I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and see the burden of an impending decision I don’t really want to make.

I see it in the bags under my eyes, the deepening lines etched across my face, telltale signs of the turmoil raging beneath. Keeping me up at night.

It's as if I stand on the precipice of two worlds, teetering between resistance and acceptance, between holding onto the familiar, or yielding to Chris' demands. The former is depressing… but comfortable. The latter is exciting, but scary. Oh, so scary.

Chris and I barely exchange two words to one another each morning as I head off to work, or when I come back home after a 12-hour shift. At first, I almost welcomed this silence. I thought it would give me the time to think in peace.

But here's the thing about standing on the precipice of two worlds... they both begin to lose clarity, shrouded by a thick fog I don't know how to pierce. They blur, losing shape, colour. Meaning.

At work, I find myself absent-minded and clumsy, my thoughts drifting towards the impending decision I must face. How can I concentrate on mundane tasks when I feel like my entire self is essentially being put on trial?

Chris has called out everything that makes me, well, me. It’s not bad enough that I’m under so much stress, that my mind is such a fucked-up place, now I have to give up my one destressor too, because she says I drink too much?

And work? I’m proud of how far I’ve come. Why is that bad? Even if she’s right, and work really is a little too totalising in my life, then so what? Lots of people are like that.

Of course, there’s the cheating… I blush at that one, cursing my inability to rationalise it away. All the same, Chris seems to have taken issue with everything about me.

By what right does she judge me? Why does she feel entitled to a verdict, to imposing terms on me?

But maybe most poignantly… Why am I letting her write the rules?

Small wonder I’m clumsy in the kitchen, a far cry from the surgically precise but harsh taskmaster I’m known for. Rather than focusing on work, my brain is constantly and compulsively replaying hypothetical conversations between Chris and I.

Conversations where I'm right, so right, and she has no response, and she breaks down, and admits that I've been right all along.

Conversations where we break up, and terrible things are spoken between us. Monstrous, untrue, unkind words that cannot be unsaid.

Conversations in which I break down, apologise for everything, every slight real or imagined, where I beg her to please not leave me alone with my self-hatred.

Conversations that end with my knees hitting the floor, my lips getting busy apologising to her feet, not through words, but deeds...

Fuck.

Getting home is no better. My domestic world is no less blurry than my professional one, as I struggle to put things in focus through the haze of my confusion, and my emotions. As each day ebbs away, I return to the sanctuary of our shared space, and such a sanctuary it is.

Messy and uncared for, with a weighty silence between us. The tension between Chris and me is palpable. The tension within myself, even more so.

Chris takes it all in stride. She knows exactly what she's doing, subtly teasing me, trying to push me over the edge. Her feet, once so readily available, are now withdrawn from my touch until I make a decision… but they’re never far away.

They always seem to poke out from under a blanket, toes wiggling. She rubs her arches and soles sometimes, watching me from the corner of her eye. She seems to be crossing her legs so much more often, one foot bobbing up and down.

Expectantly.

I gulp nervously, rub my temples, and pretend not to care. Each time, it gets a bit more difficult. My mouth waters, my thighs rub surreptitiously against one another, and my impulse control deserts me… every mind game she plays, every exposure to her feet, is a constant reminder of the decision that lingers in the air. The choice that will shape the course of our relationship.

The truth of the matter is that Chris hasn't left me alone with the decision, not really. She's ever-present, subtly smiling, smirking, teasing.

“Look at this cute pair of nylons…” she tells me one day, browsing the same online store where she got the ankle boots. No, where I got her the ankle boots. It’s all I can do to barely suppress the voice within me that completes that sentence, by saying as tribute.

“Very… very nice,” I say, not trusting the steadiness of my own voice. “You, uh… you’re getting them?”

All of a sudden, the performative smile on her face dies, the mask drops, and I see the steel underneath. “Getting them?” She asks, almost incredulous. “It is not for me to buy them.”

God, why does that make me almost convulse with arousal? It’s hard to believe this girl was my sub, once.

Was…

Sigh. There is no clarity to be found, here. Only guilt, and fear, and anger, and... my desperate arousal at how fucking hot she is. Like she's slowly winning an arms wrestling match with me. Bending me to her will...

I feel a mixture of resentment and fascination as I watch her, observing the way she holds herself with a newfound confidence. She has transformed from a passive participant to an orchestrator of our lives, and while a part of me struggles against this shift, another part is undeniably drawn to it. The magnetic pull of her power is inescapable, its gravitational force tugging at the core of my being.

Her power. Have I really just called it that? My own mind is betraying me.

The days pass, and the routine keeps eating away at me. It becomes harder and harder to deny that, no matter how angry I feel, I’m going to buckle, eventually.

And to be clear, I am angry. I resent Chris for forcing me to confront my weaknesses, for shining a relentless spotlight on the flaws that have marred our relationship.

Yet, beneath the surface, I can’t deny a perverse attraction to her dominion, an inexplicable pull towards the power she wields through her feet.

More and more, my eyes involuntarily dart towards her feet, even as I resist their magnetic pull. They have become an emblem of this shifting dynamic, a symbol of the change that lurks on the horizon. It's a paradox that baffles and terrifies me, an exposed nerve I never thought I possessed, laying bare my vulnerability. I steal fleeting glances, unable to tear my gaze away, caught between the allure and the shame that accompanies my weakness.

Could Chris be right?

The thought occurs to me with such disarming simplicity, it leaves me stunned for a moment.

Have my coping mechanisms, my overworking, my reliance on alcohol, my… indiscretions… been destructive forces that have corroded our relationship? Until it was almost dead?

The thought gnaws at my consciousness, burrowing deeper with each passing moment. I want to deny it, because if I admit it… then…

I’ll fall apart, a voice inside me whispers. But another responds, I’ll have to change.

I don’t know which prospect scares me the most.

Perhaps that’s just where Chris comes in. Taking the burden away, reordering our world. Maybe surrendering control, allowing her to guide me, truly is the path to redemption.

But… it feels so absurd!

A part of me clearly rebels against the bizarre nature of my predicament. Let’s say it’s all true… much as the admission terrifies me down to my core. Let’s say I’ve been the Problem with a capital P, an absolutely terrible girlfriend that needs to do better. Alright, fine.

And the way to fix it, is apparently… this?

Not therapy, or hitting the gym, or marathoning a sentimental TV show. Not a fulminating conversion on the road to Damascus. But a foot fetish? Leveraged into domestic submission?

It’s hard to take seriously. It makes me feel like a fucking fraud. What I wouldn’t do for myself, or for love, I’m apparently willing to do to get my rocks off?

Can I truly release my grip and trust that Chris holds the key to our salvation… in exchange for the privilege of showering her feet in soft, meek worship?

I’m trapped in a loop of negative thoughts, into a spiral I can’t escape on my own. Maybe Chris was just, plainly, wrong to trust my ability to come to a decision.

If I was able to dig myself out of the holes I create, I would have done so years ago. I… I can’t.

Maybe…

Maybe that’s the answer I’ve been looking for, after all.

Perhaps it is no wonder, then, that I don’t really decide. Not really. I keep going in circles, day after day, until it is too much to bear.

And the levee breaks.

“I’ve bought you the nylons,” I say one day, and because I always have it in me to add some theatrics, I toss my credit card on the sofa as well.

“Excuse me?” Chris says, looking up at me, her face almost… angelic as it bathes in the light of her laptop’s screen. I may be standing, and she sitting, but somehow it feels like she’s the one looking down at me. Down into my very soul.

“It’s…” I whisper, shuffling in place. “It’s not for you to buy them.”

Chris looks to the credit card on the sofa, and then back to me. “Well, that’s very nice. But Nicky, this isn’t a game. Just getting me a gift isn’t gonna get you what you want.”

She doesn’t  even need to specify what it is, that I want, and the embarrassment flushes my cheeks.

"Chris, I…" I say, my voice quivering with raw emotion. And then, just one word. The only word I truly need. "Yes.”

Chris's eyes narrow, her gaze filled with skepticism. She puts her laptop away and crosses her arms, her posture guarded, as if unsure whether to trust my words. The room grows silent, save for the crazy beating of my heart.

"What made you decide?”

She asks this question so matter-of-factly, almost a euphemism for what we’re truly discussing. For the rawness of my emotions – fear and guilt, regret and love, but most of all…

“Need,” I say, my voice choked with emotion. Chris reacts to that with a subtle smile, and a glimmer of… amusement, dancing in her eyes. In response, she simply lifts one leg over the other, extending her foot towards me in invitation.

“Well then,” she says in a soft, sultry tone, “what are you doing, still up on your feet?”

My head spins at her gesture, at her words, at my confession, at the implications. My knees buckle beneath me, and I find myself descending, until I hit the floor with a ruinous thump that is more of a confession than a thousand words could ever hope to be.

I reach out, my hand trembling as I make contact with her soft, smooth skin. Worthy of worship. The texture against my fingertips sends a jolt of electricity through my body. Finally! It’s been so long, too long, no price is too much…

With trembling hands, I cradle her foot like an icon of worship and reference, my fingers delicately tracing the outline of the heel, the sole, the arch. Every touch is filled with devotion, a silent declaration of my acceptance of her rule. My lips press against her foot, bestowing kisses upon the object of my obsession, and each tiny little smooch carries so much meaning.

Unassuming, demure, defeated, reduced. So small and harmless, a homage.

To my conqueror.

As I shower her foot with adoration, I dare look up at her every now and then, my girlfriend, the girl whose authority over me I’m about to explicitly recognise.

Chris watches me intently, her eyes radiating both sadistic pleasure and immense amusement.

"That's it, Nicky," she purrs, her voice tinged with satisfaction. "Show me how devoted you can be. Prove to me that you're willing to do whatever it takes, to fulfill your… need."

Her words go straight to my cunt. I squirm on my knees and nod fervently, my lips still pressed against her foot. What were demure smooches now become a frantic storm of worship, as I kiss and lick and suck every inch of her royal foot. The taste of both humiliation and fulfillment lingers on my lips.

This is what defeat tastes like… and perhaps redemption, as well.

“That’s an interesting word you’ve used. Need,” Chris continues atop me, her tone reflective. I listen, without interrupting my new duty to her feet. Each touch of my lips against her soles feels like a fervent prayer, a plea for absolution.

“In a sense, it shouldn’t surprise me,” she continues, her other foot coming to rest atop my head, which makes me squeal in animalistic pleasure.

“Need defines so much of your life. Does it not, Nicky?” She chuckles at my enthusiasm, patting my head and rubbing my head. Like I’m a trained dog. “You drink, because you need to steady yourself. You work yourself to the brink of exhaustion, because you need validation, and to keep your mind too busy to do some good, old self-introspection.”

I frown. All of a sudden, I’m not so sure I like where this is going… but, as if sensing my sudden rigidity, Chris presses her foot atop my head, pinning me firmly against the other one. The message is clear – if not to my brain, to my sex. Shut up and get to work.

“You snap at your subordinates, because you need to project your lack of self control outward”, she continues, her sole firmly planted atop my head in ownership, as I rain kisses and demure licks over her other foot.

Her dominant presence looms over me, like she really is sitting in judgement. Dissecting my every thought and emotion. She revels in her newfound control, her voice dripping with sadistic satisfaction as she observes my descent into submissive ecstasy.

"Small wonder that need is what made you decide this time as well. You're pathetic."

A flicker of defiance sparks within me, a stubborn ember that refuses to be extinguished. But as I steal glances at Chris's face, I see the twisted pleasure etched upon her lips, and then the foot presses down again, and my nose ends up nestled between her toes, and I breathe in…

I go limp with domesticity and compliance, letting her feet utterly master my face, as her words pour into my ears.

"Oh, Nicky," she muses, a hint of superiority lacing her words, "You really don’t see it, do you? I expected a choice from you, a conscious decision to embrace this new dynamic. To embrace my control. To submit. But it seems like you're not capable of making a real choice, aren't you? You’re a much simpler creature than that. You don’t have impulse control: your impulses control you.”

Her words strike a nerve, a jolt of humiliation and truth coursing through me. I'm torn between the desire to defend myself, and… well… how could anyone, myself included, take me seriously? I’m slobbering at the feet of a girlfriend I’ve alienated and estranged, and I myself have literally admitted I can’t help myself.

Is that who I am? An addict? Of alcohol, and rage, and now… this?

“You’re an animal, Nicky,” Chris says, her voice cutting and cold. “A stupid animal, completely driven by instincts. But that only goes to show," Chris says in a low voice, "that just like an animal, you need to be firmly taken in hand and ruled by someone who knows better. Domesticated by your handler, by your tamer…"

Her words hit me like a sharp slap, a mix of humiliation and excitement coursing through my veins. Indignation or no, there’s no denying the insane adrenaline rush making my limbs tremble, or the slick heat growing between my thighs. God, why is this so fucking hot?

“You drink like an animal,” Chris continues. “You work like an animal, too. A chef you may be, but that’s not why you relish those twelve-hour shifts of yours, no. You do it because you feel good as a numb beast of burden.”

“Glllkk,” I say in wordless half-protest as her foot invades my mouth, the other driving me down deeper on it. “Gah.”

“And just like an animal,” she says, “you are so easily brought to heel…”

I roll my eyes upward, trying to look up at her as her foot begins to gently fuck my face. God, she looks so fierce and beautiful. It's as if she's laying claim to my very essence, reshaping me into a submissive vessel for her desires.

She's molding our relationship, molding me, like I really am some stupid feral beast she’s managed to literally rein in, and now my domestication is beginning… with carrot and stick, until I’m putty in her hands.

I can’t believe how hot that concept is, or how absurdly and intensely I long to prove myself, to demonstrate that I can be the submissive partner she desires, even if it challenges the very core of who I am. Or who I used to be.

As if reading my thoughts, she says, "That's right. I am going to destroy you, Nicky. Disassemble you piece by piece... and reassemble you into a much better version. Well," she says giggling, "better for me. But I think you'll come to enjoy it, too."

“Mmmpphh,” I murmur from around the foot currently invading my mouth. Its toes prickle my skin, my tongue firmly pinned down under her sole – and the symbolism of that is driving me completely crazy…

"Don't think this is going to be as simple as me telling you to do the dishes, or commanding you to stop drinking. This doesn’t stop at you buying me gifts, or foot massages… Though there will be that as well.”

I mutely nod around her foot, my eyes veiled with tears as the other foot regulates the ever more energetic pace of my facefucking.

“My terms,” she says with a self-satisfied smile that looks sexy as hell, “are going to be a lot more elaborate. No, you don't get to know what they are, not in advance. That would be a form of negotiation, and this very much isn't that, Nicky. I'll settle for one thing, and one thing only."

She doesn’t need to spell it out. Not really.

Unconditional surrender is called that for a reason.

As if in the eye of the storm, I have a single moment of clarity. This is not a real solution, it could never be one. Normal people don’t save their relationships by becoming foot slaves. Their kinks don’t elevate them. Giving in to their desires doesn’t make them better persons.

And yet, eyes watery, I take Chris’ foot even deeper, impaling my throat on it, gagging and slobbering… because she’s right. Mine is not a choice for change, it’s a choice from need. Right now, her foot sweat is more important than the air I breathe.

My limbs quiver, my brain is on fire, and the insane arousal I feel… enough to start humping the air like a dog, like the animal she says I am… these things are well worth Chris’ terms for me. Whatever they may end up being.

With tears running down my cheeks, and my conqueror girlfriend’s foot lodged halfway down my throat, I nod.

And I surrender.