The Thrill of Defeat Ch. 08

She's right, I can feel my thoughts drain and leak and leave me, I can't even claim to be a ditzy bimbo because that would imply personhood, all I am is a carpet with a clit and a mouth and the ability to clean floors and worship feet and --

"Cum your brains out, whore," Anbar says. "Cum for me."

And I do, and it goes on, and on, and on, and the pleasure crashes against me in waves, until my brain shuts down, and I see only darkness.

***

The devastating quality of my orgasm over the ruins of my social media friendships exceeds my ability to put it into words.

Part of it is because words come really hard to me right now. My thoughts are confined to a small area of my brain, as I crouch inside Alia's walk-in closet, letting the fragrance of her shoes drift around my enslaved, prostrate form.

But part of it is because the intensity of it was like an earthquake. Hours later, I'm still recovering. I'm dimly aware of the fact that Anbar took many close-up photos of my post-orgasmic face, uploading them to my social media, but even that horrible realisation can't really pierce the fog of arousal that has settled upon me.

I'm staring at a blank sheet of paper, where I'm supposed to write my essay for tomorrow. Except my words don't come.

I screw up my face in a pout that wouldn't belong to the repertoire of the old Zainab, but definitely fits the docile, ditzy, tamed piece of footwear I've become. Eventually, I settle for something simple, yet truthful.

Anbar nuked my socials, I write. Slave went ga-ga.

Before I can elaborate, the door to the walk-in closet opens, and in walks Alia, standing tall against the light like a radiant, godly figure. She's in a lovely summer dress that costs more than my education, wearing nylons that glimmer under the artificial light, but no shoes. Her hair, her eyes, her smile -- she's perfect, a true vision of beauty.

I turn towards her, lapping and panting like a pathetically eager dog, and throw myself at her feet.

"Your Majesty," I whisper, worshipfully.

"That's my good piece of footwear," Alia says, stroking my hair with her nyloned feet. "That's my good Zainab. I hear you got your rocks off today. I really like your new profile picture, by the way! I can't wait for you to ask me. We're going to have so much fun."

I blush, but redouble my efforts to shower Alia's feet in kisses. The nylons are smooth and taut at my touch, and I admire the way they compliment the elegant lines of Alia's feet, calves, and thighs so much. She's got killer legs, because she's a real girl. I just look silly and servile in my own maid stockings, because I'm built like a dumb peasant girl who needs to survive the winter so she can be of use to her betters.

"Lap at my soles, slave," Alia says. "There's a good bitch."

I throw myself to the task, licking like her nyloned feet are ice cream. The taste of nylons on my tongue is odd, but not at all unpleasant. But truthfully at this point this duty is effectively routine. What really makes me perk up is Alia's next words for me.

"You know I was always manipulative and cruel," she says. "It's just you never gave me any reason to pounce on you... until you showed me how inferior you truly are."

"Yes, your Majesty," I say in half breaths and in-between energetic licks of her nyloned feet. Even through the nylons, I can taste the sweat of a day walking up and down the mall with Yasmin. I almost feel proud for cleaning it off. Like I'm a washing machine for her nylons.

"I want you to tell me about all the insecurities you've had about me all these years, when I still considered you a friend. Before I came to own you. I want to know which of your worst fears have come true."

"All of them, your Majesty," and only upon saying this I realise how true the words are. "You're prettier, wealthier, more popular, well-connected... every time we went dancing, all eyes would be for you, and none for me. At the mall, I could never buy anything, while you'd walk home with so many beautiful dresses that would never fit me..."

"And how did that feel?" Alia asks, a weird edge to her voice. "Did that hurt?"

"So much," I say, mournfully. "It always hurt so much. Everything came so easy to you. I was trying so hard..."

"There, there," she says, patting my head with one foot as I return to lick the other, my tongue softly lapping at her arch, heel, and toes. "Now you can stop trying so hard. Just accept that you're subhuman. With acceptance comes peace, and with peace comes happiness."

"Yes," I say, and I mean it wholeheartedly. God, it feels so good to lie down the burden, to stop trying to stand up to Alia, to stop pretending we're equal. I don't need to worry about anything in life. I can just focus on cleaning and kissing and sucking and doing as I'm told. It's so easy, to obey...

Liberating.

"Thank you for putting me in my place," I say, taking her nyloned toes in my mouth.

"Oh, my sweet little piece of footwear," Alia says, pushing harder against my eager lips. "You think this is as low as you're going to sink."

I look up at her, as her foot snakes past my lips and into my mouth. Her eyes glimmer far above me, cold and unreachable, uncaring and unflinching, like distant stars.

"But trust me. We're only getting started."