Kiss The Whip

That's what she is now, I suppose. My female master.

"So do I. That display in the kitchen earlier was unacceptable. As a maid, you are expected to keep the house tidy for your betters. If you're useless at that, what good are you for in life?"

The humiliation of my own cleaner, my old rival saying these things to me, feels better than sex ever has. Now I understand, in an intimate and physical way, what it feels like to be thoroughly, utterly stripped of any dignity. To be hurled back down to a lesser social status. I should be grateful that these are my victor's terms.

"I will enforce discipline," Alessia says, pressing her foot deeper against my mouth. "Unlike you, I am actually capable of doing so. As you will see."

My pussy twitches at her words. It's true, look at me. Who could I ever discipline, if I'm so easily tamed?

"Oh, and one last thing before I go," Alessia says, snapping me from my reverie. There is a weird glint in her eye, and I brace myself, because I have a feeling that whatever is going to come out of her mouth next is going to be devastating.

"You'll be paying me for the full three hours," Alessia says with a wink. "And my hourly rate has just doubled..."

***

"Kiss the whip."

Can you identify the moment in which the jaws of your fetish, of your deepest desire, finally snap close around you? Because this is that moment for me. The point of no return, acceptance that there will be no going back.

Hearing Alessia's fateful words.

Seen from down here, she's gorgeous, tall and imposing and perfect. I suppose everyone looks more impressive when you're on your knees. She no longer wears her maid uniform -- that one's reserved for me, the black nylons emphasising my curvy legs as I kneel submissively before Alessia.

No, she is now in jeans and a sweater, the comfortable clothes of someone who doesn't need to do manual labour. Someone who will spend the afternoon lounging on my sofa, and being paid for the privilege, while I slave away, scrubbing and cleaning on all fours. And if I'm lucky, I'll get some time at her feet in exchange.

Or at least, that's how regular Fridays go, but not this one. Now, I'm shirtless and afraid as I kneel humbly before my former maid, staring petrified at the instrument of dominance she holds so casually in her hands.

I don't think I've ever seen a whip in person before. Have you? It is an imposing thing, black and intimidating. By the mere gesture of holding it firmly in her fist, Alessia looks that much more powerful in my eyes. A girltamer, proficient in usage of the whip, and in breaking silly girls like me, when we forget our place...

Just seeing her like this, the fire in her eyes, the knowledge that the whip is soon going to be used on me... breaks me. It makes me realise that Alessia plays for keeps, that her approach to discipline is ruthless enforcement, and the only result she finds acceptable is total compliance.

It's over. She has won.

Not because she's smarter, or prettier. It doesn't matter that she didn't get better grades, or had less career success. She's won because my own desires have ambushed me way back then, on that very first day, and set me on a path that would lead to my implosion. To her domestication of me.

To this moment.

"Are you scared, Chiara?" Alessia says, in mock-sweetness. "Poor little girl. Tell you what, kiss my feet first. That never fails to calm you down. It's where you belong, after all."

"Yes, Miss Alessia," I say breathlessly, seizing the chance to engage in my perversion with both hands, and with my lips. I throw myself at her naked feet, and lose myself in the trance-like state that comes with mindless worship.

I shower her heels and toes in kisses, squealing with grateful glee when she politely lifts them, allowing me to kiss the soles. I pay particular attention to her ankle, so beautiful and elegant, but then move back to the toes, warming them with the radiations of my devotion... and of my warm, soft lips.

The physical sensation of worshipping someone who literally holds the whip hand over me is impossible to describe. Every fibre of my being stretches and yearns to join my lips in reverence, as if enough devotion might sway my female master to have mercy on me, to stay her hand.

But I know she won't. Because unlike me, Alessia plays for keeps, and every kiss is a further admission that she's utterly annihilated me as competition, or even as something resembling a social equal.

She's the lady of the house, and I'm the maid... and I deserve to be punished.

"I'm sorry about the dishes," I say in-between kisses, and then I transition to licking her foot, relishing how smooth the skin feels under my worshipful tongue. This is a much better use for it than talking, which is why I always make sure to end my sentences with polite lapping at my female master's feet. To remind her that I know my true use in life.

Alessia makes a cooing sound at my display. "I know you are. But being punished will help cement this feeling. There's no better way to ensure good behaviour from you."

I whimper at that, knowing that there is no escaping my fate. That perhaps I didn't really want to -- I just relished the opportunity to beg and grovel at Alessia's feet.

"Now, enough of that, maid," she says, stepping back from me. My lips kiss empty air for a moment, which causes her to chuckle, but I know better than to take it as a clue to be informal. Alessia expects her employees to be perfectly deferential at all times.

I sit back on my haunches, staring up at her with wide, terrified eyes as her right hand moves forward.

"Kiss the whip."

This time, there is no room for hesitation, only obedience. I lean forward, lips pouted, and place the most humble and unassuming of kisses on the glossy black whip in front of me.

It's impossible to escape the quasi-phallic symbology of what I'm doing. Here I am, kneeling in submission before my conqueror, placing demure kisses on the tool of sexual power and mastery she's holding in her hand. But there is something so peculiar about kissing the whip that's going to hurt me, too.

It's... redefining. Doing so makes me accept that I'm just like any other dumb farm animal, a beast of burden that responds to carrot and stick alike. That no matter how many pretensions society places upon me, all the considerations about the inviolability of my rights, my personhood, or higher intellect...

At the end of the day, I can be tamed, domesticated, subjugated, and this is how. This whip is an instrument of my reduction. It can be used to keep me in line, enthralled and obedient, no longer free.

And if that can be done to me, so easily, do I not deserve to be a slave to someone stronger? Strong enough to wield the whip?

"It's time Alessia says, and I stop kissing the whip, dropping lower once more, pressing my face to her feet. In turn, that means I arch my back, an inviting target and a gesture of utter submission, of utter trust in my conqueror... of utter defeat.

As the air hisses to the sound of the whip slicing through it for the very first time, I close my eyes, and command myself to be perfectly still and dignified.

After all, my employer expects perfection and discipline...

THE END