What does ‘everything’ mean to a woman like Ivy Robinson?

I have plenty of time to contemplate the question as I settle into the purgatory of our new status quo. As days become weeks, the boredom of corporate drudgery compounded by the sickening indignity of unending submission. More than once, I’ve tried to tell myself that this is as bad as things can get, but in my heart of hearts I know: I have so much more to lose.

And she’ll see that I lose it. ‘I’m going to take everything from you’. That was Ivy’s promise. I hear it over and over again in my head, on loop, a worse earworm than any pop song and stained through by sordid sense-memories; the taste of the sole of Ivy’s foot, the chemical, back-of-the-throat burn of the drug Ivy doses me with, and—worst of all—the deep, coiling heat of my arousal.

Weeks later, and it still reaches out to lick at me. That heat. That need. I wish so very badly that I could ignore it. That I could chalk it up as an awful, one-time mistake.

I can’t. Ivy has branded that heat into me with her drug and her bullying. Now, when I dwell on it—on her—I find my hands moving between my legs.

Everything. But what?

Maybe she meant every last cent in my bank account. If so, she’s well on her way. My acts of tribute to her have become a regular ritual. Weekly, daily. Whenever she commands. However much she commands, too. Never a truly ruinous amount, but… an obscene amount, frequently. Never for something quotidian. Always for something luxurious. A meal at a fine restaurant. Jewelry. Lingerie. Expensive makeup. Ivy always makes sure I know exactly where my money has gone. She chooses things I could certainly afford, but could never actually buy. They wouldn’t suit me the way they suit her.

Because she’s superior, of course.

In every way. In every conceivable aspect. That thought, more than any other, has been steadily drilled and drugged into the core of my being. Every day, when she looms over me effortlessly, it’s a reminder. Every day, when I admire her beauty. Every day, when I envy her charisma or compare our chests or  when I am struck by her style or when I notice her perfect skin or when I wonder how long it takes her to do her immaculate makeup or when I wrap my lips around the exquisite digits of her feet. She is superior. Simply superior. In every way superior. And what do you do to something superior?

You worship it. And I worship, and worship, and worship. With my lips, with my words, with my wallet. I worship on my knees, under my desk, or else behind it, for hours, and hours, hand shoved rudely down my pants, fucking myself into a fervent trance, overawed by my own inferiority, drooling into my own inadequate cleavage, thinking of her, her, her, her, her.

I’ve long since lost track of how many hours I’ve wasted like that.

Maybe that’s what Ivy wants to take. Maybe that’s what everything means. My time. My days. Certainly, thanks to her, my work days have grown even longer. Overtime at every opportunity. I need to fund Ivy’s expensive habits, and obscure how much I’m spending from Luna, my girlfriend. Meanwhile, all the hours I have are worth less. The ones at home, I’m too exhausted to enjoy. The ones at work pass in a kind of delirious haze, equal measures ashamed, drugged, and too horny to think.

I waste a lot of that time masturbating, too. Ivy likes me that way. I think she just enjoys how embarrassing it is. She likes the idea that I simply can’t resist.

And now I can’t.

Ivy eats up my time in another way too, a way far more abstract but no less poisonous: she has changed the way I think about my own timeline. Life, I once thought, is a process of steady growth and maturation. My years under Ivy’s thumb in college were easy to dismiss as an embarrassment of youth. Something to be left behind. My recent relapse has obliterated that self-understanding. It has exposed the fact that I have not grown. I have not changed. I have not matured. I am now as I was then: weak, submissive, inferior. However many years older I am, I’m still the same girl, helpless and fawning. The interval between is recast as nothing more than a dream-like interstice; the years BI. Between Ivy.

When I think about it like that, it seems almost certain that nothing will ever change.

I’m not sure that Ivy thinks about it the same way. If I had to guess—if I dared to guess at the mind of someone so infinitely greater than myself—I would imagine that the objectives of her conquest are far more direct. When she says that she wants to take everything from me, she means my pride. My dignity. My self-respect. My autonomy, even. Every last shred. Every last speck, until I forget to even hope for their recovery. She wants to take everything; she wants me to be nothing.

I want to resist, of course. But even more than that, I want to surrender. She made me want it, but that doesn’t mean the desire is not mine. It lives in me. It animates me. It makes me pathetically, shamefully grateful for each moment that Ivy Robinson turns her cruel attention to me and blesses me with the gift of her attention.

It’s more than I deserve.

It happens regularly, although not so often that I could be permitted to think that I am an important part of Ivy’s life. Without warning, she’ll waltz into my office. My space—although it becomes hers, of course, as soon as she occupies it. She’ll flash me a look that lets me know we’re dropping the thin pretense of employer and subordinate that the workplace requires of us. Then she’ll make me kneel, or beg, or massage her, or pay her, or simply thank her for the words of abuse she heaps on me.

Ivy drugs me sometimes too, although just as often her mere presence is plenty intoxicating. Shamefully, I wish it wasn’t. I wish she would drug me more often. I’ve long since given up denying or disavowing the way my heart leaps when Ivy sets down that telltale coffee cup on my desk before me, a knowing smirk on her wonderful face, or when I pour it down my throat as she watches, savoring the first hit of that unpleasant, chemical taste and the stupid, gullible, helpless trance it plunges me into.

When I am drugged, I am free—free of even the pretense of resistance. There’s no chance I can fight her, not like that, so instead I can slump down into the submissive abyss Ivy offers me. I can be my worst self. I need not fear what she’ll take next. I’ll deserve to lose it. I’ll long to lose it. When I’m drugged, I shrink and Ivy grows, and it just feels so right.

Everything? Isn’t that everything? Perhaps the real question is: what’s left?

But then, I already know the answer to that. Ivy’s already indicated it to me.

It’s Luna.

My girlfriend. My love. We’ve been together for a couple of years now. We suit each other perfectly—I’ve always believed that. Two quiet little things against the world, sharing our quiet little comforts. Of all that I have, losing her would be the most unforgivable. Admittedly, though, I’m not sure what giving her to Ivy would mean, exactly. It’s not like I can send her with the touch of a button the way I can all my hard-earned salary.

Maybe it’s just losing her, though, and I sense that I’m already well on my way to that. Even before Ivy re-entered my life, Luna had been asking me to spend less time at work and more with her. Now the balance has tipped far in the other direction, and all my broken promises weigh down us like lead. My home life has become as tense and heavy as my work life.

I wish that I could just tell Luna. In my head, it’s so straightforward: I simply cannot say ‘no’ to Ivy. But Luna wouldn’t get it. She still sees the world the way normal people do. Not the way I do, with everything cast in shades of black and white; Ivy and I, the starkest shades of all.

Superior. Inferior.

Instead, I just have to keep Luna fobbed off with weak, non-committal apologies and with whatever feeble gestures of romance and affection my drug-addled exhaustion will allow. She’s patient, of course. So, so patient. She loves me, after all. But she deserves better, and we both know it.

After a time, it hits me: I really am about to lose her.

That spurs me into… not resistance, exactly. But into action, at least, or the pathetic facsimile of it. One day, when Ivy is in my office—when I am in her presence—and as I am on my knees before her, I find what little grit is left within me. I look up at her as evenly as I can.

“This week,” I begin, and already my voice trembles, betraying me, “I need to go home early. I mean… at the normal time.”

Above me—so, so far above me—Ivy raises an eyebrow. She looks impressed, a little, that I’ve found this in me. She’s perched on the edge of my desk, reading a few reports, enjoying my quiet subservience. And my tongue on her expensive shoes. The ones I paid for.

Just thinking about that makes me light-headed and horny. I have to fight to remain true to my purpose.

“Are you asking?” Ivy challenges. “Or telling?”

I could answer ‘telling’. That’s the way it should be, after all. I’m her boss. Her employer. But that role, and the status it implies, feels so distant now. And I already know what would happen. The slightest show of backbone, and it becomes a battle. A battle becomes a loss in no time at all.

And I can’t lose. I need this. Luna needs this.

I bow my head, just slightly. Just enough for Ivy to see that she’s beaten me again.

“Asking,” I say meekly. And then, because I know it’s expected: “Please.”

I’m hoping for an ounce of mercy. A boon granted without question. It’s too much to hope for.

“Interesting.” I should have known Ivy wouldn’t let anything slip by her notice. She’s too smart for me. Always was. “And why now, Olive?”

I shrink. I regret having said anything at all. The only thing I can do is hope to please her with my baseness. I kiss her foot again before I answer her.

“B-because,” I whisper, “I need to spend some time with my girlfriend. If I don’t, I… I think she’s going to break up with me soon.”

Ivy laughs. Her laugh reminds me of how small my concerns are.

“Oh, well, we can’t have that, can we?” Ivy says mockingly. “As much as being single suits a little loser like you. Fine, fine. I’ll let you go home early for a date night.”

My face lights up. I can’t believe her benevolence. Ivy laughs again.

“Thank you!” I bleat.

I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Ivy quickly shows me that.

“If.” She raises a taunting finger. “You ask properly first.”

My cheeks burn. I should have known. Now I have no choice but to do whatever’s expected of me.

“Yes, Ivy.” I hang my head. “H-how should I ask?”

Ivy tilts her head to one side for a moment. Contemplating. Then her smile widens. She’s in a mood, I can tell.

“I think,” she says slowly, “ that since you’ve been such a well-behaved little girl, you can ask me this way. A favor for a favor, right?”

She makes it sound as though anything could ever be fair between us. But that small, petulant complaint is wiped away at once when Ivy reaches down, unzips her pants, and fishes out her cock.

My eyes widen. Pupils dilate. I hate that they do—but they do. Her cock has become a symbol of so many things. Her superior womanhood, even though she wasn’t born to it. Her power; the brute, simple, biological capacity to penetrate, to invade. I tried, at first, not to think about it in such terms; it’s not kind, not progressive, but I gave up when it become obvious that Ivy was entirely comfortable lauding that particular faculty over me. And most hatefully of all, Ivy’s cock has become a symbol of aspiration.

I don’t deserve to touch it. To so much as gaze upon it. Ivy’s made that more than clear. That’s why I spend so much time with my face pressed to the floor instead; kissing her feet, shining her shoes with my tongue—and eagerly finger-fucking myself to it the moment I’m given permission. The whole time, if she deigns to disrobe, her magnificent shaft, half-hard from the pleasure of dominance, hangs in the air above my head. In those moments, she reminds me, in a perverse way, of those Greek marble statues of naked goddesses. Superior. Powerful. Alluring—but forbidden.

But Ivy’s made it just as clear that, perhaps, one day, once she’s whipped and trained me to her pleasure, I will be blessed with her taste. My stomach should churn at the very thought. Instead, I’ve long known that the moment will feel like a baptism. I will be grateful for it. That’s just the natural order of things.

Superior. Inferior.

And now she’s given me all the more reason to crave it.

“M-may I?” I venture hesitantly, as I raise myself up onto my knees. Already, I reach for her—but I need to be sure I won’t be struck down for it.

“You may,” Ivy replies languidly. “But impress me. Assuming you really do want to see your girlfriend, anyway.”

Her permission makes me salivate. I pause again, though, as it strikes me that I have absolutely no idea how to suck cock. I’ve only ever been with cis girls—and even then, not many of them. I don’t have experience, and I’m not used to dealing with unmarked territory. But asking would make me sound even more pathetic than I already do, wouldn’t I?

I can’t keep Ivy waiting any longer. With rarefied caution, I lower my lips to her and press them upon the tip of her cock in a reverent kiss.

Pleasure shudders through me. My cunt drips against my pants. I was right. It really does feel like a baptism.

She isn’t really that hard. That’s normal, isn’t it? It makes sense. We’re only just getting started, and I’m sure she doesn’t find my pathetic groveling very attractive. Appealing, yes—but not attractive. I decide to take it slow. To warm Ivy up the way I do Luna when I’m going down on her. I kiss Ivy’s cock again, then again, then again, moving my lips just a little each time so that not an inch of her skin is without my fawning, worthless attention.

As I worship, I have time to contemplate what I feel for Ivy—for Ivy’s cock—in this moment. Above all: gratitude. Why is that? I shouldn’t feel grateful for this. What Ivy is doing to me is monstrous. Drugging me, degrading me, forcing me to suck her cock for petty privileges… and yet, I should feel grateful, shouldn’t I? After all, Ivy is just that far out of my league. I should feel grateful just to touch her. To suck her cock? That’s nothing short of a miracle. A girl like me, and a woman like her? More of a freak of nature than a miracle.

Her cock twitches against my lips. She’s getting hard—for me. Suddenly, the gratitude floods through me. Drowns any scruples. I let out an awed little gasp of dumb, childish delight. Maybe, just maybe, I can be good enough for this, even if I’m worthless.

Spurred on by my success, I try harder. I extend my tongue, lapping and licking at Ivy’s shaft. I part my lips and begin to suckle gently on her tip, feeling her swell to full hardness for me. I grow bolder. I begin to take more and more of her into my mouth, minding my teeth as best I can, starting to bob up and down on her.

In my head, it’s already becoming a twisted point of pride. I want to give Ivy a fantastic blowjob. I know I can. I can bring her pleasure. I can make her feel good for me. A good cocksucker? Maybe that’s not much to aspire to, but it’s something. Better than nothing. I know Luna enjoys it when I go down on her, even if it’s been a while. This isn’t so different. Nice and slow. Get her hot for it. Let her sensitivity build. Fast, then slow.

I can do this. I can be Ivy’s good little cocksucker.

“Christ.” The boredom in Ivy’s contemptuous drawl cuts through me like a knife. “You really are terrible at this, Olive.”

I freeze. I’m tearing up. How can she make me feel so worthless with just that?

There’s no time for me to dwell on it. No time before Ivy plants a hand on the back of my head and forces her cock all the way to the back of my throat.

Immediately, I choke. It’s the closest I’ve come to actually fighting Ivy in weeks—not out of my own volition, but simply because my own body rebels at the force of her intrusion. My gag reflex is fierce and my arms spasm along with my throat; without thinking, I try to push myself away from Ivy.

She doesn’t like that. Her other hand joins the first, fingers knotting themselves into my hair. And for all my violent reflexes, Ivy is so, so much stronger than me. She masters me like a tamer breaking a wild horse, backing off just enough that I don’t throw up, then holding me there until my throat tires and my thrashing relents. It takes several minutes, but eventually, my body simply gives in. It accepts her.

And as she starts to move, I become something infinitely lower than a cocksucker.

A hole.

“So much for impressing me,” Ivy laughs cruelly. “Guess you’ll have to get used to this, until you learn.”

I cannot imagine how anyone could get used to this—to having my head jack-hammered up and down by Ivy’s powerful arms as she face-fucks me without mercy. Without a thought spared for my need to draw breath. With each stroke, my lips kiss the base of her shaft as she bottoms out inside my throat, and my gag reflex rises again only to be pounded freshly into submission by Ivy’s girth and force.

The sensation is monstrous. My throat aches from being forced open. My jaw screams from being held wide. The lower part of my face is drenched with my own drool, and my vision is hazy from lack of oxygen. I must look even worse than I feel—but most insidious of all is the sense of my own personhood falling away.

Ivy won’t even permit me to suck her cock. I’m just a hole.

Cock goes in. Money comes out.

Then she moans—actually moans—and I forget it all. I glow in the warmth of her approval. Despite it all, the urges Ivy has conditioned into me scream that I’m lucky. That I am blessed.

Ivy notices, of course. “Hey, Olive,” she sings out. “Do you want to rub yourself stupid again?”

My eyes water. I choke on her cock. And through it all—I moan my eagerness.

“Go ahead.” Ivy waves a hand. Her every word to me is fresh poison, but I don’t care. Her face is flushed now, from the pleasure, from the rush, and I’m feeling it all too. Vicariously, of course. Only a spectator. “Enjoy yourself.”

Despite my delirium, I’m still able to be ashamed of just how quickly my hand snaps down and snakes its way into my panties. Yet another urge Ivy has ingrained into me. Yet another thing she’s made me perilously weak to. I just can’t resist. Not with her. Not with her cock in my throat. I’m too cock-drunk to be in any way artful with my own masturbation. I just rub my fingers against my cunt, desperate, overeager.

As the pleasure hits, my gratitude is overwhelming. My light-headedness is too. I’m in heaven.

“Hey,” Ivy snaps. She reaches down with one hand and idly slaps my cheek. “Stay with me, Olive. Wasn’t there something you wanted?”

She’s right, inevitably. The magnificence of Ivy’s cock had almost made me forget. But I can’t lose sight of Luna. I can’t lose her. Simply for the sake of answering Ivy’s question, I start to pull away from her.

“No, no,” Ivy chides, as the hand on the back of my head clamps down again. “You can ask me just like this.”

“C-caaa…” I choke out. The idea of talking while being face-fucked like this is a joke, but I must try. “Caa ah… go… hom… earrii… liss… heek?”

Ivy laughs breathlessly at my plight. “What’s that?” she demands. “Can’t understand you, Olive. Are you too brainless to talk?”

I whine breathlessly, then try again. I have to. And more importantly, Ivy wants me to.

“Caaan… I… go… hoo… ealy… hiss… week… an… see… my… giafren?” I beg, around her cock.

Another gentle, chiding slap. Then one more.

“Of course you can, Olive,” Ivy says sweetly. “You just had to ask nicely.”

What can I feel toward her except overwhelming thankfulness for her benevolence?

Ivy keeps fucking my face for a little while longer. I just kneel there, limp except for the hand working over my own cunt, until finally, she has her release. I cum too, at the very first moment I feel her cum pouring down my throat.

Not a good cocksucker. Not yet. But at least I can be a good hole for her.

“You can go home early tomorrow,” Ivy offers kindly as she recovers from her orgasm and wipes away my drool and her semen onto the sleeve of my blouse. “And get changed. Do try to look nice, for once. Make sure your girlfriend does too. I’ll pick out a bar—I’m sure you have no taste.”

I just blink, confused. “U-um…”

“I said you could spend time with your girlfriend.” Ivy’s face is utterly malicious. I wish I could hate her the way she seems to loathe me—but it wouldn’t be right. She’s my superior. “And so will I.”

She licks her lips at me, as I quiver with horror.

“Your treat, of course.”

***

Luna was so surprised when I told her we were taking my subordinate out for a drink. For two reasons, I think. Firstly, crushingly, she was surprised that I had actually followed through on my promise for once. Secondly, she was surprised that we would have a third, but once she got over her surprise she seemed to relish the idea. The next day, after I got home from work—pleasantly on-time, just as Ivy had promised—I found Luna eagerly getting herself ready. I suppose that to her, it’s precisely what she wanted and better than she had hoped. A fun couples’ night out, with another pair of eyes to make it feel all the more real and to suggest that I am, at long last, taking a big step toward having a real social life.

My own feelings are far more turbulent. I’m happy that Luna’s happy, of course. But I can’t stop thinking about Ivy’s promise. About what designs she might have on my girlfriend. That makes my stomach churn appallingly—but there’s something else, too.

I want to see Ivy.

I just can’t help it. The idea of going to the bar with her is, despite it all, exciting. It happened in college, sometimes, and those nights always left me as giddy and happy as they did my wallet empty. I relished being in Ivy’s company. In being worthy of her company. Not that I am or that I ever was—but maybe, just maybe, some other people, some strangers, will look at me and think that I’m like her. That idea itches at me. So in the end, taking Luna to the bar to meet Ivy feels as good as I bet relapses always do, before the inevitable crash.

The bar Ivy picked out is so desperately classy and cool, I feel woefully out of place. It’s the kind of joint that’s on the bleeding edge of trendy: self-evidently the place to be, but not yet so popular that it’s packed to the gills on a weeknight. It’s expensive, too.

I’m sure Ivy won’t hesitate to enjoy that.

She’s already there when we arrive, sitting in a private booth. Ivy greets us with a friendly wave, all smiles, and beckons for us to take our seats, Luna next to her, and me sitting opposite. Unlike me, Ivy is a perfect match for our surroundings. Stylish. Handsome, even. Ivy wears sleek, black pants and a black shirt, nicely belted, underneath a striking, white blazer. Her shirt is open a few buttons at the top, exposing her full figure and rich, perfect skin, and the entire outfit is cut perfectly slim. She looks like a model.

And Luna notices. Oh yes.

Her eyes light up. She’s amazed, impressed; surprised too, probably, that this woman is my employee and not my boss.

That just proves it, doesn’t it? Ivy is superior to me. In every way.

Especially since Luna’s eyes also light up with attraction.

Not the lurid glow of unfaithfulness. No, Luna would never. I hope she would never. She’s not planning anything, or indulging in any inappropriate thoughts. But… Ivy is very, very beautiful. And she responds to it.

I whimper. The bar music smothers the sound.

Luna is, like me, a little out of her depth here. Like me, she’s a slim, slight thing, although I’ve always thought she wears it better. She’s got a little of that classic, nerdy girl charm—dyed blue hair, big, round glasses, and the simple, black dress she’s wearing suits her to a T. She’s always been the more social of the two of us, too; we’re both introverted, but she’s been blessed with a certain insensitivity to how people see her, and that makes it easier for her to talk.

“You must be Luna,” Ivy says, as we settle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Luna smiles back at her. “I suppose Olive’s told you all about me?”

“Not really.” Ivy grins. “But she should have. You look good.”

Luna blinks in surprise, then relaxes into a giggle. I wince. Does she really need to sound so giddy?

“Thank you,” Luna titters. “But you… I mean, wow.”

Ivy nods her head, taking it in stride. She turns her head to me. Her scorn doesn’t need to be put into words. “Olive, would you fetch us some drinks?”

She bosses me around so naturally, Luna doesn’t even notice how strange it is for Ivy to be asking the woman above her to fetch drinks. I, of course, receive an involuntary shudder of satisfaction from it—I know that I’m so, so much lower—but that’s not quite enough to offset the stab of fear I get from leaving Luna alone with Ivy.

“I’ll have a whiskey. Neat. The best they’ve got,” Ivy tells me. “Since you so kindly offered to pay.” Another shudder. “And you, Luna?”

“Guess all that overtime is being put to good use,” Luna giggles. She doesn’t know how right she is. “Um, I guess… a margarita?”

Ivy nods. “And you can have a lemonade, Olive.” Her smile twists. “After all, I presume you’re driving.”

Luna tilts her head a little at me, confused. Instinctively, I try to play it off. “S-sure, Ivy.”

I stand up, head over to the bar, and order the drinks. Dutifully, I pick the very most expensive whiskey from their menu for Ivy. I even order a lemonade for myself, despite the fact I would have preferred a soda. As I slot my credit card into the machine to pay, the total appears and I let out another little whimper. I’m affronted at being so nakedly exploited, but the humiliating pleasure I feel has become second-nature, as has the pleasant, affirming buzz I receive from seeing my inferiority take on a dollar price tag.

That dissonance has become the soundtrack of my daily life, these past weeks. Luna’s presence, though, is making it bite harder than ever.

Once the drinks are poured, I bring them back to our booth like a good little serving girl. As I get close, my heart starts throbbing. It’s only been a minute or two. Were they sitting quite so close together before? And they’re really getting along, by the looks of it. Luna is hanging on Ivy’s every word, a fawning, merry grin on her innocent face. Ivy is smiling too, exuding that rakish confidence that’s so hard not to respond to.

I’m imagining it. I must be. They aren’t that close, are they? Maybe that’s normal. But then as Ivy notices me approach, she stretches out one arm across the back of the seat—like she’s putting it around Luna’s shoulders. Like Luna is hers.

She’s not, I tell myself. She’s mine. I can trust Luna. She would never.

“Thank you, Olive,” Ivy replies, dismissively rather than gratefully, although Luna doesn’t pick up on her tone. I set the drinks down on the end of the table; as I move to sit down, Ivy reaches across to take her drink, and to place mine in front of my seat. I’m surprised at the thoughtful gesture.

Until I see a little pill fall out of her palm, and begin to fizz as it rapidly dissolves into my lemonade.

I stare aghast at Ivy. My wide eyes make the plea: not here. Please, not here.

Not that I expect her to listen.

Ivy raises her expensive liquor to her lips to take a sip, as Luna drinks from her glass and purrs her enjoyment. “Drink up, Olive.”

I shake my head slightly. That’s it. That’s as much defiance as I can muster. I can’t disobey Ivy.

Superior. Inferior.

Gingerly, I drink. There it is. That chemical taste I’ve come to know well. My body responds to it like an old friend. In just seconds, the room is spinning.

Ivy leans over and whispers something to Luna, too quiet for me to hear. Luna, riding high on the atmosphere and the first few sips of her cocktail, giggles happily. The whole time, Ivy’s eyes are on me.

I’m underwater. Under the influence of her drug, everything is magnified—the agony of seeing the two of them so close, and the ecstasy of Ivy’s torment. And most of all, the incessant drumbeat of our respective positions.

Superior. Inferior.

Player. Spectator.

Magnificent woman. Stupid little girl.

Perhaps that’s why something in the back of my head—a little voice Ivy has been growing from the seeds for weeks—whispers to me that all of this is absolutely right. All that’s mine is Ivy’s. Luna might be no exception. Who am I to quibble if Ivy reaches out and takes her?

And, after all, wouldn’t that be better for Luna too?

I can feel the smile on my face. It’s big and broad and utterly, utterly stupid, but just a little lopsided. Everything feels so, so right. Everything except for the deep heartache pang exploding through my chest, dragging half of my smile into a look of unspoken wretchedness.

I reach down. I start to smother the pain. That’s what Ivy would want, isn’t it? Better that way. I can’t fight her, so I should just enjoy this. And at the mere thought of enjoying it, another reaction stirs within my body, infinitely more treacherous than anything else.

Fuck. I wish I could touch myself right here at the bar so, so bad. I’m so horny. Being around Ivy always makes me feel this way.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

A few minutes pass; Ivy and Luna chatting, me in a drugged stupor. Then, Luna sidles out of the booth.

“Excuse me,” my girlfriend says. “Sorry, I need to go to the restroom.”

“Sure,” Ivy tells her easily. “Take your time. We have all evening.”

Luna heads off. Ivy turns her full attention to me. There’s that shark’s grin.

“Well, well,” she says softly. “Isn’t she pretty? I’m surprised you got her to sink to your level, Olive.”

To my… level? I frown. I sway.

What’s my level? Oh, I know the answer to that!

The floor. I belong on the floor. On my knees.

I’m the lowest of the low.

But Luna isn’t! She would never…

Shame floods me. I join the dots. Ivy’s so right. Luna deserves so much better than me.

“I… I’m… s-sorry,” I mumble.

Ivy laughs. “Poor thing,” she mocks. “Luna, that is. I can see why she’s getting frustrated. Bet you never show her a good time.”

Never? Never.

But… but she’s having a good time now, isn’t she?

With Ivy.

Oh.

I shake my head.

“Of course not,” Ivy sneers. “A girl like you doesn’t know how to treat a woman.”

I blush with shame as her words hit me.

I don’t know.

Of course I don’t.

I’m a stupid, fumbling little girl.

That’s all I’ve ever been.

Not like Ivy. Superior.

Inferior.

“But I do,” Ivy adds. “Don’t I, Olive?”

I nod, and for the briefest of moments I’m just happy to have the answer to her question.

It’s an easy one. Ivy knows.

Ivy always knows.

But she definitely knows women. I remember that from our college days.

She never failed to show anyone a good time.

“And you want Luna to have a good time, don’t you?”

Another easy one. I nod happily.

The drug has me blissfully ignorant of what she’s setting me up for.

“Good. Good girl.”

Ivy’s praise is such a rare thing. I glow with it. I throb with it. I’m wet between my legs, and squirming, and blushing.

“T-thank you,” I bleat, like a stupid child.

“You want Luna to have a good time,” Ivy explains to me. She’s joining the dots for me. Ivy’s so smart. So helpful. “And I can give her one.”

The penny drops. My eyes widen again. Out of their corner, I can see Luna returning to us. Not quickly enough to save me.

The worst part is, I can already feel myself bending to Ivy’s cruel logic.

She’s superior to me. I cannot fight her.

“That’s why,” Ivy concludes, with merciless firmness, her words etching themselves permanently onto my weak, stupid, malleable mind, “I’m going to fuck her. And you’re going to make it happen.”