The Ultimate Price

My true moment of realisation comes during a perfectly normal domestic event: discussing who's going to clean the dishes.

It's weird, I know. But this one precious moment of clarity is truly priceless. It reveals something deep and meaningful about myself, something I will need to contend with going forward, because it fundamentally alters my self-image.

It's not just the fact that I'm volunteering to do the dishes, although of course I am. That would still be within the bounds of normality... kind of.

It's how hard--how desperately--I'm trying to convince Frida that I should be cleaning them.

"Seriously, don't worry about it," she says, her beautiful blond hair captivating my gaze as she shakes her head. "It's my turn, it's no problem."

That's when I put in the extra effort. Where every muscle on my face comes together to produce a vision of perfect submission and servility. My eyes widen, my eyelashes beat in supplication, my mouth pouts a little.

I imperceptibly flex my knees, to appear just that little bit shorter, and I demurely place my hands before me, out of the way. I crane my neck too, trying to give the impression that I'm looking up at her.

"No no," I say, in a feeble voice that sounds small and harmless, "You've had a long day, just sit down and put your feet up. I'll clean them!"

Of course, the reference to feet is entirely coincidental.

As I said, this is my moment of utter, undeniable clarity. Nobody in their right mind begs a roommate to be allowed to do the dishes. This whole thing is spiralling out of control, I'm losing the plot. It's just that I...

I desperately want Frida to be my domme.

I'm not just attracted to her, I'm obsessed with her. With her cold clear eyes that look like chipped ice, with the sound of her laughter. The way her thighs and calves look when she crosses her legs. The elegance of her ankles and her petite feet.

The way she arches her eyebrow, her sarcasm, her fierce, take-charge attitude which triggers all my messy subby feelings and makes me feel like such a small girl in her presence.

I need her to put me in my place.

I'm not just yet another girl going through uni who cultivates a bunch of kinks in her free time. I'm consumed with the idea of becoming Frida's bitch. This isn't just banter to me.

I'm pouring every ounce of my being into trying to get what is clearly a vanilla girl--possibly a straight one, too--into seeing me as her subordinate. To convince her that she deserves to sit back and let me pamper her by cleaning the dishes for her.

I'm somewhat uncomfortable at the thought. No matter how driven by my arousal I am right now, I'm not oblivious--I see the range of emotions playing out on Frida's face. Doubt, confusion, a degree of discomfort. I know I'm being pushy.

In a weird way, she's getting used to this behaviour from me. Internally, I suspect she labels it as my personal oddity and calls it a day. She's way too vanilla to get the context that gives my actions meaning.

She doesn't understand why I always joke about doing chores or foot massages for her, why I always comment how bossy or smart she is, why I jokingly refer to myself as "her humble PA".

She clearly does wonder why I'm so persistent with my "jokes" though, or why I never seem to just let the conversation move on from the topic.

The few times she jokes back are heaven for me, but most of the time she doesn't really react.

That's why I've been focusing on practical stuff, lately. Kinky or vanilla, everyone's happy with getting to skip on work, right? If I offer to cover her cleaning turns, or do her homework, or buy her groceries, she's likely to accept out of sheer convenience.

It's not like a true power exchange, but it's something.

And yes, I know that's manipulative, and in all honesty I don't really like what it says about me as a person. But... my obsession with Frida is becoming all-consuming. I just wish I could tell her she's a blond goddess to me, that I'd do anything for her.

That she should step on me, and stake her claim on me.

Instead, I pout and wait for her to make a decision. Eventually she nods, collapsing back onto the sofa, and it takes all my discipline to hide my smirk as I make my way to the kitchen.

"You're making me feel guilty," Frida calls from the living room as I finally get to the dishes. "I'll make it up to you, I promise!"

"Sure!" I answer, thinking to myself that if she really wants to make it up to me, she should toss me to the ground and plant her foot on my neck, twist the heel into my skin, and lecture me about how things are going to be...

I shake off the sexual reverie, and with a reflective grunt, I start cleaning the dishes.

It's not like I actually enjoy doing this. If anything, now comes the boring part--the thrill was when she granted me this one opportunity for service. But actually cleaning is pretty boring, particularly because Frida isn't really engaging with my degradation.

Well, if nothing else, I can tell myself I'm acting as her servant for the next few minutes. But of course, by the time the dishes are clean, I find myself back in my usual rut.

I should just go back to my room and masturbate. That typically clears my head, gives me enough lucidity to make me swear that I'm going to stop.

That usually lasts for an hour or so. Thereafter, I immediately revert to trying and prostrating myself for Frida.

Sigh.

My strategy of wearing her down by being gradually more and more servile isn't really working. Yeah, she let me do the dishes for her, this time. But it's not the same.

Worst of all, it feels like I'm having the worst of both worlds. I'm honestly being a terrible friend to my roommate, duplicitous and manipulative, which does make me feel guilty. But I'm not getting the true rewarding power exchange experience, really.

I sit down at the table and cover my face with my hands. The sane, adult, emotionally mature thing to do would be to just drop the charade, but I... I can't. I don't know what it is about Frida... I was a kinkster before, but I've never been this obsessed with the idea of a particular person utterly dominating me.

Making me pay her own share of the rent, even if I can't really afford it.

Forcing me to clean the home until it's spotless, even (or especially) when I'm supposed to be studying.

Sharing me with all her other friends, in a grand display of sapphic submission.

Bringing me to heel, not metaphorically, but literally.

I force myself to stop. Thinking these thoughts is just making everything even more painful. I need to resign myself to the idea that Frida is straight and vanilla, and that's okay.

Besides, what else is there for me to try? I've gone with the jokes and the offers of "favours", I can't very well give her a beginner's lecture to BDSM and ask her if she's ever thought about sleeping with a girl before.

I can't even imagine what our roommate relationship would be like after being rejected from that.

No, I have no other option but to give up.

Unless...

I remove my hands from my face. I'm very still, my mouth going dry. The seed of an idea has just taken root inside me. Of course! Why haven't I ever considered this before?

I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts, until I find the name I'm looking for. Manfred.

I hesitate, my finger hovering inches away from the display.

Am I really going to do this? It's crazy. I'm crazy. Manfred will tell me it isn't possible, perhaps he'll even laugh at me. There's no way he's going to take this seriously. And that's the best case scenario.

The worst case scenario... him telling on me, maybe even to Frida... that doesn't bear thinking about.

But I know this want is consuming me. I know it's going to make me utterly reckless. And so, as I finally give myself permission to dive into this chat with Manfred and start typing out my message, I think back to my earlier moment of realisation.

I know the answer.

I will make Frida into my domme. No matter the price.

* * *

Manfred has a bit of a reputation.

He's very aloof, and rarely socialises with the other students. I guess a few perceive him as a bit of a nerd, but not in the classic socially awkward sense. If anything, he's supremely confident in himself and his own abilities. I'm not into men, so I wouldn't know, but I've definitely heard the word "magnetism" used more than once by other girls to reference him. It's just that he never seems to make use of this charm. His interests don't really overlap with most people our age, he told me once.

One such interest is hypnosis. I was kind of perplexed when he mentioned it to me as one of his hobbies, but he was rather nonchalant about it, saying it was primarily in the context of therapy and mindfulness.

That's not exactly the biggest lead ever, I know. But it's the only one I've got, which speaks volumes as to the desperation of my predicament.

And now that I find myself under his inquiring stare, awaiting his response, I find that I'm holding my breath.

Manfred presses his hands against the table, stretching his fingers, his lips narrowing. His eyes are down to two slits as he leans closer to me.

"Let me get this straight," he says, and then chuckles. "Haha, straight."

I roll my eyes at the pun, and wave for him to continue. He immediately falls back into his hypnotist persona, dark and secretive.

It's the sort of thing that would look impossibly cringey on almost anybody else, but he actually kinda pulls it off.

"You want me to hypnotise Frida," he says, "against her consent. You want me to turn her into a lesbian, and a... dominatrix? And you want her to fall in love with you, to boot."

When listed like that, my requests sound so absurd that I squirm uncomfortably in the chair. God, I feel so pathetic. There's no judgement in Manfred's tone--already a blessing--but I'm very conscious of how far I've fallen.

"I just..." I say, looking for something to say, for the magic words that will suddenly make this look better than it is. I don't find them, of course, so I settle for what I really want to know. "Is it possible?"

"I can't make anyone fall in love with anybody," Manfred says flatly, and the casualness of his tone hits me like a stab straight through my heart. "Maybe it's doable, but if it is, it's beyond my skills."

"B-b-but the rest..." I stammer, my lips trembling as I have to fight to hold back tears. Damn, I'm messed up.

"The rest," he says, his tone careful and measured, "is eminently feasible." And then, with a nod of his head, he adds, "for a price."

My heart goes on a rollercoaster at his words. Relief, impossibly sweet and comforting, and then worry, as a knot forms at the back of my throat.

"Manfred, I'm a student," I say in a whisper. "I don't know how much I can scrape together, I..."

"Not to worry," he says. "We'll get to my payment later. For now, let's discuss this more in detail."

Alright then. This is it. Time to put all the cards on the table.

I pour my heart to him, confessing all the secret fantasies I've always had about Frida. The boots, the feet, the utter domestication, the findom--my cheeks redden when I get to that point. I'm describing my utter ruin as a human being, as if it's the biggest fantasy I could ever experience on Earth.

Manfred, however, looks decisively unfazed. He nods, completely emotionless, like he's done this sort of thing before.

A sudden chill trickles down my spine.

Has he?

I mean, even if he has, so what? I'm in no position to judge him, given what I'm asking. I'm clearly no better. And if he's experienced, all the more chances he'll succeed, and make me Frida's, forever...

"Just to be clear," he says, holding up his hands. "I'm not special or anything. With enough time and dedication, you could learn this yourself. Anyone can."

I shake my head. "It's too risky, and who knows how long it would take, and if we'd even still be roommates by then. If you say you can do it, then I believe you. I want you to do it."

"Good," he says. "Now, let us discuss my payment."

I tense up, sitting straighter in the chair, trying to suppress the hammering of my heart against my chest.

"Given the... peculiar specifics, and the fact that we're both students, I'm going to ask for compensation that is entirely non-monetary in nature."

Relief washes over me... but it's shortly followed by dread. He isn't asking for sexual favours, is he? Because I'd never, I... not even for this, I don't think... would I?

"All I want," he says, "is the opportunity to spend some time with Frida myself. Alone. Say, a day every week?"

Oh.

Oh!

I gulp, swallowing a lump that seems to have formed in my throat. I'm trying to process what he's saying. He does want sexual favours... but not from me. He wants them from the girl I love.

Am I really going to stoop so low as to offer her to a man sexually, in exchange for brainwashing her? Just like that, like she's a piece of meat? It feels... ugh. Like betraying her twice over.

Of course, it feels a bit hypocritical to act all high and mighty about her consent and sexual boundaries, when the whole premise here is that I'm trying to fundamentally rewrite her sexuality.

There is another side to this. A selfish one, but one I feel nonetheless. I would be sharing my domme/girlfriend with someone else, one day every week, for the rest of our lives. And not even with another girl, but with a man.

I'm as monogamous as they come, and the idea of my domme-girlfriend fucking a man is deeply disturbing to me. But, well... it's either this, or nothing, isn't it?

Would I rather share Frida with Manfred, or not have her at all?

Unfortunately for my own soul, the answer to that question is a no-brainer. I let out a weary sigh, and nod my head.

"Great! Shall we shake on it?"

Before I even process it, my hand is clasping Manfred's--for a certain value of clasping, his dwarfs mine--and we're shaking on this devilish deal.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he says, and I can't quite place the glimmer in his eyes, but I know now there's something else behind the cool detachment of the bright student with the weird hobbies.

Evil.

I can't really judge him for it, though. That evil is now under my employment, after all.

Besides, it's no more or less repugnant than the evil that dwells within me. I've betrayed Frida twice over, and I feel like I'll need to cover every mirror in the house for a while...

But the price is paid.

And now, it's time to await the delivery of my prize.

* * *

I've bought a collar.

In my endless trepidation, even so simple an object has acquired a whole new significance. During my years as a submissive, I've taken on and off countless collars so many times, in so many play scenes.

For the longest time, they were little more to me than play accessories. Pretty, scenic, appropriate, exciting... but still in a very matter-of-fact way.

But this... this is different.

I will not wear it until the time is right. I want Frida to put it on me. It will mark the transition into a new, happier life, for the both of us. I will finally be put in my place, sheltered under the protective wing of my new owner, and she will receive the service and worship she deserves.

I've been walking on air all day. Manfred's text this morning was unequivocal. "Today is the day," he wrote.

I know Frida is away all day. I've skipped on all classes, all commitments, in preparation for this very moment. I've polished the house to a high sheen, to keep me busy as well as to get in the mood.

It barely contains my excitement. I feel like I've overdosed on caffeine, I'm jittery and my hands are shaky. When even the compulsive cleaning proves insufficient, I head out to buy groceries and cook dinner for two. Hell, I even throw a bottle of wine into the mix.

As a final touch, I place the collar on the table in the living room. It's a risk, in a way. If Manfred screwed up, Frida's reaction to a kinky collar left lying around might be... unpleasant. But what the hell. I need to live a little.

My meager student finances will complain about the food and the wine, but if this occasion doesn't warrant wild celebration, then what does?

Forget graduation, or a wedding day far in the future, or whatever other socially-mandated life milestone people ritualise by rote. I know what the most special day of my life is going to be, and it's just around the corner. The day of my utter, irreversible, beautiful enslavement.

When at last the key turns in the lock, my heart skips a beat. And then, Frida enters in all her glory.

Her golden mane and icy eyes are the hallmarks of her aristocracy. Her toned body, the way her legs look when wrapped in her tight jeans and adorned in the heavy, knee-high leather boots she has decided to wear today... It all looks designed to stand out, dwarfing inferior girls like me, casting me in the shadows. Girls like Frida should rule girls like me. They should subdue us physically and mentally, dominate us, annihilate us as independent human beings. Frida is a woman, and a regal one like that.

Me? I'm just a girl.

I swear her demanour already looks different. She stands a little taller, a little prouder, her face is harder somehow. She looks at me like I'm a stain on the floor.

"Welcome home, Frida," I say, in a voice so shrill it makes me wince. "How w-w-was your day?"

She doesn't acknowledge my question, just looks around. "You've cleaned the house," she says. It's an emotionless observation.

Words fail me as her gaze fixes on me. I nod, doing my best to keep myself from trembling.

"You seem to be doing that a lot lately."

Again, I nod.

"I wonder..." she says, trailing off. "If I flat out told you to take care of all the chores, what would you do?"

"Obey," I say, breathless, with no hint of hesitation. Oh Manfred, you fucking genius, you magnificent bastard. It's happening, it's actually happening!

"Good girl," Frida says at last, and it's all I can do not to faint. "Let's see what you've prepared for me." I follow with my head bowed as Frida makes her way into the kitchen.

"I approve,," she says, "but that can wait. First..."

She turns to me, contemplating me with an expression I find hard to read... but one that seems to pin me to the wall.

Frida puts a contemplative finger to her lips. "Maybe it's time we stopped joking around, and actually discussed this further."

And with that, Frida walks past me, her hand caressing my shoulder invitingly. She turns back to me as she's approaching the living room, lighting up the hallway with her incredible smile.

It's no longer the genuine, happy grin I used to know. Now, there's something predatory about it. The way she arches her eyebrows clearly asks, coming? And I am. I basically scurry after her like a trained puppy, following into the living room.

When at last Frida sits on the sofa, theatrically crossing one booted leg over the other, my knees once again threaten to buckle underneath me. I swallow, my mouth dry. What's going to happen next?

What programming did Manfred put in there?

Wordlessly, Frida snaps me from her reverie--by literally snapping her fingers. Then, her index finger extends in a motion that is as simple as it is unmistakable.

It points downward, to the floor. And this time, my knees do fail me.

Over our months together, I've used every opportunity I could to mock-kneel before Frida. Picking stuff up from the floor (whether it existed or not), looking for the remote (which I may have dropped on purpose)... you get the idea.

But none of these silly games could compete with the real moment.

How can she see me as an equal, after staring at me as I crouch down on the floor? How could I possibly see myself as a full person with human rights, after grovelling at her feet like this?