The Thrill of Defeat Ch. 05

Feeling every inch a supplicant, I stare at Yasmin with big, fearful eyes as I gently remove the sneaker from her proffered foot. Yasmin elegantly switches, crossing the other leg to present the other shoe to me, and again I perform my slavish duties with spineless punctuality.

"I'm actually wearing my gym socks right now," Yasmin says, with a titter. "They kinda stink!"

"Kinda?" Alia wrinkles her nose. "You're almost as bad as my sister!"

The sad truth of it is, I can barely tell -- after the suffocating atmosphere of Anbar's room, it feels like my sense of smell has been completely blasted. But I can see the damp texture of Yasmin's sweaty socks well enough. I gulp in anticipation of what is to come.

Yasmin bobs her foot up and down a couple of times, as if to encourage me.

"Well?" She asks, impatient. "Get your fat nose in there."

With trepidation, I stick my face next to Yasmin's left foot, as it perches over her right ankle, the shoe kicked off to the side. The foot is petite, well-proportioned, and oddly elegant, much like Alia and Anbar's.

The fact that I now have enough familiarity with feet to be able to make these comparisons is devastatingly humiliating.

I give it a sniff, and immediately wrinkle my nose. It's nothing I haven't smelled before, if anything the sweaty aroma is milder than Anbar's, but I dislike it nonetheless.

"Another sniff," Alia says behind me, expectantly. "And another. Scent in, thoughts out. Scent in, thoughts out. Go stupid for my best friend."

My conqueror has spoken, and so, even as her words send pain lancing through the very core of my being, I start sniffing Yasmin's foot like my life depends on it, inhaling the ripe fragrance of her sweaty socks like it's the best perfume in the world.

Yasmin claps her hands, excitedly. "Now kiss it! That's what slaves do to their masters, right?"

I hate the words, both the casualness she uses to throw them around, and the implications about our one-sided relationship. But my displeasure soon turns into shock, then hope.

I widen my eyes.

My body hasn't moved to automatically obey.

I'm not kissing Yasmin's foot!

I sit back on my heels looking up at Yasmin, her face scrunched up in displeasure and suspicion. If this were a practical joke, this is where we'd pull the rug from underneath her, and I can clearly sense her discomfort.

Alia simply titters behind me. "I can't believe it! It only works with my feet and Anbar's!"

Yasmin pouts, her foot now hopping back and forth before my face. "Do yours smell really bad? Have the smell tested in a lab, or something."

"Pretty sure it's just her," Alia says with a snicker. "If we had magic foot scent, it would work on anyone, not just this loser."

God, what a mess! Alia's right, this doesn't really make any sense. What's different? What happens when her foot scent interacts with my brain, to produce such spectacular and terrifying results?

"That's so unfair," Yasmin says, in the brattiest tone I've ever heard. Then, she leans down, looking me in the eye.

And slaps me.

This is no catty slap either - it's strong enough to send me careening sideways to the floor.

I gasp in shock and humiliation, my cheek burning with pain - my pride smarting even more. Even Alia and Anbar haven't raised a finger on me in the time that they've enslaved me. They haven't needed to, of course, but still.

How dare she do this to me? We barely know each other, and she's taking it out on me because I won't kiss her feet on command?

Alia seems to find this endlessly amusing, laughing her ass off. "What did you do that for?"

"She's being such a bitch!" Yasmin shouts. "She should be obeying me too!"

I am impressed by the absolute brokenness of Yasmin's logic. I sit back up, scowling in her direction, willing my eyes to kill her on the spot. My hands ball into fists.

Do that again, Yasmin. See what happens.

"Oh, I'm sure she can make it up to you," Alia says, wheezing for breath. "What do you want, Yasmin?"

Yasmin's eyes suddenly snap upwards, in a parody of a thoughtful pose. She even rests her chin on her hand, as if she's actually pondering some profound philosophical question.

I can't glare at Alia - that would be disrespectful - but I don't have to obey Yasmin. I'm channeling the countless frustrations since my enslavement into this one, hateful look.

"I know!" Yasmin says, drawing in breath, as if she's made the biggest discovery in the history of human science. "The birthday party!"

A sinking feeling drags down my spirits. Yasmin's birthday party will be held in this very house, one month from now. Whatever she wants, there is no way this can end well.

Yasmin doesn't leave me wondering for long. Clapping her hands together, she tells Alia in an overexcited voice, "I want her to serve at the party! Like a maid! Dressed up like that!"

Alia seems to find the idea even funnier than the slap. She bends over, laughing to the point of tears, and Yasmin joins her. I kneel there, fuming.

At this point, I'm not even mortified anymore. I'm downright angry. Yasmin wants to parade me as a slave in front of our entire class. Every mutual acquaintance we've ever had will see me serve food and drinks, offer foot massages - and who's to say they won't take further liberties with me?

It's a set up to having my reputation destroyed, and having me potentially abused or even raped.

But I don't obey Yasmin. And Alia is too busy laughing to weigh in on the matter.

So, with more defiance than I've ever had since that first massage, I say one simple word.

"No."

My limbs tremble as I put all my might into trying to get back up. This is too much. I will not act in public as Yasmin's little pet. I will not prostrate myself before our entire cohort of students - peers, friends, and people who look up to me as the nerdiest student in class.

I will not!

I rise to one knee, gasping and panting with effort, when I spot movement at the edge of vision - Alia, moving decisively towards me.

Her foot slams against the side of my head, sending me back to the ground with a crash. My right cheek is pressing against the cold marble floor, Alia's sole pressing cruelly into the other.

This is no mere victory pose - she's pushing down to hurt me.

"What did you say?" She asks, her voice laced with venom. My hope flickers and dies as my voice betrays me.

"You don't get to say that word," Alia says, twisting her foot to increase pressure with the heel against my face. "Not to Yasmin. Not to Anbar. And certainly not to me."

I whimper in desperation and pain. I was so close! Why? God, why?!

Alia's other foot sneaks forward, closer and closer to my face, until I find my nose being pressed into it.

"That's it," Alia says. "Breathe in. Breathe yourself stupid with the scent of my feet."

And of course, I do. And Alia's foot scent worms its way into my mind, sapping it of all resistance. And I have to admit, there's something about being so effortlessly pinned to the floor, my resistance brushed away by Alia's might like it's a joke.

It speaks to a primal part of me, an almost sexual one. Openness, availability, submission - these things are all intrinsically part of sex. We conquer and subjugate one another, like Alia has done to me.

All my life, I've been trying so hard to make decisions, and look where that's got me. Maybe I can find relief in this state. I don't have to worry about anything more complex than doing what Alia tells me.

With my face scrunched up in between her foot sandwich, that doesn't seem as bad as it used to.

Remotely, distantly, I feel a weird tingle in my crotch.

A faint part of me - the part where my intelligence used to be - worries that I'm starting to sexualise my trauma, in a form of counterphobic reaction. Alia and Anbar's foot scent makes me meek, but it's never made my submission a pleasurable experience.

It still isn't.

But... I'm never getting my hair caressed lovingly by a boy. Instead, it's usually Alia's feet that do it. My lips fellate on toes. When the sisters facefuck me, I give them a foot massage with my throat.

So maybe it's no wonder that a part of me is starting to experience a weird thrill, in the pull of this inescapable defeat.

Alia's foot lifts from my head, no longer squashing it. But it hovers above my face.

"Apologize." She says. And I need no further instruction.

I crane my neck upwards, licking her feet from heel to toe. She's massaged so much of her sweat into my face that her feet taste quite plain, something for which I'm grateful - but the symbology of the act isn't lost on me.

"Oh wow," Yasmin says from the sofa, in hushed tones, as my lips welcome Alia's heel, sucking at it with loud, slutty sounds.

The tip of my tongue runs across the length and width of Alia's foot, noting the change in texture - the heel is harsh, the sole soft and wrinkly, the toes smooth - until her foot lightly slaps me on my cheek, pushing me away.

"Now, apologize to Yasmin."

I immediately scamper to obey, throwing myself at Yasmin's feet.

Alia's anger is receding, and her normal bratty self is returning. She giggles uncontrollably behind me as I rain humble kisses upon Yasmin's arches, ankles, toes, heels, and soles.

"I'm sorry, princess," I say in-between kisses. "Please forgive my indiscretion." I begin lapping at her feet like an eager dog, giving them a tongue bath. Yasmin shudders in pleasure above me.

It's no wonder. Feet are full of nerve endings, as I know all too well. I wonder if Yasmin's mind is sophisticated enough to appreciate the psychology of the act, not just the physical stimulation, but it doesn't really matter.

This is Alia's command. And I'm executing it way beyond the letter of her instructions.

Because she has, indeed, drilled a change into me.

"Open up," Yasmin says, and of course my body doesn't respond to her orders -- but I obey anyway, all too conscious of Alia standing behind me. Somehow, voluntarily submitting to Yasmin's superiority is even more mortifying.

Her eyes sparkling with evil curiosity, she drives her gym socks into my mouth.

"Suck," she says, in a sultry voice that feels more appropriate for porn than bullying. Stupidly, looking up at her with my dumb cow eyes, I start chewing on her socks like they're candy.

The by-now familiar taste of female foot sweat fills my mouth like juice. Yasmin studies me closely, nodding approvingly every time my cheeks puff as I milk her socks for every single drop of sweat.

"I wonder," Alia says behind me, "do theirs taste better, or mine?"

I close my eyes in shame and defeat. I have no answer, of course, but I know that's not what Alia wants out of me. So, I just moan and grunt wordlessly into the socks, emitting pathetic mewls that make me sound like a domesticated pet.

Yasmin presses her thighs together at that, and I wonder if my defeated display is arousing her. Her eyes narrow in my direction as she lifts her naked feet, stamping them over my face with bratty authority.

Her feet are petite, but taken together they cover the entirety of my face, and as she starts rubbing, they leave a snail trail of clammy sweat in their wake. This is the third girl who has now used my face as a foot rag and sweat sponge, and a part of me is starting to think this is exactly what I deserve.

Yasmin's feet push downward, throwing me back-first into the ground. This way, I'm staring up at Yasmin's soles, and I can lick them passionately and energetically.

"I'm dirt beneath your feet," I say. "I'm sorry I didn't submit right away. Please let me make it up to you."

Yasmin's feet cover my entire sight for a time, as I suck at the heels and lap at the soles - but eventually she parts them, so she can look down at me.

This is so bizarre.

Yasmin's right foot rests royally atop my forehead, while her other foot is on my chin. Together, they frame her face like a painting. She looks at me in curious amazement, and again, much as I hate to admit it, she is pretty.

"How will you make it up to me?"

I ponder the question, rolling my eyes to try and catch a glimpse of Alia, an indication of what she wants to do. But she's not coming to my rescue - all I get is the impatient drumming of her fingers against the table.

She's waiting to see what I will do. And to be honest, there is only one right answer that I can see.

I look back at Yasmin. What I'm about to do is going to utterly break me.

It will have irreversible, real-life consequences I will never be able to escape from. It will also represent my willing subordination at the mercy of a person who stands for everything I loathe in this world.

And I'm going to do it.

"Princess Yasmin," I say, making sure I am soft-spoken, my voice humble and unassuming. Like any peasant girl who gets to address royalty. "Will you please let me serve as a maid at your birthday party?"

Alia breaks out in hysterical giggles behind me, and I was expecting Yasmin to have a similar fit of bubbly enthusiasm. But oddly enough, she looks at me with a weird solemnity.

Whatever she's thinking, I know what I'm feeling. Something inside me is permanently broken. I'm now a pushover, a lesser girl, the lowest member of my own gender, a doormat to the rest of womankind.

A beta female. A maggot girl. A ditzy, foot-stupid peasant whose only job in life is to bow and scrape before royalty. Whose mouth shouldn't be used to speak and lecture, but to service feet instead.

Yasmin's left foot lifts away from my chin. Carefully and deliberately, she angles it towards my face.

"I don't know," she says. "I don't like losers at my parties. That'd be a big favor. I'm not sure you've earned it."

The audacity makes tears well up in my eyes. "Please, Princess," I say, grovelling like a little bitch. "I'll work for it, please."

Yasmin nods pointedly towards her foot, and I gulp.

She holds no direct sway over me. It's Alia I'm obeying. And yet, even without the foot scent to drive me stupid, she has already acquired a physical mastery of my face that merely reinforces my utter, irreversible saddle-broken status.

I spread my lips, letting Yasmin's foot make its way into my mouth. I gag and choke as she begins violently facefucking me, my watery eyes pleading with hers to please show some mercy to her now defeated rival.

But Yasmin, like Alia, knows no mercy, and enjoys the ministrations of my conquered throat around her toes.

"I know that must be, like, your biggest wish," Yasmin says as her foot tames my mouth. "But you gotta know, I'm going to work your butt so hard. If you want to be at the party, you've got to make it up to everyone else for tolerating your loser presence."

The only reply I can muster is a series of gluk gluk gluk sounds as she facefucks me. Alia breaks out in hysterical laughter behind me.

"You'll have to serve the drinks and food!"

"You'll have to clean up afterwards," Yasmin adds, to Alia's delight.

"All the girls will want foot massages! With your fingers or... your throat."

"And all the boys..." Yasmin says, looking thoughtfully at me, twisting her toes against my palate to make a point.

"The boys will have no use for her," Alia says. "She's an ugly, fat, dumb broad. I don't think they'd even look at her! Haha!"

That makes Yasmin smile. "Maybe. Then again, a warm mouth is a warm mouth..."

As they detail my future humiliations, I'm too numb to the whole thing to even muster the shock and outrage I should be feeling. I'm entirely powerless to stop any of this from happening to me. Why bother getting upset when I can just lie down and submit to free use?

"Is that what you really want?" Yasmin asks with mock concern, her foot lodged deep into my mouth.

"Pweeshe," I try to mumble from around her foot. I can't even beg properly, not in this position, but from the glimmer of victory in Yasmin's eyes, I can see that that's enough for her.

The school bimbo has just made me hers.

Her gaze never leaves mine. With one foot holding my forehead down, and the other pushing so deep it's literally at the entrance to my throat, she gives me the tiniest nod of acknowledgement.

"Very well, peasant girl," she says with a grin. "I'll let you serve as my birthday maid."

And then, she lets out an evil giggle that is immediately matched by Alia.

"Your wish is granted."