Reducing Ivy Robinson to a drugged, drooling, placid, empty receptacle is easy.

Almost an anticlimax, really. I barely sleep a wink the night before, as the idea burns a hole in my mind. I’m torn between terror and excitement, and that anxious combination leaves me obsessing over every little step of my admittedly primitive plan. I visualize it. I rehearse conversations and excuses in my head, knowing full well that it’s all likely to melt away as soon as I meet my superior’s gaze. Over and over again, as I toss and turn in the bed Ivy fucks my girlfriend in, I fight to summon my courage up and out of the jaws of the nauseating brainwashing she has inflicted on me. What I’m plotting is the ultimate blasphemy. A violation of the hierarchy that has been sunk bedrock-deep into my brain. It’s simply wrong for me to do this. I know that. I feel that.

But I have to. For myself. For Luna.

The sadistic, teasing comments she makes all evening about her flagrant cheating both sap and steel my resolve. Sap it, because the arousal they conjure makes my knees weak and fills my head with poisonous mantras. Steel it, because it’s a reminder of the abomination Ivy Robinson has twisted my kind, gentle girlfriend into. I have to save her. I’m the only one who can.

By the time I reach the office the next morning, I’m so feverish I sway with every step. I walk towards Ivy’s office—my office—with all the reluctance of a condemned murderer marching to the gallows. The looks I get from my coworkers do not help. They feel suspicious, even though I know they’re merely contemptuous. As I have swiftly learned, it is impossible to descend the rungs of power gracefully. The fact that I was once higher than my new peers makes me, now, in their eyes, all the lower. I’ll never be one of them. They’ll always steer clear of me. I’ll always be lesser. I’m inferior.

And Ivy is sup-

I stifle both the thought and the moan that comes with it. It’s nightmarishly magnetic—but I cannot give in.

Unsteadily, I reach Ivy’s door. My head throbs. I almost drop the spiked coffee cup in my hand. I’m certain I have some abominably stupid, obvious look on my face, but all the same, I knock.

“Enter.”

I push the door open. Ivy sits behind my old desk, resplendent. It suits her better than it ever did me.

Wait. That’s the kind of thing I’m not meant to let myself think.

“Come in, Olive. Is that my coffee?” One of her instructions the day before. I’m sure she relishes the inversion.

“Yes, Ivy,” I reply, my stomach in agonizing knots. I place the coffee cup down on her desk.

Without a moment of hesitation, she picks it up and takes a thirsty sip.

I’m left stunned. I was braced for Ivy to see right through me. I had already half-resigned myself to facing the consequences. After all, it’s precisely the way Ivy subdued me, and she knows perfectly well that I have access to her mind-altering drug. She provided me with it herself, so I could reinforce Luna’s brainwashing. It’s all but unfathomable to me that this ploy wouldn’t have crossed her mind.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? She and I aren’t alike. Ivy Robinson is never nervous or paranoid. She does not need to be. She is possessed of the singular, ironclad self-assurance of a woman who has gone through life dominating every room she enters. I can’t even begin to fathom it. The confidence of an apex predator at the top of the food chain.

Yet again, I have to snap myself from a worshipful reverie. I tell myself instead that Ivy’s arrogance will be her downfall.

“Being my secretary really does suit you better,” Ivy mocks. “I’m glad we can finally drop the pretense.” She takes another long drink from her coffee cup, then frowns. “Perhaps I spoke too soon. Can’t you even handle a simple coffee order, Olive? This doesn’t taste right at all. It’s awfully…” she blinks very slowly, “chemical.”

The penny drops—and it’s too late. I can tell. I recognize intimately the telltale sagging, fading look in Ivy’s eyes. She hangs on longer than I might have, fixing me with an accusatory, disbelieving scowl. “You…” Ivy begins to say, but it’s all she can muster. I remember once seeing a nature documentary in which a lion was shot with a tranquilizer dart. As it went down, it seemed more offended than wounded, and retained a certain calm, unimpeachable dignity as it sank to its knees. So it is with Ivy too—but after a few, tense moments, she does go down. She goes still. Even the scowl drains from her face, and she’s left with a look I know all too well: the look of yawning emptiness that belongs to someone who will hearken to any voice she hears.

Even mine.

She’s mine.

I won. Ivy Robinson is within my power.

It takes an eternity for it to sink in. Breathless minutes pass with me standing there, paralyzed, unable to believe my own effortless success. It feels as though Ivy will snap out of it and assert her will over me at any moment—but she doesn’t. She can’t. She’s helpless.

She’s the helpless one now.

Once that finally dawns on me, my dread falls away and is replaced with utter, manic euphoria. A ridiculous grin forms on my face, and giddy, high-pitched giggles fall from my lips with every breath. I can’t keep still. I twitch, I pace, I shiver with the uncontrollable glee of a child on Christmas morning. Ivy Robinson is like a goddess—and I have her in the palm of my hand. Unlike Ivy, I do not handle my newfound authority with grace or ease. It does not sit comfortably on my shoulders. I’m excited and anxious in equal measure. My head fills with a thousand different fantasies of revenge, each one an abstraction, each one hopelessly tripping the others as I try to form the words that would make it real. I’m delirious. I’m a mess.

It’s OK, I tell myself. With Ivy’s door closed, we aren’t likely to be disturbed. I can take my time. My torment is finally at an end.

The world is my oyster. I can do anything.

And I don’t know where to begin.

I literally do not know, and my uncertainty quickly begins to undermine my glee. I start talking to Ivy, right? And she’ll listen, right? It’s that simple. It certainly was with Luna, but it seems too straightforward, somehow, for the kind of utter inversion I need to inflict on Ivy. Can I simply tell her, straight to her face, that she’s inferior to me, and that’ll… work? It’ll really sink in?

Or do I need to talk her into it? Make it like a seduction? Frame it carefully, so that it slips between the cracks in her ego and reshapes her from within? That makes a little more sense to me, I suppose, but leaves me even less certain of how to proceed. I don’t have Ivy’s silver tongue. I always trip over my words. I don’t know how to get under the skin of someone as formidable as her. Maybe I can’t-

No. I take a deep breath. I’m just getting caught up in my own head, like usual. I can do this. I just need to begin with the first step.

“Ivy,” I squeak. My mouth is too dry. I wet it, and try again. “Ivy. Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” Ivy replies. I shiver, instantly enraptured. To hear that emptiness and openness—in her voice. A frisson races across my skin. I am a child with her hand in the cookie jar.

But like a child, I can be impetuous. I decide to throw caution to the wind and embrace the first urge that takes me, even though the sheer transgression of it leaves me all but tongue-tied. “K-k-kneel.”

“Whhhuutt?” Ivy slurs, her sagging eyes widening ever so slightly. She’s not completely empty. Not yet. Even now, there is a faint note of incredulous defiance in her voice. I know what that’s like—to be locked inside your own head, watching like a helpless passenger as someone rewrites your life.

For her, though, it just doesn’t seem right.

The merest suggestion of Ivy’s disapproval plays havoc with my nerves. My heart beats a frantic rhythm in my chest, like it’s begging me to stop. I can’t. Not now that I’ve come this far.

“K-kneel,” I repeat, attempting—and failing—to sound more commanding. When Ivy simply stares blearily at me, I change tack. “You… um… you want to kneel?”

I hear my own uncertainty repeated back to me in Ivy’s voice—but the repetition is intoxicating anyway. “I… want to kneel?”

Ivy doesn’t sound convinced. But she sounds convincible.

“Y-yes,” I insist. “You want to kneel.”

“I…” There is a hint of something resentful in Ivy’s eyes. It fades. “I want to… kneel?”

My will, extinguishing Ivy Robinson’s. Only her miracle drug could make that possible.

“That’s right,” I tell her again. “You want to kneel.”

It’s like part of Ivy recognizes what is being done to her—but all the same, the thought slips past her defenses. It’s new to her, and irresistible. A spark catching tinder. “I… want… to… kneel.”

Her resentment melts away. In its place, agreement. Desire.

“You want to kneel.” Those words feel powerful to me now. I cling to them. My voice is breathy. I feel like I’m going to be sick from excitement. “S-so kneel.”

It’s incredible to see Ivy Robinson be so hopelessly slow. Slow in mind, and slow in body as she begins to slump in her chair—in my chair—guided by her new desire to sink to her knees. Watching her is like watching a star implode. Both awe-inspiring and existentially terrifying. In my fever, I give in to yet another childlike impulse.

“N-n-not there,” I stop Ivy, tittering. “You want to kneel in front of m-my desk.”

“In front… of…” Ivy’s brow furrows. “I… want… but…”

“You want to kneel in front of m-my desk.”

It’s a struggle for me to think of the desk as mine, with Ivy still sitting there. I can sense she’s hung up on that too. But this is exactly the kind of thing I need to push past.

“My desk,” I tell her, with all the firmness I can muster. “You w-want to kneel in front of it. In front of m-me.”

The way the nervous stutter keeps infecting my voice is maddening. It’s not enough to undermine me, though, in the face of Ivy’s artificial gullibility. She will believe whatever I tell her. Even this.

“I… want…” Ivy nods. Her brow twitches. “But… you?”

That visible incredulity sends a treasonous pang through me. I ignore it. “Yes. You want to kneel in… in front of m-me.”

“I…” Ivy’s incredulity bends. Then breaks. “I want to kneel in front of you.”

I can’t contain a shrill giggle. The euphoria those words bring me is so extreme it feels like vertigo. “R-right. Right! So… um…” I’m briefly unsure of the best way to prompt her. “K-kneel.”

And she obeys.

I wonder how it is in Ivy’s head, as she staggers to her feet and trudges around to the other side of her—my—desk, vacating the seat she worked so hard to steal. How does she rationalize something that flies so flagrantly in the face of her true nature? Perhaps the mere desire is enough. Perhaps Ivy Robinson is a creature so unfamiliar with denial and restraint, she is content simply to follow her wants wherever they lead. Certainly, there is a faint glow of pleasure on her face as she sinks to her knees, her expensive suit barely creasing from the elegance of the motion. She wants this now, and that provides satisfaction enough.

Only in the deepest shadows of her eyes can I still see the sleeping tiger.

I do not dare stare into them for too long. But now I can fortify myself. I set my sights on my former desk. My former chair. It takes many long seconds for me to muster the willpower to take even the first step toward them, but eventually I manage to sit in the place I once sat when Ivy brought me coffee and ruined my entire life.

Now I get to do that to her.

I start giggling again. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Finally. I’m the powerful one. I’m the one in control. My heart is pounding. My chest throbs. And yes, I’m turned on, too. This feels so wicked and so wrong. So dangerous. Thanks to Ivy, my sexuality is hardwired to respond to the feeling of dizzying vertigo that surges through me now. It’s how I imagine I’d feel if I was up in a plane, about to skydive. I feel as though I’m about to take the plunge, to throw myself into the abyss, safe in the knowledge that my revenge is righteous and that my feelings of guilt are-

Wait.

Why do I feel guilty?

That’s ridiculous. Stupid. Downright moronic. What’s wrong with me? Why would I feel guilty about doing this to Ivy? She deserves it! Nobody could deserve it more. It’s the very definition of poetic justice.

Is… this what she’s done to me? Have I become incapable of going against her? Is that why I keep stuttering and tripping over my words? Why there’s a cold sweat on my forehead? Why I still, despite reclaiming my rightful place, feel like a child? When does it stop?

Am I broken forever?

No, I tell myself. I can’t think like that. This is normal. Anyone would feel like this, doing what I’m doing. Drugging someone. Fighting back. It’s normal. I’m in control. I’m the powerful one here.

I just need to show Ivy that.

“N-now,” I tell her, fighting and failing to keep the quiver out of my voice. “You’re going to s-strip.”

“I’m going to… strip?”

There’s a flash of something in her eyes—but briefer than before. Ivy doesn’t want to believe me, but she does. I can already see her mind softening beneath the clumsy pressure of my words. She’s going to strip. We both know it.

“Yeah,” I tell her breathily. “You’re going to strip for me.”

“For… you?” Ivy blinks blearily. “I’m going to strip.”

The thought seems to provoke little resistance. After all, Ivy is more than comfortable with her nakedness. The idea that it’s for me is clearly stranger, but she cannot fight it, formidable though she is.

“Y-you’re going to strip for me,” I titter. I find myself flushed at the prospect. I’m going to get to see Ivy naked again. Anticipation becomes impatience. “R-right now.”

Ivy trembles slightly at the eagerness of my words. So strong, yet so empty. A hollow sock puppet of herself. It’s breathtaking. It’s nauseating. “Right… now.”

I gasp in shock at my own success as Ivy raises herself up on her knees and starts to remove her clothes. Slowly, methodically—blazer, then shirt, then she unfastens her skinny belt and begins to shuck out of her pants. Once that’s done, her underwear follows, each item of clothing discarded to one side until she is finished. Until she is naked. The way Ivy strips is practically robotic. She evinces no shame, no modesty. Even without clothes, she simply is.

And me? I’m slumped in Ivy’s chair—my chair—with my hand between my legs, rubbing myself in a steady, unmistakable rhythm over my clothes.

I can’t help it. Ivy’s so hot.

Every piece of clothing she removes exposes yet more of her rich, gorgeous skin and leaves me drooling with awe. When she unclasps her bra and lets it fall away from her body, my breath hitches. Her chest is still so much bigger than mine. I suppose some things will never change. When she peels her underwear away from her body and slides them down her thighs, it’s all I can do not to moan. She isn’t hard, obviously, but even the sight of her soft conjures to mind the scents and tastes of the rare, precious occasions on which I am permitted to kneel before her and take her superior cock in my mouth and-

My mind softened slightly by self-pleasure, it takes a great deal of effort for me to sever that particular train of thought.

I try just as hard to wipe the look of overawed, blushing, breathless shame from my face—without success. It’s all very well and good to tell myself that I don’t need to feel embarrassed. Ivy never was, after all, when she used me for her pleasure. That’s all I’m doing now. Using her. Enjoying her. It’s my right, now that I’ve turned the tables. Red-faced, slack-jawed, compulsive staring does not suit a master. A superior.

It’s just that what I’m doing feels so… dirty, somehow.

It’s becoming difficult to think, with Ivy naked. All I can think about is her superior body. Her perfect face. Her incredible chest. Her toned abs, and slender waist. Her wide hips and her magnificent cock. Her shapely thighs, and even her gorgeous, pedicured feet, barely visible behind her. I tell myself that it’s only right for me to see her this way—as a sex object, as a source of pleasure—but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s the other way around. That Ivy Robinson is swallowing me up, somehow, even kneeling there on the floor, drugged out of her mind.

Why can’t I stop drooling over her feet? That was never a fetish of mine—but it is now. I get stupid and drool and rub myself to superior women’s feet.

And Ivy is so superior.

Even now. Especially now, naked. Fuck, she’s so hot. I’ll never look like her. She’s so much better than me. My hand quickens. My pleasure grows. Even kneeling, she has so much more presence. It’s clear who’s taller. Who’s greater. Suddenly it makes so much sense that I’m sitting here, masturbating, because that’s what I do, that’s my role, like when Ivy fucks my girlfriend, I’m a spectator, and she’s-

With a pathetic, agonized groan, I tear my hand away from my body.

It’s not fair.

Why does she keep beating me?

And how can I ever fix this? How can I rip my poison out of her head?

My only hope is to do to her what she did to me. To break her mind in half across my knee.

I could do it with a single sentence—that’s a nice thought, isn’t it? A good thing to keep telling myself. It stills my fraying nerves. It makes me feel powerful. I’m the one in control here.

Only, am I?

There’s another reason it was so easy for me to lose myself in self-pleasure: because I’m procrastinating.

I still don’t know where to begin. Making Ivy kneel, making her strip—that’s merely rearranging deck chairs. A way to get a cheap thrill, in the hopes that one act of daring snowballs into another. Nothing I’ve done to Ivy will leave any lasting impressions on her psyche. And it hasn’t worked—I’m as filled with doubts as ever. About the procedural stuff, of course, the hows and wheres, but about something much deeper, too.

About…

Morality?

I know Ivy deserves what’s coming to her, but telling myself over and over again that she deserves it isn’t making this any easier. Perhaps morality isn’t exactly the right word. Inhibition? I’ve always been a little goody-two-shoes. I know that. I don’t break the rules. Not ever.

Not unless Ivy makes me.

She has infected my sense of right and wrong completely. What I know doesn’t matter. What I feel is all-important—and what I feel is that violating her this way is unforgivable. It produces the same sense of revulsion as contemplating committing a murder. The gnawing guilt, the itching fear that, at any moment, I will be somehow discovered, that my superior will catch me in the act and force me back to my knees, all the lower for having so insolently forgotten my place.

The anxiety is more than I can handle. I’m simply not the kind of person who does things like this.

Maybe it’s even deeper than that. It’s aesthetic. What right do I have to ruin Ivy Robinson? To put a clumsy stain on her supreme charisma and effortless supremacy? It would be like taking a knife to a famous painting. Trying to imagine her reduced to the status of a sniveling, servile wretch like me makes me shudder with instinctive horror. Just look at her!

I look at her.

I lose myself in her.

Everywhere I look, she is perfection. Everywhere I look, she is superior.

And I’m-

I snatch the poisoned thought from my mind’s gullet with a plaintive, childish sob. Why can’t I do this? Why can’t I get free of her? It’s so unfair.

Just one sentence, Olive. That’s all you need to say.

Tell her she’s-

My mind recoils from the very words. I’m like a whipped dog. I bury my face in my hands.

To make matters worse, I’m keenly aware that I may not have long. I’ve wasted so much time, and I am not sure how long the drug’s effects last. When Ivy uses it on me, I lose all sense of time; when I use it on Luna, I’m too delirious with arousal to mark the clock. Brainwashing Ivy is quite the task, and at this rate, I will never have another opportunity.

It’s now or never, Olive.

“You…” I begin to say.

In my silence, Ivy drifted off into a kind of trance. Now she looks up at me, her resistance long faded, her eyes registering only that she may be about to learn more about herself. She’s like a doll, ready to be posed. I could do anything with her—but my voice faltered, yet again, before it even left my lips.

Enough stalling. I close my eyes. I take deep breaths that swell my chest. And I focus on what exactly it is that I’m fighting for.

My old life. Calm and peaceful. Working hard every day in the office. Coming home to see Luna at night. It was so…

Meaningless.

Instantly, that word is a bell that cannot be unrung. A discordant note that echoes through me again, and again, and again.

My life was… meaningless?

That can’t be right. I had a career.

Where I shut myself in my private office, talking to as few people as possible, filing reports for a faceless corporation that never cared about anything but its bottom line.

Meaningless.

But I had Luna.

My girlfriend. The one I let down over and over again, even before I pushed her into Ivy’s arms. The one I always disappointed, because I couldn’t help staying late at work. The one I offered only comfort, never excitement. Never passion.

Meaningless. As hard as it is to face up to, it’s the truth.

But I had…

Nothing else.

Nothing to match the excitement of being Ivy’s little spectator. Ivy’s little wallet. Ivy’s little cuckold.

It’s been so fucking hot

That’s another devastating truth. The artificiality of the pleasure is made unimportant by its intensity. So what if Ivy did this to me? Without her, how would I have been able to experience something so hot, so terrible, so shocking, it left me seeing stars? Without her, how would I have ever known the grand, cosmic satisfaction of sitting at the very bottom of the natural order, and knowing—deeply, perfectly knowing—that I was exactly where I was supposed to be?

It dawns on me like the rising sun. I’m such a boring little loser, kneeling and touching myself while Ivy fucked my girlfriend on my bed is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.

No.

No.

No!

I cannot let myself think these things. I turn my hands into white-knuckled fists and I make the conscious choice to shut down the part of my mind that thinks and doubts. Awareness of the ticking clock on the wall itches at me. There’s no more time to waste. No more time to think. Only to do. My skin pale and gray, my face set in an expression of self-loathing and resolve, I set my sights on Ivy Robinson. I just have to do it exactly the way she did it to me. Her words are better than mine ever could be, and trying to think for myself has merely led to tying myself in knots. I just have to think about what she would say, in this position. Even I can do that, right? Even a spectator can be a brainless little copycat.

My head is empty. I open my mouth. “Ivy.”

And it slips out, the way it was always going to.

“You’re superior.”

My surrender.

“I’m superior.”

At first it was an honest mistake, of a kind. I meant to say what Ivy said to me that very first time, and I ended up echoing her sentiment rather than her words. But as I watch the effect of those words ripple through Ivy without resistance, as she straightens her spine and tightens her face into a slack facsimile of her familiar, superior smirk, I realize that this is no mistake.

It’s simply the truth.

Ivy is superior to me. I’ve always known it—yes, always, even before she used the drug to bring me back to heel. Back in college, I drank deep from that well. I drowned in her, and she’s been living inside me ever since. I have always been in her shadow. I was lost without her.

Because she’s superior.

And I’m inferior.

I shiver rapturously, even as tears of defeat fill my eyes. It feels so good to finally admit it with all of my heart.

“You’re superior to me, Ivy,” I tell her. The words fall from my lips like a prayer. “And you always will be.”

“I’m superior to you. And I always will be.”

No hesitation this time. Not from either of us.

“I’m inferior.”

“You’re inferior.”

“I’m so inferior to you.”

“You’re so inferior to me.”

With each suggestion, the cold smirk on her face grows a little firmer. A little more palpable. It’s beautiful. The world set to rights.

“You’re a player,” I remind her. “And I’m just a spectator.”

“You’re just a spectator.” She half-smiles in her drug-induced sleep. “I’m a player.”

“R-right,” I drool. Hearing that from her brings the heat to my cheeks. Even fully clothed, I’m the pathetic one here. Good. “I’m just a spectator. I o-only get to watch.”

“You only get to watch.”

I don’t know what effect it might have, telling Ivy this while she’s under the drug’s influence. It hardly seems to count as brainwashing. As far as I know, she already believes it with every fiber of her being.

But if there’s any part of her that doubts. Any part of her that feels guilt. Any part of her that might show mercy. Surely, I am snuffing it out forever.

God, that’s hot.

“I’m j-just a girl,” I bleat. The thought of making Ivy even worse has me almost delirious. “And y-you’re a real, superior woman.”

“You’re just a girl. I’m a real, superior woman.”

I want it all. All of Ivy’s cruelty. All of her neglect. I want her to trample my entire life under her feet until it holds the shape of her heel.

Because she’s superior. And I’m an inferior little spectator.

“You deserve m-my money,” I moan. “Every penny. Everything I earn. You can take it from me.”

“I deserve your money.” Something that is almost a laugh rises to Ivy’s lips. My cunt throbs. “I can take it from you.”

“I d-deserve to be exploited by you.”

“You deserve to be exploited by me.”

When she says it, I can feel it sinking deeper into my mind too. After this long under Ivy’s thumb, her words have a profound effect on me, and that effect is magnified by the knowledge that I am, in turn, letting her speak through me. I am a mouthpiece of my own unraveling, and I find myself entranced by its rhythm.

“I don’t deserve real pleasure. Only you do.”

“You don’t deserve real pleasure. Only I do.”

That’s right. Ivy’s right. Ivy’s always right.

“I only deserve to watch and touch myself like a perverted little spectator.”

“You only deserve to watch and touch yourself like a perverted little spectator.”

I am utterly in the grip of my own conditioning and my own arousal. I’m letting it carry me away into truly dangerous territory. I know just as well as I did when I first walked in here that Ivy is the reason I’m so pathetically weak to this. That doesn’t matter. That’s hot too.

Ivy deserves to rewrite me however she wants.

“You d-d-d…”

I falter, briefly, as I consider what I’m about to give away. My one true treasure. The one thing I was doing all this for. The one thing I wanted to save from Ivy.

But I don’t have the right. I’m inferior.

“You d-deserve my girlfriend!” I erupt, the backdraft roaring through me, white-hot. “You deserve Luna.”

“I deserve your girlfriend.”

“You deserve to take her from me.”

“I deserve to take her from you.”

Fuck. I’m rubbing myself again. I can’t stop. I’m pathetic. I’m unforgivable. I’m inferior.

“Y-you deserve to m-make her yours.”

“I deserve to make her mine.” Ivy seems to hearken to the messy pleasure in my voice. She’s grinning now, as assured and confident as ever. Meanwhile I’m slumped over, hand between my legs.

Superior. Inferior.

“I-I’m a pervert!”

“You’re a pervert.”

“I’m y-your own personal wallet!” Something is swelling inside me. A climax. A deathblow to my free will.

“You’re my own personal wallet.”

“I’m a c-c-c-cuckold! I love that she… that my girlfriend is your eager, cheating bitch!” I’m moaning each of my new commandments long and loud now. It’s fortunate that Ivy’s office is soundproofed—not that I’d care if someone overheard.

I want everyone to see the real me.

“You’re a cuckold. You love that your girlfriend is my eager, cheating bitch.”

Hearing that note of derisive contempt creep back into Ivy’s distant, dreamy voice pushes me over the edge.

“Yoouuuu de-de-serve to taaake eeveverything from meeee!” I howl as I cum.

And when I hear Ivy repeat those words back to me, I sink deep into myself.

In that sunken place, in a post-orgasmic haze so deep that its stillness consumes me, I hear Ivy’s voice. She tells me that she deserves to take everything from me, and more besides. She tells me that I am inferior, and she superior. She tells me I’m a spectator, and she a player. She tells me I’m just a girl, and she a woman. She tells me that and more. I hear every mocking, mind-rending proclamation of hers echoed back to me, over and over again. And just like me, they sink deep.

i accept it. Peacefully, joyfully, i accept it. Ivy is my entire life, and beside her, i am nothing.

This is who i am.

Forever.

After minutes or more, i begin to return to myself. i stir, and i see Ivy still kneeling on the ground before me.

That’s not right.

i still cannot form words to set it to rights. i can only apologize with my body. Falling down is effortless—down, out of my chair, onto the ground. Inferiority is my gravity. On hands and knees, i crawl around my desk and place myself before Ivy. Slumped and shrunken, i am smaller than her in every way.

i bow my head. i wait.

But as i wait for Ivy to awaken and punish me, temptation stirs in me yet again. i am, inevitably, weak. Not temptation to overthrow Ivy, obviously. i know now that it’s impossible. Even the desire has withered inside me. It’s a different impulse that stirs me to speak.

Ivy Robinson is at the center of my world—but i could never be at the center of hers.

What if she gets bored of me?

“i,” i murmur, barely loud enough to reach Ivy’s ears, “am your perfect victim.”

Once more, her eyes focus on me. “You are my perfect victim,” she recites slowly.

i blush. Hearing that from Ivy is indescribably special. Even if i inflicted it on her.

“You want to go on ruining me,” i whisper. Doing this is wrong—but only a little. It’s not like Ivy has shown any interest in stopping.

“I want to go on ruining you.” Ivy looks at me anew. Her eyes, still distant, widen slightly. Fresh passion lurks in their depths.

“F…” It takes me a long moment to pluck up the courage to speak the last word. “Forever.”

Ivy echoes it without hesitation. “Forever.”

A sudden realization strikes me, and almost sweeps away the guilt i feel at tampering with the mind of a superior being.

What if that was already true?

Ivy came to me, in a way. Didn’t she? What if she sought me out, after all these years? What if she’s been craving it, since college—a nice, tender piece of meat for her to sink her teeth into and rip apart? Where else would she find a victim of my caliber? Where else would she find someone who’s so perfectly easy to exploit?

Maybe i’ve always been her perfect victim. The two of us bound together by the intimate relationship between predator and prey.

That is the closest thing my hopelessly warped mind will ever again know to a proud thought. As i lapse back into silent waiting, it keeps me warm. When Ivy finally begins to awaken from her drug-induced stupor, i ready myself to greet her. i bent forward and press my forehead against the itchy carpet. i do not move until she speaks.

“You…”

The first lucid word from Ivy’s lips brings it all flooding back. The regret. The guilt. The hope i had, and wasted. The certain knowledge that i will never have this chance again, never be free from her, and that i have consigned the woman i love to forever be a twisted mockery of her former, thoughtful self.

i look up at Ivy. There are tears in my eyes.

“You stupid, worthless loser,” Ivy snarls. She’s angry, yes. But excited, too. Sadistic. She is delighted by my utter failure as a human being. “I’ll make you regret this.”

i hope she does. i really do.

It’s what i deserve.

And i know Ivy Robinson will not let me down.