I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and I see it. The end of my independence.

I see it in the trembling of my lips, the sweat pearling my forehead. I’ve always maintained I had no problem with alcohol, no issue at all. That I could always choose when to stop, I only did it on my terms, it didn’t control me.

Now, with Chris and her foot-enforced sobriety, I’m… finding it harder and harder to say that with a straight face.

I get constant, lancing headaches that pound against my temples. My heart refuses to slow down. My stomach bugs me – more than just a mere annoyance, for a chef – and my sleeping is troubled. I’m… detoxing. It’s my body’s sweaty, energy-sapping, humiliating way of proving that I was wrong, no, that I was full of shit.

Just in case the fact that this sobriety is enforced by my raging foot fetish wasn’t humiliating enough…

All of this, and more, is unmistakable from my reflection. Pale and sleep-deprived, trembling and insecure. I look like a broken girl, gently but firmly reined in and brought to heel by my newly dominant girlfriend. She’s doing all this to make me better, she says, but somehow I feel like better in this case doesn’t just mean sober.

It means lesser.

Was I always too much? Is it a good thing, if there’s less of me? Less exhuberance, less ambition, less brooding melancholy and cold rage, less… everything? I don’t want to believe that. Then again, I did surrender to Chris, unconditionally surrender, so maybe part of me already believes that.

Maybe that’s what I’ve always needed. For someone stronger to pin me to the ground, and force me to confront my own bullshit. To get chisel and scalpel, and begin the excavation of my personality… removing all the bad parts, and leaving back only the good. A smaller Nicole, in every sense of the world.

A better Nicole.

My cheeks blush, and I look away from the mirror, though there’s no mistaking the warm tingling between my legs. The key to my downfall, apparently. I mean, Chris has essentially made me choose between my long-time addiction to alcohol, and my growing addiction to her soft, pretty, regal feet.

Says a lot about me that the choice was obvious from the start…

At work, my reputation as the hardass bitch who’s always in the zone is beginning to suffer. I’m clumsy, distracted, and most of all… embarrassed. They don’t know my true motivations for doing all of this, and if they did, they’d think I’m fucking pathetic.

When I told them I was quitting alcohol, stone cold, some of the guys patted me on the back. Others are clearly unimpressed. Not such a butch after all, is what they must be thinking. What both groups have in common, though, is that they no longer fear me.

Why should they? Apparently, I’m easily conquered… The mirror testifies to that. There’s more than the signs of alcohol withdrawal, staring back at me in my reflection.

Normally, when I’m not at work, I always dress in baggy, unrevealing, neutral clothing. Goth-ish stuff on occasion, if I’m feeling fancy. Butch, and practical.

That… doesn’t work for Chris. Her snorts and giggles as she’s slowly but unmistakably beginning to femme me up go straight to my clit. Skirts and blouses, black stockings and underwire bras… ballerinas, or outrageously pink sneakers, in place of boots.

It’s subtle, really. She’s not exactly slutting me up, as she’s threatened to do on several occasions. I still look professional.

It’s just…

It may be a quiet statement, but it’s a firm statement nonetheless. That she’s taken me in hand, that I’m going to be guided, that her reins steer me now. I’m honestly not even sure why she’s making me look more feminine, but I don’t get to question her motives. Not anymore.

Not if I want her to stay in my life… and her feet to stay in my face.

Even this modest feminisation of my work attire has a devastating impact on my already-teetering reputation. Do you know what it’s like, being a woman in an environment like this? For years, I have fought tooth and nail to be seen as, well, just a chef. Not a piece of meat. And now, I’m – what? Dressing like a waitress?

There’s no mistaking the lingering stares of my male colleagues. Nor the casually dismissive tone in some of their conversations with me.

I wonder what they think of my mortal embarrassment, when my phone inevitably buzzes at the end of a shift, and I go red like a pepper, staring at a photo of my girlfriend’s feet.

“They really, really miss your ministrations,” she usually says, or something along those lines. “Home. Now.”

And of course, I always obey.

No more beers with the guys after work, no more lewd jokes, no more shitty karaoke nights, and no more staying back and being a workaholic, either. Instead, I run back to my girlfriend at a snap of her fingers, like a well-trained puppy.

Completely pussy-whipped into submission, is my colleagues’ silent diagnosis, I know. They’re almost right, though. I suppose I’m foot-whipped, instead…

Once I get home, it’s like a whole new work shift begins. I kneel before Chris, and tend to her needs; I do all the chores, and the cooking, and the grocery shopping, and then, I shove my face right where it belongs, in-between her feet.

Under Chris's watchful gaze, I am forced to confront my demons. She uses my foot fetish as a weapon, a tool to control me. The sight of her bare feet is a constant reminder that I'm under her rule. I’m getting pavlovianly conditioned. This much exposure is driving me crazy, to the point that I can barely remember a time when “having a girlfriend” was something that did not revolve around my slavish adoration of her feet.

The mere idea of a lesbian couple where the weaker girl does not bow to the stronger seems completely absurd to me, now. That’s how fucked up I am.

As I kneel at her feet, massaging and worshipping them, Chris looks down at me. Six months ago, I wouldn’t really have recognised, or been able to place, the smile she’s directing at me. Now, I see it almost every day. It’s the mildly sadistic, and definitely cathartic, joy of her triumph; of the domestication of her girlfriend.

"That’s got to be better than any alcohol, isn’t it?” she purrs, her voice a mixture of seduction and command. "Though it gets you just as drunk and stupid, doesn’t it, Nicky? Come on. Go stupid for my feet…”

I nod fervently, her foot pressing against my lips. It’s true, isn’t it? I had a choice, and I chose feet. Surely that means she’s right? From the outside, you’d think that I really shouldn’t complain: I’ve got what I wanted, and my life is a foot fetish bonanza right now.

Every minute I spend at home seems to revolve around my girlfriend’s feet, somehow. I cradle them, massage them, shower them in kisses, gently lap at the soft soles and smooth ankles like a devoted pet. I warmly cushion her toes between my lips. I only get to cum when she presses them between my legs… and that, usually, after a prolonged torture of edging and begging.

A dream come true. I would have signed away – no, I did sign away my independence to have this. And it feels incredible.

But…

It isn’t just a fetish. It isn’t just a game. It comes with a cost, and going cold turkey with my alcohol intake reminds me of that cost, every minute of every day – as do all the other things I’ve given up, by grovelling and kneeling and submitting.

No time for socialising. No time for hobbies. Just work at the restaurant, work at home, and… worship. It’s a dulling routine, I realise, one meant to emphasise my sensations and my arousal, while dulling my mind, my social skills, my critical thinking.

Curbing my ability to resist Chris’ domestication of me. The increasingly unshakable association I feel between my abasement, and blissful physical pleasure. Conditioned, like a fucking dog.

I realise all of this. I just can’t stop it.

Eventually, these sweet evenings spent at my conqueror’s feet come to an end. But our power exchange does not. Even lying in bed, side by side, I’m not allowed to press my body against hers, to wrap my arms around her sleeping form.

Those, Chris always reminds me, are privileges reserved to girlfriends that are actually worth something. Instead, what I am commanded to do is lie next to her, close enough to smell her scent, without touching.

And then think about her utterly stamping out my bad habits with her feet, and my will too in the bargain… while touching myself until I’m at the brink of orgasm.

And then, of course… stopping.

This, too, is a ritual. A part of my rehab, as Chris calls it sometimes. It helps her truths sink deeper into my subconscious.

I replay her words in my head, as I softly gasp on the bed, doing my best to be discreet and not disturb her sleep. "You'll bend to my will, and in doing so, you'll find a new version of yourself. A better version.”

Those are not the only words that come to mind.

“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…"

Every night, before I get to sleep. Every morning, before I serve her breakfast.. The end of my daily ritual, and its beginning.

“You drink like an animal. 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. And just like an animal,you are so easily brought to heel…”

When I get there, I’m on the brink of a dizzying precipice. It’s always all I can do to stop in time, to hold it back, even as every inch of my body seems to scream in agony at the denied release, so close, so cruelly yanked away…

Like I said: the beginning, and the end. Better, and lesser.

The lesser part is important. Take the alcohol. It’s not just a soothing substance to me, or an addiction, though of course there is that: my pounding headaches are driving that point home with discomforting regularity.

It’s… an image. Who I am, what I do, how I behave.

I’m a tough girl, a survivor. I don’t just drink because it makes me feel good, I nurse my drinks. They make me look the way I feel inside, jaded and scarred, strong because I needed to be, like scar tissue: not pretty, but meaningful, and strong.

I drink because it lets me release the stress, the fear that I’m wasting my life chasing things I might not want, the rage at all the people that ever hurt me. Drinking is a form of self-expression, for me.

Chris is taking it away. I can see it in her eyes, when I’m lying on my back, one of her feet delicately nestled in the hollow of my throat, the other firmly pressed on my lips. She’s making me better: no more drunken stupors, no more blackouts, no more hangovers… no more cheating on her while inebriated… no more addiction as a coping mechanism for my pain.

That’s good. It’s healthy.

But she’s also making me lesser. No room for me to be unhappy and brooding, no room for me to act out, lash out, or simply destress on my own. No, instead all I am required to do is pour my feelings at her feet, and let her do the thinking; let her take the decisions.

I… don’t know if that’s good. Or healthy.

I just know that it feels good. Better than mere sex ever has, which is why it’s already gone so much further than I ever imagined possible.

So, I can’t help but ask myself… how much further is this yet to go?

***

“I’m moderately satisfied with how you’re coming along... but there’s one more change we need to make. Nicky.”

I gulp, doing my best to stay perfectly still, as I’ve been instructed. I’m kneeling before Chris – a common occurrence, I never get to use the sofa anymore at this point. My head bowed, like a supplicant’s.

Her right foot is delicately perched atop my head, the heel resting heavily against my scalp. I love the feeling of the skin against my hair. Sometimes, if she’s happy with me, she even pats me gently with her foot, like with a dumb, overeager puppy…

Her other foot is resting in my hands. I never tire of tracing it with my fingertips, finding nodes of stress, relieving them. These feet are perfect, it feels like they have no right being this beautiful. Smooth, petite, elegant… dominant.

But it’s her eyes that truly nail me down here, on my knees. It’s the twinkle of amusement, as she declares herself moderately satisfied with my debasement so far. There’s more to come, that doesn’t surprise me, it’s what I’ve been thinking about too, but…

What is it? How much am I going to dread it?

Enjoy it?

“See, Nicky,” she says, affecting casualness, “a person is a complicated thing. Even dumb beasts of burden like you,” she adds with a smirk and a snort that make my heart skip a bit. “We are stratified versions of all that’s happened to us over the years. Every decision. Every misfortune. Every trauma. We are a collection of random events, glued together, cementing over time.”

In the moment of silence that follows, her eyes study mine. "Do you understand what it means?" she asks, her tone laced with condescension. “What I’m going to do to you?”

It’s so hard to hold her gaze. Why sustain her judgement, why face my inadequacy, when I could just look down, focus on her feet… beautiful, reassuring, where I belong…

It’s one thing, telling the girl you’re dominating that she’s a dumb animal. But now, under her gaze, Chris is actually succeeding in making me feel stupid, because her question feels so poignant, and I don’t have an answer to it. It makes my blood curl. It makes my cunt spasm.

I shake my head, trembling with fear of her disapproval, but her face merely morphs into a sadistic, predatory grin."Figures. Well, I am going to reshape you, Nicky. But to do that, I need to get rid of all that nasty glue, of the agglomeration of dark thoughts and trauma that’s held you together so far. In short…"

Her right foot presses harshly against my head, as she draws me closer, close enough that I could sink my face between her legs if I wanted to. Dared to. Her sole is adhering to the top of my head now, and her left foot is escaping my fingers, snaking down under my skirt, rubbing against my pantyhose, heading towards my sex…

I give a soft, feminine gasp, when it gets to its target. That makes her smirk grow even wider.

“… I need to break you.”

The intensity, the sheer sexual ferocity she puts behind that word, it makes me shudder, and not just with fear. I find myself dry-humping her left foot, before I even get to realise it. She’s looming over me, using my head as a footrest, and I’m dry-humping her other foot like a dog awaiting instructions from her master.

So fucking pathetic.

“Break me? B-b-but,” I stammer, “isn’t it enough to… you know…”

Chris arches an eyebrow. “Get you sober? Turn you into my beta simp, my foot maid? Control your money, yank you away from work with a snap of fingers? Reduce you to adoring my feet?”

God. I can’t even muster the strength to answer in the affirmative, or even nod. All I can do is strain my thigh muscles, in an effort to press my crotch harder against her foot, to let her fuck me, I swear if she starts foot-fucking my cunt I will agree to anything right now, even if it utterly destroys me…

Especially if it destroys me.

“I suppose you have a point,” Chris says with a shrug, her foot tantalisingly close, teasing my sex. “For many dommes, that’d be enough. But this isn’t just a game between us, is it, Nicky? A happy couple, having fun in the bedroom. No, we’re in this situation because you’ve fucked up, big time. We didn’t just decide to play with collars and whips, did we, Nicky?”

“N-n-no,” I say, my voice broken and uncertain. “But I’ve admitted… surrendered… I’m not so bad!”

The light of victory that shines in my conqueror girlfriend’s eyes when I say those words is unmistakable. God, if I wasn’t so desperately needy for an orgasm, I’d be cringing right now. Really? I’m not so bad?

Am I really that desperate for her to validate me? I must be. It’s taking an existential toll on me already, just to admit that I was wrong, that I was ruining this relationship. I’ve put myself in her hands, and at her feet, I’m being open and vulnerable. The least she could do is give me something, a degree of acknowledgement that there’s good in me, that I’m not unsalvageable. That I still deserve to be loved.

But Chris only stares at me, lips narrow, eyes boring into me. "Not so bad? Nicky,” she says, solemnly. “You cheated on me." I’ve never heard her voice like this. So cold, so distant, so… cruel. I like it. "You cheated on me with a man."

I hang my head in shame, unable to meet her gaze. None of the old weapons in my arsenal would be useful to me here in any case, even if I wasn’t a broken foot slut. There’s nothing I can say to that, nothing at all. It’s just… the truth.

"Look, I did something stupid," I say, unable to look up, or to stop trying to fuck myself on her foot. "I was confused, things with you were becoming a trainwreck, I was angry, I was horny... I didn't even like it, and I'd never do that again! I never would have in the first place. I only did it because I was..."

“Drunk?” Chris says with a smirk.

Yeah. That.

“I wouldn’t be so sure you won’t do that again,” Chris continues, softly, so softly.

That tone of voice… it makes the hair stand up at the back of my neck, even if I’m not sure why. “What… what does that mean?”

“We’ll get there,” she says. “For now, though, this is exactly why simply forcing you to submit is not enough, Nicky. You are who you are. All that jaded cynicism, all that darkness… I can take away your drinking, yes.”

Her foot briefly, oh so briefly for one blissful moment, steps forcibly over my sex. It’s a statement and a symbol, and it makes me pant with needy arousal, but before I can even fully process the sudden sensory overstimulation, it withdraws again, and her toes once more resume cruelly teasing me.

“But eventually,” she continues as I whimper in despair, “you’ll get angry again, and you’ll look for some other stupid way to act out. To channel the emotions you can’t control.”

She sighs deeply, and I can sense how aroused she is by all of this, too. By my humiliation, and her control.

“You’ll lash out at the world, and ruin everything again. Make yourself miserable again. Which is why I,” she says, her foot dancing against my sex, “am,” she says, puntuating each word with a forward thrust, “going… to… BREAK you.”

I do look up at her this time, with pleading eyes this time. I feel on the verge of tears, and I’m not even sure what I’m pleading for. To cum? For her to spare me? Or to go all the way, disassemble me piece by piece, and give me purpose in her shadow?

Chris looks at me like an empress would look down upon a handmaid. I don’t know why my brain defaults to that image, but it comes, unbidden. Her face is contorted in a twisted grin of sadistic arousal, and it makes her look breath-takingly beautiful.

“God,” she says, “I love winning over you like this. You know I’m right. I’m your only hope, your last shot at being happy. You’re literally grovelling at my feet in exchange for me not dumping you. And now, you’re going to let me get a metaphorical scalpel, and go at you until all the nasty pieces are removed, and all that’s left is a much prettier Nicky. A much happier Nicky. A much more useful Nicky.”

I nod, releasing a grateful sigh as her foot finally presses against my cunt. I accept it, oh God, I do accept it. That’s what it means, isn’t it? Better and lesser.

“Just be my raw materials,” Chris continues, her breaths becoming laboured as her foot begins to rub faster and faster. “I’ll sculpt you into something much more to my tastes.”

“I will,” I say, professing, not my love, but my adoration. My worship. “Break me. End me. Tell me what I need to do.”

“Sobriety is not enough,” she says, her own right hand disappearing under her pants, her muscles tensing as she begins to pleasure herself. Her other hand closes in a fist around something.

“Atonement is not enough.” The sultriness in her voice, the cruelty of her words, are enough to nearly send me over the edge all by themselves. “Submission is not enough. Destroying your workaholic persona – ahh,” she says, shuddering in pleasure, “that’s a start, but… there’s another thing… another bit of your identity that holds you together… that needs to go…”

I buck to meet her rubbing, moaning and whimpering like the simple animal she says I am. “Anything,” I say. “Please, anything…”

The foot atop my head pushes, yanking me forward, even closer to the sofa, and to her. To her hand, rubbing under her pants, so close to my face that I could kiss it.

And then, her other hand opens.

Lipstick.

Chris wields it like a weapon, thrusting forward, pressing it against my lips. She doesn’t stop pleasuring herself. She doesn’t stop pinning me underfoot, or rubbing me to the edge of orgasm, as she maneuvers the lipstick, biting her lip with sadistic joy.

I wonder if it arouses her to feminise me even more. I wonder if she wants to see lipstick smears on her feet, after I’ve worshipped them like a slave girl.

But then, as she keeps decorating my lips to her liking, she begins to tell me what she has in mind.

And my eyes widen in horror… not just at what she’s telling me, what she plans to do to me, but at my brain. My orgasm-craving, sex-starved, affection-deprived, alcohol-free brain. Desperate, and enthralled, and hers. It won’t let me say no.

That’s how I know to recognise this. It’s the end of my independence.