I stare at my new owner.

I used to spend some time looking in the mirror, every day. Psyching myself up, steeling myself for another day that would require me to push through the pain. Checking that my mask of strength was still in place, that it wasn’t slipping. That I wasn’t cracking.

And even when Chris set out to transform me, to mold me, I tracked my own change, my own descent, through my physical alterations. I marveled at my girlfriend’s power, and at her thoroughness.

Do you know what it means, to be transformed?

It means you don’t hold your shape anymore. Someone applies pressure, and you conform. You yield to her thumb. You let her remodel and reshape you, washing away your boundaries, your identity, like it’s nothing. You let her refashion you into something more to her liking.

More useful. More docile. More manageable. More, more, and more… but fundamentally, lesser.

Not many people would think of a transition from alcoholism to sobriety as a descent, and yet I do, and this is why. I didn’t change, I didn’t choose to change, she changed me. She applied pressure. And I couldn’t hold my shape.

Weakness, giving way to strength.

Maybe most importantly, Chris correctly understood that solving my drinking and cheating problems wasn’t enough. I’d find other ways to act out my misery, to look tormented and weary and so very deep, to self-destruct in dramatic ways.

She needed to uproot the source of the issue. She needed to uproot Nicole.

There is something breathless, almost revelatory about witnessing your own transformation in a mirror. To see your hairstyle go from practical to feminine. To see the ever-more generous application of make up, the slight tremble in your lips, the submissive slant in your posture.

To twirl in your skirt, looking like a mere waitress, the take-charge butch long gone, softened into a gentle, submissive state of femininity.

But there is even more power, in not being in the mirror at all.

I have eyes only for my conqueror. I have been forcibly – not unkindly, but forcibly – expelled from the mirror. From my self perception. It’s a form of annihilation, one that makes my pussy spasm with desperate need.

Like an excision of my identity, a declaration that even my transformation, my debasement, my enslavement – none of it actually matters.

Chris is the only thing that matters. The only thing I should be devoting my attention to.

How fitting, then, that she completely dominates my entire field of vision right now.

Anyone who claims – as I used to – that they could never be submissive in any relationship, should first have to gape at a girl from below. To witness the regal, imperial aura of a girl in triumph, revelling in her conquest, in her ability to impose her will on you.

Empress. That’s what Chris looks like to me, from down here.

She’s lounging on the sofa, her left leg elegantly draped over the right. Her right foot is firmly planted above my lips, which means that the weight of both legs is nailing my face against the cold, hard floor.

When I look up, I see her left foot, swaying in the air above me, so large and prominent, fittingly so. It was the key to my downfall, and my rehabilitation. I love the way her legs look from down here, because when you’re nothing but a little worm crawling on the floor, everything above you looks like power.

The way her form-fitting jeans hug her calves, the left one bulging because of the crossing of her legs. The mere hint of her shapely thighs disappearing over the sofa, thighs which I know will be wrapping around my head later tonight, when she decides to make use of me.

Her body, which I once thought of as lithe and petite as it squirmed beneath mine, now looms literally larger than life above me. And why not? She’s certainly larger than my life. She’s taken mine, and slowly pruned it, reduced it, until my very existence is merely a subset of hers.

Is there a more total victory you can have over another human being?

Every time her left foot swings temporarily out of my field of view, her face comes into focus. Her boyish haircut, short and stily, frames her face like a crown. She’s so heart-breakingly beautiful.

It doesn’t matter if she’s staring at her phone, not even paying attention to the footstool who used to be her girlfriend; or if she’s leering down at me, eyes alight with sadistic victory, her face stretched into a predatory smile that makes my spine tingle.

It’s always breath-takingly, will-shatteringly beautiful. This is how a queen looks like.

There is nothing sexual in the way her right foot is resting on my lips. I’m not kissing it, licking it, sucking it. Sure, I’ve been smelling it for hours, inhaling her foot scent, letting it worm its way into my nostrils and my mind… the scent of my new ruler…

But I’m not worshipping it. Not now, at least.

And yet, everything about this is so erotic. My lips, which once used to kiss her, are now put to better use as furniture for her to place her feet on. There is no need to preserve my ability to speak, when I’m so much more useful in this position.

I may not be worshipping, but I am serving.

Eventually, Chris shifts her position, and for a moment, as her foot lifts from my lips, I regain awareness of just how long I’ve been lying on the floor, how much every muscle in my body hurts with crampy soreness.

The pain and discomfort radiate through my aching body, sudden and intense… but only for a moment. Because then, Chris’ right foot descends once again, this time comfortably nestling against the hollow of my throat.

She’s looking at me now, I can sense it, with that devilish smile she always has when she toys with her defeated sapphic plaything. I was her girlfriend, once. Now… I’m just Nicky.

Her left foot swings more and more theatrically before it.

“You’ve done so much for my feet, Nicky,” she says, in a tone of mock-innocence. “You clearly like them a lot! Why don’t you show me? Give my foot a little kiss. Come on, right on the sole, I know you can do it, baby girl.”

Even in my foot-induced mental numbness, even after how meticulously and thoroughly she’s dissected my self-perception, I still see her game for what it is. And yet, I play it anyway, just like any dumb, cowed farm animal would. That’s how thoroughly she has domesticated me.

I try to lift myself from the floor, craning my neck forward, trying to reach the foot that beckons before me and above me. Chris doesn’t need to playfully pull away, though. All she has to do is stay still.

With her right foot firmly planted on my throat.

It’s not budging, which stops me from reaching her left foot. “Guuhh,” I say, and “eehhkkhh”, soft choking sounds as I’m restricting my own windpipe against her foot, just so I can smash my face against her sole.

Like an over-eager dog, choking on a leash to try and get closer to its master.

“Aww, what’s the matter, Nicky?” Chris asks in mock sweetness. “You can’t reach it? You must not like it as much as I thought!”

The humiliation from the mockery, from her words, from my debasement, just makes me want to try even harder. I push and strain, balling my hands into fists from the effort, breathing more and more laboriously, until tears sting my eyes.

“How pathetic,” she says, up above, so far above, a goddess, and me a mere, dumb mortal. Her voice is cold, now, which only makes her sound even hotter to my ears. “Here, Nicky, let me help you out.”

Her right foot presses down even more harshly now, cutting off my air supply. I give a soft, throaty croak as she masters my breathing with as little as the sole of her foot. Out of the corner of my vision, I see her shifting in place, rotating slightly sideways, so that her left leg – still crossed over the right – can reach closer to the ground.

To my face.

When it’s within reach, I don’t need further commands. I respond to non-verbal inputs, like the good domestic companion she’s molded me into, a trick-turning maid whore that once used to be her girlfriend. Her peer.

I rain worshipful, eager, humble kisses all over her toes and her soles. We once used to argue over groceries, or discuss which movie to watch, or talk about car payments… normal couple stuff. Now, I pant from the oxygen deprivation, as I try to lap at her soles with my tongue like an eager footslut.

To me, it sounds like an unquestionable improvement.

My life is better. I’m better. I’m functionally no longer her girlfriend, but I get to love her, and be with her, and be hers, in a way that is actually meaningful, and that would have never been possible before.

No more drinking, no more cheating, no more pain, no more rage… no more Nicole.

Just this.

It all started because of these feet, petite, alluring, and divine. Regal, worthy of worship. I gave up so much for them, and Chris took the rest, carefully carved it out of me like she was the chef with a knife, and I was merely her recipe. Her handiwork.

Her masterpiece.

The sheer amount of skin-on-skin contact with the soles of her feet is making my head spin faster than the partial blocking of my airways is. I could cum just from this, if I had her permission. Yes, she’s going to facesit me into oblivion later, but this? This is true heaven for me.

Because I’m a footslut. I love the scent of her feet, their texture as they stomp me into the ground, the way they taste under my lips, the way her toes will feel in my mouth when I obediently fellate them.

But it’s not just about her feet. It’s about what it all means. This addiction is something deeper, something more. It’s sexual, and erotic, and romantic, all at once, but there’s one final ingredient missing, the one that matters most of all.

All the way back then, the first time she did this to me, I thought I’d made a new, kinky, purely sexual discovery. The discovery of feet. Even then I understood, on some level, that things might change between Chris and I, that the balance might tilt. It was terrifying, and exciting, and addictive.

But I was wrong. This was more than just a discovery of feet.

As my vision begins to dim, and Chris’ feet press me into the ground, mastering my face and my breath and my love and my very sense of self, I look at her, in her victory, in her glory… and I know for certain.

It was the discovery of power.