Apex Predator Ch. 01

"B-but," I stutter, but Margaret is moving deftly behind me before I've even realised it. She places one foot on my buttocks, and then yanks me by the hair like it's a makeshift set of reins. I shout from the pain, but the humiliation stings even worse. I hate how confident she is in mastering me, behaving as if it's her birthright. I hate that it makes my sex twitch.

As I follow her lead, shifting from all fours to a kneeling position, I feel Margaret swiftly pulling each of my arms into the binder's sleeves. And then, the ominous sound of a zip being pulled up fills the room.

Margaret steps back and circles around me, clapping in enthusiasm. I stare up at her, realising how this must look from the outside.

Me, the working class girl who got here on a scholarship and gambled on the Wheel, crushed by my own forfeit, kneeling submissively on the floor, in a maid uniform that highlights all my curves. My arms, safely tucked away now that

I've finished working, because I don't need them if I'm not cleaning.

Entirely defenseless, as I look up at this gorgeous redhead with shaped thighs and clever green eyes and a cruel smile, born and bred to be served and revered, towering above me in her victory.

I keep telling myself that I'll get my dues when the forfeit ends, and I get to witness the horror on Margaret's face at seeing me in first place. But for now, I struggle even to visualise it. The honey of hypnotic submission is clogging my thoughts, sapping my strength, enveloping my vocal cords, and going all the way down to my cunt.

In the constrictive, humiliating, and oddly pleasurable embrace of the armbinder, it's childishly easy for Margaret to upset my balance. With her slightest push, I'm sent toppling to the floor, staring up at her as she towers over me.

Her left foot rises to fill my vision, and then descends against my face.

I quiver at the touch, and even more so, at the symbolism. The way her toes adhere to my forehead, the naked heel resting against my chin, my nose and lips firmly squashed under the sole. Like my face was made for her to rest her foot on.

I've done things with girls' feet before, of course, both as a submissive and a dominant. They seem to be pretty common among the Wheel's forfeits. But the fact that it's Margaret...

God, that's as hot as it is disturbing.

"You people never learn," Margaret says, shaking her head. "The system always wins. You think I don't know why you're having to suffer through this stupid forfeit?"

My eyes widen in alarm, and in response, Margaret grinds harder, pushing her weight into my facial features. Pinning me to the ground, in spite of my hypnotically-enfeebled struggles.

"I'm always one step ahead of you," she says. "I know how the Wheel actually works, and that's why you'll never catch me."

What?

I experience a moment of panic, my eyes darting this way and that. Is it true? No, it can't be true, keep it together Fiona! She's just trying to manipulate me...

Margaret flashes me a predatory smile, maybe noticing my sudden fear and alarm. A silent moment of dread passes... and then, she steps on me.

Both of Margaret's feet dig into my sternum, making me wince and groan.

"Tsk tsk," she says. "Again with your insinuations that I'm heavy. Rude serving girls don't go far in life, Fiona." Margaret then brings a hand theatrically to her chin. "Then again, serving girls in general don't! Haha!"

I whimper at the combination of her weight, the hypnosis, the humiliation, and the fear that she really has one-upped me. God, I wish I could check the score remotely. I would literally pay to know it right now. My heart beats faster and faster as Margaret walks cheerfully up and down my torso, crushing my tits beneath her feet--another statement of her belief that we're fundamentally not the same. That she's the better woman.

"It's over for you," Margaret says, delicately placing one foot against the hollow of my throat. She looks at me with a curious look when she does it, almost like she's experimenting. "You'll always come in second place. This is just a forfeit to you now, but by the time the year is done, it will become your entire reality. I'll make sure of it."

Margaret's foot digs deeper against my throat, eliciting a choked half-breath out of me. Every single muscle in my body hurts. Locked in the armbinder, pressed under my and her body weight, my arms are starting to tingle and go to sleep.

"Do you know what you'd see right now, if you could check the score?"

I'm honestly speechless. I'm not stupid of course, I always knew in theory that Margaret could always indebt herself even more to stay in first place, but... she's already used the Wheel so often... her forfeits seem to never involve me, either. And now she says she has an ace up her sleeve, knowledge I don't have.

I should find the idea laughable, but somehow, with her foot mastering my very breathing, my arms bound, and my sex on fire, it's so hard not to believe her...

Eventually, Margaret lifts her foot from my throat, but my relief is short-lived. She angles it in the air until the toes are pointed straight at my face, and then thrusts down.

The mere image of it is so powerful. A foot, stomping down. Pushing and pinning down a conquered rival, snuffing out the weak resistance beneath it, the helpless and aimless thrashing of my defeated body.

Ragnaring is merciless, I know. The hypnosis compels me to obey, and so my lips part in slutty anticipation as Margaret's foot slowly worms her way down my mouth, claiming it as her toe warmer, her foot holster, her sweat cleaner.

"God, it's a shame the forfeits are non-sexual," Margaret says, her voice dripping with lust. "Or I'd have you lick something else entirely right now."

I shake my head around her foot, but the pathetic display just makes Margaret laugh. Slowly at first, then faster, she begins to pump her foot up and down, plunging further in each time. The embarrassment is terrible enough that it makes me tremble. My arch-nemesis is fucking my mouth.

"Yes," she hisses in triumphant pleasure. "I get to shut you up, at last. Suck it, peon, while I tell you how things really are between us. People like you are too simple-minded to understand what's required to get ahead, but I do. I know how to use the Wheel. I know more than you could ever hope to even grasp, because your mind was never meant to compete. It was meant to serve."

Tears begin to stream down my cheeks, and not just from the gagging, as Margaret flexes her elegant leg, leaning forward. This way, more and more of her weight shifts to the foot that's currently inside my mouth, pushing it deeper, until I'm literally impaled on it.

Her toes are tickling the entrance to my throat, and her face is now so much closer to mine that I can hear her breath, see my own reflection in her green eyes. I look like a pathetic fucking loser.

"I'm in first place, peon. Always have been. Not for one moment has your silly little Wheel booster propelled you to the first place you crave so much, and you can never have. Maybe you don't believe me, but you'll see it for yourself when next you lay eyes over that screen. I want you to look at your name beneath mine. And I want that to crush you."

I close my eyes, unable to even visualise it, to even process the sheer tsunami of horrible and pleasurable feelings that are currently taking my body by storm.

"I don't just play," Margaret says. "I win. Always. And you, my dear Fiona..."

She brushes tears away from my cheek with her thumb, contemplating me.

"You're not even the prize, not really, you're just another step on my way to the top. But I will have you. And if this is how you feel after a mere day in my service..."

Her voice drops to a whisper, our gazes locked, and not in combat for once, but in the intimacy that is shared between a winner and a loser, every time a fight is decided.

"... think how thoroughly I'll get to break you, once you're mine."

The desperate moan that escapes my throat is equal parts dread and arousal, and I know from the spark in her eyes that she knows it. Her joyous laughter echoes across her student quarters, dotted by the increasingly frantic sound of my gagging as I take her foot down my throat, in desperate worship of Queen Margaret.