A Mother's Fall

My heart is beating like crazy inside my chest. It's a weird feeling - I know I'm terrified, I know we won't be able to feed ourselves with that kind of cut, let alone pay the rent - but it's like my brain can't act on the fear.

There's a wall between my instinctual response and my thought process. My finances belong to Anita, and I did try to wiggle out from under her thumb. I do deserve this. It's my fault.

"Don't worry your pretty little heads," Anita adds. "You won't have to bother with rent anymore. You're moving in with me. I could use two maids at home, after all."

My mother whispers thanks under her breath, while bobbing her head enthusiastically around Anita's toes.

"Suck them, you loser," Anita tells her. "None of you would be in this position right now if not for your pathetic failure at being an independent adult. No wonder I've enslaved you. At least now you'll have your finances managed by someone with more than one braincell, isn't that right, you slut?"

The only answer is the soft, wet sound of my mother, sucking like a two-dollar whore.The mention of my mum's enslavement gives me a moment of clarity, but a moment is all I need. I lunge on it, seize it, hang on to it like a chunk of driftwood in the sea in storm. It's not just for my sake that I need to extricate myself here. I need to save mum too! With a shudder of anger and pride, I squirm and toggle under Anita's feet, doing my best to get out from under her.

If this takes Anita by surprise, it doesn't show. Her callused feet simply follow my head's movements, like a cowboy taming a wayward stallion, and the mental image alone threatens to betray me - to ensnare me with the prospect of mastery and domestication.

I groan in frustration. My lips hurt as Anita's giant feet press harder against them. But at last, with a snap to the right, I momentarily free my face from her hold. I draw breath, and open my mouth, ready to bite her.

Anita lifts her feet, fumbling under the desk to see where my face is at. This whole situation is so surreal. Her left foot in particular hovers slightly above my face, reeking and sweaty. If it gets any closer, I'll bite.

I look straight up her shin, plans forming and reforming in my head. I could slide underneath her desk, but what if she grabs my ankle? But then again how else can I fight from this position? Especially with my mum crammed in under the desk next to me, and ready to intervene on Anita's behalf.

Most importantly, I must not see the tree at any cost. Even now, as it is, the lights spin behind my eyelids whenever I close them... if I look upon it one more time, it will be the end of me. It's crazy, but I know it to be true.

Anita must have gotten tired of the waiting game. Her foot slams down, delivering a sharp kick to my face. It retracts upward again, and then shoots down with more precision, the ankle rotating at the perfect angle: Anita's left foot rams my mouth, the underside of her toes brushing against my teeth, the arch sinking in midway through.

My mum's hand clasps around my left wrist, as if I needed even more restraining right now.

"Don't fight it, whore," she tells me, and I swear every time she speaks to me in this way, the walls inside my mind grow a little narrower, and I feel even less of a person.

"No biting," Anita says from her throne above, gagging me with her foot. Fuck me, but my body instantly obeys the instruction. I can do no more than brush her sweaty skin with the tip of my teeth, as if I wanted to exfoliate her feet with my mouth. I emit muffled protests, but all that does is tickle her foot, I imagine. It slowly starts mouthfucking me, which makes my eyes swell with tears of despair. Anita leans in for good measure, putting more weight on the foot as it inches further down my throat.

Her other foot moves over to my mum's face, heel down, toes up. The heel nestles itself deep in my mum's mouth, and she begins to French-kiss it and suck it like an eager slut. The weight presses against her jaws and stretches her lips, but that only seems to spur her on.

My vision blurs as my eyes tear up. Anita's foot-fucking of my mouth increases. It's like taking a cock down my throat, except a lot more humiliating. I even have to suppress a mild gag reflex. Just when I think this situation couldn't get any worse, Anita's other foot slips away from my mother's lips (and I can make out the disappointment in her eyes), and then descends atop my forehead - completely dwarfing it, it is that big. Then, it makes its way down to my eyes.

I shudder in horror. With her meaty sole blocking my vision, all I see is darkness. And in the darkness, true danger awaits for me.

The lights.

They spin and dance, a twisted mockery of the holiday spirit, trapping me with their beauty. With Anita's beauty.

Now she has me. There's no way I'm breaking free, ever again. This is going to be the rest of our lives, forever.

And as my body rocks to the first of many earth-shattering, brain-wiping orgasms, I think to myself that this truly is a Christmas miracle.

Chapter Two: A Royal Fall

Anita

There are benefits to a large desk.

I have plenty of room for my stacks of neatly ordered papers, my pens and assorted stationery, my laptop... My tiny Christmas tree, I think to myself with half a smirk, as I fidget in the office chair. It's currently flashing, ensaring yet another victim for me.

Yes, I already have Arianna and Aurora, such a pretty set, mother and daughter. We make a lovely trio, the young girl serving her two elders with shameless sapphic devotion, the mum acting as my subdomme... and me, older, wiser and more powerful than all of them. A well-deserving queen.

You might think getting a third slave is a sign I'm getting greedy, but I miss the thrill of the conquest. Making my two sluts fall was the happiest moment of my life, and I want to experience it again. And again, and again, and again...

The tree is my secret weapon, of course, but any woman in a position of power needs an adequately spacious, and intimidating desk. The mahogany decor, the shelves full to bursting with books, the coffee table, all contribute to the idea that a queen lives here. But it's the desk that is the centrepiece.

I'm even more interested in the space underneath the desk. I allow myself the sneakiest of glances. Aurora and Arianna both kneel under my desk, with a wooden panel at their back to hide their presence, and their lips pressed softly against each of my feet.

Mother and daughter, both broken in by my superiority, enthralled in body and mind. What a beautiful catch. They don't even dare look up at me, so absorbed are they by their own worship. The kisses raining on my feet are silent. I instructed them to be absolutely quiet and docile on their knees, lest they give their presence away.

And, like the good hypnotised sapphic pets they are, they obey.

Mmmh, yes. There's plenty of room down there. Room for a third girl...

The one currently sitting on the other side of the desk.

Juliet is such a tiny, spindly little thing. A lithe, feminine wisp of a girl just out of college, with a pixie cut and clothing that is way too expensive for what I pay her -- a girl with a wealthy family behind her, getting some token job experience before her daddy finds her some nepotistic employment here or there.

She doesn't really need this job. She probably has a trust fund in her name, and more friends in high places than I could possibly count. All she's after is the illusion of professional validation, before she moves on to a life or luxury and comfort.

Unfortunately for her, I think to myself with a smirk, she's picked the wrong office, with the wrong bitch for a boss.

I've seen Juliet's like before. Hell, I've broken her like before. It's my favourite kind of prey.

Girls like Arianna -- and I press the sole of my foot against her face, to mark my thought -- are fun to bully, sure. They're weak and soft, they cry and weep, they'll let you walk all over them even before you hypnotise them.

But girls like Juliet?

They always look down on chubby, older women like me. Even more so, if they come from a wealthy background. Which is why I've been anticipating this moment for days. And now... now it is almost done. My Christmas gift to myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I already see her eyes go glassy, as she begins to slump in the chair. The tree has her mind, now. She'll be seeing the lights for the rest of her life, even with my large, meaty feet covering the entirety of her face. Just like the two sluts working away underneath the desk with their slutty lips.

I smile to myself. Juliet won't be finding employment elsewhere, oh no. I'll keep her under my thumb forever, my little lezzie intern slave, forever condemned to a career of foot service.

She'll suck the sweat out of my socks, give my wrinkly soles one tongue bath after another, feast from my toejam like it's a gift from the gods. She will never climb the ranks, either in the office, or as a woman. She'll be forced to be a maidservant for the rest of her days -- an appropriate fate, for a bratty heiress to a financial empire.

We'll have to come up with some excuse her family can buy, but I'm sure we'll find a way. She'll say she's embarked on a journey of self-discovery, perhaps. Or that the workplace culture here truly allows her to be the best version of herself.

Hell, I would agree with the last one. There is no better version of Juliet than the one that gets her mouth stuffed with my feet.

No longer she will be pouting and frowning at everyone else in this office, like she's too good for everyone else here. I won't have to suffer her cold and haughty complaints that the work is beneath her, not anymore. She'll join Arianna and Aurora in sisterhood, and I'll shut her up by putting her mouth to better use.

The thought alone makes me press my thighs together in arousal. In a sense, I've come to appreciate the value of this wait. The tree delivers girls to me the way an oven delivers a nicely baked meal. The lead up to the endpoint is as important as the rest.

But now, judging by the way Juliet is utterly slumped in the chair, my meal is ready. Time to collect my prize.

"When I unplug the tree," I say, "you will keep seeing the lights, inside your mind."

I know how my victims work through this process. I've just said the words with utter confidence, so of course, to Juliet's brain, they must be true.

Careful not to look at it, I unplug the Christmas tree, and finally, I can allow myself to look at Juliet, appreciating her in her full, hypnotised glory.

Some girls truly break down before I can even put a finger on them. They drool, their hips desperately humping at the air, before I can command them to their knees. Others are more composed, and Juliet is definitely in the latter category. She's relaxed, but otherwise not particularly dishevelled.

I withdraw my feet from the ministrations of the two dykes kneeling beneath me, and place them theatrically atop the desk.

"Juliet," I say, knowing full well it is one of the last times I will have to use her name in conversation, "I need a foot massage."

"Yes, ma'am," she says, blinking in confusion, suddenly aware of her own docility. There is no mistaking the blush on her cheeks, and the weird glimmer in her eyes.

I love this first moment of dissonance, where the victim can't quite explain the sudden obedience, but can't resist the pull of my commands, either.

Juliet leans forward, dragging the chair with her as she inches closer to the desk.

The moment when her fingers touch my feet for the first time sends shivers up and down my body. The thrill of conquest. The joy of victory. The absolute self-affirmation of taking this young, ambitious girl, and utterly reducing her into a living footrag for me to abuse.

I might be older, chubbier, less pretty than this bitch... but I've still got it. Yet another trophy bimbo to add to my collection, another young charger who thought her turn to rule the roost would come soon, and now finds herself at the mercy of my feet instead.

My hand goes to my crotch before I realise it. I'm struggling to contain my arousal, and soon I start mindlessly rubbing myself -- unusual for something so simple as a foot rub, but I'm enjoying my victory over Juliet so much that, why not? Why shouldn't I indulge?

Arianna and Aurora whimper underneath the desk, in spite of themselves -- deprived of my feet for way too long. That actually makes me laugh out loud. It's pathetic, how utterly defeated they are.

They needn't worry, I think as my rubbing gathers speed. They will soon have company down there.

"Like this, boss?" Juliet asks, unassuming, demure, servile. Her fingers move deftly across my arches, heels, and toes, striking all the nerve endings in my feet in ways that I find to be irresistibly pleasurable.

"Oooh... just like that. Yes, just like that."

God damn. Who knew she has such a talent for foot massages? That feels amazing.

Juliet's soft hands move in smooth, but dizzyingly fast circles over my feet. I lean back against the chair, eyes closed, hips bucking as the arousal builds inside me, and I rub away frantically, racing towards the edge. I've earned this.

"Just like that," Juliet repeats, louder this time. "Thank you for letting me massage your feet, ma'am."

Juliet's voice is no longer the cold, distant, aloof, superior voice I've come to associate with her, ever since she started working for me. No, now it's almost... melodical, ringing with emotions. I'm sure her brain is struggling to adjust to the reality of her enslavement.

"God, that feels good. You're such a good girl, Juliet."

"I just want to take care of you, ma'am", Juliet says, and I truly believe she does. It couldn't be any other way, not considering the immense pleasure radiating through my body right now. "Just like that. You're safe in my hands."

My feet certainly are. Whatever she's doing to them feels like nothing I've exer experienced before. It's almost like there's a clit on my soles that she's found and is directly stimulating. My thighs tremble at the mere thought, like a jolt of electricity has coursed through them.

"Just like that," Juliet says, her voice low, husky. "Let me take care of you. Sink into my touch."

My breathing slows. It's as rhythmic as Juliet's massage. Her skilled hands move in time with my heartbeat, in time with the pleasure pulsing across every muscle of my body. I'll have to revise my earlier thought. Juliet is my prize catch, by far.

"You know," I mutter under my breath, "there's room under the desk." I would normally make this a categorical order, but I don't see the need to, not while the massage I'm getting is so good, so... pervasively, all-encompassingly, devastatingly irresistible...

I already have what I want. Having her beneath the desk would just be the cherry on top.

"I bet there is," Juliet says, and my brow furrows in doubt. That's an unusual response. I would question it, but I really don't want her to interrupt the massage.

"You could show me. Just like that," Juliet says, and I'm remotely aware of her standing up from the chair, although her hands never leave my feet.

"You're a large woman," she says with a giggle, and normally I would take enormous offense at the comment, especially coming from this lithe bimbo -- but I can't muster my familiar outrage. "If even you can fit under there there, then we'll know that it's a spacious desk, for sure."

Alarm bells begin to ring in my brain, but they're so distant, muffled by the haze of pleasure that seems to clog my neurons. It feels like my brain has been plunged in honey, and is slowly sinking, sinking towards the bottom...

No! How could this happen? How could she --

My mind goes blank, and it's actually terrifying, a stretch of utter emptiness -- I'd call it a void, but I can't, because it is filled, filled with pleasure. Juliet's massage is so intense now, striking every single nerve ending of my feet over and over and over, almost battering them under a sensory onslaught.

Her fingers begin to travel upwards, over my nyloned legs, then my skirt, then my blouse, touching as they go, never ceasing to set my skin afire, even across layers of clothing. Juliet herself is moving along, circling the desk -- I can't open my eyes, but I can feel her coming closer, a predator stalking her prey.

I'm in danger. I'm in danger!

"And just like that, my touch takes you deeper," Juliet says, as her fingers begin to massage my shoulders. And unfortunately, it does take me deeper -- I feel myself swirling, lost in a warm and black abyss from which there is no escape.

"The more I touch you, the less you can resist," Juliet whispers, and no matter how I thrash and buckle, the programming worms its way into my mind. "If I can do this with my fingertips, imagine how much pleasure I could give you... so much, that your brain couldn't take it. Just like that, I would shatter your mind. You'd love to lose your identity for me, wouldn't you? Tear down all barriers, see your kingdom turned to dust, subsume your identity into my own... wouldn't you?"

I try to scream in horror, but all that comes out is a confused mumble, more like a whimper really -- the sound a girl makes when she's being broken down at a fundamental, and sexual, level. When she's turning into a dumb animal, fit only to act as a footstool to her betters.

A sound I never thought to hear from my own throat.

"Answer me," Juliet says, her tone sharp and cutting. There's no mistaking it for what it is. I've issued so many in the past, and never thought I'd be on the receiving end.

It's an order.

I will my body, my own mind, to resist her. I will not let this thin girl half my age show me up in my own petty kingdom, I will not!

"Yes," my lips respond without my permission, and it's such a soul-crushing betrayal, the kind of betrayal I've always loved to trigger in my own victims.

But now, the predator has become the prey. And I'm defenseless, I'm losing control. There's a glass wall between my mind and my body, I can think, but I can't act, not against Juliet's wishes. The arrogant bitch controls my own speech even better than I do.

"That's yes, ma'am," she says with a cruel giggle. How did she resist the Christmas tree? How has she sent me under so rapidly? The touch... God, it feels so good...

I can't ask these questions out loud. All I can do is mutter, "nooo..." as her hands push downwards, throwing me off my own chair, dethroning me. I land on the floor with a crash, and am all too aware of Juliet sitting behind me, rolling up towards the desk.

Sitting in my chair.

"And just like that," Juliet says from above, "the tables turn. We have a new queen now."

"Yes, ma'am," I say in defeat, tears pooling in my eyes, as they meet the vacant, confused gaze of Arianna and Aurora, still crouching underneath the desk.

Can I still give them orders? Could I tell them to tackle Juliet to the ground, bind her hands...?

Before I can form a coherent plan, Juliet's soles slam into my back.

At the moment of impact, Juliet's words once more resound through my ears.

"If I can do this with my fingertips, imagine how much pleasure I could give you... So much, that your brain couldn't take it."

And it's true, so inescapably, horrifically true. Her conditioning is already working. As soon as her soles adhere to my back, I shudder and quiver, heat melting down into my sex, arousal pulsing across my body so intensely that the barriers to my mind begin to creak.

Juliet pushes, and I land face-first under the desk.

Her feet maneuver me with a deftness and mastery that humiliates me to my core, rolling me on my back, positioning me between Arianna and Aurora. If my two slaves -- former slaves -- have any reaction to seeing me down here, it doesn't show. If anything, they swiftly move to shower Juliet's feet in kisses.