Heather Ruffles Feathers

"It's a good thing you brought it in here," she says. "You can be clever sometimes... for a secretary. If you'd just left it on the desk outside, I would have had to punish you."

Her words are like a needle stabbing into my veins, pumping them full of adrenaline. My fingers shake so hard that I fear I'll drop the coffee. I don't know why I like this, but I know it feels incredible, like my entire body has just come alive for the first time.

Noticing my obvious state of distress, Heather gives a genuine laugh. "Am I doing this right? Is it what you like?"

I smile back, calming down a little. For once, I detect a hint of warmth in her tone, like this isn't just about getting the job done right, or having her fun with me -- it's like all of this is a hilarious entertaining activity we're sharing together.

It lasts only but a moment, but I'm grateful for it.

Immediately after, Heather's usual expression of fierce pride returns. She beckons me closer to the desk, and I approach her with timid steps.

I bend forward in an exaggerated display of servility as I place the coffee cup on the desk. My desk, I try to remind myself, but it is futile right now.

My duty complete, and my seat occupied, I stand obediently by the desk, awaiting further instructions, while Heather works away at the presentation.

"Say, Monique," she says at last, using my name for the very first time. "Would you mind giving me a foot massage while I do your job?"

I swoon in place, nearly falling over. The bossy tone, the removal of my title, the role reversal, the demotion, the fact she can actually do my job better than I can...

The mere idea of actually getting physical contact with her feet is making my head spin.

"Of course, Miss Rawlings," I say in a breathless voice, and the way her smirk stretches into a predatory grin at the honorific makes my tummy flutter.

That's when I notice that the chair she normally uses when visiting my office has been removed, pushed to the very far corner of the room.

I look to Heather, confused. Surely she wouldn't expect me to...

"Well?" She asks. "You need to intuitively grasp the needs of your betters if you want to be a good secretary. Get under the desk, silly."

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, I descend to my knees.

In a way, I'm mostly doing it for practical reasons -- Heather wants me under the desk, after all. But as soon as I first lower myself, I become all too aware of the symbolism... of the significance.

Heather's eyes remain level as I descend. Mine track her as she climbs higher and higher in my field of vision. When my knees hit the padded floor, I feel like a supplicant, coming to render homage before a queen. It's impossible to think of this as my office or my desk any longer, not when I'm debasing myself for the entertainment of my own secretary.

It's impossible to look up at her from this lowly vantage, and think of myself as her equal.

It's impossible for her to look down at me, the big powerful executive, reduced and relegated with the weight of a single word, and take me seriously ever again.

My defeat is an all-encompassing sensation, like a cocoon of humiliation and pleasure, adhering to every pore of my skin. Yes, Heather is superior to me, but ultimately this is happening because I wanted it.

Because I fantasised about it, about her. About my lost time and her youth and ambition.

Sealing my fate as my secretary's demoted executive bitch, I lower my gaze to the floor, and crawl under what used to be my desk.

Heather pops off one of her heels with refined elegance, and proffers the nyloned foot to me, crossing that leg over the other.

As I cradle it in my hands for the first time, the reality of my fetish finally hits home like a running train. Her foot feels so... solid in my hands. Hard and soft at once, just like a domme should feel, I suppose. Where the heel and ankle are unyielding, the toes and ball are soft and delicate. The two ways to master an unruly servant -- the iron fist, and the velvet glove.

I've never massaged feet before, but I love the feeling of nylons under my fingertips. As I humbly slave away at them, Heather falls into complete silence, typing away. She's in the zone, working.

I think, rather absurdly, that I'm contributing more to the presentation by massaging Heather's feet while she writes, than I would have by writing it myself. And what does that make me, if not a secretary?

Heather's other foot kicks the heel away, rising in the air, seeking out my face. I draw in breath sharply, and almost flinch... but I stop myself, and let her come closer.

It hardly feels real. After so many years of voluntary isolation, after the perfunctory affections of my marriage with Jason, this... the scent, the touch, this feeling...

A shiver runs through the entire length of my body when Heather's foot at last rests upon my face for the first time. She thoughtfully starts exploring my features with her toes. All the while, I massaged meekly and submissively.

Like a good secretary should.

"Mmmh, this is very relaxing," Heather says at last, pausing her typing for a second. "Your fingers and face, devoted to massaging my feet... Who'd have thought that my very own boss at work would have this kink!"

I whimper, and Heather reacts to that immediately, her foot escaping my hands and hooking behind the back of my head. Wordlessly, she uses that foot to push my face deeper into the other, silencing me.

The pressure on my lips and nose actually hurts a little, and the scents of leather, nylon, and very remote and mild sweat make their way into my nostrils.

But I love the feeling of being immobilised, overpowered by her with such ease. My face is literally in the middle of a foot sandwich right now. I would kiss her feet in gratitude, if I had enough wiggle room to actually stretch my lips.

"Quiet," she says. "I still need to get this presentation done. Since you're not good enough to do your job by yourself."

The shot of arousal that bolts through me almost makes me moan out loud. But I rein it back, doing my best to follow my new overlord's instruction.

I lose track of time. I just kneel there, supporting Heather's feet with my body, one foot trapping me, the other using my face as a footrest. If only my friends, colleagues, vanquished rivals could see me now...

What would they think? The big bad bitch, single-handedly brought to heel by a lowly secretary?

Eventually, Heather must get tired of keeping her feet up. She pust pressure on the back of my head, sending me tumbling downward. My head lands softly on the carpeted floor, and her feet follow shortly after, the heels pressing my cheek into the ground.

It's all I can do not to start humping the air at that. I lick my lips, salivating. The idea that someone might catch us, might simply come looking for me in my own office, merely drives my heartbeat even faster.

Adrenaline, arousal, excitement -- it is a powerful cocktail that I never want to give up again.

Eventually, the afternoon runs its course, and Heather stops typing. I feel a tinge of disappointment as she takes her feet off my face, stretching above me.

"Get out of there, Monique," she says. "I'll send you back to your desk in a moment before we wrap up the day."

"Yes, Miss Rawlings," I say, my heart thundering inside my chest. Is she going to relegate me to the secretary desk right outside? Isn't that where I belong, though? But what if... when... someone finds out, what excuse will I use?

What if Doug walks in on me acting as a secretary?

The thoughts swirl so fast inside my head that I nearly lose my balance when I stand back up.

"Whatever else happens," Heather says, snapping me out of my fantasies, "you don't belong in this chair anymore. Do we understand one another?"

I've worked all my life, sacrificed everything to sit my butt in that chair. How easily, how carelessly can I toss it away?

All it takes is three words. And I utter them without hesitation, while deferentially bowing my head.

"Yes, Miss Rawlings."

She laughs at that, leaning back in the chair, stroking her chin pensively.

"I wonder if there's any other fetish of yours that I could exploit for my own benefit."

"There is," I say in a whisper, mouth agape at the extent of my own self-betrayal. Words start pouring out, as I begin to confess it all. The mindspace of my student years, my most forbidden fantasies all coming out, one after another.

Heather listens to it all, her smile growing wider with every word. And at the end, she proffers what I can only feel is judgement.

"I think I like that," she says. "I like that very much."

***

For a while -- a time interval I can't really narrow down or determine -- there is only the voice.

Not words. Just the voice.

I don't consciously register what is being said to me, I just take it all in, let it wash over me, find its way into my pores, sink deep into my subconscious.

I know I stared at a blank point on the wall for so long that my eyes began to water. I know Heather finally gave me permission to close them, so now I swim in a dark bliss, letting her voice engulf me.

Relaxing.

That's how Heather had referred to it. Nothing but relaxation. Nothing but quiet listening that went on for a very, very long time.

Maybe more times than once.

Then, Heather's fingers snap.

It's a sound like thunder. It grabs me by the scruff of my neck, and yanks me out of the stream. I feel like I've just been violently pulled out of the water, and I find myself gasping for every precious lungful of air.

"I want you awake for this," Heather says, her smile feral and triumphant as she rolls back in her chair, looking down at me. I remember sitting in a chair -- not the one behind the desk, obviously -- and listening attently to what Heather was saying. When have I ended up on the floor?

I blink in confusion once, twice, as focus slowly returns.

"You know what's priceless?" Heather asks me as I snap back to reality. Her voice immediately captivates my undivided attention, clearing the fog in my brain just long enough that I'll be able to fully understand her instructions.

And that's when I know she's changed me. Just like I asked her to. The shiver of dread that trickles down my spine is matched by the shot of arousal in my sex.

"I didn't even have to coerce you," Heather continues. "You came to me willingly. But now I've hypnotised you. This is where your consent ceases to matter."

I don't even have time to whimper in arousal and fear that her feet shoot up to my face, slamming it into the floor again. One pivots over my forehead, the other presses against my chin.

I grimace from pain and discomfort as Heather rolls back in towards the desk, ready to begin a new day of executive work that will outperform any pitiful effort I could ever scrape together.

She's in charge because she's better than me.

"Say, pet," she asks, running her right foot through my hair, ruffling it like she would a pet's fur. "You want to know why I became a secretary?"

She doesn't actually expect me to answer, I know, but her soothing, sexy... hypnotic... voice has all of my attention. As does the foot that travels upward from my chin.

"I came from a poor family," she says, absentmindedly clasping at my nose with her toes. "I could never afford the fancy education that put you on the right career track. I had the brains, the talent, and the ambition... but it was never a level playing field. I couldn't compete."

The instant reaction of my body at her words hit me like a wall of bricks. Shame, arousal, inferiority. If only the money that got wasted into my education had gone to her instead!

The thought is absurd, but it comes unbidden. The level of self-betrayal takes my breath away... but also makes me moan against Heather's feet, dominating my face.

"If you think about it, we're just correcting that," she says with a chuckle. "And believe me, we are correcting it. I intend to introduce a few changes to your life now that you're my secretary. Starting with your salary... Or should I say, my salary."

I stare at her feet and legs, wide-eyed, the danger like a jet engine rocketing me towards the edge of a cliff. I can't take a secretary's wage! There's no way Jason won't notice! What about taxes? Will I get in trouble? Will the company find out and fire me?

The sudden shift from playing to reality is so terrifying that I start to hyperventilate. But of course, it's been real for a while, hasn't it?

So real that Doug saw me getting coffee. So real that I haven't allowed Jason to touch me this week. So real that the board has been looking at Heather's material, not mine, for weeks now.

So real that I've let down my defences, and let this young, predatory girl worm her way into my mind.

Sensing my agitation, she moves one foot to my throat, pinning me in place, mastering the very basic thing that keeps me alive -- my ability to breathe. The simple truth of this gesture is as staggering as it is arousing.

If I'm willing to pick her over my own oxygen, how can I get agitated about something as stupid as money?

Her other foot slaps me lightly on the cheek. Then, she raises her leg, angling her foot so that her toes are pointing straight at me. I love the way her calf contracts when she does that. The muscles in her legs are clearly visible.

She's so toned, strong, hot...

Her foot plunges downward, and I take it into my mouth without complaint, going at it like a starving woman.

But my eagerness to taste and lick and suck quietens as I begin gently fellating her toes. Heather laughs above me.

"That's it. Like a pacifier. Much calmer now. Good girl."

I mumble softly, unintelligibly, and continue to let her toes stifle the energy that normally accompanies all my thoughts. I suddenly feel like a dulled blade, or a quenched fire.

An idle part of me wonders if this is something she's just programmed into me. The rest just listens to my new master as she outlines our new life together.

"The money isn't where this ends, slut. It's where it begins. You're going to introduce me to your husband."

She removes her foot from my mouth at that, as if to verify that I have no protests to offer.

I...

Doesn't she deserve it more than me? Jason and I don't have a great marriage, but he's never done anything as threatening to the household as letting a subordinate walk all over him and take away all his money.

And how many times did I fantasise about such a thing back at uni? About finally yielding and finding a boyfriend, only to have him cruelly snatched away from me by a younger girl, smarter and more beautiful?

A girl very much like Heather?

So I don't protest. I lift my head off the floor, and shower her foot in kisses, from her heel to her toes. Every kiss is a new admission of my utter vanquishment.

"I have his number right here," she says from above, which makes me cringe -- of course she's my secretary, she knows his number. Is she going to call him now, right in my office? With me lying under the desk?

"I'm not going to have any trouble seducing him, of course," she adds, returning her toes inside my mouth and pushing, wiggling. "Perhaps I could even convince you to keep you as our live-in maid... If you're a good girl."

I nod around her foot as it works its way down my mouth. Fully satisfied with my gagging, Heather puts her phone on speaker above me, and then, it begins to ring... the sound of a call being made.

Surreptitiously, I sneak a hand down my own skirt. I know I technically don't have Heather's permission, but we haven't discussed this yet, and this moment -- this memorable victory of my fantasies over the real world -- is something I want to cherish forever.

Eventually, the ringing stops. And I hear Jason's familiar voice, so close and yet so far away, on the other hand of the line.

"Yes? Who is this?"

Heather's tone is so sultry, so seductive, so evil as she responds.

"Hello, Mister Heckart. I'm Heather Rawlings, your wife's secretary".

"Oh, that's right," he says, slightly confused. "What's up, Heather? What can I do for you?"

At that, Heather's foot plunges even deeper into my mouth, her toes finally poking at the entrance of my throat. I try and fail to suppress slutty, gagging noises, but I strangely relax when her other foot adheres to my face, from heel to toes.

It presses into me, pushing my face down lower on the ground. I breathe out, relaxing every muscle, accepting the pressure, reshaping myself into a lower creature on the floor, in accordance with Heather's will.

With full surrender comes full acceptance. I may be rubbing myself, but I'm just a piece of rag under Heather's feet at that moment, vanquished and dismantled, as I listen to her begin to seduce my wealthy husband.

It is all hers to take. She's made the challenge, won it, and staked her claim -- as it should be.

The world, after all, belongs to those who do not shy away from a fight.

THE END