Apex Predator Ch. 02

A moan escapes my lips, suddenly replaced by a surprised yelp as a weight lands on my back--or, more technically, on my bound arms. I freeze, realisation washing over me as I feel the weight of her boots on my arms. It's a weirdly... intimate moment, and I feel a mix of emotions. I should be outraged, but instead I feel... strangely compliant. I can see why she's doing it.

The repetition of what I did to her is not lost on me. It makes me wonder how she's going to one-up me on this aspect of the scene...

"Come on, Margaret," she says, one of her boots playfully kicking me in the sides, like I'm a horse. "You're not a wimp, are you? Getting tired already?"

I close my eyes, fighting against the profound discomfort of my position, wishing I could at least wipe the sweat from my forehead. It's a strange feeling, being dominated like this, but there's a small part of me that's enjoying it too. And not just because I'm succumbing to Fiona...

Maybe it's the sense of purpose I feel, knowing that I'm doing something for someone else for once.

I've never really thought about how my actions have affected others, but now I can't stop thinking of how they laughed. They all hate me. Maybe if I'm a good girl, if I stop being a bitch, if I do what I'm told... they'll start to like me?

Or maybe that's just the hypnosis talking.

Either way, I find myself falling into a strange, mesmerising rhythm as I scrub pointlessly at the floor with the toothbrush. It all starts to blend together, then--the hypnosis, the discomfort, the hurt, the numbness in my muscles, the humiliation coursing through me like so many electrical discharges, the weight of Fiona's boots on my arms.

That's greatly adding to my discomfort, reducing circulation even further, making me grit my teeth in pain.

I know this is only to last a day, but as I lie here, broken and defeated, it's hard to believe that I will ever be able to rise again. Besides, the next six months, I fear, are going to be a lot more of this, with so many girls...

Girls who've finished behind me, but now drag me down the food chain, down and down and down with no end in sight and oh god that is so hot!

I'm snapped out of my reverie by Fiona's boot casually nudging the back of my head. I yielp in surprise, and my eyes widen in horror as the bump makes me loosen my grip on the toothbrush. It clutters to the floor, the sound followed by a deadly long silence.

"Please," I say at last, "please don't punish me, I didn't mean to drop it!"

Fiona's stern face actually breaks into a smile at that, and she begins caressing my hair with the sole of her boot. Which should be utterly disgusting, but makes me feel strangely... praised.

"Look how quickly you've learned," she says. "So easily tameable. Mmmmh. God, we'll have to make this a regular thing."

I haven't learnt anything, I want to tell her. It's just the hypnosis. But I don't utter a word, I just draw in breath at her comments, which only elicits an even bigger smile from her.

"That's why you're the perfect choice. You're used to being pampered, to having people wait on you hand and foot. And now, you're going to have to do it for me. And we both know you're going to love it."

I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame. Mostly because the idea sounds as terrifying as it sounds wonderful. Because of the alien thoughts implanted in my brain.

"That's what I thought," Fiona says, leaning back into the chair, patting my head lightly with her boots. "Good girl. Good maid."

A maid. The thought sends pulses of defeated arousal through me. That's what I've become. A lady, fallen to a maid.

Fiona's boots stop petting me, perching atop my head. The symbolism makes me swoon. What kind of person lets someone do that? Becoming such a literal doormat? Fiona's boots feel heavy, but in a good way. It's like they're grounding me, acting as my centre of gravity, chainging me to a new place in this world.

My place, maybe.

No! That's not me, I never have thoughts like these!

I've never had anyone use me like this before, and it's both exhilarating and embarrassing. Is this what it means to be a servant? To be used for someone else's comfort? The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

As Fiona continues to lounge with her boots on my head, I find myself thinking about the implications of this new dynamic. Am I really starting to see Fiona as my boss? Am I actually accepting the idea that I'm not meant to be an aristocrat, but a cleaning lady instead? Or is this just my conditioning?

"You're a pretty good footrest," Fiona says. "But now, it's time to really have some fun."

Fiona's boots suddenly press down on my head, guiding me to the floor. It's as if she's telling me that this is my place, and even if my brain refuses the notion, my pussy wants to believe it, and my hypnotic conditioning agrees.

Maybe I was never meant to be a high society scion, but a cleaning lady all along. I can feel my beliefs and sense of self shifting under Fiona's boots. Being reshaped, remade.

I lie there, my cheek pressed against the cool tiles, and let out a deep sigh. A sigh of surrender. I can almost see my own facial expression in my mind's eye, with my eyes widening and my lips parting, as the sole of the boot grinds and twists, deforming my features. Pressing onto them. Reshaping me, keeping me securely pinned.

I've never been more aroused in my life.

I feel the pressure of Fiona's boot on my cheek and can hear her breathing steady and slow. The silence in the room is palpable, only broken by the occasional creak of the leather as Fiona shifts in her seat. The leather of the boot is rough and smooth at the same time, and I can smell the scent of leather and polish. I continue to reflect on the symbolism of the boots, how they represent Fiona's power and status, and how I am at her mercy.

The pressure on my cheek increases, and I can feel control, not as a concept, but as a physical reality. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, and let the sensation wash over me. Maybe it is the hypnosis, but so what? This feels... divine.

I open my eyes to find Fiona's gaze fixed upon me. Her eyes are deep and dark, and in them I see a reflection of my own submission. I look back, silently begging for her to just take me already. My arousal is driving me insane. I know that right now I would say anything, agree to anything. Even stuff that I don't believe. Even stuff I might regret.

As I lie here on the floor, I find myself transfixed by the boot resting just inches away from my face. I can't help but study its every detail, the shine of the leather, the scuffs on the toe, the intricate stitching. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich scent of leather, and it feels like I'm breathing in a piece of Fiona's essence along with it.

An essence of strength and unfettered power.

I can't help but feel a sense of feminine submissiveness and vulnerability, lying here on the floor with Fiona's boot looming over me. The lady, toppled and maidified by the tough girl in her combat boots.

The silence is only broken by the sound of my heavy breathing. The boot in front of me is still so captivating, and I find myself completely absorbed by it. I can feel my breathing getting heavier.

And I find myself inching closer to the boot.

I can sense Fiona's gaze on me and I'm aware that she's observing my behaviour.

"Margaret," Fiona says in a low voice. "What are you doing?"

It's a genuine question, asked in a curious, eager tone. Fiona is trying to read me, but I don't answer, I'm too focused on the boot. I'm now close enough to touch it with my face, with my chin, with my cheeks. I'm rubbing against it, like a cat. The material is soft and warm to the touch, and I can feel the shape of Fiona's foot inside.

Fiona doesn't say anything, she just watches as I rub my face against her boot. I'm breathing heavily now and I can feel my heart racing. I'm not sure why I'm so drawn to it, but I can't help it.

"Margaret," Fiona says again. "You know what this means. Right?"

I find myself inching closer to the boot in front of me. My lips are now hovering right above the leather. I take a deep breath, taking in the smell of the leather and I close my eyes, feeling the aura of the boot engulf me.

And then, I begin to lick.

It's unthinkable that I would do this of my own volition, hypnosis or not. But I just can't help it. My head is so messed-up, the trauma of being ridiculed before the entire school, the shock of my defeat and my debasement, the conditioning... I'm sexualising all of this so goddamn hard.

How do you explain what makes licking boots so beautiful? They're a symbol of... oppression. Glossy, shiny, unyielding. They taste leathery and pungent, and my lips and tongue feel even softer by contrast with their toughness.

The lapping sounds that feel the room sound so humble. I don't even dare raise my eyes to look at Fiona. I can't imagine what she's feeling.

Like a goddess, probably.

"In a way, this experience you're having with me... it's the last day of your old life," Fiona says from above, cackling. "You're staring at six months of whoredom. Hope you enjoy."

I moan at her words, lapping even more slavishly, tossing away every aristocratic pretension, every claim to status I might ever have. I've been cast down and brought low by this girl. By Ragnaring's rules, she deserves the prize.

She deserves me.

I feel like begging for mercy, submitting to a higher power.

"Starting tomorrow, you're going to be on sale at the Wheel, just like any other benefit. That's what you are, Margy. A little object for our amusement."

Oh God. Oh my God if only my arms were free right now I'd be rubbing myself like crazy.

"I wonder how many girls will have their way with you," she says, mockingly lost in thought. "Probably most of them. Although I can guarantee you, I intend to buy your services very often."

My only reply is to pant and slobber over her boots like a fucking dog.

"Of course, there's only one of you, and so many of us," Fiona says. "We'll have to figure out a rota, or something. You might not have time to study anymore, but judging by how you got first place... we all know you're useless at it anyway."

I moan again, in indignation and hurt, but also in humiliating arousal.

Embarassingly, when Fiona retracts her boots, I follow them with my eager lips, my slavering tongue. That makes Fiona laugh, but she has no further words for me. She places a boot against my forehead, and rolls me over with a push, without ceremony.

Rolling over hurts. I'm still in the armbinder, my arms now completely numb, and every inch of my body hurts. My gulps of air are cut short when Fiona's boot suddenly clamps down, constricting my throat, nailing it against the floor.

I stare up at her, emitting tiny little choking squeals. Looking at her from this lowly vantage is a breathless experience. Her boot dominates my vision as it imprints itself into the skin of my throat, her shapely calf and thigh loom over me like a tower. Her face seems so far away, unreachable, like a star.

Her expression is cold and cruel, a mask of authority that terrifies me.

This is what it's like to lose, then. To watch your triumphant opponent glare at you, as she chokes you with the simplest of things--a step. Gravity, and the pressure of her boot. There's nothing you can do to stop it. You're harmless, inconsequential, an afterthought.

A thing.

Fiona's fingers begin to work at the buttons of her jeans, loosening them. But she's still wearing them when at last, she withdraws the boot from my throat. I desperately gulp in lungfuls of oxygen--but only for a few precious moments.

Immediately after, Fiona lands atop me, knees on each side of my head. They shuffle closer, and all of a sudden I find my face nestled in her supple, muscular thighs, my lips and nose being pressed into the crotch of her jeans.

I squeal, more for show than anything else. It's warm, and I breathe in, trying to catch her scent, to let it mark me as her territory. Fiona begins to gently rub herself against my face, and I see her hand sneak inside her jeans.

"Oh, don't worry," she says. "You'll get a turn too. By my estimation, we still have eighteen hours ahead of us, and my dear Margy... I intend to enjoy every single minute of them."

I close my eyes, losing myself in the feeling of her crotch conquering my face, as I realise that in a way... so do I.