It’s six forty-six PM. It’s been another long day. Everybody else has long since gone home, but as usual I offered to stay late and work overtime. Another exhausting, boring week of corporate drudgery for Olive Barnes.

And Ivy Robinson is at my apartment, fucking my girlfriend.

I’m reading a quarterly fiscal report and typing up a summary and Ivy is fucking my girlfriend. It’s completely dark here at work, the light from my desk lamp casting a long glow out the door of my office, and Ivy is fucking my girlfriend. I keep reaching for my coffee cup even though it was emptied a long time ago, even though caffeine would do nothing but further heighten my anxiety, and Ivy is fucking my girlfriend. The numbers and tables, profits and losses on the screen before me turn into a jumble of meaningless symbols as I scroll, my mind at a rolling boil, and Ivy is fucking my girlfriend. I keep trying to type, my fingers twitching over-eagerly at the keyboard, pantomiming the behavior of a good little office drone,  and Ivy is fucking my girlfriend.

I pause. I stare at the screen. In my delirium, I actually typed out those words. Ivy is fucking my girlfriend. I peck at the backspace key, carefully erasing the letters one by one, but they remain fixed in my mind’s eye, as bright as burning coals.

Ivy is fucking my girlfriend.

And it’s so fucking hot.

That’s not all it is, obviously. It’s awful. It’s a betrayal—in both directions. I drugged Luna into it, after all, and the guilt from that remains unbearable. In exchange, she is cheating on me. She is giving herself into the arms of another woman. Jealousy rises inside me at the very thought, green and monstrous, matched only by my acute, overbearing sense of insecurity and inadequacy. Anger is there too, pale but certainly present; a distinct flavor of the unpleasant emotions that flash hot and cold by turns in my chest. Being cheated on like this is awful. It’s unbearable. Of all the violations and humiliations I’ve suffered at Ivy’s hands so far, this is easily the worst.

And yet—it’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

The result of that seething mass of contradictions is a never-ending barrage of intrusive thoughts. I cannot stop picturing Ivy and Luna together. I imagine their hands intertwining. I imagine their lips, pressing together. I imagine their fingertips, caressing. I imagine it all, from the first, tender seductions to the final, obscene acts. It won’t stop. My mind’s eye is my worst enemy. Every fantasy brings me to tears even as it makes me roll my hips beneath my desk with uncontainable need. I am useless. A beaten dog, scratching at its own wounds. I am beyond pathetic.

It’s been like this all day, ever since Luna and Ivy calmly informed me of their plans together; Ivy, with an air of supreme, entitled malice and Luna with the eagerness of someone who’s more excited to give a gift than they are for the recipient. As far as she’s concerned, she's doing this for me—but in the single day since I brainwashed her, it’s already become more than that. I went far beyond making her do it. I made her want it. I made her into an adulterer and now when she talks about what she’ll do with Ivy, she glows with the thrill of self-discovery.

It’s all my fault.

Or is it Ivy’s fault? I’ve tried telling myself that. After all, she’s drugged me dozens of times now. My mind is little more than her soft clay. I can sense her fingerprints all over my thoughts. I should find it easy to blame her.

I don’t.

She was too clever for that. When Ivy remade me, she plucked strings that have been buried in me for years, whether I like them or not. When I think back over my experiences with her, there is no sharp change or discontinuity that I can make the fulcrum of my resentment. No before to cling to, no after to reject. In college, I was her plaything. Today, I am her plaything. Ivy has done little more than strip away the pretense that things could ever be otherwise. She has laid bare the simple paradigm that defines our relationship.

Superior. Inferior.

I am inferior, and I’ve always known it. Today is the latest and finest proof. Today is the day Luna will see that for herself. Feel it for herself. Taste it for herself. Since Ivy left work early a couple of hours ago, I’ve been consumed by thoughts. What are they doing right now? Have they started? Have they finished? A fresh cycle of images and fantasies washes over me. I begin drooling on myself. It feels so right, in a poisonous way, but it’s more than I can handle.

Abruptly, something gives way.

What am I doing? Why am I going along with this? I love Luna. I need Luna. She’s my girlfriend, and while we’ve had problems, she’s always been so patient with me. And I’m about to just let somebody else take her? I’m about to just let Ivy Robinson sink her teeth into her?

I’m about to just sit here at my office desk in a horny fugue and sleepwalk my way into losing everything that truly matters to me?

It’s six forty-seven PM and Ivy is fucking my girlfriend.

I have to stop this.

I can’t tell if that thought is hubris or lucidity. All I know is that I can’t go through with this. In a fever, I leap out of my chair and race out of my workplace. I throw myself into my car and drive home with such reckless abandon it’s a miracle I don’t cause a crash. I’m not thinking about the road or the speed limit. Only about Luna. I’m trying to convince myself that I can still salvage something of my life.

I’m not too late. I’m not.

Luna won’t have gone through with this. She’s always valued being faithful and true so highly. She’s strong. She’s not like me. She doesn’t want to fuck Ivy. One little pill can’t change all that.

She’s come to her senses. I’m sure of it.

I have to be sure of it.

I park the car. I hammer the elevator call button until it comes. I race through the hallways of my apartment building, frantic to save Luna from my sins—even though picturing what I might be about to walk in on makes me so wet I can feel it dripping down my thighs as I walk. Once I reach our door I spend a long moment fumbling with the key before I manage to slide it into the lock. As I  push my way across the threshold, I’m ready to call something out—although whether it’s a profession of love for Luna or a challenge to Ivy, I’m not quite sure.

What I see when I step inside steals the breath from my lungs and the wind from my sails.

I was hoping for normality. I was braced for debauchery. Somehow, the scene that greets me is even more nauseating—in part because of how normal it might seem to anybody but me.

They’re sitting on the couch together, Ivy and Luna. Both clothed, thank god—Luna in one of her shorter dresses, Ivy in a robe. The robe makes me twitch, but at least it’s closed. Perhaps there’s an innocent explanation. The two of them are pressed close together, Luna leaning into Ivy, Ivy’s arm stretched languidly across her shoulder. Perhaps there’s an innocent explanation. The two of them are in the midst of happy conversation; Luna laughs at some offhand remark, her fingertips brushing fondly and tenderly against Ivy’s rich skin as she does. Perhaps there’s an innocent explanation.

My heart is a jackhammer; to calm it, I try to muster that explanation. I tell myself; nothing has happened. They’re just talking. That’s all. Ivy came here, as planned, but Luna decided not to go through with it. Now they’re simply chatting as they wait for me to come home. And why not? They seem to get along well. Luna doesn’t know what Ivy is. It’s normal enough for friends to get a little affectionate when they’re sitting and talking. Luna probably made them tea, and I bet Ivy spilled some on herself. She changed into a robe. Her clothes are just drying in the other room. That’s all.

That’s all.

Please, let that be all.

I wish my cunt was saying the same thing.

I stand there in the entranceway, silently praying, until Ivy and Luna turn their heads to me.

“Oh hi, babe,” Luna says, smiling. Her voice isn’t breathy, is it? “We weren’t expecting you for a little longer.”

Does she have to put it like that? ‘We’?

“We did indeed,” Ivy purrs. She seems surprised by my early arrival, but only faintly. It’s perfectly clear that she doesn’t view my presence as a challenge. Merely as entertainment. “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself just as much at work as we have here.”

As one, the two of them giggle. Their peals of laughter curdle into mockery in my ears. Ivy’s words threaten to pierce my desperately fragile hope that all will be well. What am I doing here? I’m just standing in the door to my own living room. I should say something. Do something. Assert myself.

I can’t. It’s already going wrong. As ever, I am my own worst enemy.

Simply looking at Ivy threatens to unmake me. Her superiority is undeniable. She’s tall, strong, radiant. She’s everything I am not. Now that I’m in her presence once more, all the little worms she planted in my brain start to burrow deeper, threatening to overturn the brief resurgence of my social survival instinct.

Doesn’t she deserve everything from me? Doesn’t she have the right to take whatever she wants? And don’t I want to give it to her? My world has become a thing of sharp paradigms: superior/inferior, player/spectator, woman/girl. They begin to reassert themselves upon my thinking, and I wonder what right I have to be here at all. Shouldn’t I still be at work, busily lining Ivy’s bank account?

Shouldn’t I be disappointed Ivy isn’t currently marking Luna’s womb with her cock?

They look so good together, too. I know that thought is being whispered to me from the most ruined, poisoned depths of my drug-broken brain—but I’m still listening. I can’t help it. They really do look good together. Ivy is tall, handsome, stylish; Luna, small, cute, mousy. They bring out each other’s charms. It’s like Luna belongs at Ivy’s side, clinging to her arm, doting on her every word. It’s like she belongs in Ivy’s lap, arms wrapped around her neck, lips presented upward, yearning for her kiss. It’s like she belongs beneath her as Ivy mounts her on my bed, her legs-

I twitch. I whimper. Was I going to say something? Was I supposed to protest?

No. Of course not.

All is right with the world.

“Come on in, Olive,” Ivy invites, kindly beckoning me into my own apartment. “Don’t just stand there. I’ve certainly been making myself at home.”

Once, Luna would have been the first to leap to my defense against a boss overstepping the proper boundaries. Now, she simply giggles along. I stumble a few paces inside.

“How was work, babe?” Luna asks me, smiling. A normal question. Normal is good. Normal is the only thing keeping me going.

“I… uh…” I stammer stupidly. “It… g-good, I… you know… u-uh…”

“You weren’t too distracted?” Ivy puts in.

Both of them laugh. The rush of heat I feel is blinding.

“D-d-distracted?” I bleat. It’s like she knows. Of course she knows. She knows everything about me. That’s just how she is. “No, I-… well, um, a l-little, but-“

“Good,” Ivy interrupts. “Really, it’s a shame you couldn’t be here.”

Another twitch. And I notice that Luna is beginning to turn a deep shade of red.

“B-be here f-for what?” My voice sputters out of me like a boiling, overflowing pot.

“For the two of us getting to know each other, of course.”

This time I’m not the only one to twitch. Luna does too. I can’t tell if the look on her face is shame, or excitement. I have to hope for excitement, as awful as that is. If it’s shame, then I’m already too late.

“H-h-h-hhhhow did it g-go?” The way my voice breaks betrays the deep voyeurism underpinning my question. My head is still swimming with fantasies, and I keep losing track of what kind of answer I’m hoping for.

“Very well,” Ivy assures me smoothly. “I think Luna here is feeling entirely satisfied.”

That look on her face—pink, flushed, delicate—is only growing. Whether it’s shame or excitement, I know its true meaning: succumbing.

I have to stop this.

But I can’t. In Ivy’s presence I am a stammering child. Raising my voice to her, let alone my fists, would be an inconceivable act of hubris—not to mention useless. She’s better than me. She’ll always win. I could try to convince myself otherwise, but any spare willpower I might muster for the task is being drained away by a constant sequence of lurid fantasies, each more explicit and obscene than the last.

“W-what… what… h-happened?” I finally ask. I’m beyond hoping. I need to know.

Or maybe it’s just my cuckold’s voyeurism getting the better of me.

Ivy looks at me keenly. She’s enjoying, I can tell, drawing this process out. “Why don’t you sit down, Olive?” she suggests. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

I nod awkwardly, immediately bending to her wish. But how? Ivy has taken my place on the little couch Luna and I usually cuddle up on. We’re not used to guests. I’ll have to pull up a chair. But when I had off toward the dining table, Ivy swiftly halts me.

“No, no,” she says dismissively. “No need. You can sit right here.”

She points down at the floor directly in front of her.

My heart skips a beat. She can’t be serious—but she is, and the worst part is that I am too. I know at once that I don’t have the strength to fight her on this. My every instinct guides me towards obedience. Ivy is a superior woman. I have no right to disobey.

I approach her. I sink to my knees.

I glance, of course, at Luna. It’s the first time she’s seen any real hint of the sick little submissive dynamic I’ve sunken into for Ivy. Shock, disgust, betrayal—all these, I expect to see on her face. They’d all hurt, but not quite as much as the overawed, adoring look in Luna’s cheeks and parted lips.

She’s not even looking at me. She has eyes only for Ivy.

From my knees, it’s even harder to imagine disobeying Ivy. It’s even harder not to want her to have her way with Luna—if it hasn’t already happened. I’m closer to them now, and I can taste a certain scent in the air. Sweat, tinged by something else, warm and passionate and intimate. My eyes bulge. My arousal spikes. It doesn’t help that I’m used to servicing Ivy from this position. Beyond the drug, she has trained me as finely as Pavlov did his dogs. I am quite literally salivating—but all the same, it feels hallucinatory when Ivy reaches down and begins to unfold her robe.

“W-w-w-w-what… what a-are… you… p-please…” My voice breaks like I’m a pubescent teenager. I throw my eyes to Luna, begging for mercy.

I’m facing down the final collapse of fantasy and reality. My safe place, my sanctuary, my stable domestic life, is about to be speared through on the tip of Ivy’s cock. Mercy is a foregone conclusion. Ivy’s desire for discretion is the only thing I can hope to appeal to.

No use. She parts her robe. Her shaft, slick and hard, springs free. My vision telescopes. This is my world. She taught me that.

I can’t look at Luna. My eyes are fixed. I can’t see the look on her face. I don’t want her to see me like this—but I do, I want it so very much. There it is again, that poisonous sense of rightness. I crave Luna seeing me the way I see myself. I yearn for my every carefully curated insecurity and doubt to be carved into reality. I don’t deserve a sanctuary. I don’t deserve a stable domestic life. It was always just pretending. I know what I am.

Inferior. Inferior. Inferior.

“You know what to do,” Ivy tells me firmly.

I do. I bend forward, open my mouth, and wrap it adoringly around Ivy’s cock.

And I taste Luna.

Our sex life has never been particularly active, but all the same, I’d never mistake Luna’s taste. It’s all over Ivy’s cock, as I willingly take it into my throat. I can tell, at once, that Ivy planned this. That she wanted me to have this moment, wanted to see the awful recognition dawn in my eyes. All my hopes shatter, and as I wave goodbye to the quiet, sweet, innocent relationship Luna and I once had, I experience a single instant of perfect despair.

It breaks me.

There’s no way a fragile ego like mine could ever survive this—being forced to deep throat the woman who just fucked my girlfriend. Shrinking is my only survival strategy. My hope, my self-respect, my pride—whatever’s left of these things, I sacrifice. At once, as tears well up in my eyes, I become the smallest and worst version of myself, and sure enough, it’s precisely what Ivy has told me to be: an eager, inferior little pervert who gets off on being cheated on.

It’s the only way to cope. And, fuck, it feels so good.

I wanted this, didn’t I? That’s what I remind myself, as I lick and clean Ivy’s shaft with increasing eagerness. I begged Luna to do it. Hell, I drugged her into it. All to satisfy my disgusting little fetishes. What was I so worked up about? I should be grateful.

Thank you. Thank you, Ivy, for stealing my girlfriend.

I force my fetishistic euphoria to the top of my mind until it’s all I feel. I say it with my mouth, as I worship Ivy’s huge, hard cock. I say it with my eyes, wide with gratitude and awe as I blink back the senseless tears that keep falling onto my cheeks. I say it with my fingers and my cunt, reaching down to finger-fuck myself there on the ground. I can’t help it, and the pleasure makes not thinking all the easier. It’s so easy to become a willing participant in my own obliteration. That’s the lesson Ivy’s cock has for me today.

I can be happy here, like this. All I need to do is snuff myself out until I am nothing more than this.

But what does Luna think? My girlfriend, my beloved. I glance at her, hoping only for more disgust, more humiliation, more pleasure. The look on her face now is one of intense embarrassment. Like me, she’s always been a little prudish. It’s hard for her to just sit there while I noisily, messily suck her new lover’s cock. She blushes, she squirms, she clings even tighter to Ivy, sitting tall and confident. It’s like she doesn’t want to be here.

But there’s something else too, something that grows larger and darker in her face with each passing moment. A certain sinister fascination. She has, of course, cheated on me, but until now that has been a private, one-time affair. Easily intelligible, even if it’s new to her. But this? This is something else. This is something entirely foreign; a twisted, lopsided love triangle that her life now pivots around.

Once, it would have disgusted her. Not anymore. I have infected her with my sickness. She looks at me, and she sees an inferior little girl. She looks at Ivy and she sees a real, superior woman. She looks at what we are doing, and she sees something as simple and natural as a lioness tearing into a gazelle. The suggestions I drugged her with are slotting into place. This is, to her, a revelation. It feels as miraculous as revelation always does.

I know that feeling first-hand.

“Good,” Ivy coos eventually. “Now her.”

Without a second thought, I shift over to Luna. She looks briefly hesitant, but a look from Ivy quickly reassures her. Luna spreads her legs and hikes up her skirt. She’s wearing nothing underneath.

But something sticky and white drools from her well-used cunt.

I dive into my task with relish. I taste Luna—just like Ivy’s cock, only fresher—and I taste Ivy’s cum; that, too, now a familiar flavor. It’s good. It’s all so good. The worse, the better. The more humiliating it gets, the better I feel.

And what could be more humiliating than this?

Luna is feeling good too. That much is clear from the way she whimpers and twitches and folds her thighs around my head. That’s new. Normally, she’s as mousy and innocent in bed as she is outside it. But thanks to my words and Ivy’s drug, she is changing. Something sensual in her is coming free. Her moans are almost as greedy as my tongue as I eat her out; I keep pushing deeper, trying to lap up every last drop Ivy left inside her. Like I’m saving her from being soiled, somehow.

Too late for that. Much, much too late.

“Very good, Olive,” Ivy purrs, as I bring Luna to something approaching an orgasm. I can’t make her cum like Ivy can; I know that in my bones. But at least I can clean up after her. “Sloppy seconds suits you.”

I gasp. I throb. “T-thank you,” I bleat.

I mean it. I am grateful. Sloppy seconds—a fine reward, for a spectator like me.

“That was…” Luna says quietly. Her world is expanding. I’m shrinking to nothing in her eyes. But that’s OK. Ivy’s so much better than I ever was. “Wow.”

“Olive,” Ivy says. “Why don’t you go and make some coffee? For Luna and yourself. None for me.”

I take her meaning at once. Chills race down my spine. What can I do but obey? “Yes, Ivy.”

I’ve been her slave in the office for weeks. Now I’m her slave in my own home. With the meekness of a servant, I stand and shuffle off into the kitchen to prepare a pot of coffee.

When I return, Ivy and Luna are much as I first found them: Ivy, tall, resplendent, effortlessly dominant, Luna, intoxicated, doting, clinging. A few minutes in another room has done nothing to dispel my delirium. I set two cups of coffee down where Ivy indicates, and then focus on imprinting each and every moment of the two of them together into my memory.

For me to masturbate to later, naturally.

“Here.” Ivy passes one cup to Luna, and slides the other toward me. Luna doesn’t see her slip the pills into the coffee, but I do—and say nothing. “Drink up. In fact, why don’t you sit here, Olive?”

She stands, and allows me to sit beside Luna. The way Luna looks faintly disappointed by the exchange inflicts on me a new and rapturous feeling of abasement.

As we nurse our steaming cups, though, Luna does spare a moment to check in with me.

“So…” she ventures, a touch bashfully. “Was it as good as you wanted it to be?”

It was unbearable. I feel like my heart is breaking in two. “Yeah,” I pant, voice breathy and wet. “It was a-amazing. It felt so good.”

And that’s true too.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Luna looks relieved. My answer has unburdened her. Should I be grateful for that? Or simply afraid?”

“A-and… was it g-good for you?” I ask. The way my voice drools out in a needy whimper makes it entirely obvious what kind of answer I’m hoping for, even if a tiny part of my brain screams otherwise.

Luna’s face turns a deep shade of red. She can’t meet my eyes. Eventually, the truth comes from her lips in the faint, fond exhale of someone reliving a treasured memory. “Yeah. Yes. Ivy’s so… God, yes.”

It’s all I can do not to start touching myself all over again.

“But, um,” Luna adds, after a moment spent savoring the reminiscence, “are you sure you’re OK with this? I know you asked, but… I want to be sure. It’s a lot, and you look… well…”

Clearly she lacks the words for the precise kind of wrecked I look.

Nonetheless, Luna’s question is so stunningly benevolent it brings tears to my eyes. Even now, even after what has transpired, she offers me this chance to claw my way out of hell. All I need to do is tell her the truth. All I need to do is tell her that I can’t handle it. She’d understand, I’m sure. She’s not too far gone for that, even now. We could cuddle and cry and reaffirm our faith to one another. We could share our fears and pains, and enjoy a moment of comfort. Share in the joy of a connection rebuilt.

Except…

Except I can tell what kind of answer Luna is looking for. There is a hunger to her. It’s there in the slight wideness of her eyes, and the parted eagerness of her lips. She’s already looking forward to the next time.

And who am I to deny it to her?

“Of c-course I am,” I promise. In the end, it’s the arousal that makes the choice. I’m a stupid, lesser girl and a slave to whatever gets me off—which most certainly includes Luna’s newfound predilection for infidelity. A horny, utterly stupid smile comes to my face. “I asked, right?”

“Right.” Luna shares my smile. “’Course.”

There it is, then. All her doubts put to rest. Now she can go on cheating without hesitation.

Fuck.

If I were alone, I’d already be fucking myself stupid. But I am not alone. We are not alone.

“Drink up,” Ivy reminds us poisonously. “Your coffee is getting cold.”

I take a sip. Luna does too. As in all things, there’s no point fighting her over this.

Within moments, the drug takes that possibility away from Luna and me once and for all.

I see it dawn on her face before I feel it take hold on my mind: that strange high, the sense of utter, elated gullibility that leaves me hanging on Ivy Robinson’s every word. Our realities grow soft and malleable, ready to be deformed and reshaped beneath a sculptor’s firm fingers. I find an unnatural joy in the thought that even though Ivy has made plain her intention to come between Luna and I, in this moment we are closer than ever, our drunk, brainwashed expressions the perfect mirror of one another’s.

Once we have drifted deep enough into our stupors, Ivy begins.

“Olive,” she addresses me. Her voice is musical, and my name calls me instantly to attention. “What are you?”

A warm smile comes to my face. It’s a nice, simple question. Even I can get my head around it.

Better yet, I know the answer! I can please Ivy.

“I’m inferior,” I reply happily, dreamily.

The echo that comes from right beside me sends a chill racing down my spine.

“You’re… inferior,” Luna agrees.

She… why…

Oh. Right.

I’m inferior.

Yes. That’s right. I know that.

But… Luna…?

“I’m inferior,” I find myself echoing, even more distantly.

It’s then that I realize what’s happening, slow and stupid as I might be. Ivy’s drug leaves us open to suggestions. Any suggestions—even those coming from each other’s lips. In a moment of awe, I see Ivy’s design laid out before me. Luna and I will brainwash each other over and over again, each of us a diminishing echo of the other, each of us bringing the other lower every time we open our mouths.

And all Ivy needs to do is ask a few, simple questions.

“Good,” Ivy murmurs, grinning mercilessly. “And what else are you?”

What else am I?

I know the answer. I hear it in her voice, and it rises to my lips before I can stop it.

“I’m a s-spectator.”

It’s more true now than ever, isn’t it?

“You’re… a… spectator,” Luna echoes. I can sense her wrapping her head around the notion. Swallowing it.

And as I hear it in her voice, I do the same.

I’m a spectator.

I watch.

I don’t touch. I don’t play.

I watch. That’s what spectators do. Even I know that.

I’m not like Ivy.

“I’m a spectator,” I murmur.

It’s true.

“That’s right,” Ivy affirms. “And what else?”

We could be here for hours. There are so many truths Ivy has etched into my soul.

It’s just a question of which one floats to the surface first.

“I’m a p-pervert.” I certainly feel like one, after what I just did.

“You’re… a pervert,” Luna nods along. The words sink into her—and then into me.

“I’m a pervert,” I echo blankly.

I am.

I already knew it.

But all the same, I feel myself getting wetter.

“What else?” Ivy presses.

“I’m…” The answer comes slower now, “Your… own personal wallet.”

I echo what Ivy has told me. Luna echoes me. A chain of brainwashing.

“Y-you’re… her own… personal wallet?”

A hint of confusion in her voice. I suppose that makes sense. She hasn’t been introduced to this facet of my subjugation yet.

Maybe she’s angry.

Maybe she’s disgusted.

Either way, she will accept it.

“I’m her own personal wallet,” I repeat. Heat blossoms through my chest, and between my thighs.

“You’re her own personal wallet.”

Luna echoes me again, and in her quiet voice, barely a breath, I hear acceptance.

Just like that, it’s normal.

My financial domination at Ivy’s hands is woven into the tapestry of my life and my relationship, whether I want it to be or not. And there’s no going back.

The heat grows.

“Good,” Ivy purrs. “What else?”

“I… I…” Her insistent questioning forces me to pry deep into the churning mass of psychosexual insecurities Ivy has left me with. However deep I go, there’s no escaping her. “I-I’m just a little girl. N-not a real woman.”

The negative is a necessary qualifier. In my mind, it goes hand-in-hand with the first part.

Ivy is everything I am not. That is what matters.

“You’re… a little girl,” Luna echoes. “Not a… a real woman.”

The way she says it is devastating. Slowly, at first, her drugged mind straining to wrap itself around the enormity of the concept. But then, confidence comes. Agreement. Acceptance. And by the end, I hear the condescension seeping into Luna’s pretty, loving voice.

In her eyes, I am no longer a real woman.

Not that I am in mine, either.

“I’m a little girl,” I agree, signing my own ego’s death warrant. “Not a r-real woman.”

This is not the first time I’ve had that thought impressed on me, but it lands heavily all the same.

I shrink in my seat. I quiver.

I am a little girl in the presence of women.

Compared to Luna, let alone Ivy, I am hopelessly unworthy.

The best I can hope for is not to take up space, and to be of use to my betters.

It seems more right than ever that they get to fuck each other—and I don’t.

“Very good.” Ivy seems satisfied with my abject self-destruction. She turns her attention to Luna now—but I’m still the one she addresses. “And what is she?”

She?

Luna?

“She…” I’m on uncertain ground. My brain is sludge. “S-she’s my girlfriend.”

As Luna repeats the sentence, Ivy laughs at me in a cruel, condescending way that threatens to put tears in my eyes.

“That’s right, I suppose,” Ivy concedes. “But what does she think of me?”

That triggers the memory. I provide the answer excitedly, before its significance dawns on me.

“She thinks you’re the hottest woman in the world,” I supply. “She’d do anything for a chance with you.”

“I think she’s the hottest woman in the world.” Luna’s dreamy echo curdles my blood. “I’d do anything for a chance with her.”

“S-she thinks you’re the h… hottest woman in the world.” The drug compels me to affirm Luna’s new world-view. My feeble effort to fight it only brings a tremulous eagerness into my voice. “She’d d-do anything for a chance with you.”

“What does she think,” Ivy licks her lips, “about cheating on you with me?”

I know this answer too.

I wish I didn’t, but I just saw the proof with my very own eyes.

I can still taste it on my lips.

“S-she thinks,” I whine, “cheating on me with you is h-hot.”

“I think cheating on you with Ivy is… is hot,” Luna agrees.

So much less resistance than last time.

She sounds so eager.

Arousal churns within me.

“So,” Ivy continues with soft menace, after Luna and I finish echoing one another. “What is she?”

Oh. I know this.

The answer comes to me at once.

But…

I have to fight it.

This might be the last chance I ever get to save Luna.

If there was ever a time to fight Ivy, it’s now.

“She's,” I oblige, “an eager… c-cheating… bitch.”

As if.

“I’m an eager, cheating… b-bitch,” Luna repeats after me, with the slow reverence of someone quoting scripture.

I feel her shiver next to me.

I sense her mind’s openness.

I sense her internalize it. This new pillar of her being.

My heart breaks. My cunt drips.

“Cheating… bitch…” I echo dreamily, knowing that I sound equally reverent.

“Perfect,” Ivy mocks. She turns to Luna. “You love Olive. But you love cheating more.”

“I love Olive,” Luna agrees readily. “But I love cheating more.”

An eager, cheating bitch. That’s who my girlfriend is now.

“And you, Olive,” Ivy goes on. “You love it too.”

One last nail in my coffin.

One last seal upon my fate.

“I… love it too,” I repeat.

And I do. I really do.

The real me, the old me, is like a porcelain doll that’s been dropped on the ground. I shattered into pieces. Parts of me have been ground to dust. Parts of me are gone forever. But what remains, however pitiful, still fits together. It can still be made to resemble a functional, adult woman. Like tape and glue, Ivy’s words seal over the cracks in my soul. They furnish me with a new identity, a new sense of self, a new way to cope—however ugly.

I am what Ivy Robinson has made me.

And nothing more.

“Here.” Ivy Robinson reaches into her pocket and produces a pill bottle. She presses it into my hand. “You know what these are. You will make sure Luna receives any necessary reinforcement.”

I tremble. I moan.

“Y-yes, Ivy.”

I will. I know that immediately. There’s no fight left in me.

I’ll keep drugging my girlfriend. And it’ll make me cum every single time.

If I could string words together without permission, I’d be thanking Ivy for the opportunity.

That’s my new normal, then. My hopes dashed, I will go on as before. I will work myself to the bone for Ivy’s amusement and reward, and then go home to a girlfriend who has been twisted beyond belief into a shameless adulteress. My life will keep shrinking. Will keep spiraling. Ivy once promised to take everything from me. What’s left for her to take? How much worse can it get?

Ivy bends down to my level. She gazes into my eyes and seems to see my silent, screamed question. Her answer is not the meager reassurance it pretends to be. It’s simply another dose of venom.

“Don’t worry,” Ivy tells me sadistically. “You’ll get used to it.”