my mouth. “Was trying out a few things. Remind me to tell you later, I’ve had a few ideas for how we can train her even further.”

“Lovely,” Alia says, but I’ve known her all my life, and I recognise the impatience behind her voice. She taps her foot, impatiently. “Now hand her over. As it just so happens, I have something special planned for her, too.”

My ears perk up. “Mmmppphh?” I mumble, questioning.

“Yeah, what the bitch said,” Anbar says with a laugh, keeping her foot firmly lodged in my throat. “What is it?”

Even from this disadvantaged position, I can see Alia’s instant change in demeanour, from bratty to bubbly and excited. “Oh, I’ve been on the phone with Yasmin all this time…”

No.

Oh no.

“… and I might have let it slip that my old friend Zainab is going through a journey of self-discovery…”

Anbar starts sniggering above me, and then breaks out in wicked laughter. “Oh sis, you’re so evil!”

“I know!” Alia says with a giggle. And she is evil. How did I never see this before, in all these years? I can’t stand Yasmin. She’s as rich and as entitled as Alia, with none of the effortless charisma. She’s a rotten bitch and we’ve never been able to be in the same room for more than five minutes.

If she knows of my enslavement, then it’s an absolute guarantee that the whole of college will know within a day. I want to disappear under the earth, never to be seen again. I low-key hope Anbar just strangles me with her foot at this point.

“She literally couldn’t believe it,” Alia says, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest – I barely believe it myself, and I’m currently taking Anbar’s foot down my throat like a champ. “So I did the only thing a friend can do to prove she’s not full of it.”

Slowly, ever so gradually, my eyes widen. Were it not for Anbar’s foot stretching my mouth to the limits, I’m sure my jaw would slacken in shock, as well.

Surely Alia doesn’t mean what I think she means. Surely she wouldn’t be this cruel to me. Surely I don’t deserve this…?

But her latest fit of giggles is enough to crush my hopes.

“She totes has to see this for herself. You hear that, Zainab?” Alia says, brushing my hair with the sole of her foot. She stares down into my eyes with her own. Smiling. Grinning. Destroying me.

“Yasmin’s coming over.”

Chapter Five: A Display Of Royalty

My back is against the wall.

I’m not speaking metaphorically here. I sit in the most ungainly way possible, my aching back pressed against the corner of Anbar’s room, my stockinged legs splayed out before me in a mildly obscene pose.

My maid’s uniform clings to my sweaty, clammy skin. It’s been a long afternoon. So long that it’s making me dissociate from the horrible reality of my own situation.

The mall, Anbar’s domination of me, Sanae making it clear she thinks this is where I belong, and now.. Yasmin.

The thought alone makes me want to crawl even deeper into the room’s corner.

I say the corner, because it’s the one that will forever be seared in my memory. The one where Alia and Anbar first systematically put their feet on me, as they proclaimed my subjugation to them.

The one Anbar likes to ritually expose me to, over and over, in a quasi-spiritual repetition of my original change in station. More and more, she sees herself as the Goddess, and me as the supplicant.

Alia doesn’t share that penchant for the melodramatic – she just wants to get her way and see me suffer, always – but she understands the value of psychological devastation the way a fish understands water.

So here I am, back where my life came crashing down. With my back to the wall, Alia’s left foot resting luxuriatingly atop my head, and Anbar’s own foot pressed against my chin.

Alia’s toes run gently through my hair. It’s a false kindness, a mockery of affection, designed to make me feel like property for her to revel in as she wishes.

Anbar’s toes tickle my lips, exploring every crevice, every feature. Occasionally, they slip through, silently commanding me to suck like an obedient girl.

The two imperious sisters loom above me, impossibly distant. Their foot scent has me in a daze: foot-stupid, as Anbar called me. They’re talking about me, about my future, but I have no spare brain capacity to partake in this conversation among superiors.

I simply do not feature.

“I don’t even get what you see in Yasmin,” Anbar says, while lightly fucking the entrance to my mouth with her big toe. It barely slips in, of course, just past my lips, but it’s the symbolism that counts. The casual way in which she’s doing it – even without thinking – is making me feel so worthless that I can barely remember why I ever tried to resist her.

The soft, wet sounds as the toe batters my lips into slutty submission fill the gaps in between conversations.

“What do you mean?” Alia asks, rubbing the sweaty sole of her foot a bit more energetically into my hair. Cleaning it. Massaging the sweat off her sole, and into my scalp.

“She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Anbar says, her eyebrows raised. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a bigger idiot in my entire lifetime. And coming from someone who plays Among Us on a daily basis, trust me, that’s saying something.”

Absurdly, I feel a pang of gratitude towards Anbar. Is she trying to… protect me? The thought is absurd, and completely at odds with the sexual harassment she’s subjecting me to right as she speaks.

But… she’s right about Yasmin. Like, unequivocally so. Literally the only reason she’s even at our college is that her dad plays golf with the head of the admissions’ office.

And yet, my traitorous brain doesn’t allow me to feel smug about it. Yasmin might be a shallow bimbo, but at least her brain doesn’t shut down when smelling feet. My cheeks redden with that humiliating realization, and I return to my humble task.

I take more of Anbar’s toes into my mouth. With a jolt of surprise I realize this is the first time I’m going out of my way to serve the sisters, as opposed to obeying their instructions to the letter.

Have I really fallen so low in an entire week that a bit of misplaced gratitude is enough to make me snog Anbar’s toes? Is that what gratitude means now in my slavish vocabulary?

What would I think of a girl that sucks an abusive man’s cock in thanks for not being even meaner to her? Because that girl, right now, is me. I might be at a girl’s mercy, and it might be a toe I’m fellating…

But, as I delicately circle my tongue around said toe, stretching my lips into a tiny little O to welcome it inside, I fail to see the difference.

Alia giggles above me. “Come on, sis, we can’t all be rocket scientists. She has… other qualities.”

“Like?”

“Well, she’s in our league. I’m starting to see why you shouldn’t befriend people who are lower in station,” Alia says with a cruel giggle, as her foot descends to press against my cheek.

It still hurts, and I hate that it does.

Alia has been doing terrible things to me ever since I first gave her a foot massage, but somehow the one thing that overshadows them all is that she openly considers our friendship a thing of the past.

It’s like I’m so inadequate – too poor, too plain, too boring, too fot-stupid – that she had no choice but to demote me from friend to maid.

It’s like every single time I felt that pang of jealousy and unfairness, whenever Alia got something or got to do something I couldn’t because I was poor, has retroactively been validated.

Of course she has money and I don’t. Look at us now, with my own hair being used as a doormat and sweat rug for the soles of her feet.

People like me exist so people like Alia don’t have to clean their own feet.

No. I mustn’t think that way. I mustn’t yield. What Alia is doing to me is a betrayal, it’s abuse, it’s…

It’s just so hard to think, with the scent of feet emptying my brain of all thoughts, all independence…

“Besides,” Alia continues obliviously, rubbing more of her sweat into my skin pores like it’s a lotion, “she throws the best parties. Her birthday’s next month, and we’re celebrating here! You’ll see!”

Anbar shrugs. “I’ll be in here anyway.” Then, almost as if adding an afterthought, “Having the bitch serve Yasmin is poor genius, though. Good on ya, sis!”

And just like that, my goodwill towards Anbar shatters into a million pieces – as does my last glimmer of hope. The fact that she dislikes Yasmin is completely inconsequential. What matters is the role she could play in breaking me down even further.

I would take my lips off her toes in protest, if I could. But of course, my foot-ditzy brain can’t muster defiance against an order, even an unspoken one. So I keep sucking demurely at the tip of Anbar’s toes, with Alia giggling above me.

“So delicious, I can’t wait!”

It’s like I’m not even in the room. I wish that were literally true. I want to sink into the floor and disappear off the face of the Earth.

Yasmin. Why did it have to be fucking Yasmin? The one insufferable bimbo who embodies everything I despise? Will I really have to bow and scrape before her, too?

Each time I’ve told myself that surely this is where Alia will stop, I’ve been proven wrong. So far, she’s crossed every line she’s encountered. I have no reason to believe this time will be any different.

Then, the doorbell rings, making my heart sink inside me. I throw Alia one long, desperate pleading look as she retracts her foot from my face. She’s so excited she’s literally hopping in place.

“Oh oh, that must be her!” She says, giggling, a hand against her lips. “Come with me, peasant girl.” Then, the smile disappears from her face, as quickly as it had appeared. The sternness in her gaze makes me flinch, intimidated and spineless.

God, I’m so pathetic.

“You better be on your best behavior,” Alia says, admonishingly. “You wouldn’t want to embarass me in front of my friend.”

Again, the implication isn’t lost on me. I don’t qualify for the hallowed circle of Alia’s friends. I’m something less than that – admittedly, something less than a person, and more like a towel girl, or perhaps a pet.

I’m trying to keep my mind intact, I swear I’m trying. But the constant physical abuse, the psychological battering, the foot scent enthralling me… my sanity is starting to buckle under the strain.

It’s becoming harder and harder for me to escape the thought that on some level, I deserve all of this. That if I truly go ditzy and dumb at the mere scent of feet, that means Alia deserves to subjugate me.

That this is how things should be between us.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Anbar says with a chuckle as she returns to her gaming chair. “You have a surefire way of making her all docile and pliant anyway.”

“That I do!” Alia says with a giggle, before turning back to me. “Crawl behind me. Don’t worry if you get lost. Just follow my foot scent. No matter where you are in life, it will lead you back to where you should be! Haha!”

Alia seems endlessly amused by her own witticism, but to me, this is just another nail in the coffin of my self-esteem. I don’t even try to will my body to resist any longer. I know it won’t work, and I’m not sure I really want it to work anymore.

I know this level of resignation is dangerous, but the sisters have truly stamped resistance out of me with their feet. It seems that my lot in life is to submit.

So I crawl on all fours like a dog – a position I am humiliatingly more familiar with day after day – and scamper behind Alia, to the sound of Anbar’s roaring laughter.

Alia’s right, isn’t she? Her foot scent is like an invisible leash, firmly clasped around my neck, tugging me in a direction of her choosing. It’s certainly working now.

She feels I’m so dumb, I might get lost without her foot scent to guide me.

The manipulative cruelty behind the words makes my head spin so hard that it’s a miracle I don’t fall down the stairs and break my neck.

“There you are!” I hear Yasmin say as Alia opens the door. “Took your sweet time!”

Alia giggles. “Sorry, had to make sure my new slave was coming along.”

I can’t see Alia’s face – she has her back to me – but I can picture the victorious glint in her eyes. My face drops. How could I ever think she wouldn’t go through with this? Alia firmly believes that the best part of victory is the gloating.

She’s been doing plenty of gloating to my face. But it was foolish of me not to fully anticipate she would be gloating to her friends about my enslavement, eventually.

“Yah, still not buying it,” Yasmin says in a sing-song voice, loudly and obnoxiously chewing gum while Alia shuts the front door behind her.

Then, Yasmin turns towards the hallway, and spots me.

She freezes in her tracks, her eyes travelling up and down my body, taking in my prostrate position, my ridiculous kinky maid outfit, and my mortified expression.

I hate staring at Yasmin from down on the floor. It feels so diminishing. This person – her only qualities are literally having a rich dad and being pretty. Neither of which are personal merits.

Yet here she is, standing in the hallway as Alia’s friend, while I kneel submissively on the floor like a trained bitch.

Yasmin herself looks the opposite to me. She’s lithe and graceful – less so than Alia, with a more round-ish face and wide eyes. One look at her expression is enough to tell there isn’t much going on inside there.

She is pretty, though, I have to admit that much – even if in a wide-eyed bimbo sort of way. Her chestnut locks are beautiful, particularly next to my umkempt hair, which literally reek of Alia and Anbar’s foot sweat.

Her legs go on for days, unlike my short, stubby legs that now fold beneath me in a slutty display of submissive availability. Her lips never had to kiss a foot. Her hands and feet are pampered, not calloused from having to work.

I really do feel like a peasant girl.

Her loud gum-chewing stops. Uncertainty flickers across Yasmin’s face. Her eyes dart from Alia to me, then back to Alia – who’s struggling mightily to contain a fit of laughter.

Yasmin isn’t good with the unexpected. As you might guess, flexibility isn’t her strongest suit.

But this is actually more specific than that.

Now that I’m away from Anbar’s room, and Alia is standing a few steps away from me, the foot scent is less overwhelming.

In turn, I have regained at least a small crumb of clarity. Not much – nowhere near close to the autonomy I once had before Alia put me in my place – but enough to see things without the permanent foot-fog trapping my brain like quicksand.

And I see that Yasmin is afraid we’re trying to make her look like an idiot.

Yasmin immediately confirms my suspicions.

“Is this a prank?” She asks, the question half directed at Alia, and half at me. “If it’s a prank, I swear to God, Alia…”

Yasmin hates mockery. Rich or not, pretty or not, popular or not, she’s been the butt end of more than enough jokes about her intelligence, and college students can be cruel.

I think one of her biggest fears is being made fun of, and not realizing that the joke is on her. That must have happened to her more than once.

If I can make the connection, I’m sure Alia can, too. She has a better eye for cruelty than I do, and besides, she’s smarter than me.

No, she isn’t. Stop that.

But she doesn’t go foot-stupid, like I do. And to that observation, I have no counter-argument.

Still… a sadist or not, Alia clearly sees Yasmin as a friend, so she doesn’t exploit the opening. “No prank,” she says. “I’ve simply enslaved her with my feet! Haha!”

That destroys me even further. The moment – the very moment I show one small weakness, one chink in my armor, Alia pounces upon it like a tiger, driving my face into the mud under the heel of her shoes. But Yasmin gets a pass, because she’s a friend.

And I’m not.

Clearly, I never was. Every interaction between Alia and me, ever since we were kids up to now, has been leading to this moment.

Yasmin seems unconvinced. “That a weird fetish thing you got going on?” She steps away from the hallway and towards the living room, at Alia’s invitation, and I follow on all fours, without even needing a verbal order. “Congrats, I guess. Not interested.”

That’s a transparent lie. Of course Yasmin is interested. She’s just hedging in case this is a prank.

“No, that’s the best part!” Alia says, giggling. “This isn’t a fetish at all! The scent of feet just… hypnotises her, or something.”

The word hypnotises sends an electric shock coursing through me.

For a heartbeat, images flash past my eyelids with such speed I can barely make them out. I see a spoon, swirling in a mug of tea – gently, irresistibly. I see Sanae, smiling in victory, and one of Alia’s slippers, descending above my face. 

“So it makes her dumb?” Yasmin asks, snapping me out of the reverie. My breath is a little short, and I wonder what the hell that was all about. Exhaustion is playing tricks on my mind.

I hope I get to go home soon. I hope I can rest. There’s no hope I’ll be doing any studying for tomorrow’s classes, but I need to sleep…

“She was always dumb,” Alia says with her eyes on me, then smiling in satisfaction as she notices my pained reaction to her words. “Nah, feet just makes her meek and mellow. Big improvement on the original bitch. Now, she’s my utterly defeated slave.”

That I am, without a doubt. I hang my head in shame, defeated, while Yasmin thoughtfully taps her sneakers against the marble floors. I can basically hear the gears turning inside her simple head.

“Well, let’s see then,” she says at last.

Yasmin steps towards me with a long-practiced bratty girl’s strut, the kind of strut girls like her and Alia can do unconsciously. She might be dumb, but she is graceful. That makes me feel a little smaller, and I fidget on my knees, as if trying to hide from Yasmin’s shadow.

She stops in front of me, and I look up to meet her gaze.

Were this any other combination of people, this moment would be hugely significant. But in this case, it’s actually pretty mundane. There is no victory or dominance in Yasmin’s gaze, just the curiosity and fear that all this might be too good to be true.

Suddenly, Yasmin stops chewing her gum. Then, she reaches into her mouth.

Uggh!!! That’s disgusting!

Yasmin holds the gum, sticky with saliva and misshapen by her chewing, between thumb and forefinger. She leans closer to me, and for once, my body responds to my nervous system – I inch backwards, still on my knees, flailing my arms to keep balance.

“Stop.”

Alia’s voice cuts through the air. I look in her direction, hoping, praying that the order was meant for Yasmin – but her gaze is unmistakable.

It’s fixed on me.

“Peasant girl,” Alia says, in the harshest tone she’s ever used with me yet, “Yasmin is a fellow princess.” She raises an eyebrow, plaintively. “Submit.”

God, no. This is so mortifying. So utterly devastating. First Anbar got to use me as a living trashcan, and now, Yasmin?

Tears form in my eyes, and I close them, shivering in disgust while bracing myself for what is about to happen.

“Eyes open, maid,” Alia commands me. So I open them, only to find Yasmin’s eyes meeting my own. She is being very deliberate in her movements, slowly bringing her hand closer and closer to my head.

As the gum makes contact with my hair, Yasmin’s face unfurls into a feral smirk, one that stretches more and more as she sees the utter submission in my eyes. And absurdly, my first thought is that she looks so beautiful.

Yasmin’s long, slender fingers begin massaging the gum into my greasy hair, her eyes never once leaving mine, her teeth glimmering brightly like the fangs of a predator. She’s loving this.

“I can’t believe you were ever friends with this loser,” she tells Alia, with a weird edge to her voice.

“That has been permanently rectified! Haha!”

Yasmin breaks into a chuckle. That’s very bad news for me. She’s now confident that the joke isn’t directed at her, and is in fact on me. I know Yasmin won’t be able to shut up about this.

I wonder how long it takes before the whole of college knows I’ve become a slave.

Yasmin steps lithely away from me, sitting on the sofa, draping one leg above the other.

“So, can I make her do it too?” She asks Alia. “If she smells my feet, will she obey me too?”

A flicker of doubt crosses Alia’s face. She doesn’t really like to share her toys. Making me obey Yasmin is one thing, she still has control over that situation. Would she be willing to dilute that?

In case of a conflict of orders, which one of the two would I obey? Would I be free to choose, or would my brain pick one for me? Or would I go crazy, trying to follow both orders at once and failing?

I idly wonder. This phenomenon must have some explanation. It must have rules, mechanics I’ve yet to uncover.

Alia’s next words snap me out of the philosophical questions, though.

“Works with me and Anbar,” she says with a shrug. “Peasant girl, go sniff Yasmin’s feet.”

Alia has spoken the words, so there is no room for struggle in my obedience. My execution is flawless.

I notice, with growing dismay, that when before I simply followed the letter of Alia and Anbar’s orders, increasingly I am modelling my behavior on their unspoken expectations.

I don’t just walk to Yasmin, plop down, and give her foot a sniff. I stay on my knees, ungainly shuffling towards her. I keep my eyes downcast as I do it, my posture available and unassuming.

I know the sisters want submission oozing out of my very pore. And so, the execution is flawless. From body language alone, I look like a willing slave, or at least, a perfectly trained one. They have literally drilled a change into me.

My shameful shuffle completed, I lie prostrate before Yasmin, hating every second of it. She’s done nothing but coast through life. I’ve done nothing but work hard. And now here we are, the princess and the supplicant.

“Take my shoes off,” Yasmin says, her voice pitched like she’s unsure whether she should be giving orders, or asking questions. Unfortunately, Alia wants me to sniff Yasmin’s feet, and removing the shoes is a necessary prerequisite, so my body responds to the letter.

Feeling every inch a supplicant, I stare at Yasmin with big, fearful eyes as I gently remove the sneaker from her proffered foot. Yasmin elegantly switches, crossing the other leg to present the other shoe to me, and again I perform my slavish duties with spineless punctuality.

“I’m actually wearing my gym socks right now,” Yasmin says, with a titter. “They kinda stink!”

“Kinda?” Alia wrinkles her nose. “You’re almost as bad as my sister!”

The sad truth of it is, I can barely tell – after the suffocating atmosphere of Anbar’s room, it feels like my sense of smell has been completely blasted. But I can see the damp texture of Yasmin’s sweaty socks well enough. I gulp in anticipation of what is to come.

Yasmin bobs her foot up and down a couple of times, as if to encourage me.

“Well?” She asks, impatient. “Get your fat nose in there.”

With trepidation, I stick my face next to Yasmin’s left foot, as it perches over her right ankle, the shoe kicked off to the side. The foot is petite, well-proportioned, and oddly elegant, much like Alia and Anbar’s.

The fact that I now have enough familiarity with feet to be able to make these comparisons is devastatingly humiliating.

I give it a sniff, and immediately wrinkle my nose. It’s nothing I haven’t smelled before, if anything the sweaty aroma is milder than Anbar’s, but I dislike it nonetheless.

“Another sniff,” Alia says behind me, expectantly. “And another. Scent in, thoughts out. Scent in, thoughts out. Go stupid for my best friend.”

My conqueror has spoken, and so, even as her words send pain lancing through the very core of my being, I start sniffing Yasmin’s foot like my life depends on it, inhaling the ripe fragrance of her sweaty socks like it’s the best perfume in the world.

Yasmin claps her hands, excitedly. “Now kiss it! That’s what slaves do to their masters, right?”

I hate the words, both the casualness she uses to throw them around, and the implications about our one-sided relationship. But my displeasure soon turns into shock, then hope.

I widen my eyes.

My body hasn’t moved to automatically obey.

I’m not kissing Yasmin’s foot!

I sit back on my heels looking up at Yasmin, her face scrunched up in displeasure and suspicion. If this were a practical joke, this is where we’d pull the rug from underneath her, and I can clearly sense her discomfort.

Alia simply titters behind me. “I can’t believe it! It only works with my feet and Anbar’s!”

Yasmin pouts, her foot now hopping back and forth before my face. “Do yours smell really bad? Have the smell tested in a lab, or something.”

“Pretty sure it’s just her,” Alia says with a snicker. “If we had magic foot scent, it would work on anyone, not just this loser.”

God, what a mess! Alia’s right, this doesn’t really make any sense. What’s different? What happens when her foot scent interacts with my brain, to produce such spectacular and terrifying results?

“That’s so unfair,” Yasmin says, in the brattiest tone I’ve ever heard. Then, she leans down, looking me in the eye.

And slaps me.

This is no catty slap either – it’s strong enough to send me careening sideways to the floor.

I gasp in shock and humiliation, my cheek burning with pain – my pride smarting even more. Even Alia and Anbar haven’t raised a finger on me in the time that they’ve enslaved me. They haven’t needed to, of course, but still.

How dare she do this to me? We barely know each other, and she’s taking it out on me because I won’t kiss her feet on command?

Alia seems to find this endlessly amusing, laughing her ass off. “What did you do that for?”

“She’s being such a bitch!” Yasmin shouts. “She should be obeying me too!”

I am impressed by the absolute brokenness of Yasmin’s logic. I sit back up, scowling in her direction, willing my eyes to kill her on the spot. My hands ball into fists.

Do that again, Yasmin. See what happens.

“Oh, I’m sure she can make it up to you,” Alia says, wheezing for breath. “What do you want, Yasmin?”

Yasmin’s eyes suddenly snap upwards, in a parody of a thoughtful pose. She even rests her chin on her hand, as if she’s actually pondering some profound philosophical question.

I can’t glare at Alia – that would be disrespectful – but I don’t have to obey Yasmin. I’m channeling the countless frustrations since my enslavement into this one, hateful look.

“I know!” Yasmin says, drawing in breath, as if she’s made the biggest discovery in the history of human science. “The birthday party!”

A sinking feeling drags down my spirits. Yasmin’s birthday party will be held in this very house, one month from now. Whatever she wants, there is no way this can end well.

Yasmin doesn’t leave me wondering for long. Clapping her hands together, she tells Alia in an overexcited voice, “I want her to serve at the party! Like a maid! Dressed up like that!”

Alia seems to find the idea even funnier than the slap. She bends over, laughing to the point of tears, and Yasmin joins her. I kneel there, fuming.

At this point, I’m not even mortified anymore. I’m downright angry. Yasmin wants to parade me as a slave in front of our entire class. Every mutual acquaintance we’ve ever had will see me serve food and drinks, offer foot massages – and who’s to say they won’t take further liberties with me?

It’s a set up to having my reputation destroyed, and having me potentially abused or even raped.

But I don’t obey Yasmin. And Alia is too busy laughing to weigh in on the matter.

So, with more defiance than I’ve ever had since that first massage, I say one simple word.

“No.”

My limbs tremble as I put all my might into trying to get back up. This is too much. I will not act in public as Yasmin’s little pet. I will not prostrate myself before our entire cohort of students – peers, friends, and people who look up to me as the nerdiest student in class.

I will not!

I rise to one knee, gasping and panting with effort, when I spot movement at the edge of vision – Alia, moving decisively towards me.

Her foot slams against the side of my head, sending me back to the ground with a crash. My right cheek is pressing against the cold marble floor, Alia’s sole pressing cruelly into the other.

This is no mere victory pose – she’s pushing down to hurt me.

“What did you say?” She asks, her voice laced with venom. My hope flickers and dies as my voice betrays me.

“You don’t get to say that word,” Alia says, twisting her foot to increase pressure with the heel against my face. “Not to Yasmin. Not to Anbar. And certainly not to me.”

I whimper in desperation and pain. I was so close! Why? God, why?!

Alia’s other foot sneaks forward, closer and closer to my face, until I find my nose being pressed into it.

“That’s it,” Alia says. “Breathe in. Breathe yourself stupid with the scent of my feet.”

And of course, I do. And Alia’s foot scent worms its way into my mind, sapping it of all resistance. And I have to admit, there’s something about being so effortlessly pinned to the floor, my resistance brushed away by Alia’s might like it’s a joke.

It speaks to a primal part of me, an almost sexual one. Openness, availability, submission – these things are all intrinsically part of sex. We conquer and subjugate one another, like Alia has done to me.

All my life, I’ve been trying so hard to make decisions, and look where that’s got me. Maybe I can find relief in this state. I don’t have to worry about anything more complex than doing what Alia tells me.

With my face scrunched up in between her foot sandwich, that doesn’t seem as bad as it used to.

Remotely, distantly, I feel a weird tingle in my crotch.

A faint part of me – the part where my intelligence used to be – worries that I’m starting to sexualise my trauma, in a form of counterphobic reaction. Alia and Anbar’s foot scent makes me meek, but it’s never made my submission a pleasurable experience.

It still isn’t.

But… I’m never getting my hair caressed lovingly by a boy. Instead, it’s usually Alia’s feet that do it. My lips fellate on toes. When the sisters facefuck me, I give them a foot massage with my throat.

So maybe it’s no wonder that a part of me is starting to experience a weird thrill, in the pull of this inescapable defeat.

Alia’s foot lifts from my head, no longer squashing it. But it hovers above my face.

“Apologize.” She says. And I need no further instruction.

I crane my neck upwards, licking her feet from heel to toe. She’s massaged so much of her sweat into my face that her feet taste quite plain, something for which I’m grateful – but the symbology of the act isn’t lost on me.

“Oh wow,” Yasmin says from the sofa, in hushed tones, as my lips welcome Alia’s heel, sucking at it with loud, slutty sounds.

The tip of my tongue runs across the length and width of Alia’s foot, noting the change in texture – the heel is harsh, the sole soft and wrinkly, the toes smooth – until her foot lightly slaps me on my cheek, pushing me away.

“Now, apologize to Yasmin.”

I immediately scamper to obey, throwing myself at Yasmin’s feet.

Alia’s anger is receding, and her normal bratty self is returning. She giggles uncontrollably behind me as I rain humble kisses upon Yasmin’s arches, ankles, toes, heels, and soles.

“I’m sorry, princess,” I say in-between kisses. “Please forgive my indiscretion.” I begin lapping at her feet like an eager dog, giving them a tongue bath. Yasmin shudders in pleasure above me.

It’s no wonder. Feet are full of nerve endings, as I know all too well. I wonder if Yasmin’s mind is sophisticated enough to appreciate the psychology of the act, not just the physical stimulation, but it doesn’t really matter.

This is Alia’s command. And I’m executing it way beyond the letter of her instructions.

Because she has, indeed, drilled a change into me.

“Open up,” Yasmin says, and of course my body doesn’t respond to her orders – but I obey anyway, all too conscious of Alia standing behind me. Somehow, voluntarily submitting to Yasmin’s superiority is even more mortifying.

Her eyes sparkling with evil curiosity, she drives her gym socks into my mouth.

“Suck,” she says, in a sultry voice that feels more appropriate for porn than bullying. Stupidly, looking up at her with my dumb cow eyes, I start chewing on her socks like they’re candy.

The by-now familiar taste of female foot sweat fills my mouth like juice. Yasmin studies me closely, nodding approvingly every time my cheeks puff as I milk her socks for every single drop of sweat.

“I wonder,” Alia says behind me, “do theirs taste better, or mine?”

I close my eyes in shame and defeat. I have no answer, of course, but I know that’s not what Alia wants out of me. So, I just moan and grunt wordlessly into the socks, emitting pathetic mewls that make me sound like a domesticated pet.

Yasmin presses her thighs together at that, and I wonder if my defeated display is arousing her. Her eyes narrow in my direction as she lifts her naked feet, stamping them over my face with bratty authority.

Her feet are petite, but taken together they cover the entirety of my face, and as she starts rubbing, they leave a snail trail of clammy sweat in their wake. This is the third girl who has now used my face as a foot rag and sweat sponge, and a part of me is starting to think this is exactly what I deserve.

Yasmin’s feet push downward, throwing me back-first into the ground. This way, I’m staring up at Yasmin’s soles, and I can lick them passionately and energetically.

“I’m dirt beneath your feet,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t submit right away. Please let me make it up to you.”

Yasmin’s feet cover my entire sight for a time, as I suck at the heels and lap at the soles – but eventually she parts them, so she can look down at me.

This is so bizarre.

Yasmin’s right foot rests royally atop my forehead, while her other foot is on my chin. Together, they frame her face like a painting. She looks at me in curious amazement, and again, much as I hate to admit it, she is pretty.

“How will you make it up to me?”

I ponder the question, rolling my eyes to try and catch a glimpse of Alia, an indication of what she wants to do. But she’s not coming to my rescue – all I get is the impatient drumming of her fingers against the table.

She’s waiting to see what I will do. And to be honest, there is only one right answer that I can see.

I look back at Yasmin. What I’m about to do is going to utterly break me.

It will have irreversible, real-life consequences I will never be able to escape from. It will also represent my willing subordination at the mercy of a person who stands for everything I loathe in this world.

And I’m going to do it.

“Princess Yasmin,” I say, making sure I am soft-spoken, my voice humble and unassuming. Like any peasant girl who gets to address royalty. “Will you please let me serve as a maid at your birthday party?”

Alia breaks out in hysterical giggles behind me, and I was expecting Yasmin to have a similar fit of bubbly enthusiasm. But oddly enough, she looks at me with a weird solemnity.

Whatever she’s thinking, I know what I’m feeling. Something inside me is permanently broken. I’m now a pushover, a lesser girl, the lowest member of my own gender, a doormat to the rest of womankind.

A beta female. A maggot girl. A ditzy, foot-stupid peasant whose only job in life is to bow and scrape before royalty. Whose mouth shouldn’t be used to speak and lecture, but to service feet instead.

Yasmin’s left foot lifts away from my chin. Carefully and deliberately, she angles it towards my face.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t like losers at my parties. That’d be a big favor. I’m not sure you’ve earned it.”

The audacity makes tears well up in my eyes. “Please, Princess,” I say, grovelling like a little bitch. “I’ll work for it, please.”

Yasmin nods pointedly towards her foot, and I gulp.

She holds no direct sway over me. It’s Alia I’m obeying. And yet, even without the foot scent to drive me stupid, she has already acquired a physical mastery of my face that merely reinforces my utter, irreversible saddle-broken status.

I spread my lips, letting Yasmin’s foot make its way into my mouth. I gag and choke as she begins violently facefucking me, my watery eyes pleading with hers to please show some mercy to her now defeated rival.

But Yasmin, like Alia, knows no mercy, and enjoys the ministrations of my conquered throat around her toes.

“I know that must be, like, your biggest wish,” Yasmin says as her foot tames my mouth. “But you gotta know, I’m going to work your butt so hard. If you want to be at the party, you’ve got to make it up to everyone else for tolerating your loser presence.”

The only reply I can muster is a series of gluk gluk gluk sounds as she facefucks me. Alia breaks out in hysterical laughter behind me.

“You’ll have to serve the drinks and food!”

“You’ll have to clean up afterwards,” Yasmin adds, to Alia’s delight.

“All the girls will want foot massages! With your fingers or… your throat.”

“And all the boys…” Yasmin says, looking thoughtfully at me, twisting her toes against my palate to make a point.

“The boys will have no use for her,” Alia says. “She’s an ugly, fat, dumb broad. I don’t think they’d even look at her! Haha!”

That makes Yasmin smile. “Maybe. Then again, a warm mouth is a warm mouth…”

As they detail my future humiliations, I’m too numb to the whole thing to even muster the shock and outrage I should be feeling. I’m entirely powerless to stop any of this from happening to me. Why bother getting upset when I can just lie down and submit to free use?

“Is that what you really want?” Yasmin asks with mock concern, her foot lodged deep into my mouth.

“Pweeshe,” I try to mumble from around her foot. I can’t even beg properly, not in this position, but from the glimmer of victory in Yasmin’s eyes, I can see that that’s enough for her.

The school bimbo has just made me hers.

Her gaze never leaves mine. With one foot holding my forehead down, and the other pushing so deep it’s literally at the entrance to my throat, she gives me the tiniest nod of acknowledgement.

“Very well, peasant girl,” she says with a grin. “I’ll let you serve as my birthday maid.”

And then, she lets out an evil giggle that is immediately matched by Alia.

“Your wish is granted.”

Chapter Six: A Gift Of Weakness

I’m back to the mall, and I no longer feel like myself.

I look around with big, terrified eyes. This place has, in a way, become a metronome of my downfall.

It’s the before place, where Alia and I spent so many hours as friends. It’s the very last place where we ever interacted as friends, before she proceeded to enslave me. The thought alone is enough to make me tear up. Oh Alia, what have I ever done to you to deserve this…?

It’s the during place. Alia made me submit to her here, in public. She forced me into the slutty maid outfit I’m also wearing today. She clearly demonstrated the extent to which she didn’t really consider me her equal.

And now…

Now, it’s going to be the after place. Because what I’m about to do is going to have real, catastrophic consequences for the rest of my life.

The sisters flank me, my Queen and my Goddess.

They laugh, trade jokes, and walk on either side of me, almost like I’m a prisoner they intend to escort to her doom. I keep my gaze low, like they want me to, and shuffle ungainly half-a-step behind them. They draw eyes, like they always do.

I do, too… but for how ridiculous I look in my slutty maid outfit, with my boxy peasant-girl looks and my hair that reeks of foot sweat.

“Why the long face, Zainab?” Alia asks me, with an evil glint in her eye. Don’t you want to buy Yasmin a nice gift? Something that shows how grateful you are for being invited to her birthday party?”

The sisters giggle, while my chest tightens with anxiety and fear. God, the absolute sadism and mockery. Invited? I’ll be there as the literal servant to all of the invitees. And as for the gift, the gift…

My head spins. I’m racing towards a precipice, and I don’t know how to stop it. Alia and Anbar have so much control over me that I blink in stupefied confusion as they lead me into the store of their choice.

This is the perfect Alia place, in so many ways. The sizes on offer are all ridiculously small, meant for lithe girls with legs that go on for days. I’m not even sure the quality’s very good, but the labels and the minor seasonal variations in design guarantee that the hefty pricetag will always find willing buyers.

It’s not just that I can’t afford anything in this store. It’s that it represents everything I hate about female fashion today, a market deliberately designed to exclude girls like me.

As I look at my two conquerors glide effortlessly through the store, though, I tell myself that maybe there are no girls like me. Girls who get enslaved by the smell of feet. Girls whose IQ drools out of their mouth when in the presence of foot scent.

They don’t even let me choose the gift. But of course, why would I? I’m a joke of a person at this point.

Of course they’ve gone for a pair of shoes. The symbol of my new status in life, not just beneath both of them, but underneath Yasmin as well. The symbology of gifting shoes to the latest girl to stamp her will on me is unmistakable.

Alia holds them aloft like some kind of trophy, presenting them to me with a smile and a twirl. I’m just trying to sink into the floor and disappear forever, but all I do is stand and stare at the ground.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the shoes are sneakers, a pair of a frankly disgusting bubble-pink colour. Positively thrashy. But what worries me is that they’re Balenciaga. With dread, I suddenly remember that I’m supposed to pay these with my own life savings, what little I’ve been able to steadily accumulate through my student years, one dime at a time.

“Your Majesty,” I tell Alia, my lips trembling. “How much… please, don’t, I… I can’t…”

My heart sinks as I realise that I will meet no mercy here. Alia smiles cruelly.

“Oh, about one grand, I think-”

It’s all I can do not to faint.

I break down in the store. Really break down this time, foot scent or not.

My body trembles like a leaf as I cry and sob and wail, loudly, to the evident embarassment of the staff, who glance my way and then pointedly look away. I feel like a child, so pathetic, but.. the raw emotion coming out of me cannot be contained. Weeks of abuse, of treason from my own best friend, of… reduction… all channel out through my tears and my sobs.

Anbar takes a step back, as if she wasn’t expecting the outburst, but Alia simply pouts. Even through the haze of my own tears, I recognise the pout – my emotional outburst is ruining the moment.

“That’s so annoying,” she says. “Stop bawling like a fucking baby, god. It’s not like we’re sawing your limbs off.”

Unfortunately for me, the decisiveness of her tone cuts through my emotions like a scythe. I begin to calm down. Tears still stream down my face in rivulets, but my breathing begins to slow.

“God, what a fucking bitch,” Alia mutters. “Come on, you’re buying this gift for Yasmin. No arguments. I won’t let you embarrass me at the birthday party of a fellow princess.”

I gulp. Alia is talking to me like I’m her accessory, a pet dog to show off to her friends, or… a part of her estate. And the sad truth is, I’m letting her do it, and so that means I am. She’s won.

I stare dully ahead as my card swipes against the reader, evaporating all my savings. Numbness begins to set in, where pain was before. What used to be a fear of the future is now a complete and utter certainty: Alia is really going to destroy my life for fun. There will be nothing left.

The girls giggle and titter as we head out of the mall.

“You must really like Yasmin!” Alia says, an evil glint in her eyes. “No wonder, though, she’s totally my best friend!”

Anbar is not to be outdone, and elbows me in the ribs. “I was wrong about you, Zainab. You never struck me as the financially irresponsible type. How will you pay for college now?”

Alia laughs out loud, as if finding the idea of me continuing my education ridiculous. Defeated, I simply lower my head, and sink into my own mind.

It is no use. By the time we make it back to her home, Yasmin’s gift wrapped and in my hands, I feel like the empty shell of the person I once used to be.

I leave the gift on the mantelpiece by the front door, and then immediately kneel before the sisters for the ritual.

I begin with Alia’s shoes, as is right and proper. I place a soft, humble kiss on the tip of the shoe, feeling her toes wiggle in excitement underneath. Then I move along the length of the shoe, kissing as I go, before she generously lifts her foot.

I keep kissing the sole as I take the shoe off – Alia wants me to “kiss the street dirt away”, as she puts it – and do the same with her other shoe. I perform the same, humiliating duty for Anbar, and again, like when Yasmin subdued me, I feel a soul-crushing proto-arousal build inside me.

This is the only kind of non-destructive contact I’ve had with a human being for weeks, now. Tiny shoe kisses. It’s sneakers, they’re not so bad – certainly compared to the torture at the mall, I’d rather be doing this.

But it still makes me feel… humbled. It’s basically treason that a part of my brain is starting to associate this physical and mental reduction between the overwhelming might of Alia and Anbar with pleasure.

My kissing duties done, I offer the sisters their comfy slippers. Before sliding one into each foot, I smell the slipper and the foot alike, thanking my conquerors for driving me stupid.

“You always were stupid,” Alia reminds me. “We just finally got sick of your uppity attitude, and put you in your place. Haha!”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” I say in a breathless whisper. Before the girls can decide what to subject me to for the rest of the afternoon, however, we’re distracted by voices upstairs.

A sinking feeling takes hold of me when I realize the voices are familiar.

Following in Anbar and Alia’s wake, I get up the stairs and onto the hallway above. Sanae is standing in the middle of the hallway, looking into the bathroom, whose door is open.

At the sight of Sanae, I immediately cower in place, almost trying to hide behind the sisters. She spots me anyway, and the feral smirk that crosses her face is unusual – she’s always very composed in her cruelty.

“Is this okay?” A voice asks, from inside the bathroom.

And my breath stops.

What’s my mum doing here?!?

I very nearly shout out, but all it takes is a look from Sanae and I know in my heart that I’m supposed to stay quiet – so of course I immediately comply, biting my lower lip to stop myself from uttering a single sound.

“No, you need to work harder,” Sanae says, turning back towards the bathroom. “Come on, put some elbow into it. I want it spick and span.”

What?!?

Alia and Anbar finally move to get a closer look, and the wave of dizziness that crashes through me is enough to make me lose my balance.

My mother is kneeling in Sanae’s bathroom.

Her back is turned to me, she doesn’t know I’m here, although she can definitely hear the girls giggling. She’s in a maid outfit – a real one this time, not the French maid erotic parody I’ve been forced into – and is scrubbing the tiled floor on her hands and knees.

Outrage courses through my veins, and I’m distantly aware of my own breath coming in ragged puffs. My mum and I, we… we barely make ends meet, and I know she takes shitty jobs sometimes, but how could she take this, and not tell me? And why did Sanae even hire her?

Alia and Anbar are virtually bent in two, such is the hilarity they see in this situation. My mother is a maid to theirs, much like I am a maid to them.

Damn, I shouldn’t have thought that… something snaps inside my mind as I contemplate the utter subjugation of my family. All of a sudden, my outrage begins to dim, and humiliation – my daily dish in my life under Alia – rises in its place.

Blood drains from my face at the realization of how pathetic we must look, Mum and I, these upstarts who thought they could mingle with people from the upper class and not be pulled into their orbit.

Our pride is gone. Our pretense to equality has been stamped out under their feet. They’re our superiors.

Sanae advances, standing menacingly close to my mum and looking down at her the way she would at a stain on the floor. I see my mum look up at Sanae, staying quietly on the ground – how has she got her so cowed already?

At last, Sanae taps the point of her flats on a particular tile.

“Do this one again,” she says imperiously.

“Yes ma’am,” my mother responds, dropping back down to scrub away under Sanae’s victorious gaze.

Her arms crossed, Sanae turns back to face us.

“Go back to your rooms, girls,” she says, as if speaking to her daughters alone, but her eyes are fixed on me the entire time. “We need to let our maid work in peace.”

So she doesn’t want my mum to see me like this. Absurdly, I’m almost grateful, but the emotion quickly dissipates as the sisters grab my arms and strong-march me, giggling and laughing, towards Anbar’s room.

As I’m pushed inside, the permanent foot haze that permeates the room immediately sinks its claws into me. I hate coming here. It literally takes the edge off my intellect, turning a sharp blade into a dull one. I feel meeker already, passive and available, waiting to discover what the sisters want to do to me.

For the moment, at least, they’re too distracted talking and laughing with one another.

“Did you see that?” Alia asks, literally tearing up with laughter.

“God, what a family of losers,” Anbar responds, wiping tears off her own eyes. “For a second I almost thought she was gonna have to kiss Mum’s foot!”

That made Alia smile devilishly. “For all we know, maybe she does. Maybe she’s foot-stupid, just like her fat whore of a daughter.”

In spite of the thick foot-fog entrapping my brain right now, the words still cut like a knife. No, surely Mum wouldn’t have the same… condition, would she? I’m trying to think, remember if I’ve spotted any odd behavior from her lately, but concentrating is so hard…

I snap out of it when I realize Anbar is standing before me, her hand lifted in the air – and now gripping me by the hair. She winces in disgust, unsurprisingly since my hair’s basically a foot sweat cake at this point – but nonetheless, her grip tightens.

“You’re just like your mum,” Anbar says, looking me in the eye as I cower and whimper. “You’re even wearing the same uniform.”

Then, she pulls on my hair like it’s a leash, and I yielp in pain, trying to follow her like an obedient dog. But that’s not what Anbar wants. She tosses me to the ground with effortless ease – god, for a girl who spends her life sitting before a computer, she’s strong – and then steps closer, looking down at me like I’m a speck of dirt on the floor.

Soon, Alia joins from the other side.

The sisters are blocking my view, tall and beautiful and terrible. They inspire such a heady mixture of awe and terror into me, it takes my breath away. I blink through the overpowering foot scent, trying my best to get angry about Mum, to defy them, to sit up…

But, as Alia’s now-naked foot presses gently against my forehead to pin me down, and Anbar’s rests triumphantly against my throat, I feel the familiar thrill of defeat pulsing in my sex. And I hate myself for it.

“You’re right,” Alia says, toying with my lips with her toes, flicking them up and down. “She is wearing the same uniform.”

Anbar spreads her arms out for balance, and then climbs over my stomach.

Her weight drives the breath out of me, and I begin to squirm and agitate – which Alia notices immediately. In a swift motion, she transitions to standing over me herself, both feet on each of my shoulders.

The combined weight of the sisters hurts, pressing down against my muscles and bones in ways I’ve rarely experienced. I yielp and moan, but Alia lifts one foot in the air, and slaps it down against my cheek with force.

The impact slams my face sideways against the floor, and she starts rubbing her sweaty sole into my cheeks, leaving a trail of sweat in the way, while Anbar stomps up and down my lower body with sadistic glee.

“Don’t make a sound,” Alia says, lifting her foot. She moves the toes to my chin, and gently pushes my face back up, until I’m looking at her. It’s such a… delicate and fine manipulation, that it somehow feels more humiliating than the slap. “I’m trying to work out something.”

My training is too thorough for me not to understand that Alia means more than just be quiet, this time. So, I diligently open my mouth, and I find myself responding to the satisfaction and approval on her face. It really is that easy to make a human obedient, huh? Just a bit of carrot and a lot of stick.

Or maybe that just works with affection-starved, financially weak, plain-faced girls like me.

Alia’s foot slips seamlessly into my mouth, gagging me, just like she wants. She doesn’t need to hear me speak. She thinks I have nothing to contribute to the conversation, and she’s right, of course. I deserve this. Simply being in this room is driving all resistance out of me, like it always does.

I’m a stupid foot slut. The salty, sweaty, clammy skin I’m currently massaging with my tongue is proof enough. No self-respecting girl would let her mouth be used as a foot holster. Once you do that, something changes inside you. You no longer think of yourself as equal to the rest of womankind.

“What are you thinking about, sis?” Anbar says, one heel digging deep into my stomach while the other rests luxuriantly above my crotch, rubbing it back and forth. It’s becoming harder and harder to deny that arousal and humiliation are now rolled into one in my fucked-up brain. I’m having to hold back from humping Anbar’s foot.

Unbidden, the image of losing my v-card to the sisters’ feet crosses my mind, and just, God. Cannot be un-thought, ughh.

“Well,” Alia says, slowly but inexorably working her foot deeper into my mouth. “She is wearing a maid uniform. And Yasmin does want to use her as serving staff…”

“And I make her clean my room,” Anbar says, in a sultry tone that suddenly fills me with dread. Where’s this going?

“Precisely,” Alia says, her toes now getting a massage from my tonsils as my eyes water and my throat spasms. She turns her focus fully on me, her clever eyes digging into mine, a suggestive smile playing across her lips.

God, she’s beautiful.

“We should demote her to being a live-in maid,” Alia says, grinning.

I close my eyes, softly gagging on her right foot, while her left digs painfully into my boobs. The lack of shock in my reaction surprises even me. Maybe it’s the foot haze, or maybe it’s that, on some level, I was expecting that this moment would come.

“She wouldn’t be paid, of course,” Anbar says, now standing with both feet above my crotch, laughing at the sight of my legs thrashing this way and that as I squirm in pain. They’re literally trampling me into dust, compressing me into the floor.

I should be way more scared about this than I am. I wouldn’t be living with Mum anymore, although I suppose we could be… colleagues here. Somehow, I doubt I would get a bedroom to call my own, so all my things would be forfeit as well, I know how Alia’s mind works at this point.

And being under the sisters 24/7… how would I study? Hell, how would I do anything that isn’t drooling my brains onto Alia’s feet as I lick them?

I would have no personal life left, and no chance at regaining my freedom. No chance at all.

“If anything, she should be paying us,” Alia says, her foot now bobbing up and down, lightly facefucking me. “I’m not giving this undeserving bitch free room and board, that’s for sure.”

“Mmmmpphh??!” I moan, to Alia’s hilarity, as the sole of her foot presses hard against my tongue. Of course I expected being unpaid, but wouldn’t I be paying for my room and board with my literal 24/7 subjugation to their whims? What did they even have money for, they’re filthy rich!

Besides, I have none to give. What little I had has been wiped out with Yasmin’s gift.

Anbar quickly comes to the same conclusion, somehow blaming me for it of course.

“The slut’s probably pissed away all her money on those sneakers,” Anbar says, stomping my thighs – like she’s methodically trying to make me hurt all over. “Damn fetishists.”

I’d like to protest, but Alia’s facefucking of me is increasing, and all I can muster is a pathetic series of gluk gluk gluk sounds.

“Oh, I think I know how to fix that,” Alia says, and the evil glimmer in her eyes makes me quiver in fear. “We’ll brainstorm a few ideas, sis. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“Somehow,” Anbar says, returning her foot to my crotch, now openly rubbing it up and down, “I don’t think she’ll like it.”

Alia crouches lower, bending a knee over my squished chest. As her center of gravity lowers, the foot she’s impaling my mouth with sinks even deeper, making me cough and choke around it. Her angelic face now dominates my field of vision, a sight of beauty and cruelty through the veil of my tears.

“No one cares what she likes,” Alia says, slowly and deliberately, looking into my foot-sucker eyes. “What matters is we have fun. She has no say in how that happens. Isn’t that right, Zainab?”

Her hand caresses my cheek, resting against the bulge formed by her own foot. Between this intimate, fucked-up moment with Alia, and my hips now humping Anbar’s fleeting, teasing foot, it’s getting harder and harder for me to maintain any semblance of stability.

I can’t speak, I can’t move, I can’t flee. I can barely even think, in this room. Every little part of me is fully subordinated to their pleasure.

So, when Alia’s hand descends downward from my cheek and rests gently around my throat – a threat and a promise at once, just as her foot sinks all the way in one last time – I find myself listening to her words like the pronouncements of a deity.

“You can’t wait to move in with us,” she says, in mock-sweetness. “Having you around will make my life so much better, and you want that.”

Alia tilts her head, almost curious, and blinks at me. “Don’t you?”

My lips sealed like a suction around her foot, my entire body underneath every part of hers, my mind finally tamed like she’s lasso’d it into restraints, I close my eyes once. Then, I reopen them, meeting Alia’s gaze.

And, utterly defeated… I nod.

Interlude: Like Mother, Like Daughter

What are they doing to my daughter? What are they doing to me?

I bite my lip so hard I fear that it will bleed. But that’s all I can do to hold back the tears of anger and fear I feel.

Working for Sanae is a nightmare. Her daughters are the most spoiled pair of brats I’ve ever met. And my daughter…

I look myself in the mirror, lip trembling, dark bags under my eyes. What’s happening to my poor Zainab? I barely recognise her anymore. She’s gaunt, stinky, always unkempt, she practically lives in this house by now, and wears nothing but that ridiculous maid uniform…

I need to speak to her. Find the time and energy to sit down with her and figure out what’s going on. I wish I had the mental and physical reserves left to do something about it. But I need the money this job brings, and Sanae is a… demanding employer.

She makes me go the extra length, every time. I essentially have to deep-clean the whole house by myself – all other maids have been fired for this very purpose. Moreover, I’m never allowed any time off, on the contrary – if I find myself idle, I am supposed to go to Sanae and ask for additional tasks. She never fails to provide some.

I am utterly exhausted. Even this small bathroom break to compose myself would be considered grounds for firing me, but I need my wits about me for my upcoming conversation with Sanae.

She’s summoned me – god, the arrogance. Summoned! Like a queen does with a peasant, or something!

I don’t know what it’s about… but right here and now, in front of this mirror, I decide I’m going to straight-up ask her to stay the hell away from my daughter. I don’t know what her fiendish brats have done to Zainab, but I want it to stop, right away.

I breathe in, smoothing my maid uniform and calming myself. Here it goes. I’ve known Sanae for decades, we’re of an age, I’ve got nothing to fear from her. The fact that she’s rich and I’m not means nothing. I can do this.

With trepidation, I step out into the main hallway, and head towards Sanae’s study. She promptly answers my knock, telling me to get in. She really fancies herself a queen with her own palace, I think to myself, but it’s a mirthless thought.

As I step into her study, I find her sitting in her reclining chair, one leg elegantly draped over the other, a mug of tea in hand. The spoon clinks repeatedly against the mug.

Sanae eyes me silently, the way she always does with people she disapproves of. Her eyes would look so warm on anyone else, but on her face, they look like they’re chipped out of ice. There’s everything in that stare.

Dismissive, judgmental, condescending.

She thinks I’m worth less than the dirt I clean for her, no matter how polite her words sound, or how many times she tries to flash a smile that never quite reaches her eyes.

I shuffle and drag my feet, like a kid waiting for a punishment – which is ridiculous, but I can’t escape it. She’s my age, but somehow with her unblemished skin and perfectly coiffed hair, she manages to look both way younger than me, and my senior.

The consummate, beautiful, rich professional, and the failed woman with the sunken eyes and gaunt face who cleans her house for minimum wage. What a contrast we make.

“I hear there was trouble with one of my daughters,” Sanae says at last, impassible, her spoon swirling inside the mug.

Oh. So this is what this is about, then. I suppose I should have expected as much. I gulp, then nod, trying to look respectable and reasonable. Hell, considering Anbar was fully in the wrong, this might even provide me with a smooth way to bring up the issue of Zainab.

 “Yes, ma’am,” I say, respectfully but firmly. “I believe Anbar’s behaviour was quite inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate.” Sanae says, spitting out the word like it’s poison. “How so?”

“Well,” I say, recalling the inciting event. “It was yesterday evening.” At the time I was exhausted beyond words, but I know better than to tell that to Sanae. “Anbar just started yollering for me, and wouldn’t come down. So I stopped scrubbing the floors, and headed upstairs to see what she wanted.”

“That seems to be well within the scope of your duties,” Sanae says, and that’s an ominous way to begin this recollection. I get that she has to stand by her daughters, she even looks the other way when they abuse and bully poor Zainab, but this is getting a little ridiculous.

Still, I collect myself and continue.

“So in I went, and she smirked at me, pointed at the sole of her foot, and said it itched. She wanted me to scratch it, said normally Zainab would take care of that sort of thing.”

“The slave.” Sanae says, curtly. “Do not use that name in this house. Your daughter is a slave. Surely even you must have noticed as much. I expect you to observe this propriety henceforth.”

What?

I stare at Sanae, frozen in equal terms by confusion and horror. Because the truth is that the word – that horrifying word that no human being should get to throw around so lightly today – makes sense. Suddenly it clicks. Zainab practically living here, always looking down at the floor, wearing that maid uniform…

They’ve been treating Zainab like their slave. Is that what they really think of her? Why does she let them get away with it? Whatever the reason, it’s clear she’s going to need me to step up for her.

Anger flares inside me. Yes, I need the money, but not this badly. I absolutely will walk away for my daughter’s sake. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe.

“My daughter is not a slave,” I say, throwing my chin up. “What the hell, Sanae? How did you even come up with this ridiculous idea?”

“Mmmh,” Sanae says, looking from me to her mug, and then back to me. “We’ll get back to that in a moment. I assume you told Anbar that you wouldn’t scratch her foot.”

“Of course I told her no!” I say, and at this point I have utterly and completely lost my bearings. This conversation is not going the way I expected. I’m in uncharted waters, and I’m not sure what to do. Should I just walk out at this point?

Sanae sighs, as if in exasperation. What, does she actually expect me to scratch her daughters’ own feet? Just how pampered are they? Well, no matter what she thinks, ours is still a boss-employee relationship, and as such, I have rights. I’m not going to stand down on this.

“I assume you feel Anbar was being unreasonable. Perhaps unfair, even.”

“That, and more,” I say, sounding more self-assured. “And I expect an apology.”

“Oh, an apology is definitely on the cards,” Sanae says, but somehow I don’t think she’s genuinely agreeing with me. Before she can continue on yet another tangent, however, I speak up again.

“There’s also the matter of Zainab. We need to talk about the way you’re treating her. I won’t stand for it. She’s not your maidservant!”

Sanae’s eyes narrow. “The slave,” she says again, with a cold, threatening tone that sends shivers down my spine. Then, she seems to lose interest in me. She gets absorbed by the tea mug, contemplating it. I know her look on her face – she’s trying to make a decision. I don’t know what about, though.

Eventually, she must have decided. She theatrically places the mug on the desk, very far away from her, and throws one final look at it, before focusing her cold, cold eyes back on me.

“Alright, Hasna. Let’s set things straight. You’re right, Anbar was unreasonable and unfair. You know why?”

I shake my head, confused.

“Because you deserve it.”

The poison laced into the words is incredible. The sheer arrogant malevolence takes my breath away. How could I not see this before? This woman is evil. I should turn back now and leave, before I start crying.

I hate that I even feel like crying. I’ve always fled confrontation, even as a girl. I can already feel my lip tremble. For some reason I can’t get myself to turn away as Sanae riles into me, always with that calm, controlled tone, like she’s dissecting my life rather than insulting me.

“You have no right to fairness and reason,” she says. “Not when you manifestly don’t know your place. Those words don’t apply to you.” 

My hands open and close again and again, balling into fists that I know I’m too much of a wimp to use.

“What’s astonishing is that it’s taken you so long to realise your daughter deserves nothing better than abject slavery to her betters. And so do you.”

Fury builds within me. I’ve always eschewed confrontation – Zainab always has been the strongheaded of us two – but I won’t stand down this time. How does she believe she can treat me like this and get away with it?

But before I can shout in outrage, Sanae cuts through me with words that send horror down to my core.

“Zainab does everything my daughters tell her,” she says, quiet, so quiet that I have to strain to hear. Her eyes glimmer with evil cleverness. “Everything. Can you dispute that?”

I stop in my tracks, my mouth stupidly opening and closing.

I try to think back to what I’ve seen, glimpses and clues, but…

“Everything,” Sanae insists, relentless. “With perfect, prompt, and exquisite delivery. Not because she wants to, or she feels compelled to, but because she must.”

“How is that even possible?” I ask, my head spinning. “I don’t believe you!” But the truth is that, on some level, some horrified part of my subconscious, I absolutely do. Why else would my beautiful, strong, determined daughter let herself get bedecked like a submissive whore to prance around for Alia and Anbar’s amusement?

Sanae is relentless. “In their infinite generosity, my daughters have put her to work. They’ve assigned her tasks that befit her station. They could have done so much worse.”

“W-worse?”

“Yes,” Sanae says, her eyes glimmering with true evil delight. “Think about it. There’s nothing that she wouldn’t do. No matter how humiliating. Or… regrettable. Maybe even reckless. Perhaps, incredibly dangerous. Surely you wouldn’t want to do anything to usher in that sort of scenario.”

I’m literally speechless. I have no words. Is she threatening to harm my daughter if I don’t scratch Anbar’s foot on command? Is this woman completely insane? I should go to the police, I should punch her, I should grab Zainab and flee, get in the car and keep driving until we’re far away from here.

But I don’t. All that comes out is the voice of the scared little girl I’ve always been, trying to make ends meet every month, trying to not get pushed around by bullies.

“Please don’t harm Zainab,” I say, and I hate how weak that sounds, how much of a wimp I must be. Sanae immediately spots the weakness, smiling to herself.

But it’s a weakness I cannot escape. I love Zainab more than anything in my life, and seeing her like this makes me seethe with pain and impotent rage… but the thought of her coming to harm because of these people is simply too much to bear. I can’t even bring myself to fully form the mental picture of what might happen.

I’m a coward. But I’m also someone who would do anything to keep her daughter safe.

“Who is it that I shouldn’t harm?” Sanae asks, cocking her head in my direction, plaintively. I swallow, backed into a corner, shaking with trauma and pain at the betrayal I’m about to commit.

It’s only to keep her safe, I swear…

“Please d-d-don’t harm the… slave,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper, as if trying to negate the last word. But Sanae’s own voice resounds like a clap of thunder.

“Louder!”

“The slave,” I say, more openly this time.

“That’s good, we’re getting somewhere. Now that we’ve established who calls the shots, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen about this whole Anbar thing. But first… on your knees.”

The look I throw Sanae must be priceless. I’m self-aware that my eyes have gone wide like a doe’s, trembling on the edge of tears, shocked and betrayed… but with no trace of any real resistance.

When my knees hit the polished floor – polished by me – I can confidently say I have officially sunk to a new low, literally and metaphorically.

Sanae’s wealth, beauty, professional accolades and comforts are enough to make me feel catastrophically inferior to her. Being a maid for her is a complete admission of my personal defeat in the game of life. The fact that her daughters have enslaved mine is a hot dagger piercing my very heart.

And now… this. Kneeling in her study like a supplicant, while she leers at me from above.

“Crawl to me. That’s it, like a peasant to a queen.”

I walk towards her on all fours, my mind spacing out, trying to block the trauma. I want nothing more than to stand up and leave, but my cowardly nature finds it easier to get along, and besides…

Zainab. It’s all for Zainab.

“Things are as they should be,” Sanae says, waving her foot in front of my face, watching me as I watch it with eyes full of fear. “You’re finally where you belong. You were never competition to me. Just a peon who doesn’t know her place. Well, now you do.”

Her foot stops mere inches from my face, with the ankle slightly rotated, being almost proffered like a hand waiting to be kissed. My eyes travel upward from the foot, to her slender leg, and then to the expectant look on her face.

“Worship.”

I close my eyes, gulping down. I hate this. I hate it with every fibre of my being. I hate the idea of literally kissing this evil woman’s feet just so she won’t hurt my daughter. But if there’s one reason on Earth to kiss anyone’s feet, surely this is it, right?

I lean forward, hesitantly, dreading the moment that my lips will touch the foot. When they do, the sensation is weird. The skin is smooth and clean, and physically, it’s not all bad… but the sound of my lips suctioning into a demure kiss are a devastatingly humiliating sound that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

There’s no undoing this. I’ve kissed someone’s feet.

Unfortunately, chaste pecks are not what Sanae asks for. She wants worship. So I redouble my efforts, raining kisses upon her ankle, arch, heel, and toes.

“You know, I got the idea from my daughters,” she says from above me. “I never expected they’d take things this far with the slave, but I have to say… I’m starting to see the appeal! It definitely feels good.”

I try to block out the words, keeping my eyes closed as I kiss the tip of each toe. Then, I open them in horror, as I feel pressure mounting against my lips.

I look up at Sanae, shaking my head, but all she does is leer, and push. Eventually, my conquered lips give way, parting around Sanae’s big toe. When it starts moving back and forward at the entrance to my mouth, like a miniature cock, my cheeks redden like a tomato with humiliation and despair.

“I like how you look, kneeling on all fours like a dog, face pressed to the dirt, smooching slavishly as you beg me not to be too harsh on that androgynous blob you call a daughter.”

Once again, the sheer evil behind the words shocks me to my core – so much so that I don’t notice her other foot snaking past me, hooking behind my neck, until it’s too late. Using it as leverage, Sanae pulls me closer to her, driving more of her toes, deeper into my mouth.

“Suck,” she says, simply, and I do, sealing my lips around her foot and vacuuming it with my saliva. “The symbolism definitely appeals to me.”

She really does see me as little more than a slave. And if I let her treat me like this, isn’t that what I am?

“You know, this is all your fault. If you’d raised the slave properly, I wouldn’t have had to teach her such a dramatic lesson.”

I look up at her in horror, and she gives me a look that seems to say shut up as she pushes my mouth deeper onto her foot. Does she really believe I should have raised Zainab to believe she deserved to spend her life at someone’s feet?

“You put it into her head that she could be anything she wanted, but that’s not how the real world works, is it? We put up with this entire charade about equality and social mobility just so we can pacify you. You can go back to cleaning our toilets with a smile on your face, telling yourselves you can get a better life if only you work a little harder… but you can never slip the chains.”

I close my eyes again, and this time, tears run freely down my cheeks. In all the grunt work I’ve done over the years, so many times I’ve had to rebuff powerful men who thought they could leverage my financial need into a blowjob under a desk on in a restroom. And yet here I am, on my knees, sucking on a foot, while this woman I’ve known all my life tells me my daughter and I deserve to become human livestock.

“Don’t believe me?” She asks. “Look how hard the slave’s been studying and working all these years. And look where it got her. Hell, look where it got you! You don’t slip the chains, my dear Hasna. Oh no.”

As if to mark her words, the foot that regulates my sucking pace pulls even tighter, and I begin to gag.

“You actually convinced the slave she could be Alia and Anbar’s equal, for a while. Ridiculous, when she’s so clearly was beneath them in every possible way.” She winks at me. “And guess what? So are you.”

“Mmpphh,” I mumble defeated, as Sanae’s facefucking speed increases. Then, all of a sudden, her foot withdraws from my mouth.

I open and close my jaw, sore from the sucking. My tongue tastes like… well, like Sanae’s foot. I shiver in disgust at the utter debasement I’ve subjected myself to. Her other foot remains perched on my shoulder… I’m my employer’s footstool, and I’ve been so battered into submission that it barely even registers.

“You should thank me for stepping in and doing the job you were too bad a mother to do yourself.”

“Thanks for intervening. Thanks for putting the slave in her proper place.”

I know saying the words will fundamentally change something within me, that I’ll never be the same person again, but what choice do I have if I want to protect Zainab?

“Thank you f-f-for raising my daughter to be the… slave she was always s-s-supposed to be,” I say, my voice trembling as tears wet my cheeks. “I wasn’t good enough to do it m-myself. Thank you for putting her in her p-place…”

“And you,” Sanae says, relentless, merciless, driving ever more into my defences.

“And… me. The other slave.”

“Oh yes,” she says, pressing her thighs together. “Keep kissing. Now, as I was saying. There will definitely be an apology. You should have scratched Anbar’s foot without hesitation. But you expected things you don’t deserve, that do not belong to your station: fairness, above all. Laughable.”

I can taste my own saliva on Sanae’s foot as I lean forward to kiss every square inch of skin. It leaves my lips even wetter. It’s gross, and so utterly humiliating.

“You’re here to serve, be ridiculed, work hard for your betters, and be looked down on. You’re here to submissively serve our every whim, while hoping that one day we’ll be generous enough to let you two have some of our table scraps. And we won’t. But hope alone sustains natural-born losers and slaves like you two.”

I hate that I’m so weak. I hate that my reaction to her words is to cry my heart out. I hate that she wipes the tears from my face with the sole of her foot. I hate that my tears are mingling with my saliva and her sweat, on the smooth skin of her feet.

“So now I’m going to call Alia and Anbar up, and I want you to dress yourself down for them – metaphorically speaking! Explain to them how you’re supposed to comport yourself with them, and why. Don’t skip the details. I will know if you don’t.”

I temporarily interrupt my kisses to stare up at Sanae. For a brief moment, I wonder if there’s any fight left in me, any crumb of defiance. But then I think of what they could do to Zainab if they wanted… and I merely nod, in submission.

“Admission is not enough, neither is just showing contrition,” Sanae admonishes me. “You have to explain why you and your daughter are worth less than them as a human being – and make it convincing, or else.”

As I perform my new, abjectly humiliating duty, Sanae taps away at her phone behind me – doubtlessly calling up those two fiends she calls daughters, the two fiends I’m now supposed to address as Miss, to obey with no hesitation.

All to protect Zainab. The slave? Zainab. My daughter. I must be strong for her. Maybe if I play ball for a while, I can get the opportunity to understand what hold they have over her, and free her.

Sanae has me stand up when we hear Alia and Anbar’s footsteps outside. That mortifies me. She wants to maximise the surprise effect!

The two girls step in, Alia lithe and graceful as usual, Anbar a true slob in her oversized hoodie and baggy trousers – each beautiful in her own way, I have to admit. Their faces screw up in worry when they notice me. Do they fear a scolding from their mother?

Knowing what is actually about to happen, I can’t even meet their gaze. I stare at the ground, and at their slippered feet.

Does Zainab kiss them? The slave. My daughter.

Surely she does. What other explanation is there? Sanae said she’d got the idea from them. God, I can still taste feet on my lips and tongue, smell them on my face. How can I ever recover from this devastating humiliation? How can my daughter, when she spends so much time underneath these two brats? What could they have possibly done, to reduce her to this state?

Alia and Anbar take a seat, each crossing legs. Only I remain standing, back straight, hands tucked out of view. I don’t know if that gives them an inkling of what’s about to happen, but they do eye me with curiosity.

Sanae clears her throat.

“The servant has something she needs to say to you two,” Sanae says, and the transformation on the sisters’ faces is instant and unmistakable. Their eyes widen for a second, then narrow and glimmer, with a smile stretching over their faces.

As for me… hearing the word servant applied to me makes me wish like I could punch Sanae, or run and hide, or scream and cry… anything but this, having to take it in submissive silence for the safety of my daughter.

And for my own, wimpy spinelessness.

But even worse than the silence is the fact that I now have to speak.

“Miss Anbar,” I say, “sorry for… not scratching your foot.”

That sends the sisters into a bout of uncontrolled giggling, but all I feel is Sanae’s gaze drilling into me from the side, and I know it’s a silent invitation to continue.

“Miss Alia, Miss Anbar, I know you can tell my d… the slave to do anything. Please, don’t… I will do my best to give you no reason to order her in ways that we might all come to regret…”

Anbar looks to her mother with a glint of recognition and appreciation in her eyes. She intuitively understands the power move being pulled, and what it enables her to do. She stares me down with a cold, hard look, and then she holds out her foot.

“Ok, I accept your apology… but only if you come here and scratch it now.”

For the second time in the space of mere minutes, I sink to my knees. This time, it’s before two girls who are less than half my own age, girls who have utterly broken my poor daughter, girls who feel entitled to treat a maid like she’s their literal slave.

And Sanae has just enabled them to do just that.

Slowly, I make my way towards Anbar – her foot is slightly bigger and meatier than Sanae, and considerably less clean, I can smell the rancid foot sweat from here. Ugh. I wrinkle my nose, getting ready to scratch it – but then Anbar’s voice cracks like a whip.

“With your teeth.”

It’s all I can do to suppress a groan of frustration and despair. The stench is so bad that it makes me gag as I stick my face against Anbar’s sole, running my teeth gently up and down to scratch her itch.

I’m only mildly aware of Sanae leaving the room, smiling to herself. I’m alone with the daughters now, the princesses of the mansion. And my torment is only just beginning.

Here I am, a grown woman and mother, on my knees, scratching the sole of the foot of this entitled bratty bully – the same bully who’s chained my daughter like a dog – with my teeth. Begging for forgiveness like my life depends on it, not with words, but with abject servility.

But I know Sanae wants me to word my own enslavement, too.

“I’ll put up with all the ridicule and humiliation you want to heap on me, I swear,” I say, as I spontaneously transition from scratching to kissing. I hate it, but Zainab needs me to be strong for her.

Anbar has no outward reaction of delight to my foot kisses. I assume it was Sanae’s first time, as it was for me, but to Anbar, it’s almost… expected. Which sends a chill down my spine. It must be because Zainab performs this duty regularly.

Indeed, Anbar is almost mechanical in the way she turns her foot over, to allow me to leave no part unkissed. How many times have Zainab’s lips been pressed on this foot, which I’m now also kissing?

“You know,” Anbar says, “when I do this to your daughter, she slobbers all over it”.

Alia giggles right next to her, the first time she’s intervened in this humiliating exchange. “Oh Hasna, if only you knew how bad things really are.”

“I can tell you,” Anbar says in mock thoughtfulness. “I won’t let your cow of a daughter cum unless she begs me to destroy some aspect of her life”

“What?” I ask, my mouth agape in shock and horror – I realise my mistake only too late, when Alia’s foot slams inside my open mouth, sending me crashing down to the floor.

In seconds, I find Alia standing over me, one foot firmly placed on my boobs, the other diving into my mouth, toes curling and stretching, seeking the entrance to my throat. The weight is squishing my left nipple and making me squirm in pain, and the sweaty foot fucking my mouth is making my eyes tear up.

Anbar looms above me as well, her shadow literally falling across my face, one foot planted on my splayed out hair, pinning me even further to the floor. The other lands gently on my forehead, as Anbar begins to rub her foot sweat onto my skin.

“Look at your downfall,” Alia says, giggling. “So like the slave’s.”

“You were definitely born for this,” Anbar says. “Which is why I’m cutting your pay right away. Unless you object, slut.”

“Mmmpphh!!” I try to shout, and Alia responds by facefucking me even harder with her foot. She’s laughing to the point of tears, but Anbar merely smirks.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Care to repeat it?”

Defeated, I shut my eyes close. I need the money… but I have no leverage here.

Anbar’s foot starts pressing against my forehead. “You’re not paying for your daughter’s expenses anymore anyway, you don’t need your full salary.”

God, the infuriating arrogance behind the logic… and the utter glee behind the sadism. I can’t believe it. They looked like such a normal family when they and Zainab were growing up. When did they become so irredeemably evil?

“We’ve utterly destroyed your daughter,” Alia says. “And we’re only getting started.”

“I’m going to max out her credit card, how does that make you feel?” Anbar says, slapping the sole of her foot down on my forehead. I try to shake my head as I convulse in tears of desperation and fear, but the two sisters keep me pinned down with effortless ease – in itself a humiliation.

Here I am, effortlessly nailed to the ground by these two young girls who are toying with me, an adult woman, the way a lioness does with a prey she’s about to kill. That’s all I am to them. Physically, mentally, and emotionally too weak to do anything but lie down and take it like a bitch.

Take their feet all over me while they tell me about the coming financial ruin of my daughter.

Alia’s foot withdraws from my mouth.

“When is your wedding anniversary?” Anbar asks, and my heart begins to race in anxiety and dread.

“N-next week… on M-Monday…”

“Good,” she says, and then her foot replaces Alia’s in my mouth, and to my horror, I start sucking unpromptly, like a good foot slave.

“I want you to spend the whole day here,” Anbar says, her eyes boring into mine. “Organising my shoe cloest… by scent.”

“Gnnnhh!”

“Seeing no objection,” she says with a smile, “I’ll take it as a yes. Now, take that foot, slave, and submit.”

And I do, devoting my humble ministrations to slobbering all over it and taking as much of it down my throat as I can.

As I deepthroat on Anbar’s foot, I consider the horrifying mockery I’m making of the old saying.

Like mother, like daughter.

Chapter Seven: A Slave By Any Other Name

With a sense of unmitigated dread, I make my way down the garden, and towards the entrance, of Alia’s mansion. And not as a guest, this time.

I climb the stairs to the front door, feeling like a passenger in my own head. I can barely believe I’m about to do this, to consign my entire life into the hands of the two sisters. But I know that trying to change course would be futile, and I don’t even try.

I really am being broken down, if I can’t even muster any kind of resistance when I am alone. I can’t even look behind me, to throw one last glance at the outside world, before I step into the maw of servitude to this spoiled, rich household.

With a defeated sigh, I ring the doorbell, and then descend to my knees.

Absurdly, I think that Alia and Anbar both hate having to get up to answer the door. They will never have to suffer the annoyance henceforth, I suppose. They’ll have me, living under their roof, scurrying to obey them.

The seconds stretch into minutes. My knees have gotten used to kneeling for long periods of time, but the marble beneath me is hard and cold, and in my revealing slutty maid outfit, every gust of wind sends shivers down my spine. So it’s almost a relief when, at last, the door opens.

Goddess Anbar and Queen Alia stand at the threshold, contemplating me like I’m literal dirt under their shoes. Anbar is in her PJs and slippers, while Alia is in comfy yoga pants she would only wear around the house. I can smell her naked, sweaty feet from here, and the heady aroma immediately sends me even further into subspace.

But what really kills me is the absolute lack of surprise in their eyes. They took it absolutely for granted that I would show up here to become their maid on a 24/7 basis.

And to be honest, were they wrong?

Silently, I shuffle forward on my knees, ready to begin the ritual. We usually do this upon coming inside, but I know I need to earn access to the house where I’m meant to serve them.

Incredible. I’m the one being enslaved, yet I have to earn that. Like it’s a privilege. It drives a confused spike of outrage, humiliation, and… mild arousal… through me.

I lean forward, towards Alia’s sweaty, naked feet, and pay my dues to the former friend who has so thoroughly asserted her superiority over me. I place soft, humble kisses on the tip of each toe – much different from the slutty tongue bathing, deepthroating, and toejam eating I will have to perform later, I’m sure. This gesture is more worshipful than anything else.

I move along the length of the arch, kissing as I go, letting the sweat stain my lips, and the scent bind my will to hers. Politely, Alia lifts her feet one at a time, so I can rain demure kisses all over the bottom. The sweat is worse here, and I feel less and less a human as the smell violates my nostrils and seems to make a beeline straight for my brain. 

Wordlessly, I move to Anbar. I rub my cheeks against her slippers like a cat or any kind of affectionate pet, then sneak my lips beneath the hem of her PJ trousers, just so I can rain tiny kisses all over her ankle.

Once again, it kills me to realize a part of me really appreciates these moments. I’m not being abused, or insulted. My life isn’t being destroyed. This is the one instance of somewhat affectionate physical contact I have with any human being these days. Feet aren’t so bad, really, especially next to everything else the sisters keep doing to me.

But it does make me feel like I’m being reduced, cut down to size under the onslaught of these two girls’ inexorable superiority. I’m starting to think of myself as Zainab the maid, Zainab the foot girl, Zainab the dumb maidservant who’s only good enough to do the bidding of her betters.

Alia and Anbar are young women. Me, I’m just a girl. A dumb peasant girl.

“Alright, I’m getting bored,” Alia says, effortlessly killing the atmosphere with a quip and a giggle. “Let’s get it on, we have so much we need to discuss!”

“Right behind ya, sis,” Anbar says, before actually walking past Alia and disappearing down the hallway. Alia arches an eyebrow in my direction.

“As a maid, you’re supposed to keep my floor clean,” she says, looking meaningfully towards her sweaty feet. “I forgot my slippers, and I’ll be leaving footprints all over this floor. We don’t want that, do we?”

I gulp, buckling under the realization – but not hesitating to obey. The latest intake of foot scent has blasted away all residual free will I might have had this morning. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I whisper, bracing myself for this new humiliation.

“See, you’re not so stupid after all when you listen to me,” Alia says with a giggle. Then, she turns her back to me, walking towards the hallway, and the stairs behind.

I crawl in Alia’s wake. And, at every one of her steps, I bend forward, and wash her sweaty footprints off the floor. With my tongue.

A part of my mind, the residual part from the studious and nerdy girl I used to be, remembers the strong connections between smell and taste. As I obediently lap Alia’s sweat off the floor, I feel more and more domesticated. It takes this little to drug me, just a few drops of foot sweat on the floor.

Can I really blame Alia for deciding to subjugate me? What would I do, if I had a friend who went completely stupid when exposed to my foot scent? My traitorous brain keeps bombarding me with these thoughts and feelings as I lick.

That a girl who truly loses her intelligence and her spine over feet kinda deserves to be beneath other girls. It’s her rightful place in life.

I’m so stupid. I’m a loser. I truly am so easily led. It was silly of me to think myself as Alia’s equal. I deserve to be her maid.

Before I know it, we’re at the far end of the hallway, and entering Anbar’s room, the foot scent fortress of this house. I think it’s truly overkill this time – I’ve never felt this utterly docile – but I’m not about to tell the sisters what to do.

I kneel in my usual corner, rocking gently back and forth on my knees as the foot daze descends on me, sapping me of all higher intellect. Anbar sits down in her gaming chair, and Alia carefully sidesteps the empty energy drink cans and strewn socks on the floor, to carefully sit on the edge of Anbar’s bed.

“Crawl to us,” Anbar says to me, in her usual cruel tone. “Beg to kiss our feet. Treat us like fucking goddesses.”

“Yes, Goddess,” I whisper breathlessly, and I adhere to the floor with my entire body, inching my way closer to the sisters like I’m a worm. Alia laughs out loud, finding this incredibly amusing, but Anbar simply looks on with a stern expression. She’s so scary at times.

“That’s it,” she says. “Bow the fuck down to us, maggot. You were so haughty before, look at you now. Beg for the gift of our feet. Beg us to drive you stupid, to take everything away from you.”

I whimper in fear at the violence behind Anbar’s words, and a part of me wonders in terror what’s going to happen to me by living under their roof – but the foot fog has me in its claws, and so I immediately obey.

“Please, Goddess, please, Your Majesty. Destroy my brain cells with the smell of your feet. Deconstruct my life piece by piece for your entertainment. You get to say how I live, not I. Demolish everything I cherish. Make me into something less than a person. Please let me drool all of my IQ over your feet as I lick them!”

My words astonish even me. I realize of course that on some level, they’re just an example of perfect obedience. Anbar supplied all the clues of what she wanted to hear, and my enthralled mind did the rest.

But the sisters find it hilarious. Even Anbar can’t contain herself this time. They’re both bent over, crying in laughter, while I open and close my mouth in absolute horror at everything I’ve just said… and at the unmistakable arousal now building within me.

Oh no…

“I think she’s earned a foot session with that,” Alia says, wiping the tears from her eyes as her laughter subsides. “What do you say?”

“Definitely,” Anbar says. Both sisters extend a leg in my direction, their naked feet on the floor, mere inches apart from one another.

“Bitch,” Anbar says, and I hate how I immediately perk up, responding to “my” name by instinct. “Feast on these feet while we spell out the rules of your employment here.”

I lunge forward with a mechanical imitation of enthusiasm, which I definitely don’t feel – my arousal notwithstanding. I throw myself at their feet like I’m famished, lapping at them with my tongue like an eager dog.

I stick my face in between them, getting crushed by a foot sandwich that makes me feel dumber than a brick. I lick at the sweaty bottoms of Alia’s feet like an eager dog. I take Anbar’s toes into my mouth like a wanton slut.

I’m so far gone into the foot fog that I listen passively, as they outline a series of rules so dehumanising that the old me would have judged them to be completely criminal.

“First of all,” Alia says, “we’ve gotten you many more maid outfits, just like this one! You should never wear anything else, only real people deserve real clothes. That’s the treatment you’ve asked for, isn’t it? Haha!”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say under my breath as I scoop up every bit of Alia’s toejam into my mouth. Real clothes are for real people, and I’m not a person. I’m Alia’s foot basin.

“You’ll have to give up your bank account,” Anbar says, drying the sweat off her feet onto my matted hair. “You’re not responsible with your money, we saw that with your gift to Yasmin. Our roof, our rules, and we’ll take care of your money from now on. Nothing for your dull peanut brain to worry about.”

That does make me wince. My heartbeat accelerates rapidly as a bout of anxiety washes over me. We have so little money, and I’ve been saving for years, and I might need it after college, and they were the ones who forced me to buy the shoes for Yasmin, and…

Incredibly, words do come to me this time. Such an absolute and devastating level of financial domination scares me down to my core. They’re saying I’m too stupid to run my own bank account, and they might be right… But…

I’ll never have a chance at regaining an independent life if they run my finances. I’ll be fully dependent on the sisters forever. I’ll spend the rest of my life as their pet.

And isn’t that what I deserve?

But I’ve worked so hard, and I’ve always wanted a real job, and so I find myself whimpering and pleading.

“Please, Your Majesty,” I say, addressing Alia in between laps of her foot with my tongue. “Please no, don’t take away my bank account, that’s, that’s…”

“What?” Alia asks, cutting me off. “Serfdom? Modern slavery? How else would you call everything you’ve been doing for the past few weeks?”

I open and close my mouth, unable to come up with a rejoinder, because she’s right. And this is when the sheer magnitude of the truth actually hits me. Slavery is a concept to most of us, because it’s rare in the developed world. But it does exist. And I’m in it now.

I’m a slave.

Not a sex slave, or a kinky slave, because this isn’t a game – I’m a real slave, someone who’s lost their freedom and become property of another human being. Somehow, the thought of this being real makes my heart race like crazy.

It isn’t a game. It has real consequences. It’s real, modern-day slavery.

I stupidly turn towards Anbar, as if I could ever possibly find any relief from that quarter. She has even less patience for my independence than Alia does.

My attempt to voice an objection is swiftly silenced by Anbar’s foot, plugging my mouth like a pacifier. Despairing, I suck demurely, hollowing my cheeks around her toes.

“God I love shutting you up like that,” Anbar says, with a lustful edge to her voice. “Take it, slave. That’s what you are. We play for keeps, you should know that. We’ll never let you go. You don’t deserve to be free.”

“Mmmpphhh,” I moan as I take as much of her foot down my mouth as I possibly can.

“We’re not completely heartless,” Alia says, caressing my hair with her foot, while Anbar facefucks me into serfdom. “We’ll give you some study time each night.”

“But you have to use it properly,” Anbar interjects. “You have to write down all your rules every night, and explain why they matter, why they’re right, and why you deserve to have them imposed on you.”

I close my eyes, fighting to hold back the tears. Graduation isn’t that far away. All these years of toil and struggle were about to see coronation. How will I finish my college career now? They won’t even leave me a few hours to myself each day to study! Worse than that, they’ll make a mockery of it, by having me use my study time for this!

But I suppose slaves don’t get to choose how their time is used, much less their education. And, as my foot-dazed brain and my lubricating cunt keep reminding me, I’ve been reduced into slavery. God, even the words sound hot – reduced into slavery. It’s the verbal equivalent of someone planting their feet in your face and pressing it down against the ground until you stop struggling.

Turning your cheeks into their doormat.

“Besides,” Alia says, “we’re generous enough to let you live here. The least you can do is write a nice essay about it every day, and let us own all your money.”

All my money is less than the allowance Anbar used to get for a summer holiday when we were fifteen years old. But I suppose the amount isn’t the point. It’s proving that they can take it, because I’m property, and there is no limit that they will respect.

And it’s hard to argue with that, while I’m slobbering all over their feet.

“You’ll have to earn your keep working as a maid,” Anbar says, pushing her foot deeper, until her toes are tickling the entrance to my throat. Alia’s foot is now pressing against the back of my neck, regulating my pace as I suck. “And of course, you’ll do so to our specifications.”

I try to look up at Anbar in puzzlement, but my eyes roll at the back of my skull as her foot plunges even deeper into my mouth.

“Cleaning duties must be done the old-fashioned way, with no appliances,” Anbar says. “On all fours scrubbing floors and toilets the old fashioned way, picking up crumbs, dust and sock lint from the carpet with bare fingers…”

“Much like actual medieval peasants,” Alia says with a giggle. I make no effort to hold back the tears now. I will be physically exhausted at the end of every working day. Bar that, I will be destroyed. And I won’t get paid for it either – in a way, I’ll be the one paying them for the privilege, by handing over their bank account.

This truly is my unconditional surrender. My physical, emotional, and mental defeat. The irreversible end to anything resembling a normal life.

Anbar’s foot withdraws from my throat and mouth with a plop. I draw breath, wheezing and coughing, wiping the tears from my eyes. But Alia grabs me by the hair like it’s a leash, pulling harshly.

I whimper in pain as she forces me to look at her. God, she’s beautiful. The molten gold in her eyes fills me with a kind of quasi-religious awe at this point. Intellectually, I almost admire the extent to which this girl has broken me down to something less valuable, less fierce, and less worthy than a person.

“There will be more rules to follow,” she says, with an evil glint in her eye. “But we’ve left the juiciest ones for tomorrow, so you get a whole day to just be yourself… that is, a maid! Haha!”

“Wouldn’t want to overload your poor brain,” Anbar says, scrubbing the top of my scalp with the palm of her hand like I’m a dog that’s just learned to play fetch. Humiliatingly, I lean into the touch, but I also whimper in sheer terror.

They’ve taken my right to a bank account, my time, and my physical energy. I spend more time slobbering all over their feet than I do anything else in life.

What else could they possibly do to me?

“Alright,” Alia says, clapping her hands together. “That’s it for now. Get to work now, maid.”

I bow in submission and worship, showing my conqueror that I do know my place, and kissing her feet with the utter humility of a low class girl before a proper monarch. I know I have the first of many devastating days ahead of me. But it’s hard to resist the idea that it’s where I was always meant to be.

“Yes, my Queen,” I say.

Like a slave should.

***

I’m exhausted.

Every single muscle in my body aches. The entire day has passed, and I’ve gotten maybe one floor done out of the entire mansion. The combination of my inexperience, and the strict rules on cleaning everything on hands and knees and with no tools, has made my work excruciatingly slow, and profoundly humbling.

I thought I could be someone, with hard study and work. I always resented Sanae for not treating me as her daughters’ equal. And yet here I am now, back in my proper place, slaving away at the rich family’s feet, while they get to enjoy their day without a care in the world.

It’s crushing on a personal, psychological, emotional level that words can’t do justice to. It has fundamentally reshaped how I think of me. Zainab, the peasant foot girl. It’s such mind-numbing and gruelling work, that I feel actively stupider after having done it for a full day.

I’ve had to shut down my mind and go on autopilot, cleaning and cleaning. And a part of me almost appreciated the fact that I was left alone with my thoughts and such simple, mentally undemanding work – which tells me everything I need to know about how the sisters plan to train me to perfection.

It’s working. Truth be told, I’d rather spend a thousand more hours cleaning, than spend another minute having my “dinner” with the rest of the family.

Sanae is sitting at the head of the table, as befits the matriarch of the household. Her complete indifference to my new status as a live-in maid drives me even deeper into slave mentality. She takes it so in stride, like of course her daughters have enslaved me, and of course I was always going to end up here at their feet.

She increases the feeling that this was all utterly inevitable. And maybe she’s right.

Alia and Anbar also sit by the table, picking elegantly at their food, which smells delicious from down here.

Yes, down here. I’m kneeling under the table, like a dog, with my own “meal” set before me, in a pink dog bowl with my name written on it with a crayon.

It’s hard to describe the effect of seeing my name, Zainab, written onto a dog bowl. It feels right, and horrifying, and somewhat arousing. But all of it is undercut by the disgusting content of the bowl itself.

It’s a mix of table scraps from their previous meals – half gnawed bites of meat, stale bread, floppy vegetables, all of it liberally coated in Alia and Anbar’s gobbles of spit. It’s all mixed with truly bizarre add-ons, like butter sticks, and whole spoonfuls of ketchup and mayonnaise.

I say truly bizarre, but the grim, soul-rending reality is that I know exactly what the purpose of all this is. It was the same at “lunch break”, which consisted in eating a few chips straight out of Anbar’s hand, like a trained animal.

It’s part of the strict diet the sisters have devised for me.I will get no nourishment from this meal, and my stomach will grumble all-day long, sapping my strength and focus as I work…

But at the same time, it’s all high calories.

Alia and Anbar want to starve me, without actually slimming my figure. They like me thick and ungainly, while they are lithe and beautiful and slender. It’s yet another reminder that I’m a lesser girl, not even a real girl at all, while they are real women, worthy to be served.

I’m poorer. Dumber. Fatter. Uglier. No one could ever possibly want anything to do with me, except to boss me around for something anything remotely useful to themselves. I exist to serve my betters. I’m putty in the hands of real girls. Of course they should control what I eat too, and of course my nutrition should come second to their amusement.

As I bend forward to scoop some of the butter into my mouth, it dawns on me that I’m surrounded by three pairs of feet, on all sides. I can sniff them, the subtle variations in their scent, and of course it drives me even more stupid, but what really gets me is that this is the new spice, the new aroma, of my “meals”.

I can’t even take a single bite of this pathetic food without it being utterly polluted by the stench of my conquerors’ feet.

No aspect of my life is foot-free, and if I have to take a guess, I suspect it never will be again.

When the meal is over at last, I follow the sisters on all fours, Sanae’s sadistic smile drilling into my back as she watches me go.

“Come,” Alia says, looking into my eyes. “I want to show you your new room.”

I blink, stupefied. This mansion is so huge there’s probably room for a small army, but somehow, I doubt the sisters are actually going to grant me an entire room to myself. Still, all I can do is follow like an obedient dog, suppressing my whimpers of pain as Alia tugs me by the hair.

We cross the hallway, entering Alia’s own bedroom – unlike Anbar’s, this is pristine, and doesn’t constantly reek of foot sweat, but the bourgeois opulence of the pastel-coloured furniture is so over the top that it threatens to gag me.

We come to a stop before Alia’s walk-in closet.

And my heart sinks.

“This is your room!” Alia declares with a giggle, turning on a little lightbulb hanging overhead. “You’ll be next door from me! Just like we’re besties!”

Anbar herself chuckles, her foot rising to just below my crotch and rubbing it softly through the fabric of my maid pantyhose. “It’s appropriate, isn’t it? This closet exists for the sole purpose of housing Alia’s footwear. And that’s what you are. Isn’t it?”

“Yes, goddess,” I say, losing myself to the heat building up within me – both at the stimulation, the constant mental assault, and the idea of being a mere object, a literal piece of footwear, rather than a person.

I start humping Anbar’s foot, softly, and then faster. Immediately she withdraws it, leaving me to whimper in soft, meek frustration. Alia finds that hilarious, bending over laughing.

“That’s amazing,” she says, wheezing. “What a slut you are, Zainab.”

“Matter of fact,” Anbar says, towering above me, “that’s part of what we plan to discuss tomorrow.”

A sinking feeling sets in the pit of my stomach, but I’m too well-drilled in my obedience to even ask what she means, so I simply nod in complete deference. “Yes, Goddess,” I whisper.

“First things first, though. Here’s your new roommate!” Alia says, pointing to a dirty clothes hamper. “Be nice to him,” she adds with a pout. “You have so much in common – you both eat my dirty socks, for starters! Haha!”

I bow my head even further, buckling under so many sensory assaults that I can’t even muster words for any kind of coherent response. But the sisters do what they do – they keep piling up more and more pressure. I wonder if they’ll ever stop, or if they will keep going, long after I’ve let myself be reduced to an entirely bidimensional caricature of a living being.

“Give her the pillow,” Anbar says, sniggering.

“Oh, right! That’s why I’ve been walking barefoot all this time! Well, that, and giving you a maid’s audition,” Alia says with a wink. She rummages into the closet, and then grabs what is to be my new pillow.

It’s a pair of slippers.

No, it’s THE pair. The one she used on the very first day of my subjugation, when I first meekly gave her the first of many foot massages.

“Give them a sniff,” she says, pressing them against my nose, and I do, and the foot scent goes straight to my brain, and my thoughts go haywire – what else would I use as a pillow, but this? Where else would I live, but here? Actually, that’s wrong. I don’t live in the closet. I get stored there, when the sisters are done using me.

God, how can I find any of this remotely hot?

“Alright,” Alia says, giving a soft kick to my behind. “In you go, Zainab.”

The way she says my name… it’s almost more hurtful than all the other things they call me. Slave, slut, whore, peasant girl, all of it is true, but washes over me to some extent. But not Zainab. That’s the name of the person that used to be Alia’s friend. And I can feel all her mockery, all her disrespect, and the dizzying extent of my downfall, when she says it like that.

“I’ll leave the light on for an hour,” she tells me – there’s no switch inside the closet, of course. It’s yet another aspect of my life I have no control over. “There’s pen and paper in there, for your study time. After one hour, lights are off, and you go to sleep. Are we understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I say, and all I see as I look downward is her naked feet, as the doors to the walk-in closet shut close between us.

So, here I am, in my new room. Surrounded by racks and racks of shoes, footwear so expensive that it probably tallies to a higher cost than my education.

I’m footwear, too, but not like this. These boots, heels, and sneakers are all valuable. Me, I’m a piece of trash, meant for cheap comfort, not elegance. I’m more like the slippers that are now my pillow.

I give them a sniff, of my own volition, going foot-stupid. I’ll need to be in the right mindspace, if I want the essay to truly shine.

My pussy literally convulses at the idea that I need to be dumb if I want to write the best essay I can. It’s such a reversal of everything I’ve ever believed in, and yet it rings so true. I don’t need to be smart to clean floors, suck socks, lick shoes, and kiss feet. I don’t need to be smart to be Alia’s foot rag.

So, I pick up the pen, while wondering what tomorrow has in store for me, and what I’ll have to write each night. But for now, the words come to me easily. I don’t start out with a list of rules, no. I start out with why they’re justified. Why I deserve them, and why the sisters get to decide, and not me.

“I deserve the following rules,” I write, “because I’m too dumb to be the best version of myself. It’s up to Queen Alia and Goddess Anbar to make me get there.” I pause, thinking, and then write the line that feels true in my heart.

“I deserve these rules because I have to become a perfect slave.”

Chapter Eight: An Acceptance Of Inhumanity

It’s the morning after.

Every muscle and joint in my body aches, after a night of restless sleep stored in Alia’s closet like I’m part of her footwear – which, admittedly, I am. And now, a bright and sunny morning has risen over the first full day since my complete enslavement.

It feels somewhat wrong to see the sun outside, know people are carrying on with their lives, studying, working, falling in love, chasing their dreams. All things I will never, ever get to pursue for myself, because something in my stupid brain makes me go dumb over women’s foot scent, and I deserve to  be reduced to something less than human.

Kneeling in Anbar’s room, all prim and proper in my humble devotion, I don’t dare look up to the goddess and the queen – sitting in the gaming chair and on the bed respectively – as I proffer them the essay I wrote last night.

I used the full hour at my disposal before Alia turned off the lights. It’s the most devastating, soul-rending piece of writing I’ve ever put together. It illustrates, in excruciating detail, why I’m not good enough to be a person.

Why I’m poorer, fatter, dumber, uglier than Alia and Anbar. Why I’m putty in their hands. Why their foot scent drives up my nostrils like an intoxicating drug, sapping me of all will and all IQ. Why, now that I live here full-time, the constant exposure is disassembling and rearranging my mind in novel ways even I don’t fully understand – and making my pussy spasm at the thought.

Why I’m so receptive to their training, as they slowly break me down. Why cleaning on all fours is the only task I’m suited for. Why I will devote every living minute of my time to slobbering all over their feet, lapping like a dog, licking, kissing, sucking.

For the rest of my life.

I’d say I’ve put my heart and soul in this essay, but the truth is, I don’t have either anymore. What I’ve done is, I’ve put in my dignity, my self-perception and self-confidence, my very personhood. I’ve admitted to everything the sisters say about me, and more besides. And now I’m offering this piece of paper to them, like it’s the most precious thing I own.

Except that’s wrong, too. I don’t own anything. Only people can own stuff, and I’m not a person – just footwear.

Anbar ignores the proffered essay, but Alia bends forward lithely, picking it between thumb and forefinger. “There’s a good piece of footwear,” she says like she’s talking to a dog, giggling. “Are you proud of what you’ve put together?”

“I’ve done my best, your Majesty.”

“Is it a love declaration to me?” Alia asks, batting her eyelashes.

My cheeks blush.

“It’s… everything.”

“Be patient, sis,” Anbar tells Alia. “We’ve drained all her brains away. She’s not good with words anymore!”

“Let’s hope it’s irreversible!”

As usual when it comes to my newfound limited intelligence, the sisters break out in fits of hysterical laughter.

Alia throws the essay one final sidelong glance, then places it on the ground. Her eyes match mine, and she flashes me the most evil of grins. Then, her naked, sweaty feet land straight on the page.

I stare, in equal parts shocked and horrified, as Alia begins to rub the sweaty soles of her feet into my essay.

“You know what happens when you open your mouth like that,” Anbar says, as one foot hooks behind my neck and the other plunges into my gaping mouth. I offer no resistance as she brutally impales me on her foot.

“Dumb bitch. Always looking for something to suck on.”

“Like a pacifier,” Alia says, amused.

“Or a cock.”

That makes Alia cover her mouth as she titters. “She can only dream!”

“Doesn’t matter, it has the same effect on her – she goes all docile! Keep sucking, slave.”

I obey punctilously, of course, bobbing my head up and down on Anbar’s foot, keeping my eyes closed, distending my facial features like I’ve seen girls do in porn. Anbar seems to appreciate the show – her foot thrusts more and more energetically into my slutty mouth.

“While you do that,” Alia says with a giggle, “let’s talk about the new rules we promised you.”

I’d almost forgotten about that. Oh god, what more could there possibly be?

“There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’m just going to be blunt,” Alia says. “We own your consent.”

What?

I mumble a wordless question of horror and dread around Anbar’s foot.

“It’s not that hard to understand, peasant girl. You can’t date without our permission, Zainab.”

Again, the poison laced in Alia’s usage of my name makes me feel like I’m being stabbed right through the heart.

“Not that dating is a likely prospect in your case,” Anbar says, luxuriating in the tongue bath I’m giving her foot. “God, can you imagine?”

“I know she barely ever dated before we put her in her place,” Alia says, smiling malignantly, and the casual cruelty of the observation is like a stab right through my heart. Especially because it’s true. “Let alone now. No boyfriends for you, Zainab! You have our feet to focus on, after all.”

“That’s not all,” Anbar says. “We can also grant your consent without involving you in the discussion. Not that anyone would possibly want to have regular adult sex with a foot-smelling androgynous blob like you, but just in case someone wants to use you for their relief, we decide whether the answer is yes or no. Definitely not you. Got it, slave?”

“Mmmmppphh,” I mumble, utterly defeated. Alia had already mentioned passing me around at Yasmin’s birthday party a few days back for the sexual relief of the guests, and I wish I could say that this latest power play surprises me. But it does not.

I don’t know how far Alia and Anbar will go, but I’ve learned to live with the idea that I’ll have no barriers left, by the time they’re done with me.

“There’s more,” Alia says. “You need to answer to us for your pleasure. Any kind of pleasure at all.”

Her left foot stays on my essay, but the right slips underneath the hem of my frilly maid dress as she says it – damn this dress, designed to be so sluttily open and accessible – and rests against my pulsating crotch, a demonstration of power and ownership.

There’s no mistaking the heat that lances through my sex at the touch.

And Alia wants to own that, too?

“You need our permission to touch yourself,” Alia says.

“And likewise, you will do it when we actively command you to,” Anbar adds.

“Indeed. But that won’t be very often! Haha!” Alia winks at me. “I know the foot scent is more than enough to drive you meek and stupid, but I wonder what prolonged chastity might do to your fragile psyche… besides, having to ask all three of us for permission to come, each and every day, will surely humble you even more.”

Alia must notice my unspoken question as my eyes bulge from above Anbar’s foot, lodged deep into my mouth. “Ah yes: this rule applies to Yasmin too.”

Why? Why Yasmin?

Of course I know why, but it still crushes something fundamentally buried within me – a belief that I had nothing to share with entitled, silly bimbos like Yasmin.

I was right, but for the wrong reasons. I have nothing to share with Yasmin because she doesn’t salivate over her friends’ feet, and is in control of her own sexuality… unlike me.

“This is the way it works,” Anbar says. “Yasmin demands that you edge to pics of her on a daily basis, preferably if they show the stuff you’ll never have: beauty, wealth…”

“Friends who consider you an equal,” Alia adds.

“Parents who can actually support you…” Anbar is literally keeping count with her fingers now.

“Free time!” Alia adds.

“Dignity.”

“Control over your own body, freedom to grant or withdraw consent.”

“Romantic partners and dates!”

“Cars and any form of personal property really!”

By this point, tears flow freely down my cheeks, and not just from the deepthroating. Every word is a hammer blow against my residual humanity.

Tired of my ministrations, Anbar withdraws her left foot from my mouth. Then, she slams me to the ground with the other foot, and begins drying saliva off the former using my hair as a towel.

With my cheek pressed against the floor, and Anbar’s feet squishing me underneath her, my nose lands right next to Alia’s feet – which are still rubbing their sweat into my poor essay.

I can’t help but break out in meek, tame sobs of docile despair.

“Yasmin’s still looking for a way to get you addicted to her feet,” Alia explains. “She thinks edging to her all the time is going to work. I’m sceptical, but hey, the only way to know is to try!”

“The edging will be inconclusive of course,” Anbar says. “You’ll need Yasmin’s permission to cum, and only when she’s physically here and you can beg to sniff her feet as you take yourself to orgasm.”

“If you really want to cum, you can also ask either of us,” Alia interjects. “Actually we’d really like you to alternate between all three of us. Keep a rotation or something, haha! Just don’t neglect any of us three with your humble peasant requests.”

“I bet you can’t wait to hear what my conditions are,” Anbar says, laughing, and the small part of my brain that retains a fraction of my IQ thinks she’s using the wrong word.

Conditions are by their nature negotiated. And I have no power to negotiate anything. My surrender to the sisters, and to Yasmin, is utterly and completely unconditional: I’m at their mercy. I should be thankful they’re not asking me to jump off a bridge, or prostitute myself for them. It could be worse. They’re my masters and deserve to be. I will be good for them.

“If you want to cum,” Anbar says, pressing her foot harder  against my cheeks, “You’ll need to beg me to destroy your life in some way, shape, or form. I’ll decide how, but know this. It will be something utterly and completely irrepairable. I’m not interested in the worship you give Yasmin and Alia. I want real dominance, with real consequence. I will destroy your life… but you’ll get orgasms out of it.”

“You should really thank her generosity,” Alia says, and I do, contorting under Anbar’s weight to plant tiny kisses all over her sole – too terrified for words, too submissive for any kind of objection. What’s happening to me?

“As for my rules…” Alia says, in mock-pensiveness, as if this hasn’t been decided long ago among them. “You can play with yourself while you worship me, I suppose. But no cumming, oh no. You need to earn that.”

Alia’s eyes – lovely, so deep, so colourful – drill into mine. “You can cum while telling me about all the things you love and admire about me. I can walk all over you as you confess your love and feelings of inferiority towards me.”

I start trembling like a leaf under her gaze.

“That’s it,” she says. “You should fear me. Anbar is right. We will destroy your life. Honestly, there isn’t much of value to it, so we’re doing you a favor, really. But that’s besides the point. Fear is like, the other side to worship. Did you ever think of that? I want you to absolutely adore me. And that will only be a true feeling if you fear me as well.”

I nod, submissively, switching from kissing Anbar’s foot, to kissing Alia’s.

“You’ll praise me while you lick my sneakers and make out with my feet. You’ll tell me all your insecurities, back from when I still thought of you as a friend. You’ll come up with ideas to further your own debasement and make my life even easier and better. You’ll literally kiss the ground I walk on. And then, maybe, you may cum.”

“Ok, it’s getting late,” Anbar says, her words jarring with the atmosphere Alia managed to create. “What do you say we give her feedback on the essay, and then I can do some gaming in peace?”

“Sure thing,” Alia says. “I’ve got shopping with Yasmin anyway, and the slave has a house to clean.”

Alia picks up the essay, careful to touch only a corner of the paper between thumb and forefinger, as it is now drenched with foot sweat. She looks at me evilly, then picks the opposite corner with the other hand, and rips the sheet apart.

The sound of the paper ripping might as well be that of my own heart. Only Alia’s known irritation towards loud crying stops me from bawling like a baby. My Queen’s eyes never leave mine as her hand, clutching at the shredded pieces of my essay, draw closer to me.

“Here’s your feedback,” Alia says, laughing. “I’m going to literally feed it back to you. Haha! Open your mouth.”

I do. Damn me, but I do. The foot scent has too powerful a hold of me, and besides that, the two sisters at this point have battered me into utter submission, are training me to respond like Pavlov’s dogs, have left me devoid of the energy to even conceive of resistance, let alone attempt it.

And as Alia pushes each piece of paper into my mouth, making me squeeze all the foot sweat out of the paper by hollowing my cheeks and lashing with my tongue, I begin to chew and swallow.

“Chew on that a little,” Alia says, her eyes glimmering. “And write an even better essay tonight. Understood?”

“Yes,” I say, in between gulps of paper and foot sweat. “Your Majesty.”

***

Thereafter, the work day goes by in a blur – even more so than yesterday. I scrub and clean and polish, my hands growing callused and rough while the sisters’ stay soft. I spend it all on hands and knees, and it hurts at first, but eventually the pain dulls, as does my mind.

I effectively space out. The work is physically demanding, but intellectually unchallenging, and my brain basically shuts down as I sink into the depths of my new servility. Not even Sanae’s occasional smirk, or instruction to clean this or that corner better, can jolt me out of this weird dissociation.

I know full well this is a perfectly intended consequence. My intellect was my last, my only weapon. Alia and Anbar want to dismantle it. They want me to drool all my intelligence over their feet. The mind-numbing work is just another way to strip me of any ability to focus and think.

It’s their right. They’re the victors. They get to dictate terms to the vanquished. If this is how they want to deconstruct me, then who am I to say no? They’ve taken everything else already, maybe if they take my intelligence away as well, I will stop noticing just how soul-crushing all of this actually is.

By the time my work is done, Alia is still out and about with Yasmin, and Sanae has retreated to her study.

And my cunt is throbbing.

Even through my brain-fog and general exhaustion, I know this is a profoundly humiliating admission. I’m now openly beginning to sexualise my own demise, perhaps in a weird kind of counterphobic reaction, or perhaps because feet are the only part of the human body I’m allowed to touch, let alone interact with with a degree of affection.

Unfortunately, the new rules imposed upon me mean that I have to go to the only person currently in the house who has the ability of granting me an orgasm. So, with a defeated sigh, I crawl my way up the stairs and towards Anbar’s room.

I find her sitting in her gaming chair, of course. She’s just turned the computer off and is stretching after a long gaming session playing some kind of FPS. She throws me one prodding look, and I glimpse instant recognition in her eyes.

She knows why I’m here.

The way her mouth stretches, slowly and inexorably, into a feral grin is kind of terrifying. I wonder where this killer instinct comes from. Both sisters have it. For Alia, it’s the curious cruelty of a bored princess in need of stimulation. But not for Anbar.

There is a weird… coldness to her. A desire for me to see her as a literal goddess. Alia wants, above all, to have fun, be entertained, be spoiled and adored. But Anbar wants absolute power. It’s her aphrodisiac. I’m someone who will never contradict her, never dare utter a word without her permission, who will unerringly conform to her wishes.

That’s why she’ll never let me go.

“Why are you here?” She asks, sneering, as if she didn’t already know the answer. “Dumb peasant girl wants cummies?”

God, she truly speaks to me like she’s talking down to a not-particularly-intelligent puppy.

“Yes, Goddess, please…” I say breathlessly, prostrating myself to her the way she likes. I can’t even feel embarassment over this request. This is my life at this point, isn’t it? The life of a slave. If I can’t get out of it, can I really be blamed for embracing it? For trying to turn it into something somewhat pleasant?

“That’s a good maggot,” Anbar says, coldly. “You should always crawl and beg. But that’s not enough this time. You know what my rule is.”

I swallow, but the foot scent has such a hold on me that I have no hesitation in delivering with perfect obedience.

“Goddess Anbar, I beg you,” I say. “Please destroy one aspect of my life. Ruin it beyond repair, for your own entertainment. Please take something that makes me a person, break it in two, and drink in the horror and defeat in my eyes. Please strip something essential away from me, until nothing is left except this terrified, whimpering core of a serving girl who exists only to writhe helplessy beneath your feet.”

My declaration leaves me breathless, and wordless. My words terrify even me. My subconscious has produced a script to the specifications that Anbar would enjoy.

“Get in here,” Anbar says, pointing to the desk, “and give me your social media log in information.”

My eyes widen in horror, but my body rushes to obey. I slide smoothly under the desk – a familiar position for me – and shiver as Anbar’s sweaty, smelly feet come to rest respectively on my lips and my throat.

I hear her tapping at her phone above me, doubtlessly using my login information to sign into my social media accounts, but that doesn’t stop my hand from snaking down to my crotch, as soon as Anbar tells me I can begin.

This is, without a doubt, one of the most surreal experiences of my life. The intense foot scent from Anbar is worming its way up my nostrils and into my mouth, and I can hear the ftzzzs and pops as my brain begins to shut down. The idea of my social media accounts in her hands terrify me to my core. And all these feelings come together… in my arousal.

The intellectual dullness of a footslave, the fear of a helpless prey, and the lancing heat coursing through me when I begin to touch myself. I’m ready and responsive, my body going into overdrive just as Anbar’s feet make my nervous system shut down.

“I’m going to start blocking people,” Anbar says. “You don’t deserve them as your friends, not even online. Don’t stop, bitch.”

And I don’t, there’s no danger of me stopping – in fact, my fear and terror about Anbar completely destroying my internet friendships at a stroke of her fingers intermingle seamlessly with my fantasies.

“There go your parents,” she says. “And ohh, is this the girl you used to hang out with in high school? Gone. Oh, I remember this guy, you had a crush on him that summer! Aaaaand he’s gone. Members of the reading club are next – although I should send them a goodbye note mentioning that you don’t know how to read anymore.”

Tears fill my eyes at so many connections over so many years, being severed just because I need to cum, like the fat, stupid whore I am. It’s all so evil, so hot, so… perfect. Anbar is slowly depriving me of my support network. What are the chances anyone’s ever going to save me, as she isolates me so utterly?

The only people in my life will be Alia, Anbar, Yasmin, Sanae…

There will be no one who sees or treats me as an equal. I’ll be a piece of chattel, livestock for human husbandry, footwear, and oh God I can’t stop touching myself, I can’t, I –

“Breathe it all in,” Anbar says, pressing her toes to my nose. “That’s it. No more friends. No more family. No more private life. You’re nothing, Zainab. Nothing. Every breath of my foot scent makes you dumber. Every touch of your fingers drains your intelligence. All those years studying are now gushing out of your cunt, leaking out of your mouth as you salivate over these feet. That’s how little it takes, a pair of feet, and you stop functioning like a human being. Because you’re not one.”

She’s right, I can feel my thoughts drain and leak and leave me, I can’t even claim to be a ditzy bimbo because that would imply personhood, all I am is a carpet with a clit and a mouth and the ability to clean floors and worship feet and –

“Cum your brains out, whore,” Anbar says. “Cum for me.”

And I do, and it goes on, and on, and on, and the pleasure crashes against me in waves, until my brain shuts down, and I see only darkness.

***

The devastating quality of my orgasm over the ruins of my social media friendships exceeds my ability to put it into words.

Part of it is because words come really hard to me right now. My thoughts are confined to a small area of my brain, as I crouch inside Alia’s walk-in closet, letting the fragrance of her shoes drift around my enslaved, prostrate form.

But part of it is because the intensity of it was like an earthquake. Hours later, I’m still recovering. I’m dimly aware of the fact that Anbar took many close-up photos of my post-orgasmic face, uploading them to my social media, but even that horrible realisation can’t really pierce the fog of arousal that has settled upon me.

I’m staring at a blank sheet of paper, where I’m supposed to write my essay for tomorrow. Except my words don’t come.

I screw up my face in a pout that wouldn’t belong to the repertoire of the old Zainab, but definitely fits the docile, ditzy, tamed piece of footwear I’ve become. Eventually, I settle for something simple, yet truthful.

Anbar nuked my socials, I write. Slave went ga-ga.

Before I can elaborate, the door to the walk-in closet opens, and in walks Alia, standing tall against the light like a radiant, godly figure. She’s in a lovely summer dress that costs more than my education, wearing nylons that glimmer under the artificial light, but no shoes. Her hair, her eyes, her smile – she’s perfect, a true vision of beauty.

I turn towards her, lapping and panting like a pathetically eager dog, and throw myself at her feet.

“Your Majesty,” I whisper, worshipfully.

“That’s my good piece of footwear,” Alia says, stroking my hair with her nyloned feet. “That’s my good Zainab. I hear you got your rocks off today. I really like your new profile picture, by the way! I can’t wait for you to ask me. We’re going to have so much fun.”

I blush, but redouble my efforts to shower Alia’s feet in kisses. The nylons are smooth and taut at my touch, and I admire the way they compliment the elegant lines of Alia’s feet, calves, and thighs so much. She’s got killer legs, because she’s a real girl. I just look silly and servile in my own maid stockings, because I’m built like a dumb peasant girl who needs to survive the winter so she can be of use to her betters.

“Lap at my soles, slave,” Alia says. “There’s a good bitch.”

I throw myself to the task, licking like her nyloned feet are ice cream. The taste of nylons on my tongue is odd, but not at all unpleasant. But truthfully at this point this duty is effectively routine. What really makes me perk up is Alia’s next words for me.

“You know I was always manipulative and cruel,” she says. “It’s just you never gave me any reason to pounce on you… until you showed me how inferior you truly are.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” I say in half breaths and in-between energetic licks of her nyloned feet. Even through the nylons, I can taste the sweat of a day walking up and down the mall with Yasmin. I almost feel proud for cleaning it off. Like I’m a washing machine for her nylons.

“I want you to tell me about all the insecurities you’ve had about me all these years, when I still considered you a friend. Before I came to own you. I want to know which of your worst fears have come true.”

“All of them, your Majesty,” and only upon saying this I realise how true the words are. “You’re prettier, wealthier, more popular, well-connected… every time we went dancing, all eyes would be for you, and none for me. At the mall, I could never buy anything, while you’d walk home with so many beautiful dresses that would never fit me…”

“And how did that feel?” Alia asks, a weird edge to her voice. “Did that hurt?”

“So much,” I say, mournfully. “It always hurt so much. Everything came so easy to you. I was trying so hard…”

“There, there,” she says, patting my head with one foot as I return to lick the other, my tongue softly lapping at her arch, heel, and toes. “Now you can stop trying so hard. Just accept that you’re subhuman. With acceptance comes peace, and with peace comes happiness.”

“Yes,” I say, and I mean it wholeheartedly. God, it feels so good to lie down the burden, to stop trying to stand up to Alia, to stop pretending we’re equal. I don’t need to worry about anything in life. I can just focus on cleaning and kissing and sucking and doing as I’m told. It’s so easy, to obey…

Liberating.

“Thank you for putting me in my place,” I say, taking her nyloned toes in my mouth.

“Oh, my sweet little piece of footwear,” Alia says, pushing harder against my eager lips. “You think this is as low as you’re going to sink.”

I look up at her, as her foot snakes past my lips and into my mouth. Her eyes glimmer far above me, cold and unreachable, uncaring and unflinching, like distant stars.

“But trust me. We’re only getting started.”

Chapter Nine: A Debt For Life

This morning is for Yasmin.

Life as a slave to the sisters is so intense that, for a while, I’d almost forgotten what kind of wonders their mansion holds.

Sucked into the abyss of utter servitude and self-annihilation, I got… something akin to tunnel vision. The house for me exists only as surfaces to be cleaned. I haven’t ventured outside once since the moment I accepted Alia and Anbar’s full mastery over me.

Now, I’m being reminded of the beauty and immense opulence of this place.

Birds chirp in the branches of the trees, kissed by the sun. The soft grass sways in the breeze. The water of the pool reflects the bright light of this sunny day, inviting anyone lucky enough to be invited here to take a dive.

I’ve used this pool countless times during the years. As I grew up, envy for this level of wealth slowly faded, and was replaced by a personal degree of displeasure – nobody needs a house this large, with monstrous energy requirements and near-zero density.

But those are the kinds of thoughts that only a free girl can think, and I’m no longer one. Now, I’m a slave, as much a part of the estate as the toilets I scrub and the shoes I make out with. To my brain, addled by hours upon hours of grinding chores, the tranquility of this pool is almost a shock.

One would think that being ordered to spend the whole morning here would be considered a blessing.

But if there’s something I’ve learned in serving my betters, is that there’s no such thing as blessings.

Yasmin is enjoying the pool, resting and suntanning without a care in the world. I’m not here to enjoy leisurely time, no – I’m here to serve. To fetch her drinks, to stand still and utterly immobile under the unflinching sun, and not move an inch unless it’s at Yasmin’s request.

I’m out of my maid uniform, but not out of my maid role. If anything, being in my swim costume only reinforces how ugly and ungainly I look next to Yasmin. It’s why Alia ordered me to dress like this.

The first time I had to put a swim suit every summer was an old insecurity of mine. And look at me now, baking under the sun in my ridiculous body, fattened by the diet selected by the sisters for me, while Yasmin gets to sunbathe in peace.

In a way, it is only fitting.

The college bimbo has sunk her hooks into me in ways that drive home just how far I’ve fallen. She doesn’t even have the foot-scent power over me that the sisters do, and yet she has me eating out of the palm of her hand like an eager dog.

Only now am I beginning to understand what it truly means to wait on somebody, hanging from their every word, at their beck and call.

Worst of all, this girl who I once considered dumber than a brick is playing mind games with me… and succeeding.

Her chestnut locks are lightening in the sun, beautiful and elegant. My own hair, matted with foot sweat and unwashed, makes me look more like a stray dog than a person.

Her lithe, slender body unfolds under the sun with almost feline elegance, while I stand obediently like a statue of fat, sweat, and stupidity.

Her long shapely legs move, the thighs rubbing against one another, the calves flexing to emphasise Yasmin’s incredible silhouette. They are elegantly tanned, whereas my stubby legs are pearl-white from being kept in a storage closet all day, and will surely roast under the sun until I look redder than a pepper.

Yasmin is a vision of radiant beauty and female perfection. I – in Anbar’s words – am just an androgynous blob, fit only to carry drinks and spend my life at women’s feet.

And eventually, of course, her feet do come into play.

Wordlessly, Yasmin lifts her legs so that her ankles lie against the armrest of her beach chair.

Her petite, immaculate feet dangle invitingly, the tiny toes curling and flexing, giving me a show. An implied promise, and a threat.

I swallow.

I know my rules, and Yasmin does them too…

When I fail to react fast enough, she beckons me closer with the lift of a single finger. That’s all it takes to get me moving – like a stupid cow who will go where she’s told – and I approach Yasmin with reverence and a degree of fear.

“So,” she says – the first time she’s spoken to me in hours. “Is the peasant girl ready for her cummies?”

I gulp. Yasmin’s foot scent feels entirely regular to me, it doesn’t melt my brain into submissive pudding.

But…

In truth, these humiliating orgasms have become the highlight of my existence. It’s a terrifying admission, when phrased like that, but it’s true. They humiliate and debase me, they take away a portion of my personhood each time, but they’re the only true highs in a life devoted entirely to cleaning and kissing and licking and sucking…

Something inside me is permanently broken. I’ve been effectively saddle-broken, demoted to something less than a woman, a maidservant who exists only to make the lives of true women more entertaining and more pleasant.

My mouth belongs on toes. My body belongs in the storage closet. And my pussy…

It squirms at the mere thought of having to wring out an orgasm by acting like Yasmin’s puppet on a string.

The three girls have done their work too well. I never stood a chance. Before I know it, my knees hit the marble by the poolside. It’s hot, having baked in the sun all morning, and it makes me grimace, but Yasmin’s cold, cruel gaze tells me this is where I’m supposed to stay.

My mouth is dry, my head is pounding from constant solar exposure, my skin feels dry, and I hate how disgustingly fatty I feel, next to this literal goddess sunbathing and enjoying what life has to offer.

But I know my rules. Yasmin’s left foot rotates towards me, and I stick my face right in, nestling my nose between her toes, and taking a deep breath.

Yasmin’s foot has no strong smell. Normally at this point my nostrils would already be assaulted by foot sweat, but she’s pretty careful with grooming. Her feet smell… clean, almost refreshing, with only the slightest tinge of sweat from the morning spent exposed to the heat of the sun.

The mere fact that I can evaluate aromas and nuances in foot smell is proof of how much I have been debased as a living being. But I stay obediently on my knees, and sniff, and sniff.

It doesn’t drive me stupid, or obedient – but to be honest, at this point, it might as well. I’ve come to a point where apparently I do this even without coercion, so what is my face to be used for, if not as a footrest for girls?

“Get to work,” Yasmin says, and with a weak nod, I let a hand snake under my costume, and begin to rub myself.

Yasmin hopes that, by masturbating while smelling her feet, I will eventually develop the same reaction to her foot scent as I have for the sisters’. I don’t think it will work, somehow… but that doesn’t make the experience any less devastating.

I’m kneeling on the scorching marble, masturbating by the pool, while sniffing the feet of a girl I disliked all the way throughout college – and having to beg her for an orgasm.

“Please, Princess,” I say, grovelling in-between humble sniffs. “Please…”

Yasmin nods pointedly towards her foot, and I gulp.

I start placing humble, worshipful kisses on her naked, petite feet. Her skin is gloriously smooth, and my increasing familiarity with every little detail of her feet makes my job easier. All the subtle differences in texture – the ankle, harsh and smooth, the heel, rough and solid, the ball, soft and warm, and of course each toe, all ten of them, kissed in order from left to right…

I can’t ignore how much this is lubricating me. How much the humiliation is getting to me, like I’m being intoxicated. How fast my hand is rubbing underneath my costume. How strongly my cunt is pulsing, overriding what few higher cognitive processes the sisters have left me with.

I spread my lips in worship, welcoming Yasmin’s right foot into my eager mouth. I pant and attack her foot like it’s ice cream, or a cup of water in the desert, trying to suction every drop of sweat, every hint of taste, every residual tidbit of sock fluff, off her beautiful feet.

As I worship her right foot, the left slaps me on my cheek – there’s very little pain, but the humiliation stings to my core, especially when I realize my mistake. I’m supposed to look at her, when slobbering all over her toes.

So I roll my eyes upward, widening them as much as I can. I know I’m ugly, fat, stupid, unlovable, that there’s nothing sexy in my ridiculous imitation of a devoted blowjob… but that’s the intended effect. Yasmin can barely contain her laughter – so light, crystalline, and cruel – at the sight of me.

“God, you look so pathetic,” she whispers, sultrily. “You can’t even pull off the eager sucking girl look. You’re hopeless.”

I nod, never letting my lips off her foot for one second, while the left foot rests symbolically against my forehead, the toes clutching at my matted, sweaty hair as Yasmin makes a pretend show of regulating my pace.

“I wonder what my friends at the party will think of you,” Yasmin says as her feet treat my face like their playground. “The fat loser who’s too ugly to look at, and too stupid to talk to. Wait, but that’s what they’ve always thought of you! Haha!”

The only reply I can muster is a series of gluk gluk sounds, as a single tear begins to stream down my cheek. From Yasmin’s smile, I can tell she’s noticed, and she approves. When she smiles like that, she truly is so beautiful…

“I can’t believe my friends will have to suffer your presence for, like, the whole evening. I’m sure you’ll do everything to make it up to them,” Yasmin says, withdrawing the right foot from my mouth, and using my hair to dry off my own saliva. Her left foot travels downwards, resting symbolically against my right boob. Her toes find the nipple between the fabric, toying with it.

By this point, I’m openly panting, and speeding towards the edge.

“I’ll do anything… just, please, Princess Yasmin, let me… anything…”

“Alia tells me you get dumber each time you do it,” Yasmin says, looking thoughtfully at me, twisting my nipple even harder. The truth is I… I don’t know. Do I? Does it? I…

I can only whimper.

But that is good enough for Yasmin.

Her gaze never leaves mine as one foot suddenly lifts up, the toes clamping shut against my nose. Her other foot slams against my hand, the hand I’m using to rub myself closer and closer towards the edge of the abyss.

“My feet are taking you over the edge,” she tells me, forcing me to nod along by pulling on my nose with her foot. Her other foot is matching the movements of my hand now, adding to the thrust, and oh god the stimulation is too much to bear, and my thighs are quivering, and –

“Cum,” Yasmin says, and I do, moaning from deep down my throat as an insane shockwave of pleasure radiates outward from my sex. My eyes shoot open, my every muscle trembles, and for a blissful moment I feel grateful, so grateful to this princess as my smarts literally trickle out of my cunt, so full of admiration for her ability to domesticate me, so utterly and completely dehumanised…

I collapse on the scorching marble, uncaring about the heat. I’m experiencing a full system crash, my brain is sinking in a sea of molasses, and my body barely responds. Residual waves of pleasure course through me, each weaker than the last, as my eyes roll back into my skull.

The last thing I clearly perceive is Yasmin’s feet, landing elegantly on my back, the soles adhering to my skin. So now I’m to be her footrest while she sunbathes… but before I can even decide whether the thought mortifies or gratifies me, I space out.

I come back to the sound of Yasmin laughing – as always, laughter that is both beautiful and cruel, like the depths of winter.

Her feet are no longer resting on my back. I take that as a cue that I can sit up, and I do, blinking my groggy eyes, my head swimming.

The sun above is considerably higher in the sky. How long has it been?

I open my mouth to word the question, but before I can make a sound, I find myself staring at a phone. Yasmin’s.

On it is what is clearly a photo of my back. And as I look at it, my eyes widen in horror.

My skin is redder than a pepper, and I know for a fact that I’m going to be badly sunburnt from this. But there are two entirely unblemished, pearly white, untanned spots on my back.

And they are the exact shape of Yasmin’s feet.

As her mocking laughter echoes around me, I’m so stupefied that I barely hear the words she whispers to me next.

“I’ll remember what you’ve said about the party,” she says. “Anything, Zainab. Anything I ask. Anything…”

***

This afternoon is for Anbar.

It’s weird – this is the first day since I first moved in that I haven’t actually done any chores. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was a roundabout way to give me a day off, but neither the sisters nor Yasmin would ever countenance that.

I think they’re just in the mood to play with their toy today.

My skin feels dry and leathery where the sun burned it, and my face is on fire. Worse, under the fabric of my maid uniform, I know the untanned silhouette of Yasmin’s feet to be perfectly visible, and I know that will give Alia and Anbar even further ideas.

But for most of the afternoon, Anbar has used me only passively, allowing my overtaxed, overstimulated, simplified peasant brain to space out. I’ve been curled up under her desk for hours on end, half-listening to her play some kind of tank multiplayer videogame above me, continually cursing at the stupidity of her team mates and the inadequacy of the map rotation algorithm.

Her feet have been on me the whole time, and for once, I’ve been eager to breathe in their scent. I’m starting to welcome the brain fog that comes with inhalation. The dumber I am, the less I can dwell on the absolute horror that my life has become.

Every single part of it has been destroyed. Everything. Nothing is left of the old Zainab, her dreams and hopes…

Only the fears.

But with the constant scent of foot sweat permeating this room, I can allow myself to sink into ignorance, stop thinking, and start feeling.

And with feeling, come the inevitable consequences.

Mere hours after my humiliating defeat at Yasmin’s feet, my cunt is throbbing once more.

The sisters have effectively drilled this routine into me. Masturbating three times a day – let alone begging to be allowed to do it – would have never crossed my mind, when I was free. Now, well… the routine is taking hold.

I whimper softly as I push my nose deeper into Anbar’s toes, spreading my thighs to allow her other foot to worm its way between them.

“Lol. Someone’s eager,” Anbar says, and an old residue of my thinking brain reflects that Anbar is the only person I know who’ll literally say lol in real life and out loud. But it’s a trifling consideration. What’s left of my brainpower is currently wrapped up around her toes, literally.

I can’t see Anbar’s face from here, but I don’t need to. In order to survive, a slave must be very perceptive of facial expressions, be able to respond to the owner’s every non-verbal cue, anticipate needs before they become orders. I’d say I’m good at this, but the truth is simpler – Alia and Anbar have an instinct for what it takes to domesticate someone.

Right now, Anbar must be smiling a kind of predatory smile. The kind that stretches slowly from a smirk into a grin, showing just a hint of teeth, a promise and a threat. The impossibly smug self-satisfaction of a predator who sees prey stepping into a carefully-laid trap.

“Yes, Goddess, please…” I say, forcing my dumb cow brain to produce actual words. I know my rules. I could literally start humping Anbar’s foot, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Each orgasm is going to cost me, and I know it.

“How well-behaved,” Anbar says, ruffling my hair with her toes. “What do you want me to do, exactly? Go on, ask. It’s perfectly safe.”

The faux-innocence behind her words make her sound like a shark, but it’s only for her enjoyment. We both know it’s not safe – nothing here is – and more importantly, we both know I’m too far gone to try and halt my slide into the abyss at this point.

My cunt is doing my thinking for me – and there isn’t much thinking to begin with.

“Goddess Anbar, I beg you,” I say, beginning my recitation. “Please destroy one aspect of my life. Ruin it beyond repair, for your own entertainment.”

I’ve learned the words so well that they’re etched in my heart. They’re like a prayer. An offer of thanks, a plea for mercy, and an act of worship, all rolled into one.

“Please take something that makes me a person, break it in two, and drink in the horror and defeat in my eyes.”

Distantly, I consider that it’s a good thing I came up with this speech when I still had the verbal capacity to do it. I can only repeat it because I’ve memorized it. If I were starting from scratch now…

“Please strip something essential away from me, until nothing is left except this terrified, whimpering core of a serving girl who exists only to writhe helplessy beneath your feet.”

From Anbar, there is no comment. To her, this abjectly humiliating expression of worthlessness and love is entirely expected, indeed the bare minimum. But the words she does say send a chill trickling down my spine.

“I have your wallet here, you know,” Anbar says above me.

One foot rests above my throat as she says this, beginning to push – only slightly, but just enough that I feel the weight of her heel every time I have to gulp. The other is snaking further under the hem of my frilly skirt…

“Yes Goddess,” I say. “You made me give it up on the first day…”

I hear the shutter of a phone camera above me, then, Anbar rolls back in her gaming chair. Her face peeks beneath the desk, grinning at me, holding something between thumb and forefinger.

A wave of dizziness courses through me when I notice it’s my credit card.

“There,” she says. “Now that I have the information, I don’t need this anymore. You can hold it for me.”

The maid uniform has no pockets, because of course it doesn’t. Does Anbar want me to just hold the card in my hand, or…

But no. She rolls right back in, her arm extending in my direction, and it’s a good thing the foot scent makes me perfectly obedient, because otherwise, her next words would leave me too confused to obey promptly.

“Open up! In comes the airplane!”

My mouth opens without my input, as it has done so many times to welcome a shoe or a sock or a foot… except this time, it’s my own credit card that gets placed on my waiting tongue. And then, Anbar’s foot slams back against my face, forcing my mouth shut.

“Start rubbing,” she says. “In the meantime… I’m starting to think a gold account for this game might be well worth the price. What do you think, worm?”

“Mmmpphh,” I whimper, tasting the credit card on my tongue and breathing in Anbar’s foot scent, while my hand frantically rushes downward once more. The thought of my hard-earned money, saved through so many sacrifices, being thrown away on Anbar’s entertainment – when she’s already filthy rich – is so deeply hurtful, so crushing, so infuriating, so…

Hot.

She owns my money. I have no right to any. Only real people can have money, and I’m not a person, just a walking foot holster with a throbbing cunt and a swollen clit that I can’t stop touching. I start to thrash and buck underneath the desk, and Anbar immediately stomps down.

The foot hovering against my face pins my head to the floor, squashing my lips, while the other lands once again against my throat, the heel grinding against my windpipe.

The foot scent – aroma, my broken mind supplies – is draining me of all free will, all higher cognitive processes. I’m acting as Anbar’s ATM, holding her card for her while she does shopping. I’m an object. A thing. With her feet nailing me to the ground while she spends my own money, I feel like I’m being pinned down and fucked.

I’m open, eager, vulnerable, available, a cash cow and a foot whore, a maid and a footrest, I’m part of the estate, I can’t stop rubbing to these thoughts, I can’t come without permission, I can’t slow down, I’m so wet, taking what Anbar sees fit to give me… or take away…

“I’m getting myself a couple new games on Steam. Or five,” Anbar says. “Full price, of course. I’m not a cheap cunt.”

The throaty moan that comes out of me is like something out of this world, a wail of desperation and fear and arousal, intermingling with one another. I’m so mind-fucked that I can’t tell one from the other anymore.

“Ohh, I could get myself a Steam Deck! As a gift from you, of course,” she says. “Alia does always say I need new clothes, too. Let’s see if there’s anything on Zalando…”

Tears fill my eyes at literally every single penny I’ve ever owned being washed down the drain.

Because I don’t own them anymore. People own things. Owned things don’t own things. Owned things don’t cum without permission. God, I’m so close…

“You have a simple brain,” Anbar says, as the toes of her right foot clamp my nose shut, and the left foot presses harder against my throat. “You don’t need all that oxygen.”

I immediately begin to buck and convulse under the weight, not because my air supply is being restricted, but because I’m circling around the edge of climax, my body literally shaking with electricity.

“I’m going to max out this credit card,” Anbar says, and the thought sends a spike of pure stimulation straight to my clit. “I’m going to leave you financially ruined. We’ll get you to the point that you literally wouldn’t have the means to survive if you tried to break free. You’d be out in the streets, with no money, no credibility, and no future, whoring yourself out for a meal. Your only choice is to stay here with us, Zainab. For life.”

The sheer terror I feel is too all-encompassing for words to capture. I’m theirs, oh God I’m theirs, forever and ever and ever, and –

“Cum to that,” Anbar says. “If you can.”

And I can, and I do.

But maybe most importantly, I realize as the pleasure slams against me in shockwaves like an explosive decompression, a part of me wants to.

***

This evening is for Alia.

When I first started climaxing over the ruins of my own life, it felt… devastating. But now, it’s like an already-leveled city being pounded into rubble again and again.

Everything is already destroyed, and yet, somehow, the bombs keep falling, and the damage keeps growing.

Alia has instructed me to crouch before the door, awaiting her return like an eager dog, and I don’t even find it within myself to question this as anything other than normality. That’s what I am, isn’t it? Alia’s puppy. She deserves to get home to my enslaved, prostrate form. It’s the welcome she should receive every day.

After each new orgasm, I feel more and more diminished. Truthfully, my Mistresses are the hammer, and the foot scent is the anvil, and in between there is less and less of me as I am pounded away into dust.

It’s a horrible fate, the utter defeat, captivity, and slavery that is too cruel to even imagine. And yet, I perk up in slutty and worshipful enthusiasm, when the key turns into the lock, and Alia makes her grand entrance.

As always, she’s breathtakingly beautiful – her hair coiffed to perfection, her cocktail dress clinging to her in the most enticing of ways, one nyloned leg kept slightly ahead of the other, showing her lithe and slender elegance.

“Your Majesty,” I whisper, worshipfully, throwing myself into the welcoming ritual.

I place a soft, humble kiss on the tip of Alia’s heels, and then proceed along the length of the shoes – carefully. These shoes are worth a lot more than I am, and even in kissing them, it pays to be delicate.

Alia thoughtfully lifts each foot in turn, allowing me to kiss the street dirt off the soles. And because these are heels, I also pop the heel into my mouth, briefly sucking each heel like it’s a slender cock.

Then I take the shoe off, offering Alia her slippers.

“Thank you for driving me stupid, Your Majesty,” I whisper, concluding the ritual.

“You’ve always been stupid,” Alia replies as she always does, and there is a degree of affection in the way she pats my head, like I truly am her dog.

“I heard you had lots of fun today! How much IQ do you reckon you’ve dropped today? Haha!”

“A lot, Your Majesty,” I say subdued, casting my defeated gaze downward, because the truth is, I’m not pandering to her sadism. I’m being sincere. After every new orgasm, I go ga-ga for longer.

I wonder what will happen, when the after-effects last long enough to melt into the next orgasm. Will they compound one another? Just how dumb am I going to become? Dumb enough that I won’t be able to ask these questions anymore?

“That’s more like it,” Alia says, clapping her hands. “But don’t you think it’s time that you asked me?”

I gulp, nodding. In a way, Alia’s conditions are the easiest to meet – she just wants me to profess my love, adoration, and inferiority towards her. But in a different way, they’re also the hardest.

She was my friend, once. And the kind of brutal honesty she’s looking for feels like I’m having to eviscerate the worst, emotional, insecure side of me every single time. And each time, in a different way.

Fortunately, I’m not so dumb that I am without ideas. At least not yet. One summer when we were in high school, she spent an afternoon riding – not a regular activity or anything, it was a flight of fancy. She took me with her, which of course I never could have afforded on my own.

I remember she really liked the feeling. So… here goes nothing.

“Your Majesty,” I say, breathless, “you shouldn’t have to walk all the way to your room. May I please carry you?”

“Carry me?” Alia says, arching an eyebrow, the gears turning in her head. When she realizes what I mean, she laughs out loud. “Do you mean, like, a pony ride? Seriously? Haha! Oh, we’re definitely doing that!”

Alia’s eager, girlish, yet cruel enthusiasm always puts me on the back foot. Before I can say anything else, her butt lands heavily against my back, making me tilt this way and that as I try to maintain my balance on all fours. Lithe or not, she’s still heavy enough that my knees and hands, already devastated by day after day of hard work, begin to shake.

And of course, my sunburnt back hurts so bad when she slams against it, that tears form in my eyes. But I bite back any protests, and steady myself, ready to carry my owner to her room.

Before I can take the first step, Alia extends her legs over my back, hooking them in front of my face. This makes my balance even more precarious… but also intoxicates me with her enthralling foot scent.

“Here are the only reins I need to steer you,” Alia says, giggling. “Come on, pony! Follow the foot! Yee haw!”

I blush, imagining myself like the proverbial donkey forever chasing the dangling carrot, but it’s true. I take each forward shuffle with renewed enthusiasm, just because Alia’s feet beckon, their scent leading me like an invisible leash.

My reins…

A saddle-broken girl, utterly steered and controlled by feet. And it works. Whenever Alia’s feet happen to brush against my cheeks, the sensation of the taut, smooth nylons on my skin is downright divine, an electrical current that drives down my body from my face and straight to my pussy.

The crawl down the hallway is painfully slow, and by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I start to think I might have miscalculated.

I’m breathing laboriously. My back, knees and hands hurt so much. My balance is awful as I take one step after the other. Oddly, Alia isn’t impatient though.

That alone should raise my suspicions.

“You know,” she says as I struggle to negotiate a step, my knees threatening to slip off the edge. “It’s a real problem that you’re so lazy. Anbar only gets to max out your credit card once, because you have no money.”

I grunt, barely able to listen. I don’t have enough brainpower to crawl up the stairs and converse at once, and I know Alia loves that.

“So… we want you to get a job.”

That stops me cold.

A job? Away from this house?

A million questions begin to swirl through my mind. How will I even get to graduation day, if I have to split my time between being a maid here, and working somewhere?

Who would even hire me? I barely look human at this point.

And… would Alia and Anbar really risk having me eight hours away from the home?

I stop halfway up, sweating and panting. What a silly thought. Even if the foot scent wore off – which is doubtful – what am I going to do, where am I going to go? They’ve nullified my financial scores, severed my connections with the rest of humanity, conditioned me to associate extreme emotional sadism with arousal…

Maybe that’s the point? Does Alia want me to reach the end of each shift and crawl right back to her like a pet, deliberately turning down freedom each day of my life?

“Of course, this would be a job fit for your station,” Alia says. “Think flipping burgers. And every single cent will go to us. After all, we own your bank account! Haha!”

I whimper in humiliation and despair. They want me slaving away in a fast food chain, so I can scrape together just enough money for Anbar to buy videogames she can already afford? Why is it so unfair? Why does the thought of being a workhorse slave make my traitorous pussy so wet?

By the time I reach the first floor, and begin the last stint of the crawl to Alia’s room, I’m out of energy to speak, let alone comment on Alia’s newfound arrangement. Besides, she’s not asking for my opinion. She’s simply instructing me, and there’s no doubt that I will obey her. No doubt at all.

When we finally make it into her room, me on all fours and her perched royally atop my back, the shame and humiliation is almost forgotten. One of the few bright spots in my horrific daily life is drawing closer. Alia might grant me the ability to cum.

Please, please, please…

“I give you permission to play with yourself,” Alia says, “even to cum, if you manage. But I want you to lick my feet while you do it, bitch.”

Of course I don’t hesitate, lapping at her nyloned feet and revelling in the taste, but I also whimper in confusion. Isn’t she going to get off my back? I’m on all fours, how can I touch myself if…

My eyes widen in horror at the realization. Alia laughs above me.

“Poor, poor Zainab,” she says as her feet dance around my face, chased by my eager tongue. “You really are dumb, took you a second to catch up, didn’t it? In fairness you did catch up. That means there’s still more IQ for us to drain, though! Haha!”

No no no no, I think desperately in-between energetic licks of her nyloned feet. I have permission to cum, from Alia herself, I have to take advantage, and yet I can’t use my hands! My eyes dart this way and that around the room, as if looking for some surface I might hump against.

God, I’m so stupid. As if there was a magically protruding dildo off a wall or whatever. It’s just, between the foot scent and my cunt throbbing and the day I’ve had, I can’t think, I…

“Breathe in,” Alia says, pressing one foot against my nose while the other sneaks into my mouth. “You love me. Of course you do. You have a desperate crush on me. You want me to be happy. And you’ll give up anything to make that happen. You already have.”

I try to muble a desperate I love you around her toes, but it comes out as ridiculous and muffled.

“You’re a puppet on a string, Zainab. My string. I control you to a degree you don’t even realize yet. I’m not just playing with you, right now. I want to prove a point.”

What… surely she couldn’t mean…?

“Do you doubt me, after all this time?” Alia says, smearing foot sweat and my own saliva all over my face with her feet. “Do you really think I can’t make you cum with no touch? That my beautiful voice isn’t enough?” 

Her voice is beautiful, and my cunt is pulsing, and my brain is so simple that maybe I just don’t get it, and her wonderful foot scent is right in my nostrils and I’m lapping at her nyloned feet like it’s the best thing I could ever do in life, and oh god is that, am I really about to…

“Cum,” Alia says. “Cum for me.”

And I do, and this is no earthquake, no explosive decompression, it’s a nuke going off at the very epycenter of my nervous system. Everything shuts down as the pleasure radiates outward, brighter than the sun, all the more shocking because it’s so sudden, coming with no touch, no direct stimulation, only her voice, the voice of my owner, my deity…

I crash against the ground, my body utterly spent, my muscles convulsing, Alia carefully balancing atop me, her feet firmly planted on my face, and all my intelligence gushing out of my cunt. And that… that’s when I finally get to say it, with my last bit of energy, right before my eyes close and I slide into a sleep of utter, complete exhaustion.

“Thank you, Alia,” I whisper. “I love you.”

Chapter Ten: A Party To Remember

I used to be a girl with a dream.

Now, I’m the lesser of all worker bees in a fast food chain, the kind of job I told myself I’d never need to do if I studied hard enough.

The untanned outline of Yasmin’s footprints is clearly stamped over my tanned face, for the entire world to see. Alia laughed hysterically seeing that, but I also know that set off her competitiveness.

I wonder what she’s planning to one-up Yasmin, and I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.

As the burger fizzles gently before me, I space out for a moment. It’s the end of my shift, and the smells of the kitchen – burgers, fries, and onion rings – mingle with that of foot sweat in my hair.

I find the burger’s plight surprisingly relatable. Much like it, I too have been grilled, until all my dreams evaporated. I shrank, losing all the unnecessary bits – the extra water and fat in the meat patty’s case, my dreams and freedom in mine – until I was cooked to perfection.

Ready to be served to Alia, Anbar, and Yasmin on a silver platter.

It’s all come to this, then. I work one shift here, one shift at Alia’s mansion, and then spend the night in the closet with the rest of her footwear.

I don’t see a single cent of what I earn. It all goes into Alia’s dresses, Anbar’s videogames, and Yasmin’s shoes. My credit score is nuked worse than my self-esteem, and I do back-breaking labor for rich overlords who don’t need anything.

Like a medieval serf, reduced into slavish service to aristocrats and queens. And that thought alone is enough to make my pussy spasm.

I look surreptitiously around, hoping my co-workers haven’t noticed my sudden shiver. But to be honest, it’s hard to read their reactions to me. And I can’t blame them, I must be such a weirdo to them.

Maybe because of the white facemask I wear… and the dark sock that rests underneath it. Alia’s, of course, so I can spend my entire shift breathing in her scent, letting it sap my limbs of energy and my brain of thoughts.

I’m so brain-poisoned that I half expect my female colleagues to push me to my knees and stick their shoes in my face. And to be honest, if they did that, would I even oppose them? This is what I’ve become by now. A doormat for girls.

But of course, the real world doesn’t really function like the warped bubble Alia has carefully constructed for me, and my coworkers do avoid me, for the most part…

Except Alina. There’s a weird glint in her eye, a kind of curiosity, when she asks me to stay back and clean, even though it’s her turn today. Even though she’s not my boss. I don’t even think she minds the cleaning, she’s just… looking to see how I’ll react.

Some people have a sixth sense for meekness. Give them an opening, and they’ll walk all over you. Nobody on Earth knows this better than me, by this point.

I stare into Alina’s eyes, brown and flecked with gold, and she stares into mine.

And I nod with a gulp, sniffing deeper from Alia’s sock as a reward. It makes my pussy quiver.

Satisfied with my compliant response towards her assertion, Alina nods and walks off, ready to enjoy her free time.

I look around the kitchen, despondently. I have no free time to call my own anymore. And truth be told… it’s not just weakness that lets me stay back here for a bit longer.

I don’t particularly look forward to what awaits me at home. After all…

Today is Yasmin’s birthday.

***

I used to be a girl with self-respect.

Now, I’m a pudgy face with dark eyebags, unkempt stinky air, and a quivering upper lip.

Before my enslavement, I used to tell myself that I might not be very pretty, or rich, but I had my brain and my dedication. On merit alone, I would surely go places. I’d earn enough money to finally give my parents the comforts they could never afford for themselves.

I would prove the world that I mattered. I would right all the wrongs I felt I’d received. My self-actualization was social mobility.

But now, I find myself spacing out in front of Alia’s mirror, a ditzy serf with no ability to focus. And the reflection greeting me… let’s just say it would have been unrecognisable, mere months ago.

There are deep lines in my skin from the constant physical labor and the sleepless nights. With the junk diet imposed upon me, my old teenage acne has returned with a vengeance, populating my face like a scourge.

And of course, Yasmin’s footprints on my face simply cannot be unseen.

I consider idly that I find myself spacing out more and more, these days. Is the constant abuse making me dissociate? Or is the prolonged exposure to foot scent literally killing my brain cells one at a time?

I don’t know. I can’t really focus on anything. My days seem to proceed in flashes of sudden awareness, and long stretches of dull hard work, while my mind… well, it’s not like it goes elsewhere. It’s more like it’s vacant. No longer really there to help me.

Time is no longer a continuous progression for me, but a series of flashes, like this one. They’re vivd, like a fever dream. But each time, I sink back into the hypnotic foot haze for a little longer.

What happens when I no longer wake up?

Alia’s face appears next to mine in the mirror, as she rests her chin on my shoulder, and the contrast between us couldn’t be greater.

Even now, her beauty takes my breath away. Her eyes are so soulful and clever, her hair so silky and smooth. She is worthy of adoration and service. Handing my life over to her, for her to destroy, is the least I can do.

Her fake innocent batting of her eyelashes, on the other hand, sends a cold shiver down my spine. I guess I’m about to find out how she intends to top Yasmin’s exploit.

“So, Zainab,” she says, and as always when she uses my name now, it’s like a dagger piercing my heart. A painful memory of a past life I will no longer be able to reclaim. “Ready for tonight’s party?”

“Yes, your M-M-Majesty,” I say in a soft, demure whisper, which wins her smirk of approval.

“I thought we could do our makeup together,” Alia says, her eyes alight with evil amusement. Oh no. “I know just how to get you ready for the party.”

Before I can dare ask what she has in mind, a sudden sound silences me.

It’s the buzzing sound of an electric shaver.

Alia lifts it up theatrically, until it becomes visible in the mirror. I shiver in rhythm with the buzzing of the shaver, as Alia brings it to the back of my neck. I can feel it hover mere inches away from my skin. It makes me want to run and hide.

“What do we say?” Alia asks, and my foot-dazed brain instantly supplies the correct answer, like I’m a good schoolgirl trying to impress my teacher in class.

“I love you…” I say, and it comes out as such a desperate admission, full of hopeless longing and self-debasement. Ever since I said it the first time, Alia has been demanding it of me all the time.

She wants to be showered in worship, and I literally can’t say no. At this point, I’m not even sure I’d want to.

At last, Alia plunges forward with the electric shaver.

The blades instantly get stuck as they start tugging at my hair. They’re tangled and matted with sweat, both mine and the foot sweat of my conquerors. But Alia doesn’t even remove her eyes from our reflections in the mirror, as she ploughs onward, pulling savagely at my hair.

Each time I wince in pain, her smile grows a little wider. A little crueler.

I see my hair begin to fall down on the floor, like leaves scattered by the wind, and I start to sob uncontrollably.

“That’s right,” Alia says, in a voice that is at once soft, and sharper than a blade. “Cry your heart out for me, slave.”

Her words are a permission to open the floodgates. She finds it annoying when I cry, but not this time. She wants to draw my pain out, revel in it, toy with it. She wants me to suffer, just because it’s fun.

Tears roll freely down my cheeks, and I let go of it all, all the fear and hurt and humiliation and arousal that’s been building up inside me.

My hair…

Alia is cutting close to the skin, and I know in my heart what she’s about to say, before she even says it.

“I’m going to give you a buzzcut,” she whispers, her fingers wiping the tears from my cheeks. “You’re not even going to look like a girl anymore. Because you’re not one.”

Of course I’m not. Prisoners are given buzzcuts. It’s dehumanizing, but I haven’t been a person in a long, long time. Perhaps I’ve never been one before.

“At the party, everyone will have eyes for me, and for Yasmin,” Alia continues, whispering seductively to me as she shears me. “But you? You’ll be just some androgynous blob, paling into insignificance next to us. Beneath us. A loser fit only to serve drinks, massage feet, and…”

She stops, giggling. “And taking whatever else we see fit to give you.”

“Y-y-yes, your Majesty,” I say, in between tears. I know it’s what I truly deserve. I should disappear completely next to my owners. It is only fitting.

As the last of my hair falls to the floor, Alia grips my chin between her fingers, and forces me to look up at the mirror.

The vision before me makes me want to cry even harder.

I look disgusting. The buzzcut somehow makes my face look even pudgier, makes me look even less like a girl. I look like a tired, grey hermit, destroyed by years of back-breaking labor. A big-boned peasant that nobody could ever possibly find attractive, and right next to me – a queen, crowned in radiant splendor.

As the image of my new face is etched forever into my mind, Alia’s lips close in on my ear.

“Cum to what I’ve just done to you,” she whispers.

And my legs fail me.

***

I used to be a girl with ambition.

Now, I just carry trays and drinks in Alia’s home, dressed in my skimpy maid uniform. On someone ele, it might look slutty, but me?

I’m a simpering, sobbing, formless blob that only vaguely resembles a person.

My heart is thumping in my chest. I realize with a degree of horror that I haven’t been exposed to this many eyes since I became Alia’s live-in slave. It’s making my skin crawl. I’m sweating and breathing hard, and all I want to do is run and hide.

I don’t know any of the invitees well. None of my old friends are on Yasmin’s good books, her social circle and the one I had when I was free are entirely non-overlapping. But that doesn’t make it any better.

The girls are all pretty, lithe, and slender. I swear it feels like they’ve come off an assembly line of rich, beautiful, bratty bimbos. Some are more like Yasmin, carefree and unfocused, others are more like Alia, calculating and cruel.

All look at me with such a visible mix of emotions.

Disgust. Pity. Awkwardness. Amusement.

Ditto for the jocks, the football players and frat boys that surround Yasmin like bees with honey.

It’s clear the invitees can’t quite decide what to make of the silent, simpering, meek maid that’s supposed to serve them their drinks. Some avoid me, others throw questioning glances at Alia and Yasmin.

But a few recognize me. And they’re clearly happy to witness my downfall.

“Isn’t that the nerd?” Maryam asks Yasmin. She’s a tall girl with long curly hair that cascade over her shoulders. Just looking at her makes my shaven head itch, and my eyes well up.

“No more,” Yasmin says with a smile. “Tell her what you are now.”

“I’m a dumb slave, and I live to serve my princesses,” I whisper, defeated. That causes a few people to drift further away, ignoring me, but not Maryam. Her eyes narrow in my direction, as if she can’t quite decide if I’m being serious or not.

“Well,” she concludes at last, “she certainly looks the part!”

I feel like I want to dig a hole underground and bury myself in it forever. But thankfully, the party eventually moves on, and all of a sudden I find myself in the anonymity of large crowds. I don’t even need to remember anybody’s name.

As Yasmin’s friends mingle by the pool, I simply carry my tray, and let people take as many drinks as they wish. As soon as my tray is empty, I head to the kitchen for a refill, all under Sanae’s amused, approving gaze.

“I’m happy you were invited to the party,” she tells me, clearly struggling to contain an amused chuckle. I live here now, and besides, I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count as being invited, but I know better than to say this to Sanae’s face.

She intimidates me. I know I’m not her equal.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, demurring. “I’m glad I can make myself useful.”

“Off you go then,” she smiles, but it’s a cold, condescending smile, the one reserved for serfdom. “You know my daughters don’t like to wait.”

With a scared nod, I scurry away, tray in hand, ready to serve more drinks to Yasmin’s illustrious crowd.

Outside, the party is getting more and more informal. It’s a warm night, so a few people have jumped into the pool, and others mingle by the edge, their feet dangling in the waters.

Others have opted to remain dressed, and are reclining on beach chairs, or sitting on the grass.

Of course, my three conquerors have the place of honor, reclining like goddesses on three beach chairs by the edge of the pool. Alia is at the center, with Yasmin and Anbar on either side, like a bizarre holy trinity. Maryam has apparently opted to sit with them, a bit off to Yasmin’s right.

Seeing them like this makes my tummy flutter. They’re… beautiful. I love how relaxed they look, how sinuous their bodies are under the starry sky, how they get to live like queens while I scrub and clean on all fours.

The way their smiles curve upward at my pathetic sight reminds me of the way Yasmin and Anbar laughed at me, when Alia showed them my new hairstyle. And how the laughter went straight to my clit.

Unbidden, my eyes track every minor movement of their feet, every twist of their ankles, every twitch of their toes. I know it’s my sacred duty to look after them. Purely by reflex, my mouth is starting to salivate.

It’s becoming harder and harder to suppress the thought that feet turn me on, by now. And honestly, so what? They’re all the sexuality I’m likely to get for the rest of my life. Is it really wrong if I just decide to enjoy them, to make my torture more bearable?

Alia spots me, and wordlessly, she calls me over with a twitch of her foot. With a sigh, I straighten myself to better balance the tray, and approach my queen.

A slave needs to be perceptive, to better anticipate the wishes and displeasures of her owner. And purely by instinct, I know Alia is displeased, and I can even guess why. So far, the party hasn’t gone like she’s imagined.

Yes, I’ve gotten a few taunts, and plenty of weird looks, but most people are steering well clear of me. It makes sense. Even when I was free, they would have disliked or ignored me. Now I’m at their party and being super weird about it.

But I should never doubt my queen. I’m sure she has a solution in mind.

Alia’s eyes are two glimmering gems in the night, catching the light from the dim illumination dotting the garden.

“Keeping busy, slave?”

I hear a faint gasp from Maryam, to my left, but Alia has all my focus, like she’s the sun and I’m only fit to orbit her. I nod, submissively.

“Well, I have something else for you to do,” she says, and instantly some of her bubbly enthusiasm returns. She snaps her fingers, pointing wordlessly to the grassy ground beneath her feet.

As always, my execution is flawless. I don’t just kneel. I fall to my knees like the weight of the entire world has slammed against me, conspiring to keep me to the ground, in the inferior position that suits my nature.

Placing the drinks tray to one side, I position myself on all fours before Alia, and shortly after I feel the familiar bump of her slender feet coming to rest on my shoulders.

Anbar joins her immediately, her feet landing on my pitched buttocks, and Yasmin – the birthday girl – immediately rests her left foot atop my head.

I gulp as her right foot lands against my face. I breathe in the scent. It doesn’t enslave me, unlike the sisters’, but I’ve gotten off so many times with my nose deep in between Yasmin’s toes, that it’s impossible for me not to quiver a little.

I look up.

Maryam is sitting by Yasmin’s side, contemplating me with eyes that go wide with surprise, and then narrow with scheming. A guy has joined her, standing behind her, massaging her shoulders – boyfriend, maybe.

He fits right in with the crowd. Bulky physique, chiseled jaw, and an easily impressionable look.

“Woah, dude!” He says, like he’s commenting a sportscar passing down the road. “Amazing! Yasmin, how’d you get her to agree to this?”

“Oh, that was all Alia,” Yasmin says. Birthday girl or no, she knows better than to upset the host.

I can’t see Alia’s reaction from down here, but I can easily imagine it in my mind’s eye – her chin thrust up high, a hand running through her hair to call attention to it, the self-gratified posture of a purring cat.

Maryam and mistery guy are not the only ones commenting on my display. Murmurs erupt from everywhere in the garden, as Yasmin’s friends contemplate the extent of my impropriety.

“What’s up with that?”

“Is she calling attention to herself?”

“She’s so ugly it’s the only way she can call attention to herself!”

“Damn, wonder what Alia’s got on her.”

My cheeks redden with devastating humiliation and embarassment. How long before someone takes photos and videos? Tomorrow, the whole of college will know I’m a footstool for girls. And the worst part of all is that it sounds so damn hot.

My mouth is salivating – at this point I’d have a foot in my mouth already. Instead, I’m just being used as furniture for the time being – a further demotion from waitressing. A piece of fat, unattractive, sweaty, dumb furniture.

“Seriously, Alia,” Maryam asks, captivated. “How did you manage that?”

“Zainab did it herself,” Alia says, and though I can’t see her face right now, her tone of voice is all I need to know that her eyes glittering with amused cruelty. “She volunteered.”

The ease and spontaneous delivery of her lie takes my breath away.

“Is she that much of a slut?” Maryam asks, and her face I do see, whenever Yasmin’s toes dip lower than my line of sight, dragging against my lips or toying with the tip of my nose. Her other foot is rubbing against the top of my shaved head.

But Maryam’s expression is one of rapt fascination. Her hand travels upward to clasp with her boyfriend’s, her grip tightening.

“No,” Alia says, pausing for a second. “I mean, actually yes, haha! But more to the point, it’s just that she loves me that much. Don’t you, peasant girl?”

“Of course,” I say immediately, with a readiness and a certainty I don’t feel. My foot-dazed brain leaves me no other option. “I love you so much, your Majesty. And because I can never have you, I do… this… everything you want…”

Yasmin’s toes clamp around my nose, turning my voice into a pathetic high pitch that causes laughter to ripple across the garden. That laughter only increases when I snuggle closer to her foot, breathing in deeply.

“Honestly,” Anbar pitches in, “she’s too dumb to live. She needs her betters to oversee her. She’s much more likable now that she knows her fucking place.”

Anbar has been quiet all evening – social gatherings like these aren’t her forte – but the topic of my enslavement apparently is enough to make her feel included, and that makes me feel a strange surge of pride. Indirectly, I’ve just served my goddess.

As always, Yasmin’s feet are immaculate. Right now, they taste of freshly mowed grass, understandably so after an evening spent in the garden.

God, how I wish I could beg her to cum. Usually when I have her feet in her face, that is the end result.

“It all started with a foot massage,” Alia continues, driving her feet deeper into my back. “She’s amazing at it. She offered, and I said yes, and the rest is history.”

God… is this really going to be the public version of my own enslavement? That I volunteered for it? That I’m a fetishist?

On the other hand, what does it matter? If I wasn’t a fetishist when Alia first subjugated me, I am certainly one now.

“Can I try it?” Maryam asks. Her question isn’t directed to me, of course. It’s Alia she’s looking at.

I don’t own my consent.

Objects can’t say yes or no, and I’m nothing but a piece of footwear.

“Of course!” Alia says, and the edginess in her laughter is unmistakable. “I love to share my things with my friends.”

No, she doesn’t, and Maryam isn’t so much her friend as she’s Yasmin’s, but that’s clearly beside the point. What matters is that I am a thing, and maybe most importantly, no longer Alia’s friend.

It makes my eyes tear up, my heart bleed, and my clit throb.

I hate it, and I love it.

In a second, Maryam’s feet lie splayed out before me – slightly tanned and petite, with impeccably manicured toes. There’s no smell I can detect. I have to remind my stupid slave brain that most people don’t go around with stinky feet all day, especially to a classy party.

Of course, if they had hypnotic foot sweat, they might see things a little different…

Balancing on my elbows, my position is awkward. I can’t crawl forward without failing in my duty as a footrest, and I can’t lift my arms. It’s an uncomfortable position for a foot massage, but absurdly, when I brush my fingers along the length of Maryam’s feet, I’m grateful for it.

Yes, she’s a remote acquaintance at best, and from a social circle that despises me by instinct. Yes, she’s yet another rich bimbo like Yasmin, born of privilege and pampering…

And in that, she is just like my owners. Doesn’t she deserve to be worshipped, too? Besides, her feet are beautiful.

Between the silky smooth skin under my fingertips, and Yasmin’s foot toying mindlessly with my face, I’m getting so turned on I have to stop myself from humping the air.

“You were right,” Maryam says, breathing out a sigh of pure relaxation. “She is good.”

“Babe, that’s amazing,” mystery dude says behind her. “Seeing you treat another girl like this…”

“Oh, she can do a lot more than just massages,” Yasmin says, and Alia’s tittering in response is all I need to know that my evening is about to get much, much worse.

“Show her,” Yasmin commands me. “Show her why it was worth it to invite a loser bitch like you to my birthday party.”

I crane my neck forward as much as I can and place humble, worshipful kisses on Maryam’s feet. God, they feel so amazingly smooth under my lips. Will I have to beg her to cum, too? Could I just do it now? I’m so stimulated, I crave physical contact, I…

I’m increasingly lubricated. I can’t defy my rules, I know my owners want me pent up and frustrated, but I can at least show Maryam just how good a slavegirl I’ve really become.

And so, I let her big toe past my lips, sealing them around it like a vacuum. I gently bob my head up and down, trying my best to give Maryam a show.

Any other girl doing this would probably look insanely arousing, but not me.

I’m a lard brick on all fours, with four women placing their feet all over me. I’m ugly and no one could possibly ever desire me. I’m pathetic.

But this one thing, I can do right. Maryam catches her breath more than once during my ministrations, and so does her boyfriend.

“God, she’s pathetic,” Maryam whispers, echoing my own thoughts. She plops her toe out of my mouth, withdrawing it, her eyes never leaving mine.

I’ve seen that look before. It’s the first time someone gets their feet worshipped, and they pull back – not because they don’t like it, but because they still need to process the sudden sensory over-stimulation.

There is a fire in Maryam’s eyes, and in her boyfriend’s. They will be back for me. Like all other girls who’ve lorded it over me over the past few months.

“Alright,” Alia says, clapping her hands, and removing her feet off my back, with Yasmin and Anbar following suit. “We don’t want our guests going thirsty. Back to fetching drinks, slut.”

“Yes,” I whisper, broken and defeated. “Your Majesty.”

***

I used to be a girl.

Now… well.

Now my back adheres to the mowed grass, and I have Yasmin standing above me.

I don’t know what that makes me… but certainly not a girl.

Following my foot encounter with Maryam, the rest of the party has gone by in a blur. Hands have reached out to touch me. Feet have been shoved unceremoniously in my face. I’ve fetched drink after drink, massaged feet of girls whose faces I never even got to see, staying permanently close to the ground.

But this part… this, I’m certain to remember forever. The guests have been showering Yasmin with birthday gifts. Holiday packages to Costa Rica, dresses and purses that cost more than my education… a triumph of opulence the likes of which I could only dream of.

That’s when I was forced to present my own birthday gift.

The pink sneakers that Alia and Anbar had me buy for Yasmin, the pair that extinguished most of my savings… I still remember how I cried, purchasing them, knowing I was throwing away both my past – through years of laborious savings – and my future.

But Yasmin squealed with such glee when she saw them, demanding that I put them on…

And now, here I am. Under the sneakers I’ve paid with my life savings, with Yasmin carefully balancing atop me. One foot rests above my throat, of course, and the other is pushing deeper and deeper into my belly, driving the breath out of me…

“I’m breaking them in by breaking her in!” Yasmin says, to widespread laughter. I groan, mortified, thrashing weakly under Yasmin’s weight. The free-flowing alcohol, and the continuous public nature of my humiliation, is quickly destroying the initial awkwardness.

Now, people seem perfectly fine with my new status as the house slave.

I hear the shutter of phone cameras going off, one after the other, and I know, in my heart of hearts, that these photos are going to be all over social media tomorrow.

But then, a shutter sounds much closer than all others.

I twist my head as best I can, trying to look at Yasmin, and – oh god. She’s holding her phone in hand, cocking her hips this way and that as she poses for one selfie after the other, with me as her doormat.

Then, her right sneaker lifts from my throat – and slams hard into my face.

I whimper from the pain, sounding like a morose puppy. My cheek rubs against the grassy ground as Yasmin literally digs her heel into my face.

“Down, bitch,” she says. “I don’t want your ugly face ruining my selfies. There, much better when it’s under these great sneakers you bought me.”

The casual cruelty behind her words is so callous, so heartless, so hot… god how I wish her other sneaker would travel downward, from my belly to my sex… I don’t care if dozens of people are watching, recording my shame. I just want Yasmin to destroy my intelligence and let me cum.

Perhaps if I go even more stupid, I won’t care about all this hurt and humiliation anymore…

But I have no such luck. All of a sudden, Yasmin steps down and rushes to chat with a group of guests about something. And just like that, the slave is forgotten. I resent the sudden… emptiness I feel at not having Yasmin’s weight pinning me down anymore.

They really have turned my own mind against me. I’m my own jailer now.

I stand up, rubbing my cheek where Yasmin stomped it – pretty sure I’m carrying the footprint of her sneaker on my reddened skin by now. I’m getting ready to grab the tray and resume serving drinks, when a voice behind me instantly makes the hair at the back of my neck raise in alarm.

“So,” Maryam asks, “can I take her?”

I turn around. Maryam is standing behind me, beautiful in the eerie light of the garden at night, her raven locks swaying gently in the breeze. Her boyfriend stands behind her, one arm placed protectively around her waist.

It’s Alia she’s asked the question to.

Alia throws me a very meaningful look. See? It seems to say. This is how worthless you are. This is how quickly people become used to the idea you’re chattel. I shiver, both in fear and arousal, as Alia turns away from me.

“Sure,” she says with a little shrug, like Maryam’s asked her to borrow a pen.

Girls own their bodies. They can give consent. They can say yes or no. They’re people.

But Alia has just tossed my consent to Maryam like it’s a bone being thrown to the wolves.

I look on in a daze as Maryam’s hand grips my wrist, dragging me across the garden as the guests around us whisper and laugh.

I don’t own my body. It’s undeniable, when this couple can basically frog march me away from a party where I’ve been used and abused like a slave. Our destination is unmistakable – back to the house.

The house whose every surface I clean on my hands and knees, where my downfall happened and then cemented itself. The house where I slave away, until nothing is left of me but obedience.

The house with its many guest bedrooms where, I can only assume, Maryam and her boyfriend plan to have their way with me.

I can’t consent. I can’t say yes. I can’t say no, and I’m not a person. I’m Alia’s footwear, Anbar’s worshipper, and Yasmin’s slave, and that’s all I’ll ever be in life…

Because I’m not a girl anymore.

And that’s why I look down, meekly and submissively, without uttering a single word of protest.

And let Maryam lead me deeper into the mansion.

Chapter Eleven: A Gift Of Pleasure

“Do you want me to hit her?”

Maryam’s boyfriend smiles wolfishly at the girl’s question, and in that moment, I know my fate is sealed.

In between my shocked sobs of pure terror, even my foot-dazed brain has room for a tiny moment of reflection.

No matter how many times I’m subjected to abuse, it never fails to amaze me how casual cruelty can be sometimes. Especially when there is no fear of pushback, no consequence to worry about.

Maryam is losing all inhibitions. She’s asking her boyfriend about roughing me up as if I weren’t even in the room.

In a way, I suppose I’m not. I’m standing in the corner, still like a statue, in a long-practiced waiting position familiar to all servants. Being seen and not heard. And even then, only at the very periphery of a master’s vision.

Ready to be of service at a moment’s notice, without intruding upon my betters.

As I await my fate, I try to read the emotions on Maryam’s face. There’s a glimmer in her eyes, and not just from the alcohol. She looks like she’s having to stop herself from pouncing over her boyfriend and fucking him right here, in the guest bedroom she’s dragged us to.

She clearly loves being a cruel Goddess to brick him up. There is no mistaking the fact that his pants are tenting… and that she’s loving it.

“That’s so hot, babe,” he says, basically panting.

“It is, isn’t it, love?” She says, running a hand across his broad chest, brushing her fingers against his chiseled jaw. In the over-sexed, erotically charged, power-imbued atmosphere, the weight of my own V-card is crushing my soul.

“Like she’s my own handmaiden,” Maryam continues in a sultry tone, pressing her body against his, “and I’m the queen bitch.”

The edge in her voice as she says it makes my fingers twitch… and the words go straight to my sex. These are the words of a woman who’s recognized another as her prey. After my long apprenticeship at the feet of my tormentors, I’d recognize them anywhere.

They’re words of sapphic conquest and enthrallment.

“Treat her like dirt,” the guy says. I still don’t even know his name. “I want to see you lording it over her.”

I gulp, quivering in anticipation and dread. He’s way less articulate than she is, but his erection is speaking for him. The idea of his girl putting another in her place must be some fantasy of his.

Maryam knows it. The feral smirk she throws him – and then me – tells me all I need to know.

I’m their foreplay tonight.

Maryam turns to me, in a slightly swaggering motion, and narrows her eyes, hesitating for a moment.

Then, she slaps me.

It’s a light, tentative slap – the humiliation stings more than the pain, truly. She’s testing the waters, I know, seeing how far she can take things.

“Well?” She asks me when I lift my eyes to meet hers again, blinking away my tears.

“T-t-thank you ma’am,” I say, stuttering. “I d-d-deserved it.”

Maryam’s smile extends even further… without quite reaching her eyes. That triggers an old, atavistic instinct in my brain, the kind all prey items get when confronting a predator.

I know instantly that Maryam is one of them. Someone with no compulsion about taking what is hers.

Alia and Yasmin love to have fun with me. Cruelty is a game to them, Alia especially. Anbar wants, above all, to be worshipped. Maryam’s fledgling domination is of a different flavour, though.

Those sparkling, distant eyes are contemplating me with a kind of calculating coldness.

Her cruelty feels deeper and edgier. It’s like she’s looking at the wall behind me, past me utterly and completely. It’s her scene she’s focused on. I’m just a squishy toy she can use for her needs.

And the realisation makes my clit throb.

It throbs even harder, when the second slap comes.

I tumble to the floor from the impact, much stronger this time, and the crack is so loud that I get a glimpse of her boyfriend gaping in shock. I whimper on the floor, not daring to get up or even look at my new conqueror, as I feel her drawing closer, looming over me.

“Your face looks so fucking stupid,” she says, rolling me on my back with her foot. She stares down at me, laughing cruelly. “The buzzcut is one thing, but the foot prints on your face… amazing. Let me try something…”

She lifts her foot, her heeled shoe tossed aside, and places it delicately against my face. I shudder at the skin-to-skin contact with a whole new foot. I’ve massaged it and sucked it earlier, but it feels good to act as a footstool to a new pair of royal feet.

Because my own mind has been thoroughly turned against me.

The tenderness behind Maryam’s gesture has nothing to do with being kind to me. She’s pressing her foot against the tan outline of Yasmin’s own foot, trying to see if it matches.

“Baby, look at this!” She says, laughing. “My feet are just barely smaller than Yasmin’s, it fits perfectly. Amazing!”

“It’s like she’s got a step-on-me signpost on her face,” the guy says, bewildered and breathless. The mere idea is so hot that I twitch under Maryam’s foot, having to do my very best to avoid humping the air.

Maryam’s foot travels to my cheek, where she struck me earlier with her second, devastating slap. I know it makes no sense, but as her toes brush the reddened and impacted skin, it feels almost… soothing.

“I’ve added my own handprint to go with Yasmin’s foot prints,” she tells me. “I love it. You should always bear the scars of your own inferiority on your ugly face.”

I can do nothing better than whimper like a fucking dog. But then, Maryam’s foot digs deeper into my face, until I groan in pain.

“But that’s not the only way I’m going to mark you tonight. Babe,” she says, switching her attention to her boyfriend, “give me your belt.”

A shiver trickles down my spine at the hiss of the belt being removed from the guy’s jeans.

None of my three permanent owners have ever used anything remotely like this on me. Their devastation of my identity has always been psychological first and foremost, but I’m starting to get the feeling that Maryam is a very physical person.

“Turn over,” she tells me, without removing her foot from my face.

I do my best to twist and turn in place, Maryam’s foot following me as I shift and roll belly-down. Eventually, her sole adheres closer to my cheek like a seal, pinning me against the cold marble floor.

It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. The hurt of a piece of footwear being put to good use.

It occurs to me that there is no hypnotic foot scent here to bridle my will. I’ve been softened enough that I can now just be taken by any and all comers. And that’s… hot.

“Ass up, bitch,” Maryam says, and I obey, conscious of how grotesque I must look, my face planted on the floor and my ass up in the air, like I really am a bitch waiting to be mounted. The frilly skirt of my maid uniform hides nothing in this position.

I know what’s to come. I brace myself, gritting my teeth, as menacing hisses fill the air – the sound of Maryam testing the belt.

“Don’t touch yourself yet,” she tells her boyfriend. “I want you hard as a rock for me, babe.”

“Hit her,” he says, enraptured. “Show her who’s the boss!”

No amount of bracing can prepare me for what comes next.

The belt hisses through the air, making all my body hair stand up – and then, the hiss turns into a resounding crack as it lashes out against my butt cheeks.

The pain follows the sound. Heat radiates from the location of the impact as my breath catches in my throat, and immediately after, it lances up my body, making me squirm and thrash in pain.

“Stay still!” Maryam thunders above me, and her foot presses deeper into my cheek, nailing my face to the floor. I squeal and whimper and cry as the belt comes down again, smacking me, pressing Maryam’s superiority into my slave flesh.

Her foot lifts from my face, and then stomps down, the heel slamming into my cheek just as the belt comes down again, engulfing me in a sea of pain at both ends of my broken body.

“Whip her ass raw,” the guy says, but Maryam hardly needs any encouragement. My butt is on fire, and my cheek feels like I’ve been punched – which in a way I have, I guess. By the time the fourth lash hits me, I begin to cry.

“Oh god that’s so hot,” Maryam says, spotting my tears. “Yes, cry like a baby. Take it, bitch.”

I can’t escape the knowledge that I’ve only met this girl mere hours before. This is Alia’s true work of art. A bit of alcohol, a bit of exposure to my complete dehumanisation, the growing sexual tension in the air at the party… and here we are now.

With my personhood sinking ever deeper into the mud.

After the fifth lash, I’m openly crying my heart out, to Maryam’s delight and her boyfriend’s arousal. My new conqueror escalates things further, stepping on me with both feet, one digging into my face, the other in the small of my back.

Then, the latter foot migrates downward, and Maryam digs her heel into the marks the belt has left on my flesh. The wails of agony that erupt out of my throat barely sound like a person’s.

“Squeal for me, little piglet,” Maryam says in a low, almost tender whisper. “Do the sisters do this often to you? Do they step on you to put you in your place?”

I don’t have the strength to answer her. I want to tell her that yes, they do, and that there are subtle differences – for them it’s more about teaching me my station, Maryam seems more genuinely enthusiastic about the violence – but my words fail me.

All that escapes my lips is a small whimper of agony… and arousal.

Then, Maryam repositions herself atop me, and the belt strikes again.

The white hot pain is so totalizing that I almost lose sight of my surroundings.

As consciousness floods back in, the pain seems to have shifted upwards along my body, moving to my shoulders, my neck, and then my face.

I wail and cry as Maryam leans forward above me, crouching as low as she can against my body. Her forward foot is digging ever deeper into my face, making my ears ring with pain, until she’s so low that I can feel her breath on my skin.

“I want you to stay down here,” she whispers in a sultry tone, “and listen. Take it all in. Lie like a pathetic loser on the floor and listen to a real woman giving real pleasure to a real man. You’ll never have any of this. You don’t deserve it. All you get to do is watch.”

And with that, Maryam stands up, stepping down – making a point of lightly kicking my face with each foot as she dismounts me. Every square inch of my body hurts, and emotionally I feel like I’ve just stepped into a chainsaw.

I don’t have the strength to look up, much less crawl anywhere. So I stay in place, and wince in emotional agony at the sounds of Maryam and the guy acting like two lovebirds, slipping into each other’s arms – like I never will, with any boy, because I’m not a girl, or even a person.

“Babe…” he says, disbelieving. “You’re…”

“The queen bitch,” Maryam finishes for him, pushing him back-first onto the bed, and climbing after him. “Let’s show this loser what that means.”

And then, she looks back at me, tossing her glorious hair to one side and eyeing me with a smirk.

“This is the closest she’ll ever come to sex, after all.”

***

When at last I emerge from the guest room, sobbing and limping, the house around me is quiet. Maryam and her boyfriend have left some time ago, both stepping on me on the way out, but I assumed they were simply headed back to the party.

Not so. It would seem the party itself is over, or at the very least winding down. No one seems to be in the garden outside, and in the mansion I’m greeted by silence.

Yasmin’s birthday celebrations – so long awaited and dreaded – must be over, at last. And no matter how broken inside I am, how much of a self-traitor I’ve become… I still give a sigh of relief at the thought.

Now, I find myself in the curious situation of being a slave with no assigned tasks. My first instinct is to look for one of my Mistresses, anyone to give me directions or tell me what to do, and I hate my stupid bridled brain for that.

I’m not cut out for independent life. Not anymore, at least. I doubt I’d be able to make myself a sandwich without Alia’s explicit permission.

As I wander the interminable hallways of the mansion, I eventually turn a corner into one of the living rooms – and my heart stops cold.

Splayed out over the three sofas placed at various corners of the room are my three conquerors, still in their party attire. Anbar, my goddess. Alia, my queen. And the birthday girl, Yasmin. They all recline backwards with crossed legs, impatient fingers drumming against the armrests.

They’ve been waiting for me.

Under the weight of their scrutiny, I immediately fall to my knees, giving a tiny wince at the pain coming from my buttocks as I flex downward. But it’s way more tolerable than trying to stand up to the penetrating gaze of these three monarchs.

“So, Zainab,” Alia says, wielding my old free name like Maryam wielded the belt against me, “my guests had to go without a waitress for most of the evening. I hope you did your duty for Maryam, at least.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” I say hurriedly. “She used me as a…” I gulp, hesitating. “A fluffer. I did everything she wanted. I served her like I would serve any of you.”

I don’t even know how I know that word, but that’s the truth. I was little more than a preparatory sex toy for Maryam. Goes well with being Alia’s piece of footwear.

My words cause her to snicker, but Anbar shakes her head. “She served them, alright. She was squealing like a fucking pig, I could hear her through my headphones! Can’t even game in peace, I swear.”

My heart drops at hearing Anbar’s displeasure, but before I can speak to try and make amends, Yasmin raises her voice.

“Something’s off with you,” she says, her gaze scrutinising every inch of me, making me feel even smaller. I feel so silly for ever having considered Yasmin a stupid bimbo. She’s a predator, and I’m defenseless against her.

“What is it?” She asks. “Spit it out.”

There’s no way I could defy a direct order like that. My words leave my mouth before I even notice.

“P-p-p-princess, I’m so… horny…” I stop cold, realizing what I’ve just said as the sisters begin to giggle uncontrollably.

“That’s right, I almost forgot!” Alia says. “The dumb loser is still a virgin! God, imagine Maryam and Brad having sex inches away from her. She must be going crazy right now, knowing she can never have that.”

I bite my lower lip, squirming in place on my knees while Alia and Anbar laugh at me. But Yasmin does not. She merely considers me, her chin resting on her fist.

“Slave,” she says at last, thoughtfully, “take off my new shoes.”

She’s still wearing the shoes I bought her. I take them off with supreme reverence, handling them like they’re made of stained glass, thinking that in a way I’m touching the result of all of my life’s savings. They went into this, as service, and I can think of no better use for them.

Yasmin reaches out to the ground next to the sofa, and pulls another pair of shoes – the old, smelly pair of sneakers she wore to come here before the party.

“Now put these on,” she says, and the giggles coming from Alia and Anbar alarm me. But disobedience isn’t a choice, so I wrinkle my nose at the pungent smell – but do as I’m told without a fuss.

Then, Yasmin looks to Alia, and nods.

Then, hands grab me by the shoulders and send me crashing to the ground.

Alia must have sneaked up on me while I was focused on Yasmin. As I stare at the ceiling, I see her angelic face, framed by her flowing hazel locks, her eyes shining brightly with clever amusement as she considers me.

“Spread your legs,” she commands, and with a gulp, I obey.

Moments later, Anbar is standing by her sister. Alia delicately places a foot upon my forehead, Anbar nestles hers against my throat – so snug, it’s such a perfect fit – and then, and then…

With a start, I realize the bottom of Yasmin’s old sneaker is adhering to my crotch, gently rubbing through the pantyhose.

“She’s going to take your v-card,” Alia says, giggling, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s saying. “I can’t believe we never thought of this before!”

The realization courses through me like a shock of electricity. I’ve given my owners so much that I didn’t even know if I had anything left to give. But now I know.

I turn my head as best I can, play-fighting the push of the sisters’ feet, to look pleadingly at Yasmin. While the sisters are endlessly amused, Yasmin is very serious, almost somber. That’s… intimidating.

The airhead princess imperiously looks down at me, while literally stepping on my sex and letting off with an absolute torrent of abuse.

“How humiliating this must be for you,” she says, her sneaker rubbing frantically, meeting the humping movement of my hips. “An evening spent over-stimulated and under-sexed, and your worst nemesis placing her old shoes on you… until you’re taken to orgasm.”

Yasmin’s words prove too much for Alia. With an appreciative moan, her toes sneak past my lips, and I begin fellating them, bucking harder and harder to meet Yasmin’s rubbing.

Anbar increases the pressure against my throat, constricting my air supply. My eyes begin to water as she lashes out at me.

“Your cunt deserves nothing better than this,” she snarls. “Your own slutty fingers, and the bottoms of our shoes. Say it.”

“Mmmpphhh,” I mumble from around Alia’s toes, setting off another bout of hysterical laughter from the sisters. But not from Yasmin, who contemplates me with wide, curious eyes as she shoe-fucks me.

Alia smiles, twisting her foot this way and that, revelling in the way my lips follow each and every turn of her toes. I know that every moment of suction, every lap of my tongue, is yet another declaration of love for my queen. 

“Maryam had the right idea,” Yasmin says, her sneaker rubbing ever more incessantly against my pussy. “You don’t get to have sex. This is all you’ll ever get. Thank me.”

“Mmmphh!!” I moan in genuine gratitude. I’m in heaven. The sensations rolling across my body are too many for my brain to process. My self, my identity, the one that is constantly battered and broken down by the girls, isn’t here anymore – I’m experiencing a full system crash.

Now, all I can do is feel. It’s so liberating that I wish this high could last forever.

“Suck my toes,” Alia says, sultrily. “Show me your devotion.”

And I do, with more vigor than I’ve ever put into this before, while the muscles in my thighs and calves spasm and contract under Yasmin’s ministrations. Not even Anbar’s mastery over my breathing can quell my love for Alia, my conqueror.

“I bet you thought we’d run out of ideas,” Anbar says, twisting her naked heel into my throat. “Stupid bitch, you don’t get it. We’ll never get tired of toying with you. And as for figuring out what else to do to you… we have the rest of our lives.”

I do know. It doesn’t matter that I’ve exhausted my capacity to give. My conquerors are so much smarter than I am, a dumb peasant girl with no personhood and no rights. They’ll reach deep within me, remove everything that displeases them, and find something else they can take away from me.

It feels like identity death. But it also feels like just what I deserve.

“If only you knew what I’m planning for you next,” Alia says, and for a moment she almost loses her composure, her foot pushing downward into my mouth. I gag and cough, shaking my head, looking for an angle that will let her foot slide deeper into my throat.

“After college…” Alia whispers, throwing her head back as she enjoys my oral ministrations on her foot, my gluk gluk gluk sounds subdued and choked by Anbar’s unrelenting pressure on my throat.

“I can’t fucking wait,” Anbar says. “A lifetime of slavery awaits you, stupid cunt.”

I’m not even listening to them, not really, all I can focus on is the electricity ravaging my every muscle, I… ohhhh, Yasmin’s sneaker, circling my clit, I… I can smell it from here, her foot scent isn’t hypnotic but I’ve learned to serve it nonetheless, I can’t, I…

“Cum,” Yasmin says.

It’s such a simple, uncomplicated word. And yet, the moment it leaves her mouth, an orgasm crashes down upon me like a hammer on a pane of glass, and what little remains of my foot-dazed mind is sent shattering into a million pieces, flying in every direction.

With the little cognition that remains me, I widen my eyes in horror at the realization that Yasmin has, for the first time, made me cum on pure command, just like Alia and Anbar do when their foot scent worms its way into my mind.

I wiggle and shake as I ride out the orgasm, Anbar pinning me to the floor while Alia relentlessly fucks my mouth.

“She’s just taken your virginity,” Alia says, looking almost bewildered. “The first time you cum from someone’s touch, and it’s from the bottom of Yasmin’s sneaker! That can’t be undone, you know that, slave? It’s forever.”

It is. Oh my god, it is. What have I become? What has happened to me? Was I always like this?

Yasmin’s eyes glimmer with pure elation. I can only begin to imagine what she must be feeling right now.

“Again,” she says. “Cum.”

My mind crumbles and implodes, falling in upon itself as yet another devastating orgasm radiates from my sex, shaking my body like an earthquake. I’m done. This is the rest of my life. I don’t even want anything else. What other lifestyle could ever make me feel like this?

Yasmin digs the bottom of her sneaker harder against my defeated cunt. “Who am I to you?”

I try to answer, even around Alia’s foot, but it’s impossible, I can’t muster the words, my eyes are rolling back into my skull from the ongoing assault against my clit, Anbar’s restricting my airways, I can’t, I…

“Cum,” Yasmin says, not really needing an answer. And my body responds with perfect obedience, descending into a spiral of utter, irresistible pleasure. As my mind finally shuts down and lets me do nothing but enjoy, I realize that I finally know, down to my bones, who Yasmin really is.

My queen’s true best friend, the girl who took my virginity, my beautiful co-owner.

My princess.

Interlude: Bottom Of The (Fast) Food Chain

I feel hollowed out.

On the outside, I may look like a girl, and not much of one at that. Growing fatter by the day thanks to the diet imposed upon me, shaved near-bald, reeking of foot sweat all the time, and with a stinky sock under my face mask, I make for a thoroughly pathetic sight.

But inside… Inside, I’m no longer even a person. Losing my virginity to the bottom of Yasmin’s old sneakers truly was the breaking point that finally drove what remained of old me, of Zainab, into the mud. Like slain prey under the feet of her conquerors.

I’m not Zainab any longer, no matter what my ID says. I don’t have any rights to an identity. My three dommes have taken it from me, along with everything else.

As I work dully and diligently in the kitchen of this sad fast food joint, I sigh in melancholy. Surrendering my v-card to Yasmin has been, hands down, one of the most thrilling moments of my life.

But as exhilarating as the high was then, so depressing is the low now. In the post-orgasmic, chastity-mandated days I’ve had since then, my mind has crashed right back down.

The daily humiliations are the only thing to still hold some sting for me. This very job is one of them, of course. As I charted my future, back when I was free, I never countenanced the idea of flipping burgers.

Smart, dedicated, studious girls didn’t end up flipping burgers. My determination would make me escape the orbit of the working class, and pave the way to a better life…

I snort to myself, thinking about how silly that sounds now. I don’t even qualify as working class anymore. I’m a slave, owned property, no more and no less than the rest of Alia’s footwear collection.

Even here, in this place of despondency and disappointment, my coworkers have quickly figured out what kind of pushover I am. Of course, the fact that I still bear the untanned outline of the girls’ feet on my face is hardly conductive to them taking me seriously.

But ever since that orgasm, ever since Yasmin broke me, I’ve been even meeker, even more of a pushover. And why not? Anbar always says this is what I was meant to be. She must be right.

Why else would I end up a slave, if it wasn’t simply my fate to become one eventually?

The classic scents of the kitchen make for a heady mixture, with the rich aroma of the sock I’ve been sniffing all afternoon. The smell of this food would have made my mouth water, once. Now, it makes me sick.

Ironically, pretty much the opposite is true for the smell of foot sweat, so I take a deep breath, smelling Alia’s sock under my facemask like the good slave I am.

Every breath makes me dumber. Every breath makes me more docile. Every breath makes me feel better.

I welcome the relief, because this job is exhausting. Every muscle in my body aches.

When I come here, it’s after a gruelling morning shift at Alia’s mansion. After this shift ends, I will get no reprieve – only a night in the closet, buried with Alia’s shoes.

I’m like a medieval serf, reduced into slavish service to aristocrats and queens. And that thought alone is enough to make my pussy spasm.

And even among the serfs, I am degraded, humiliated, and abused. The lowest of the low.

My co-workers never question why I seem to always wear a sock under my facemask. They haven’t commented – unless you count the odd glances – the first time I showed up at work with a buzzcut.

They’re more than happy to push the worst tasks onto me, knowing that I’ll take it, but are clearly too uncomfortable around me to do anything but exploit me.

Which is fine. It’s what I was put on Earth to do.

There is, of course, one exception, and I swallow in anticipation as our nominal afternoon shift ends.

The sisters know that my colleague Alina always makes me clean the kitchen when it’s her turn. They know I will be back home later than usual this evening, and they approve. Why would they not?

Me being enslaved over and over by everyone I interact with, that’s like a dream come true to Alia and Anbar. In a bizarre way, it’s becoming a dream come true for me, too.

But oddly, something’s changed today. This time, Alina doesn’t just walk up to me and surreptitiously orders me to clean the kitchen, before leaving in a hurry.

She hangs back, clearly killing time by fiddling and pretending to be busy, as each of our coworkers file out for the end of their shift.

I don’t know what to do. In theory, I would be free to leave. But something in Alina’s gaze tells me I better not even think about it.

And I’ve become utterly hopeless at resisting the threatening gazes of cruel girls…

Nothing reveals the true extent of my brainwashing more than this. I can no longer imagine a normal interaction with a girl. I expect every single girl I meet to just pin me to the floor, and fuck my mind with her shoes or naked feet.

No matter how warped my expectations have become, though, the rest of the world is carrying on perfectly fine without me. Most girls will not, in fact, unceremoniously plant their shoes in my face, just because I expect them to.

But Alina?

There’s a familiar glint in her eye when at last we are alone in the kitchen. I’ve seen that before.

It’s a girl’s barely-concealed anticipation at the opportunity of a lifetime. The ability to sexually exploit and psychologically dominate someone, with no pushback and no consequence.

All of a sudden, the rules of society and propriety no longer apply, and you’re free to just explore what makes you feel good. How it feels like to tame someone, make them your bitch, make them beg for it, recognise you as their superiors.

Alia, Anbar, and Yasmin have clearly shown me that such a thrill is addictive. And, like all addictions, it includes an element of tolerance.  Even in my constantly foot-dazzled, under-stimulated, reduced brain, I retain just enough of my cognition to know that much.

My three dommes have been getting more and more extreme, in their perpetual chase for that high. I’ve become more and more submissive, not just because I have to, but because every new degradation fuels my wetness like a switch being flipped.

I recognise the look in Alina, the hunger. It’s not enough for her to tell me to stay behind and clean, not anymore.

Some people have a sixth sense for weakness. Hers must be firing all sorts of alarms in her brain right now, telling her that I’m ripe for the picking, that she can have me if she wants to.

The internal struggle plays out in front of me, as Alina tries to commit to her course of action, tries to overcome the social norms that say we should be coworkers and nothing more.

For my part, I simply stay there and sniff my socks. After all, this isn’t my decision to make: Alina can have me, if she wants me.

My consent is not mine to give.

At last, her hunger triumphs over her sense of propriety. Recognising my surrender, Alina closes the distance between us.

She does so slowly, sultrily, like a predator stalking her prey. And it makes my thighs quiver in anticipation and arousal.

“So, Zainab,” she says, and as always, the name makes me tremble and whimper – a reminder of all I used to have, of all I’ve lost. “What’s the matter with you, exactly?”

“W-what do you mean?” I ask, my voice muffled by Alia’s sock placed under my facemask.

Alina raises an eyebrow. “Well, you could start with the sock, for instance…”

Of course she knows it’s a sock, but my eyes still widen in shock, and my cheeks redden in embarassment. What explanation could I possibly give that would make any sense?

“I… I have to wear it…”

“Really? You do?” Alina cocks her hips, one hand resting on them, an arched eyebrow as she judges me. “Who’s making ya?”

I gulp, trying to remain steady. I know what Alia would want, and that’s all I need to resolve my internal impasse. She would want me to utterly and irrevocably humiliate myself, destroy my own reputation at work.

So that’s exactly what I’ll do.

“M-m-my… owners…” I say, submissively lowering my gaze back to the ground.

Alina’s eyes go wide in surprise and shock, but then she giggles, nervously. “Owners? Is this a fetish thing?”

I know how plain weird this scenario must be for her. True to my nature, I mean to steer her along towards our natural roles. The roles my queens have taught me.

But how best to do it? I hesitate for a second. Part of me wants to say yes because it will be way more immediate for her to grasp. But it also feels like a lie.

“I can show you,” I say in a small voice, and realize just how willing I am, just how wet.

My interactions with my three dommes are the only positive human contact I’ve known for many months. It’s pleasurable, warm, sexy. Is it really wrong that I try to recreate it here? Wouldn’t it be delicious to have to beg Alina for orgasms, too?

I finally grasp how truly, irrevocably gone I am when I voluntarily descend to my knees, under Alina’s shocked gaze.

This is it. A girl has started bullying me at work, and I’ve immediately sexualised it, because I’ve been conditioned to associate abuse with pleasure.

She’s shown the mildest curiosity about my situation, and I’ve decided to plunge headlong and show her just how much of a footslave I am. A girl’s pet. A living footrest. A doormat for my betters.

That’s when I know the truth. Alia could kick me out tomorrow, decide she’s done with me and that she’s never going to bother with me again… and I would simply go on to find another mistress.

I can no longer be free. And that’s why I kneel humbly before Alina, determined to show her who she really is – and who I really am.

She stares at me, fighting between the pull of lust, and the hold of uncertainty. For a second, she visibly trembles in place as she watches me fold into a slavish position at her feet.

I remove my facemask, and it’s the first time anyone at work has seen my face unobstructed. I pocket Alia’s sock – I will need to wear it on the way back home – and stare at Alina for a moment.

She’s beautiful from down here. If only girls would know how full of splendor they look, when seen from below…

I drop my gaze, very significantly. Then, I bow all the way, making sure to expose the back of my neck to her in vulnerability. Then, I press my cheek against the cold, grimy floor of the kitchen.

I hate it, I hate the grease and the rough texture and the way it feels sticky under my skin. But I love that it makes me feel like the objectified, dehumanized peasant I actually am.

I can hear Alina draw breath from above me.

“Please, Princess,” I say in a soft whisper, providing her the guidance I know she’s going to need. “Please make me your doormat. Step on me.”

Alina breaks out in hysterical laughter, like she can’t decide if I’m pranking her or not. “Girl,” she says, “get out of here. For real?”

I rub my cheek against the floor, wiggling my butt, putting every effort in my pose. I try my best to look submissive and available, to convince her that this is serious.

When, at last, the bottom of her sneaker makes contact with my cheek – hesitantly, exploringly – I sigh in relief and arousal. It’s all I can do not to start humping the air.

“Wow,” Alina says. “I guess you really like this?”

“It’s my place in the world,” I say, writhing in pleasure and defeat as Alina’s exploration becomes more daring. Her sneaker travels up and down my face, hesitantly pushing down every now and then.

I know it might take her a few sessions before she starts leaving the imprints of her shoes on my face, but I also know we’ll get there… and that Alia will love it.

“The footprints on your face…” Alina whispers, in sudden realization.

“I act as a footrest for my owners when they sunbathe,” I say, my voice straining from my own arousal.

“You… God, what a slut.” Alina says, stepping away from me, sitting on the counter behind her. Just like that, her sneakers come off, and her socked feet – sweaty from a long shift here – dangle in the air above me.

“Is there anything you won’t do?”

I whimper and moan, thinking that no, there really isn’t, not anymore. People have boundaries, objects do not. I don’t implement rules for my own person, rules are imposed upon me by my betters.

“Well, come on then,” Alina says, dangling her feet playfully. “Show me what it is you fetishists do to get it on.”

The words are all the encouragement I need. I throw myself at her feet like a drowning woman, and I begin rain humble kisses upon Alina’s arches, ankles, toes, heels, and soles.

Then, I grab at the hem of her socks with my teeth, first one and then the other. I make a show of pulling them away, resting them inside her sneakers, and then begin to kiss her naked feet.

It occurs to me that, after Yasmin’s birthday party, I’ve literally lost count of how many women in my life I’ve worshipped like this. There were so many invitees at the party, so many shoes and feet to pay homage to.

All I know is that the number is only destined to go up and up… and that fills me with incredible arousal. As Alina watches me in rapt fascination, I begin to lick the bottoms of her feet, like an eager dog.

The taste is incredible. Much like Yasmin, and really everyone but Alia and Anbar, the foot sweat leaves me in control of my actions. But by this point, my conditioning is too thorough for me to fathom.

I never had a thing for feet when I was free. Hell, I spent most of my enslavement being utterly disgusted by them, too. But now… the sisters have broken me to the point that they’ve literally drilled this kink into me.

And so I relish the idea of giving Alina’s feet a tongue bath, getting them nice and clean for her after her shift. She doesn’t need magical foot scent to enslave me. I’ll do it myself.

Alina shudders at the ministrations offered by my tongue. With a yelp of pleasure, she shoves me back to the ground with her feet, then presses her soles in my face for me to continue licking.

“God, yes,” she says as I worship. “I’ve always known I could boss you around, but this… God, you’re a slut. I’m the boss of you.”

“I’m dirt beneath your feet,” I say. “You could have taken me any time, Princess.”

Alina’s feet part and press around my cheeks, so she can look down at me – almost like Yasmin did, the first time she forced me to submit.

Makes me wonder who’ll be next…

“Really now? Any time?” Alina asks, and her stare is playful, but also aroused. “So you’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you? Mmmmh…”

“Any time,” I say, my breath growing frantic as I alternate between licks, and professions of my surrender.

“My dommes have broken me,” I confess, not caring that I’m now openly humping empty air. “I can’t even cum without their permission.”

“Oh…” Alina says, biting her lower lip, shoving one foot over my boobs while the other receives eager laps from my tongue.

“I’m a pushover and a slave,” I continue, driven to a frenzy by my own arousal. “You could  have had me any time because I’m a lesser girl.”

“You’re barely a girl at all,” Alina says, lashing out, her eyes glimmering with arousal as her foot descends down my body, her toes teasingly brushing against my legs. “You’re ugly, servile, and stupid.”

“The lowest member of my own gender,” I continue in agreement. “I’m ditzy and foot-stupid. My mouth was never meant to be heard, but to be felt around the toes of womankind…”

“Is that what you like, slave girl?” Alina asks, her grin widening. “Sucking toes? Does it make you think of the cocks you’ll never have? The male attention that will never go your way?”

I nod weakly, and Alina’s istinctive reaction is so fast that it makes me proud of her. She rotates her ankle, toes angled towards my face, while her other foot finally lands between my legs, heel smashing against my undersexed crotch.

As I gasp in shock and arousal, her foot darts forward, toes entering my mouth.

“Mmmh, yes,” she whispers. “Make me feel those lips around my toes…”

I choke and gag as Alina’s face pumps up and down, ever more violently. She’s either rubbing herself, or she simply enjoys roughing me up, but I don’t care either way.

With one foot on my defeated cunt, and the other in my mouth, I’m exactly where I should be in life. I slobber and tear up as I do my best to give Alina’s toes the throat massage they deserve.

“You’ll stay back and clean the kitchen every day,” Alina says. “I’m the boss of you. I’ll relegate all the tasks I don’t like to you. You’re going to work twice as hard now, because I need to coast through this job, and you’re going to pick up my slack.”

The only answer I can offer is a series of gluk gluk sounds as Alina’s foot masters my throat.

Apparently, that’s all it takes to finally send her over the edge.

Alina moans, grinding her heel against my sex, toes jammed as deep down my mouth as they would go, riding out the waves of her orgasm on my broken, tamed body.

I let her have the pleasure she deserves, slowing the grinding of my hips as she begins to climb down from the peak. Her foot slows down in my mouth, and I suckle it gently and unassumingly as she contemplates me.

“What about you?” She says at last, running a hand through her hair, panting to catch her breath. “You want me to make you cum like this?”

“Mmmppphhh,” I mumble from around her foot, and Alina frowns. She lifts her foot back up, pivoting it over my chin – a gesture that makes it clear the removal is purely temporary.

I gather my wits and focus my eyes on the sole of the foot before me, unable to meet her gaze. Then, with the mousy voice of a sapphic slave, I utter my final confession to Alina.

“I can’t,” I say. “I’m unable to cum without my three owners’ permission…”

Alina looks at me like what I’ve said is literally impossible. But then, the shock on her face begins to give way to something else.

The incredulity breaks with a single chuckle. And then, she begins to laugh.

It’s hysterical, uncontrolled laughter that has her in literal tears. She can barely control herself as her foot pivots back into my mouth, slamming downwards. The other lifts in the air, the toes tickling cruelly at my sex.

I sink into the teasing and suck devotedly on the foot in my mouth, while above me Alina laughs. And laughs, and laughs, and laughs…

Epilogue: A Lasting Conquest

The life of a slave is a dark planet’s orbit, revolving around a beautiful, uncaring sun. And there is no arguing with gravity.

Most free people have their own form of centering, of course. Work, routine, hobbies, scheduled entertainment. But those things are flexible, and can evolve over time.

When you’re a slave, though, the days blend into one another. You wake up and go to bed at consistent times, perform the same chores over and over – and you simply cannot stray. The rules are enforced from outside. You have no control.

The only fixed point, the only anchor, is the owner’s will.

Living like this dulls your intellect, it makes you something less than human… but at this point, I’m starting to make my peace with it. Anbar does always tell me I was born stupid, and simply had a misguided sense of my own intelligence when I thought myself free.

Perhaps more importantly, I am less than human… so this state of affairs suits me just fine. I look at the upside: life as a slave is a life of certainty. I have no responsibility, except do my owners’ bidding.

There definitely is a downside though, and not one you might expect. When change does arrive, it’s sudden, unstoppable – your owners mandate it, after all – and you have no choice except take it in stride.

It’s been a few days since the last time I’ve been in direct contact with Alia or Anbar’s feet – although strangely, Yasmin still uses me as her foot girl whenever she fancies, and of course I submit without protest.

Like I said, change. No explanation has been offered, no reason given. It is not my place to ask or question, of course. I am the sisters’ slave, and this makes them my anchor point. If they want me away from their feet for a while, then of course I will comply.

Like chunks of space debris, orbiting a distant sun, I’m a slave to my orbit. I pale into insignificance, next to the radiance of the stars. So I keep to my schedule, and wait for Alia or Anbar to tell me what’s going on.

It’s not like my routine isn’t full as it is, especially now that Alina expects full control over me at work. I let it absorb me in full, and wait for time to pass, and for the other shoe to drop… so to speak.

When eventually it does, even my slavish composure threatens to vacillate. I do my best to look submissive and receptive, open for instructions, as is expected of me… but I’m nervous.

The summoning takes place in Alia’s room, strangely – not Anbar’s, where so many fateful moments of my transformation have taken place. The old Zainab might have figured out what this clue hints at, but that person no longer exists.

Still, I wonder. What do Alia and Anbar have in mind? Well, I suppose I will find out soon either way, it’s not like I have a choice.

On the plus side, this does mean there is no lingering, overpowering foot scent, so I can still think with a modicum of clarity. Or as much as I can muster, when in the presence of my two conquerors.

I kneel before my Goddess and my Queen, and obediently await their pronouncements.

Alia crosses one leg over the other, her angelic face resting on her chin. She contemplates me with a mixture of amusement and contempt. There has never been so much distance between us.

She’s a vision of radiant femininity, and I’m just chattel.

“You love me, slave,” she says, batting her eyelashes instantly. I know Alia expects full and utter devotion at all times, so I gulp, trying to somehow kneel even lower than I already do, and profess my feelings for her.

“I do, Your Majesty,” I say in a rapt whisper. “With all my heart.”

That causes Anbar to guffaw at my display. “We certainly don’t love you back!”

“No we don’t. That goes without saying,” Alia says, matter-of-factly. But the glint of amusement in her eyes belies her indifference. She loves seeing the emotional pain etched on my face.

“But we deserve your undying worship and devotion, no matter what we do to you. Isn’t that right?”

I narrow my eyes, but only for a moment. This is a very strange line of questioning Alia has taken. Yes, she wants to be showered in adoration, but she perfectly knows these things to be true. I feel like I’m being set up for something…

Even so, there is no alternative to obedience. I hang my head low in defeat. “Yes, Your Majesty. No matter how many things you t-t-take… I will always, always love you.”

“It’s only right,” Alia says, and there’s some steel in her voice now, reminding me she is as beautiful as she is terrible. But then, she makes a show of mellowing out. “I’ll be very open and honest with you, Zainab. I want something from you, and you’re going to hate it. But you’ll do it anyway, because you love me.”

I swallow, trying to keep my breathing steady. I… I genuinely don’t even know what else Alia could possibly take from me. She draws it out, teasing me with her amused eyes, with the way her foot bobs up and down.

Then, she spills the beans.

“I want you to drop out of college for me.”

It’s such a simple, unassuming line. It’s delivered with such perfect innocence. But it hits me like an earthquake.

All of a sudden, things I haven’t even thought about in so long resurface again. College. I was a promising student, once. I had friends there, once. I interacted with people who saw me as an equal.

Shock courses through me. This is the last week before finals! I’ve been neglecting my college career for months as I slave away for the sisters, but even so, this final request, so outrageous, so cruel, so…

Hot…

Who am I fooling? Did I really think I would ever be allowed to cling to college? Anbar is right, I’m so stupid, I deserve everything that’s happening to me.

My captors have deliberately destroyed every aspect of my life they could get their hands on, why would this be any different? I won’t be allowed to go and find a job, have a career. That would be too much like being free.

I’ve busted my ass all my life for college… and that’s precisely why Alia wants me to give it up. For love, she says. Devotion. Worship.

“All those countless hours burning the midnight oil…” Alia whispers, as if reading my mind. “Offer them up to me, slave. Like a religious sacrifice to your true deity.”

Absurdly, I find myself wishing she’d stick a foot in my face, let me breathe myself stupid. That would dull the pain and my senses, it would drown my brain in morass, make it easier to destroy the last bit of independent life that I will ever know.

But neither Alia nor Anbar offer their feet to me. All I’m given is Alia’s phone.

“I’ve already dialled the administration office. Just make the call.”

She’s going to make me do this on the spot. I can see her biting her bottom lip with a mischievous smirk on her face as she’s savoring this moment, where she is almost literally trampling my very soul into the dirt.  

God, I love her so much…

I can only imagine what the stunned administration worker might tell me – such a promising student dropping out just inches away from the finish line. My fingers tremble as I hold the phone in my hands, the harbinger of my downfall.

But a slave’s life is fixed around certain anchor points. It is the orbit of a dark planet around a beautiful, uncaring sun.

There’s no arguing with gravity… there is only the orbit.

And so, holding back a heartbroken sob, I press my thumb into the phone screen, and shiver at the sound on speaker as the call begins to ring.

***

The life of a slave is set between certain pressure points. Most typically, the slave’s superiors.

Sitting in the audience at the graduation ceremony, my heart broken into a thousand pieces and my soul flayed raw, I find myself flanked by Anbar and Sanae.

A hammer and an anvil.

Were it not for them – my pressure points – I would be bawling my eyes out already. In truth, Alia would probably want me to, although Anbar always finds it annoying. But the mere idea of their judgement makes me compose myself.

Aren’t I lucky, being able to count on my owners even in such a terrible situation?

Dejectedly I watch as Alia, Yasmin, and all the other cohorts approach the podium, receive their diplomas, and shake the headmaster’s hand.  

I was supposed to be up there with them, having all my hard work bear fruit and be celebrated today.

Instead, I’m sitting in the crowd, and sticking out like a sore thumb too. I stink, and my buzzcut and the untanned print of Yasmin’s feet on my face make me look ridiculous.

To make it all worse, Anbar demanded that  I wear my fast food chain work uniform – an instruction that Alia enthusiastically endorsed. This way, everyone here – my professors, the students, the parents – everyone will know what I do for a living now.

My lips quiver in pain as I am, once again, cruelly confronted with the fact that Alia has truly taken everything from me. Everything.

Meanwhile, Alia herself, as well as even my princess Yasmin (who I once thought didn’t even deserve to get into college in the first place, let alone actually graduate) celebrate their academic success. The end of their lives as students.

My life as a student has ended too, if in an altogether different way. Nothing remains of who I was before. I’m just a self-aware toy for girls’ feet, pressed into a thin sliver of consciousness that has no room for ambition, individuality, or dignity… but only for service.

I know there’s so much potential for Alia to inflict further cruelty upon me here. I know my captor, and I know she won’t miss the opportunity. She hasn’t missed any so far, even when I thought there couldn’t possibly be anything else she could do to me.

She’s a genius when it comes to hurting people. How fucked up is it that the very idea tugs at my heartstrings with such force?

When her turn comes to deliver her speech, Alia scans the crowd. Her clever eyes settle on me, glittering with pride, joy, and above all… amusement.

“I just want to say a few words,” she says, the mic giving her voice an even more innocent and crystalline quality. God, even her pitch is perfect… she really has everything in life handed to her on a silver platter.

Myself included.

“I want to really, really thank my best friend. She’s been here for me through all these four years, and I could have never done it without her.”

And then, she turns to Yasmin. And my heart breaks all over again.

The two girls embrace tightly, and in doing so, they rotate in place, so that each has an opportunity in turn to look my way, flashing me the cruelest of smiles.

After they disentangle, Alia grabs the mic again.

“I also want to thank Zainab! She’s right here in the audience – there you are, silly!”

My heart drops and my face goes pale with pure terror. Anbar elbows me in the ribs to my right, and I hear Sanae chuckle coldly to my left, but it’s everyone else in the room I’m worried about.

If there was the slightest chance people hadn’t figured out who I am, it’s been obliterated now. There can be no more doubts.

I’m the weird, nerdy girl who dropped out and literally disappeared just inches away from the finish line. I signed up for student loans and then quit at the last minute. And I’m here in a fast food uniform.

“I really appreciate all the sacrifices you’ve made for me so far… and all those you’ll make in the future,” Alia continues. “All the services rendered, so that I could focus on studying…”

Alia lets the sentence tail off, and it’s all I can do not to shake in place at the shiver that goes through me.

Her voice seems to drift away as she looks away from me, wrapping up her speech with the usual pleasantries. I gasp at the breath I suddenly feel at my ear.

Anbar is leaning close to me.

“That could have been you standing up there,” Anbar whispers to me. “You, with an entire, fulfilling life ahead of you. Instead, you’ve let my sister and I absolutely ruin your life.”

I stifle a sob. I swear Sanae is openly chuckling to herself now. “I’m so proud of my daughter,” she suddenly says out loud, talking to a neighbor to her left. I have a distinct feeling it’s not the graduation she’s talking about.

Undeterred, Anbar continues, leaning even closer to me.

“You’ve let us turn you into our sock-smelling, shoe-licking, floor-cleaning, foot-sucking slave.”

That’s when, at last, the pressure points prove too much. The levee breaks.

One tear follows another, until eventually I find myself crying my heart out, bending over to contain the sobs and avoid making any noises. I should be quiet and composed, submissive and unheard, even in my despair.

I would never do anything that might spoil Alia’s special day, after all…

***

The life of a slave is full of tests.

At this point, I almost think of it like an obstacle course. Alia, Anbar, and Yasmin find endless entertainment in my continued debasement.

But if I can survive each instance, pull through, and please them, then life returns to normal, eventually.

For a given definition of normal, of course. My normal is the comforting simplicity of cleaning the bathroom, fetching things, kissing feet…

But even I have to admit, this particular obstacle is bigger than others.

What hurts the most about meeting Paula and Eric again is the way their eyes linger on my nametag, to make sure that it really is me.

I can’t blame them. I barely recognize myself in the mirror, after all. I’m fatter and disheveled, I sport a buzzcut and bear Yasmin’s literal footprints on my forehead. And if my looks are unrecognizable, what to say of my actions?

The disbelief in their looks is palpable when they read my nametag. They’re forced to conclude that this really is me. That I’ve really done something so insane as quit my education this week. I see confusion and hurt in their eyes, and in turn, that pains me, too.

They were my friends, once. I know they’d still like to be that, but Alia will never allow me to have any connections with peers. It would make me uppity, give me ideas.

I’m all too aware of this as she stands next to me, nursing a drink, receiving one compliment after another with a radiant – but fake – smile and waving people away. Like a queen, routinely passing through supplicants.

Her focus is on me, her toy. And on Paula and Eric, as they struggle for words here in the courtyard, outside campus.

At last, it’s Eric that finds the courage to speak. It doesn’t surprise me – Paula keeps eyeing Alia, whom she hates, but finds so intimidating. Eric has no such concerns – he literally couldn’t care less about her, I know.

“Zainab,” he says, widening his arms in evident exasperation. “What happened? Why would you do something so insane?”

Emboldened by Eric’s courage, Paula throws one last look at Alia, then turns to face me, biting her lower lip in embarassment. “We, uh… saw the photos. You know, on social media. On Yasmin’s profile, I mean, since you obviously…”

Before I blocked them at Anbar’s direction, of course. I don’t know what I find more devastating, the idea that my friends saw me act as Yasmin’s doormat for her birthday party, or that they can’t possibly explain why I would randomly block them on social media…

My lips quiver, and it takes all my strength to hold back the tears. Words fail me. What could I possibly tell them? That I’m sorry, but slavery to Alia’s feet takes precedence over everything else in my life?

Anbar told me to block you, so I just obeyed – nothing personal?

There is nothing to say, for me or for them. I can’t justify the wretched excuse of a person I am.

“Just talk to us,” Eric says, encouraging. “We can help, I know we can.”

That makes my chest squeeze. He – they care about me, in a way that Alia never did. How many times did they ask me why I put up with such a cruel, selfish person? How many times did they encourage me to focus on my ambitions?

And that was before I became a slave, too!

The problem is, great friends they may be, but… I don’t love them. I do love Alia, and everything she does to me. I know this love was forced unto me, but I can’t undo that anymore. My place is at her feet.

Before I can answer, Alia barges in, immediately establishing that I’m a mere accessory in this conversation.

Throwing her hair back in a show of pride and regality, she smirks in Eric’s direction. “Zainab is so desperately in love with me that she’d do absolutely anything to make me happy, Eric. And I do mean anything.”

I see the disdain in my Mistress’ eyes. Eric and Paula, they’re of too low a social extraction for her, she wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole. Even so, she gives them a smug, beaming smile – one that never reaches her eyes – before turning to me.

“Tell them why you’re here.”

For a split second, I’m almost tempted to plead with Alia, to beg her to please let me off the hook this one time. But that too would be an admission in front of Eric and Paula, wouldn’t it?

And besides… a slave’s life is full of tests. There’s no point struggling. The easier course of action is just taking it, no matter what’s required.

So I turn to face my former friends, my cheeks burning red from my humiliation. And then, I launch into the confession Alia wants to hear.

“You guys don’t need to worry about me,” I say, in a shrill voice that fails to sound entirely convincing. “I just prefer Alia to you, it’s all.”

I take a second to let that sink in, see the shock and hurt on their faces, before I resume speaking – faster and faster, to deny them a chance to duck out of the conversation immediately. And also to sound more firm in my statements.

“I love and adore Alia with all my heart,” I say, back straight, face deadpan and serious. “I don’t need an education, so long as I can spend my life at Alia’s feet, serving her every whim.”

My friends’ eyes are bulging out of their orbits at this point, and who could blame them? They must feel like this is a practical joke, and they’re on camera, or something.  But no, this is all true. And my work is not yet done.

“I’m so grateful, every day, for the sacrifices Alia allows me to make for her,” I add. “I’m happier being her bitch than I ever was when I was free.”

“That’s, huh…” Eric says, shaking his head, while Paula just stares at me like I’ve gone insane. “G-good for you? I… guess?”

“Haha, that was priceless!” Alia says, stepping closer to me. “But I think your friends here need a better demonstration of your new lifestyle. Heel, doggy.”

There is no room for doubt, hesitation, or even shame. I drop to my knees so fast that they hurt against the cold marble of the courtyard, but the pain is a mere detail. I bend over, prostrating myself at Alia’s feet.

At least I can’t see Eric and Paula’s faces from here… but I can hear their horrified gasps when I press my lips to the tip of Alia’s glossy black heels, suctioning wantonly, making out with them.

By the time I start gently fellating the tip of Alia’s shoe, there is nothing but cold silence around me. Eventually, footsteps break the quiet. I can hear them receding, and I know it’s the sound of Eric and Paula – two people who genuinely cared for me – walking out of my life, forever.

In a way, I know, my old life is walking away with them. Even so, I don’t look up to watch them go.

***

The life of a slave overwhelms the senses.

But not this time.

As we get out of Sanae’s car, I know immediately to get back on all fours in the driveway. Alia’s neighbors might see me, but I’m long past caring. Making out with Alia’s shoe outside campus has really put such things in perspective for me.

The tarmac feels warm and rough under my hands, but I wait patiently, like a good domesticated pet. Sanae, Alia, and Anbar ignore me, chatting among themselves about Alia’s special day, and leaving me alone with my thoughts.

The crushing nature of my routine, the pervasive nature of foot sweat, all these things would normally dull my senses. But now, the pain is raw, pure, fierce. It is a fire that laps at my skin, making me yelp and recoil continually, without being able to escape.

I make my way down the garden, and towards the entrance of the mansion, following the three women like a dog on a leash, trying to ignore the furious twisting of my heart. I keep seeing Eric’s face, pained. Paula’s utter bewilderment.

The way they flinched when I said I preferred Alia to them…

So much pain. It goes round and round, and it seems to never end. Is slavery worth all this hurt? Or is the pain the whole point?

I shake my head as we approach the mansion. I truly thought I was done, that I couldn’t sink any lower than this. But quitting college, this ceremony, my debasement before Eric and Paula…

It’s like my heart has been put right back in, only to be ripped out again.

When at last we make our way past the threshold, I sit back on my haunches, ready to perform the ritual.

It strikes me that it’s the first time all three mistresses of the house are present with me.

That is no excuse to hesitate, of course, and Sanae knows everything by this point, she clearly must, but… somehow, performing this under her gaze is a thousand times more humiliating.

With a gulp of dread, I lean forward towards Alia. I pay my dues to my Queen, placing gentle kisses on her heels before removing them, repeating the same reverence to her toes. All the while I feel Sanae’s eyes, burning at the back of my neck.

Wordlessly, I move to Anbar. I place affectionate kisses on her sneakers, which she politely lifts so I can kiss the bottom clean. Once they’re removed, I kiss her socked feet, and the sudden breath of foot scent – my the first in days – is almost a welcome relief.

It lasts only for a moment. I dare not look up at Sanae to confirm that this is what she expects me to do. She wouldn’t just be standing here if she didn’t.

It kills me, having to do this, but in a way, I recognize she’s as much my conqueror as her daughters are. I bend forward, placing one humble kiss on the tip of each of her heels, and then, after they’re removed, I do the same to her feet.

Sanae is no young girl like us – she’s a grown woman. And yet, as always, she’s groomed to such perfection that she looks completely unblemished. Her feet are soft and smooth like those of someone twenty years younger than her.

As my lips pucker and render homage to her perfect skin, I feel incredibly diminished. A young, mousy little girl, begging a rich matron for mercy…

“I’m glad to see the little talk we had that day was productive,” she says, looking down at me with that cold, unfeeling smile. “Thank me for your wisdom. Thank me for teaching you.”

There’s a weird, sultry lilt in her voice I’ve never detected before, but I rush to obey. This woman terrifies me, and I wither to nothing under her gaze.

“Thanks for showing me my place,” I say in a soft voice, “ma’am.”

Satisfied with my submission, Sanae steps away from me while Alia and Anbar titter in hilarity.

Just like that, we’re alone again. Me in my fast food uniform, and my two conquerors.

Alia steps up to me, her fingertips lightly scratching my scalp. It’s not real affection, I know. Just a way to remind me she’s taken my hair away… among so much else.

“You did well today,” Alia says, but it sounds like she’s complimenting herself, not me. And to be honest, she should. The cruel ingenuity is all hers. I’ve merely done what I always do: obey.

“But we’re not done yet,” she says, giggling. “Follow us.”

And so, once again, I find myself crawling in Alia and Anbar’s wake.

We go up the stairs and down the hallway, then we skip Anbar’s room, and head straight for Alia’s. Again, that makes me wonder. The foot daze indoors would turn my brain to mush, so why pick another room?

I don’t question the peculiarity, of course. I follow the owners inside, kneeling before them as they sit down on Alia’s bed, legs crossed, feet dangling in front of me.

“Slave,” Anbar says at last, breaking the silence. “We have begun to notice something a little troubling.”

“You’re starting to enjoy how we treat you,” Alia continues.

I swallow, nervously. It’s true, of course, and not just from them. Alina, Yasmin, even Maryam… it’s hard to deny that their dominance is starting to become a major turn on for me. I give a weak nod of acknoweldgement.

“That’s no fun for us,” Alia says, pouting. “Remember how we started? I was so happy this wasn’t a kink for you. Your enjoyment isn’t the point.”

“In fact, it’s the fucking opposite, maggot,” Anbar interjects. “It’s much better if you don’t like it.”

I shrivel under the verbal lashing, intimidated and terrified. I feel absurdly guilty for something I have no control over – the only reason why I sexualize this is because of their actions, after all.

But there’s no room for reason and logic, in such a master/slave relationship. I tremble like a leaf before them, not daring to speak, even though part of me desperately wants to apologise to them.

“Well, we have an order for you,” Alia says. “Just stop enjoying it.”

I look at her, blinking, uncomprehending. “But, Your Majesty, I… how? Is that even possible?”

“I don’t care,” she says. “Not my problem. Figure it out, peasant girl. You’ll do it because you love me.”

“Of course,” Anbar says, “you’ll still be expected to only orgasm at our feet, and live your life like it literally depends on them. We just want it to be unending torture for you.”

I’ve felt all sorts of emotions in my time since my enslavement, but nothing can come close to the utter confusion swirling around my head right now. I babble, looking for words that could possibly make this make sense.

“I… I don’t know how…”

“I think I do,” Anbar says. And she sticks her socked foot right against my nose.

By pure instinct, before I can even think, I breathe in. That’s just what I do when presented with feet, and Anbar’s have always smelled more strongly than others. I let the aroma drift into my nostrils, bind my brain, enslave me…

And to my horror, I feel myself changing. What was a welcome relief a moment ago becomes unbearable now.

My eyes open wider as I gasp in shock. Oh god, the smell! Anbar’s feet are rancid, terrible, they make my eyes water and my throat convulse.

There’s no trace of the familiar quiver in my sex, of the thrill that comes with my defeat. The sisters have changed me…

No! Why?!

I sob against Anbar’s foot, desperate as the one lever I had left, my own counterphobic reaction, my enjoyment of my abuse, is taken away from me. I whimper in absolute disgust as Anbar’s foot adheres even closer to my face.

But I can’t move away.

“Holy shit,” Anbar says. “It actually worked! Look at her! No more bucking her hips like a wanton slut, I’m telling you, she’s hating this!”

Alia breaks out in cold laughter, but eventually, her smile curls into a smirk of cruelty. “That’s good. It means we can move on with what we really have in mind.”

“Mmmmppphhh???” I mumble, as the ball of Anbar’s foot presses harshly against my lips. It’s beginning to hurt, and I can taste the smelly sock fluff… and I’m hating every second of this.

But what does my queen ultimately have in mind?

“Now that you’re formally done with college, you don’t need what little brains you had to begin with anymore,” Alia says simply. “So we’re going to take it away.”

“Not that you ever had much to begin with,” Anbar says with a snicker. “But what little is there, we want it gone. Irrevocably gone. You were so haughty before, look at you now. No degree, no money, no friends. Once we take your smarts away too, you’ll have nothing left.”

I whimper in fear at the violence behind Anbar’s words, and a part of me wonders in terror if that’s even going to be a thing. I know they’ve talked about this in the past, about me drooling my IQ all over their feet, about me breathing myself stupid for them, but…

Are they… really going to pull this off?

“Nothing left, except us,” Alia says. “Which is just where I want you. So I’m going to order you to literally lose brain cells for me.”

For a moment, even my enthrallment isn’t enough to prevent me from gawking in shock and absolute horror. Graduation this morning has completely destroyed me, I’ve returned here thinking I’d just lost everything forever.

But no. Alia is a cruel genius, and she knows perfectly well that there is just one more thing she can do to destroy me. One last thing left to take, before the old Zainab is truly gone forever.

Ruining my academic future isn’t enough. She wants to utterly annihilate any shred of hope or ability of ever regaining even a crumb of what I once had.

She wants to order my brain to do things that are normally not possible for someone to do consciously, like choose to literally become dumber for her amusement.

I am beyond terrified that this is even possible, that I can be broken this thoroughly, not just my life, but everything that makes me a person, even a subservient one.

But I know that’s not why Alia wants to do this to me, even despite everything she’s put me through. She wants it as proof of my love and adoration, that she means the world to me.

Proof that she is the girl of her dreams, the girl whose approval I can never have. The person my whole universe revolves around, whose happiness matters more than absolutely everything I could ever imagine.

“There’s more,” Anbar says. “You’re going to have to beg for it.”

And that, I realize with slowly dawning horror, is why I’ve been away from her feet for so long.

They wanted me to be able to think just clearly enough to fully perceive the absolute inhumanity of what they want to do to me.

If I could think clearly enough, I would hate the very idea of begging them to destroy me.

But the most exruciating consideration of all is… This may be the last time in my entire life that I have the brains to make a deduction like this. The last time that I have the cognitive skills to put clues together, and grasp the horror of my enslavement.

And it has to be this. This revelation, this final debasement, this irreversible reduction of who I used to be.

Unable to meet the eyes of my captors, I look down, defeated, exhausted.

I used to have my outspoken rule, before this fever dream began. Now, it’s the opposite – I have an unspoken rule, and it goes like this: I am commanded to literally want Alia’s selfishness. Her total destruction of my boundaries.

There’s no fight left in me at this point. Maybe I’m better off just letting it happen. Once I’m dumber, I won’t think about this so hard ever again. Maybe the pain will stop.

It’s time to offer my unconditional surrender.

I push myself down to the floor, adhering to it like a worm as I crawl before my vanquishers. I place humble kisses all over Anbar’s feet, then switch to Alia, and back. Alia’s naked feet allow me more access, so I humbly lap at her soles.

It’s the gesture of a supplicant. I don’t need her breaking me in with foot deepthroats anymore. I just lick away at her soles in utter respect and devotion, broken and defeated.

“You know, I didn’t bother to wear clean socks for the graduation,” Anbar says, pushing one foot up my nose while my tongue services Alia’s soles. “I literally just kept wearing this pair for several days.”

“I can certainly smell that,” Alia says, tittering.

“Just saying,” Anbar continues. “I’m more than confident the smell and taste alone could kill your brain cells right now.”

At that, I sniff even harder, doing my best to breathe it all in. The sisters cry out in laughter, while I squirm in disgust, my eyes tearing at the horrible stench.

“That’s my good maggot,” Anbar says. “Still no begging, though.”

I force my face off Anbar’s foot, looking up at her and Anbar.

It’s time to see this through. One way or the other.

“Please, Goddess, please, Your Majesty,” I say, reciting words I’d said once already. I didn’t know how much serious they could get, then. But I do, now.

“Destroy my brain cells with the smell of your feet. Deconstruct my life piece by piece for your entertainment. You get to say how I live, not I. Demolish everything I cherish. Make me into something less than a person. Please let me drool all of my IQ over your feet as I lick them!”

I think Alia recognizes the words. She claps her hands together, giggling in excitement, but Anbar makes a show of being unimpressed.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, but she subtly raises her feet as she does so.

I lunge forward with a mechanical imitation of enthusiasm, which I definitely don’t feel – thanks to the change they’ve forced onto me. But I have no other choice.

I throw myself at their feet like I’m famished, lapping at them with my tongue like an eager dog.

The sound of my licking and kissing goes on for long enough that I’m almost startled, when Anbar speaks again.

“What do you say, sis? Are you convinced?”

“Yes,” she says simply. “She clearly understands what’s at stake…”

“Probably the last time she understands anything,” Anbar adds, making me whimper and moan as I lick Alia’s feet.

“Indeed,” my queen says. “I think it’s time we had our true fun with her.”

Before I know it, I find myself kicked away from the bed. The sisters get to work. I’m cuffed – I didn’t even know Alia had cuffs, and the foot-stupid part of my brain wonders if she bought them just for me.

But I don’t wonder for long, because thereafter, the longest foot session of my life begins.

Cuffed and kneeling, I take Anbar’s socks in my mouth, sucking every drop of sweat and chewing on every morsel of toejam that was left stuck in there. The sisters alternate in sticking their feet on my face, making sure I can smell, taste, kiss, lick feet for hours upon hours.

Soon, the sun begins to dip below the horizon.

I act as Alia’s footrest while she chats with Yasmin on the phone, recounting my utter destruction earlier in the day.

Anbar drags me unceremoniously back to her room, shoving me under my desk, then placing one foot on my throat and the other on my nose as she calls her friends on Discord to game together online.

By the time darkness descends outside, I’ve lost count of how many hours I’ve spent at the sisters’ feet. My stomach grumbles, deprived of any nourishment that isn’t the sweat I could milk from Anbar’s socks, and I’m pretty sure that’s all gone now.

Like I’m a human washing machine.

But the nightmare doesn’t end. When Alia claims me for the night, I don’t get thrown in the shoe closet, where I spend all my nights. No, I get shoved on the bed, under the covers. As Alia tucks herself in, the purpose becomes clear.

I spend the night with my face sandwiched by her petite feet, trapped under the covers, creating a literal haze of foot scent I can’t escape. The lack of airflow, the confined space… I’m sweating like a pig.

And sniffing feet all the while, Anbar’s socks still in my mouth.

My shoulders and wrists hurt like crazy at my improvised bondage, my stomach is killing me, but that’s the least of my problems right now.

So many hours without a break are taking their toll. I’ve never felt like this. If I concentrate, in the terrible silence of the night, I can almost hear the fzzz and pop sounds coming from my brain as it begins to shut down.

My ability to make connections, deductions, my memory, my thought organisation… it all begins to blur. My thoughts feel soft, mushy, pliable.

Unsophisticated.

Eventually, somehow, I drift to sleep, exhausted by the trials of the day, and by what I’m sure is about to come. It’s a restless sleep, disturbed by dreams of maids and feet, of chains and silk, of shoes and tongues.

When I wake up, it’s with a startle. The fierce light of the morning sun lands straight on my face as the covers are rudely lifted from over my head. I look around, groggily, only to see Alia sitting on the bed, knees to her chest.

She’s smiling ferally at me, the shorts of her PJs leaving her sinuous legs on display. Her feet pivot on their heels, as if she’s getting ready to pounce on me. Amused and laughing, she looks at me.

“Feeling dumber already?”

I try to push through the pulsing headache I have now, the fog that seems to envelop my thoughts, to find words fit for the horror of my own lights dimming.

But I have no time to even think of a reply.

One of Alia’s feet kicks out, connecting with my face with a thud. I grimace in pain, but make sure my face adheres perfectly to her sole. By pure instinct, I stick out my tongue, reverently lapping at her sole.

The only good morning I’m fit to give her.

“And to think, that was only the first day of our programme!” She shouts, excited.

I look at her, eyes widening, jaws slackening.

“F-f-first day?”

“Oh yes, silly!” Alia says. “If we are to cause permanent damage, we have to go on for much longer than this. Down, now, and quiet. Just lie there and take it.”

Alia’s feet push me back down on the mattress, and I gulp as they descend to cover my face and obscure the light, adhering to my mouth and nose, sealing my fate forever.

***

The life of a slave is all I know, all I’ve left.

Alia wants me to write my thoughts every day. She likes to see how I’m… coming along? But she mostly laughs when she reads what I write down. Then, she uses the sheets as foot rags and has me eat them, of course.

I mean, duh. It’s what we did with the rules, back when I still had them.

I used to like big words, once. Now, not so much. I think that amuses Alia, and maybe that’s why she makes me write so much? That’s kind of cute, the way she giggles at my difficulties.

I stick to the simple words now. It’s easier, less tiring, and Alia likes me better, which is the only thing that’s, like, huh… what’s the word for very important?

Anyway. I’m grateful to Alia. She could have made me really dumb, I’m sure. But she stopped after a while… she only wanted me to be dumber than Yasmin. I guess it’s totally fair. She is a princess, after all.

I like my new life. Alia has a job at the bank of course, makes so much money, which makes sense… it’s a bank! I stay home, clean, wash all her socks with my mouth… the usual things you do for a girl you love with all your heart.

The pain has… well, not stopped. It’s been dulled, mostly. I don’t think about it much. When Alia or Anbar tell me I’m a stupid doggie who must spend her life at girls’ feet, I just sort of accept it now. I mean, they’re smarter, so they must be right.

I still hate smelling feet. Licking them, kissing them, sucking them, eating the toejam… but Alia says that’s what slaves do, and so I shut up and take it. I cry sometimes, but I always obey. Alia knows what’s best for me.

She gets to decide how I live my life.

At least I don’t have to work at the fast food chain anymore… Alia says she keeps her pets indoors. I get lonely sometimes when she’s away at work, and my heart sometimes beats fast and I get scared…

But that way, I’m so happy when she comes back home! She’s explained it to me. I think she said separation anxiety? I’m not sure what that means, not anymore, but she says it makes me happier to welcome her back home like an eager dog. So that’s what matters!

Still better than having to flip burgers, to be honest. Although Alina made me promise I’d call her. But I haven’t done so yet, and I hope Alia won’t make it. I don’t like feet anymore… I only worship my owners’ because I have to. Of course.

I’ve been so, so busy lately. Anbar and Yasmin are driving up to visit Alia soon, and the house needs to be spotless.

They haven’t made plans to go anywhere. Alia said I’d be the entertainment. That made me blush at first, but then I started to think about it, and I don’t know… it sounds pretty scary.

I know the owners can get pretty terrifying when they’re all together. And so many feet to serve, with only one mouth…

But I push down the fear. This is my lot in life. Alia wants me to clearly remember that I used to be free once, she says she wants me to remember that she took it all away from me. And I do remember. But I also accept that I deserve to be her slave.

After all… there is no arguing with gravity.

I thought something, once, back when I still liked the big, fancy words. I still remember it. Somehow, it feels… I can’t think of the word. It feels like it fits, let’s go with that.

You see, the life of a slave is a dark planet’s orbit, revolving around a beautiful, uncaring sun.

Alia is mine.

And as the door opens, I perk up, drop the pen, and rush to the door to greet her – on all fours, of course.

As she steps through the door, flashing me her beaming smile, I find myself gasping at how radiant she is, and how desperately I love her.

The sun is here, and with it, the dawn. And me, in the shadow of its orbit, loyal and bound to serve.

Forever.

THE END