To The Victor, The Spoils

Damn, she's fast.

She doesn't waste time sitting on my chest, now. She slides forward immediately, and to my dread and exhilaration, I find myself back where this all started. With Slava's knees pinning my arms to the ground, her leering face swimming in my vision, the crotch of her jeans hovering over my face... no matter how hard I try not to think about it.

"You're going to be doing a lot of chores for a month, big sister," she taunts. But all I feel is the electricity coursing through my body. I wonder if she sees it too, the symbolism of this position, what it means about us, our respective stations in the house.

"I'm going to work your butt so hard," she says, snapping me out of my reverie. I try to push her off, but she's too strong. I can feel my frustration building, and I know she's trying to get inside my head. I try to focus on the task at hand, ignoring her taunts and insults, but it's hard.

"You're too weak, Anastasia," she says, leaning in closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. "You can't even beat your little sister."

I grit my teeth and push back with all my might, managing to get one arm free. I grab her own arm and twist, trying to flip her onto her back, but once again, she's a step ahead of me. She counters my move, pinning my arm behind my back and leaning in, her weight crushing me into the ground.

I struggle, trying to break free, but my arm hurts -- at this angle, she can keep me pinned with minimal leverage. That is a sobering and humiliating thought...

I can feel Slava's hot breath on my neck, as her body begins to adhere to mine, her front to my back. My defeat is potentially seconds away, and that makes me feel weak in the knees. But I force myself not to give up. I can't let her win, I can't let her see me break. I focus all my energy, twisting and turning, trying to find an opening.

Eventually, I do.

Slava's grip on my arms loosen, maybe out of overconfidence, or simply distraction. Either way, I won't let her get away with it. I twist my arm free, and for once she's the one who is confused and uncertain. I push with my arms and legs, my back landing against Slava with enough force to topple her to the ground. I land atop her, back-first.

I know this moment could be decisive. I'm starting to tire, and this crazy amount of physical contact is starting to get to me. I know I need to end this match soon. I need to be bold. It's now or never.

Before Slava can react, I flip and position myself on her chest. I immediately sit forward, my knees digging into her arms, and I find myself straddling my own little sister.

I hold my breath at the full reversal. My knees pinning her arms to the ground. My own thighs are framing her face this time, and she looks so small that she could easily disappear under me. A different kind of rush goes through me at the sight.

But it's temporary.

Slava always has been more flexible than me. With a thrust of her hips, she pushes her legs up, knocking me behind the head. She catches me unprepared, and so I find myself falling forward, face-first against the carpet.

I expect to feel her weight crash atop me once more, but nothing comes. I begin to get my bearings, when I become mildly aware of Slava moving swiftly, sitting right next to my head.

I'm right where she wants me.

I start to sit up, but not fast enough. Flashes to my left and right tell me it's already too late, and my move to sit up comes to an abrupt end. I am pulled forcefully back to the ground, with Slava's legs wrapping around my neck.

I feel the rough jeans against my skin, and her muscles squeezing underneath, as she hooks her left foot under her right knee. This way, my face is trapped in a triangle of flesh -- her calf against my throat, and her thighs against either side of my neck.

Pressure begins to build. Sounds become muffled as Slava's legs partially cover my ears. Even so, I can hear my sister loud and clear.

"Gotcha!" Slava gloats, her voice filled with satisfaction. "I've got you right where I want you, sis. You're not getting out of this one."

I try to break free, but she's got me in a tight hold. Her legs are like steel, squeezing my neck and head. I marvel at her strength and try to resist, but it's no use.

If I roll my eyes up, I can see Slava's face. She's comfortably sitting, my head trapped between her legs, looking down at me. Her self-satisfied grin makes me shudder.

She uses her bent leg as a lever, slowly tightening her grip on my throat. Her calf bulges under the effort, and I can feel her thigh muscles contracting as she squeezes me from both sides, too.

"How's it like, Anastasia?" She asks, in a strangely... husky tone. "Losing to your own sister? I personally wouldn't know. I've never had the pleasure."

I try to shut out her words, focusing on finding a way to escape. But the more I struggle, the tighter her hold gets. My breaths become shorter and shorter, and not just because of her vise grip. If being pinned under her legs filled my body with electricity, this... this is a whole other experience, and I blush at my body's response.

I twist and turn, trying to loosen her grip, to no avail, and traitorous thoughts begin to slither into my mind. That my younger sister is subduing me with her legs. That maybe this is what it feels like to be tamed. To have your spirit broken. To bend under the firm hand... or leg... of someone stronger.

For what seems like an eternity, I stay trapped in Slava's hold. Slowly, one inch at a time, my younger sister's grip on me continues to tighten, a thought that fills me with a strange warmth, a quiver that travels straight down my body...

"You know Anastasia, it's one thing that I get better grades than you. Everyone knows I'm smarter. More popular too, of course, you don't exactly have the most thrilling social life. But this?" She squeezes her thighs for emphasis, making me whimper in pain. "I'm so much stronger than you, too? Is there anything you're good at?"

I can feel my insecurities widening into big, dark chasms. Like they, too, are a part of the abyss. They used to be chinks in my armour, but Slava's killer instinct is too good, she's found them all. They used to be hair-thin cracks, but Slava is too strong, she's hammering at them, hammering and hammering until I shatter...

"I guess we're going to find out if you're good at doing chores," she says, laughing at my useless attempts at breaking free.

I close my eyes, losing myself in the feeling of her legs around me, drowning out all sound, constricting my breath, ending my independence. Who ever knew that defeat could feel like this?

Slowly, inexorably, I feel my energy draining away. There can be no doubt about who's the predator, and who the prey.

"Come on, Anastasia, give it up," Slava says. "You know you're beaten. Admit it."

I hate to admit it, but she's right. I am beaten. I've been beaten by my younger sister, twice in a row. Even so, that's not the reason for the choice of word that I perform next.

"I submit," I say. Of course that's what you'd say in wrestling, right? But I know nothing about wrestling, All I know is the way the word rolls off my tongue, its flavour, its connotations. Yielding. Acceptance. Being placed under.

I'm sure the intricacies of this are not at the forefront of Slava's mind, ass triumphant laughter fills the room. "Good," she says. "You finally came to your senses. Now, tell me. What's your place in this household now?"

"D-d-doing the chores," I reply, defeated.

Slava releases the hold and gets up, still chuckling. I lie there on the ground, trying to catch my breath and come to terms with what just happened. Slava sits on my chest, still triumphant, still amused.

"This is going to be a very long month for you, sis. Believe me."

I nod, still too winded to speak. I just lie there, humiliated and defeated, like a broken doll. The thought of being overpowered by my younger sister is difficult to accept. I can feel the weight of her body pressing down on me, a physical manifestation of her superiority.

"So Anastasia, tell me. Who's the bigger sister now?" she asks, a hint of triumph in her voice. She's not smiling anymore. In fact, she looks so deadly serious that it makes me shiver.

Oh God.

What I'm about to say is going to devastate me. Best case scenario, it gets played off as a joke, and Slava will rub my face in it for the rest of our lives. Worst case scenario... well, let's just say that has me hyperventilating.

"Y-y-you are," I confess, my lips trembling. Feeling my inner walls shatter and rearrange themselves into something new, something that looks less like the old Anastasia, and more like... well... this.

Slava only nods. Then, her smile returns, as if she's thought of a new mischief to carry out. She lifts her socked foot in the air and plants it firmly on my face.

"Mmmggnnhh," I protest, but make no move to pull away. I can feel the rough fabric brushing against my skin, and I'm suddenly very aware of the smell of her sweat, of her toes wiggling against my cheek. The situation is surreal, and for a moment I am too shocked to react.

To my horror, two conflicting impulses clash within me when she does that. Part of me reminds me that this is my sister. This is Slava. What are we doing?

But the other part...

The other part sees Slava as a conqueror, her victorious foot rightfully treading on her latest conquest, an unmistakable sign of her victory. Wouldn't this be the ultimate achievement for her? To dethrone her bigger sister, cast her down until she's grovelling at her feet?

So many words and expressions flash through my mind, then, acquiring a whole new significance I never considered before.

Brought to heel. At her feet. Doormat. They all sound... oddly beautiful.

I find myself pressing my face against the sole of Slava's foot. I can feel the moment when she realises this, her body flinching, as she quickly removes her foot from my face. Stupidly, I find myself following it with my face before I realise what I'm doing.

A long, awkward silence stretches between us. I feel like I should say something, make excuses for myself maybe, or ask her... ask her...

Slava's brow furrows in confusion. She gets up, cutting all physical contact, stepping away from me. Pathetically, I find myself wanting more. What is wrong with me?

"Anyway," she says, trying to sound lighthearted, "you're doing the chores for a month. It's decided."

Having said her piece, Slava walks away, retreating towards her own room. I still lie on the carpet, catching my breath, my mind spinning. The chores feel like an afterthought.

I can't help but think that maybe this isn't about who's stronger, or who does the chores, no more than it ever was about the remote. Maybe it's about something more, something that's been brewing between us for a long time.

Whatever it is, it lies at the bottom of the abyss.

***

It's been a long day of chores, in a long month of chores.

Losing to my sister might carry a strange and unspeakable excitement with it, but the reality of having to actually take responsibility for all the housework is nowhere near as charming. It's mind-numbing work.

My hands are rough and callused, my knees raw. I've spent more time scrubbing pots and pans than I have studying this month, and my grades are beginning to suffer as a result. Slava's, of course, are as high as ever.

She likes to watch me work, sometimes, sitting at the kitchen table, reminding me of something I've forgotten, or correcting something I haven't done properly. Those are the lucky moments. Lucky, because they confront me with the reality that I'm taking orders from my younger sister, and that makes my entire body tingle.

I can't stop thinking about her legs around my neck. Her foot on my face.

None of that has happened again, however, which leaves me with a strange, perplexing sense of longing. Slava has kept me at bay all this time, never providing me with an opportunity to re-establish physical contact with her.

As firm as she's been in directing my efforts, she's also been keen to avoid further... incidents. I'm absurdly disappointed by that, but I dare not force the issue. I would never want to make her uncomfortable, and besides, can I blame her? I'm clearly fucked up. No normal person would have these... cravings.

How do you deal with such unutterable desires, so deeply rooted that even you have no name for them? For lack of a better option, I try to channel them through my chores. It may not be like feeling Slava's body pinning me down... but it's something.

As the month of chores drags on, I begin to truly feel like Slava's little sister. Each day is filled with her delegating one task after another to me, and I find myself constantly seeking her approval and doing everything to the best of my ability.

I'm starting to see just how much stronger Slava has become, both physically and mentally. It's like she's outgrown me, and I'm just trying to keep up. Every time she overpowers me in a task or puts me in my place, it's a reminder that I'm not the big sister anymore.

Slava loves identifying opportunities to cement the new state of things. She corrects the way I fold the towels, the way I make her bed, small things here and there. But as the days go by, her grip on me tightens. She starts bossing me around more and more, telling me what to do and when to do it. I can see the confidence in her eyes growing each day.

Cleaning her room becomes a quasi-religious affair, a task to be performed with the utmost of care. "I want it spotless," she says with a smirk on her face. "After all, the little sister should do everything perfectly."

"B-but I have an exam..." I said once, feebly. I don't know if I was being genuine, or if I just wanted to be put back in my place, to re-experience the thrill. But of course, what I wanted didn't matter, because Slava needed no further prompting.

"I mean," she told me, her face twisting in a predatory smirk. "It's not like you've ever been particularly good at studying, anyway. Play to your strengths, little sister. Stick to cleaning."

Just thinking back about that phrase makes me hyperventilate. I replay it over and over in my mind, especially when I'm alone under the covers, and my hand begins to wander...

But she's my sister, I tell myself. This is wrong, I can't, I can't...

But, every time shame is about to win out, I hear her voice again.

Play to your strengths, little sister.

With every passing day, I can feel my own confidence waning, my sense of propriety eroding. I try not to let it show, but it's becoming harder and harder to hide. Slava seems to be enjoying this power dynamic, relishing in the fact that I am so firmly under her thumb.

I go to bed exhausted each night, both physically and emotionally drained. The weight of my insecurities about Slava, combined with this newfound power dynamic, is beginning to take its toll on me. But I know I'm courting the abyss, skirting ever closer to the edge, trying to peer down, into the darkness.

Slava's grip on me is getting tighter by the day. I don't even feel like the little sister, exactly, more like... a servant. Every fibre of my being, strained in tending to her every need.

The abyss whispers to me that that sounds absolutely irresistible.

***

At last, my month of indentured servitude comes to an end.

As I crawl out of my room, with the pale light of morning filtering through the windows, I reflect on how anti-climactic it feels, for it all to end like this. But perhaps it's for the best. Slava may have taught me a lesson, firmly rearranging our respective positions in the household, without the need to indulge my... indiscretions.

Maybe.

Still groggy from sleep, I drag myself to the living room, where I crash on the couch. Absurdly, I reflect that so many things have already taken place on this couch. In a way, it's how this entire, warped story began.

It's time to go back to normality now, if I can. The thought is a relief, but in a way... it's also sad. Compared to the thrill of my strange dynamic with Slava, the real world looks irredeemably, soul-crushingly boring.

Eventually, Slava wakes up, too. She joins me on the couch, and that makes me sweat profusely. I haven't been this physically close to her since our rematch, and I try to not go too blatantly rigid.

"Well?" Slava says, looking at me.

I stare at her in confusion, blinking. "Well what?"

"Duh! Where's my breakfast?" Slava answers, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

A knot begins to tighten in my throat.

"Slava, the month is over," I say, carefully, slowly. Like I'm treading on a minefield. "Yesterday was the last day. Don't you remember?"

She doesn't respond right away, making an exaggerated show of pondering the issue, her fingers brushing her chin. Then, she turns to me with a smirk on her face. "What month?" she asks, feigning innocence.

Her voice is soft, so soft, the words are almost whispered. But as far as I'm concerned, they might as well be an explosion. Immediately, the knot in my throat tightens. I can't look away from the mischievous glint in her eyes, I can't think past the sudden acceleration of my heartbeat. She knows exactly what she's doing, and she's enjoying it.

I try again, in a half-hearted attempt to assert myself. "The month where I had to do all the chores because you... beat me..." I say, and I swear, my voice sounds pathetic even to me.

Slava raises an eyebrow, still playing along. "Oh, that month," she says, a smile playing on her lips. "Well, I don't remember ever saying that it was over."

The wicked glint in her eyes hasn't faded.

"Slava," I say, and once again, I don't know if my objective is resistance... or the feeling of resistance being overcome. "We had a deal. I don't have to do the chores anymore."

"Yes," Slava says, in a low and amused tone. "Technically, your forfeit for that match is over." She pauses for a moment, looking at me with a knowing smile. "So, to decide who will do the chores for the next month, maybe we should have another wrestling match..."

I stare at her, stupefied, my mouth opening and closing, as dread and desire collide within me. In the wake of this emotional stalemate, I'm looking at Slava like she's speaking in an alien language.

Before I know it, Slava's hands are at my shoulders, pushing. I find myself toppling downwards, knees hitting the carpeted floor as I yelp in surprise. Slava repositions herself on the sofa, behind and above me, and before I have time to react, her legs are beginning to wrap around my neck once more.

Slava tightens her legs, squeezing my head between her powerful thighs. I struggle to free myself, but she has me trapped securely. This feeling... the feeling of my resistance making no headway against the tightness of her grip. It's the best feeling in the world.

"Relax, Anastasia," Slava says in a low, amused voice, as her calf begins to press against my throat. "You think I haven't got you all figured out, little sister?"

I whimper, and not from the pain.

"I can keep doing this to you, if that's what you want. Month after month. Or," Slava says, with a knowing smile in her voice, "maybe we can make a different arrangement. One that lasts not just for a month, but indefinitely."

I gasp in shock as the reality of her words sink in. Indefinitely? I try to shake my head, but her grip is too tight for that. Her legs engulf my head from every direction. She leans forward, looking me in the eye, as her hands caress my cheeks... like I'm an affectionate pet.

It's a gesture of such utter, total, and complete ownership. It leaves me breathless.

"From now on," Slava says, her voice calm and firm, "you will do everything I say, without question. Do that, and maybe, just maybe... You might get what you want. But it will be on my terms."