Ragnaring does things in style.
On the morning of the midterm ceremony, the fanfare is everywhere. Each hallway is festooned with scarves emblazoned with the school’s symbol - a raven. There are also banners bearing various motivational slogans.
“Don’t ask for it. Take it.”
“You don’t owe this world a thing.”
“It is the duty of the loser to celebrate the winner.”
“In a universe based on scarcity, life is war. Live accordingly.”
The one that sticks with me, of course, is the one about losers and winners.
Margaret totally outplayed me. I indebted myself into literally being her maid for a day, and I didn’t even get first place for it. The echoes of her mocking laughter follow me wherever I go, making my cheeks blush, my spine shiver… and my pussy tingle.
I can’t get the image of her feet out of my head. The way they easily toppled me to the ground, turning my face into her footrest. The way my arms grew increasingly numb, in the constricting embrace of the armbinder – all too apt a metaphor for the class system that keeps people like me in the thrall of people like her.
I hate her. But mostly, I hate the part of me that doesn’t hate her.
These gloomy thoughts aren’t reflected by Ragnaring’s festive mood. The school even has its own marching band, to mark the occasion, and the fanfare bounces across every hallway, so loud that I can barely hear my own thoughts.
The spectacle couldn’t make a sharper contrast to my inner state of mind, which is utterly and completely despondent. Yes, I’m in second place in the entire school, and yet I doubt there’s a girl at Ragnaring that’s more miserable than I am.
My forfeit with Margaret has had a… lasting impact on me. I feel smaller, diminished. Doubly so because she used it to its full extent to play mind games with me, and she succeeded, much as I loathe admitting it.
And again, it was all for nothing. She’s still first. I hang my head low, dejectedly, as I make my way towards the main auditorium, where the ceremony will take place.
For a moment, my despondency is almost forgotten at the spectacle before me. The auditorium is packed to the rafters, and the atmosphere is incredible. That faint sound you hear when a great mass of people is holding their breath in anticipation, the vaulted stone ceiling, it all makes this place feel like a cathedral.
The auditorium is illuminated only by torches, and every single girl in this school sits in wait, eager to discover the true nature of the ceremony. High up the stage, the cohort of professors sits at a long table, with headmistress Polina standing near the middle. It looks like a painting.
We haven’t been told much about the ceremony, but one thing I do know is where us top three girls are supposed to take position. We are to flank the headmistress, almost like her honour guard, as she delivers her ceremonial speech. So I make my way up the stage, trying to stop my cheeks from reddening as I see the eyes of the entire student body fixed upon me.
I take Polina’s right, as does Elizabeth. Huh. I guess even the quiet creepy girl wants to stay as far away from Margaret as possible.
Of course, the snark in my head would have more bite if my own lust wasn’t betraying me. While we wait for the ceremony to begin, I glance at Margaret. God, she’s gorgeous. Images of her utter domination of me flash before my eyes as I study her with a knot in my throat. Her red mane is like a crown of fire.
Will I have to kneel to her? Will I have to call her Queen Margaret again? She’s promised to claim me, and to utterly break me. Can she actually deliver?
I hope not. I want to win. But I can’t deny that the idea of annihilation at the hands of my worst nemesis makes me shudder in forbidden arousal. How fucked up am I? How can my wires be so possibly crossed as to sexualise something like this?
I try to look proper while still feeling completely dejected, and settle in for the headmistress’ speech. I know this is going to be torture to listen to, and will likely involve intolerable praise for Margaret… but the sooner it ends, the better. I just want to go back to my room, put my face in the pillow, and cry.
Polina tests her mic with her finger before commencing her speech, and loudly clears her throat. I can see Elizabeth and Margaret holding their heads high, but to be honest, I don’t cut a particularly stately figure at the moment.
My eyes are downcast, my mind consumed by thoughts of failure. I’ve worked so hard this entire semester, pushing myself to the brink, only to fall just short of the top. I gambled to bridge the gap, and the result was the discovery of a new kink… and utter personal humiliation.
"Welcome, students and faculty," Polina begins, her voice ringing out over the assembly hall. "It is with great pride that I gather you here today to celebrate the hard work and dedication of the very best of our students."
I should be proud. I’m one of the three very best. Her speech is for me, too. And yet, this achievement is poisoned for me now, and I honestly can’t muster a crumb of enthusiasm inside me. Yet, I force myself to listen, trying to pay attention to the headmistress's words.
"Ragnaring is no ordinary school,” she continues. "You are not here to learn, but to develop a generational ethos, to be the queens of tomorrow. We teach you to do all that is required to get ahead… and to stay there.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Margaret’s wry smile at this.
“Life is war,” Polina continues. “For biological beings, there is only one constant that has remained the same, throughout the entire history of life: the relationship between predator and prey."
I can feel my heart beating faster as Polina's tone hardens, as if she's building up to something important. I snap out of my despondent thoughts, my attention fully focused on the headmistress.
“War is a test of wills,” she continues. “But also skill, and of course, luck. One who never takes any risks will never win. That is why we have the Wheel, providing you with much-needed boosts. But one who gambles too carelessly will one day have to pay the price. That is why the Wheel has teeth: forfeits and costs.”
Don’t I know it… I’ve certainly felt its teeth myself.
“By this point, you’re all familiar with the forfeits,” Polina says with a wry smile, which makes me cringe in recollection of the price I paid… and how much I enjoyed it. “So far, there have been restrictions on the nature of the forfeits, with sexual services excluded. But in real life, there are no real rules save for those the victors impose. With your first semester done, it’s time for the training wheels to come off. Starting today, Wheel forfeits will often include sexual performances. Well, let’s say, very often.”
My mouth hangs open in shock, and a stunned murmur of confusion ripples across the entirety of the auditorium like a tidal wave. Girls look at one another, confused. Some have worried faces. But for others, the confusion turns into a wolfish grin.
I gulp. I… would have relished something like this, not long ago. It would have fueled my motivation to get to the top even more, so that I could truly show Margaret who’s boss. But now? The thought of the next forfeit I might have to pay under Margaret is making me shiver.
Under her, literally and metaphorically.
“That takes care of the forfeits. But the Wheel also places you in debt to the school. Now, the nature of the debt will remain a secret until the end of the year.”
As expected, but the audience of girls can hardly suppress a small groan of disappointment. Margaret is smiling radiantly, as if confident that the rather considerable debt she’s incurred this semester will not be an issue.
Maybe she’s right. Rich folk always land on their feet. People like me usually land at their feet.
"However,” Polina says, raising her index finger, her voice taking on a serious tone. "The debt exists to drive home a lesson. Like I said, she who gambles recklessly is unfit for war. It is perfectly legitimate to get ahead through underhanded means. But accumulating massive amounts of debt renders that first place pointless: someone else has leverage over you, power over you. She who indebts herself too much is not playing her own game, not really. She’s playing into the hands of the house."
I can feel my heart racing, wondering where Polina is going with this. Why is my hair standing at the back of my neck?
"And so, at the end of each semester, our top three students are judged on the extent of their debt," she continues. "This evaluation will determine who will carry the burden of their debt, and who will receive the rewards of their hard work."
I can feel a sense of unease growing inside me, my mind racing with questions. What does she mean by "carry the burden of their debt"? What kind of rewards will be given to the top students?
Then, a slow realisation begins to dawn on me. My limbs tremble at the sudden cascade of adrenaline being pumped into my system.
I turn towards Margaret, my jaw dropping in amazement.
I play to win.
I bask in the spectacle of the ceremony, giddy in anticipation of my triumph. Every motivational slogan on a banner seems to address me directly. Every line from the headmistress seems tailor-made to explain why people like me deserve to rule, and why people like Fiona deserve to have their faces turned into my permanent footrests.
I look out at the audience. Every girl in this room has her eyes fixed on me, and I can tell there are two types of looks in there: some want to be me, and some simply admire me. I love both.
I smile inwardly, thinking about the praise that is about to be heaped upon me, anticipating the glow of the inevitable and well-deserved adoration I will soon receive.
But then, as the headmistress’ speech continues, the looks change. Faces drop, eyes widening in surprise. I frown. Even Fiona is looking at me like she’s seeing an alien. Only Elizabeth is her usual, imperturbable self.
What’s going on?
"This evaluation will determine who will carry the burden of their debt,” Polina says, turning to look at me. I can sense a small smirk playing at the edge of her curved lips.
I don’t understand. Why is she staring me down like that?
"Like I said,” Polina continues, her gaze zeroing in on me, her voice growing cold and sharp.
“She who indebts herself too much is not playing her own game. Her first place is illusory. She has granted others power over her. And at Ragnaring, where competition is the rule of everything, giving power over to others is a really bad idea.”
I shake my head, my mouth opening and closing as words fail me. It’s like Polina’s words make sense individually, but not put together. What is she saying? Why is she implying that my first place is worthless?
She’s staring me down now, with a chilling, knowing stare. I can feel my heart begin to sink.
As Polina continues, I can feel my disbelief turning to outrage. How dare she turn on me? We are one of a kind, women of the world. I thought we had an understanding, a kinship! This is all wrong, it’s not how it’s supposed to go!
“Margaret,” the headmistress says. “Your debt to the school has reached a respectable size, and will be paid off to the school in its entirety, in the fullness of time. Make no mistake, this is true for every student in this auditorium.”
I feel a knot form in my stomach, my mind racing. I thought I had it figured out, that I knew the rules of this game. That I was invincible.
“Now to some degree, the top three girls do follow a separate set of rules,” Polina continues. “Well, one rule, really. A remarkably simple one. We want the top three to be unadulterated: pure talent, ruthlessness, and the ability to get ahead. Anyone who ranks in the top three by simply splurging on the Wheel, who accrues a considerable level of debt, will be punished.”
The student body reacts to the revelation with shocked silence. The auditorium is as quiet as the grave. But as the reality of the situation sinks in, I feel my anger boil over. I will not be treated like this. I glare at Polina, wondering if I’m going to end up shouting, telling her she doesn’t know who I am, who my family are, what they’ll do to me for this stab in the back.
But somehow, I can’t quite muster the courage.
Polina raises two fingers. “Her punishment is twofold. She will be burdened with the debt tab for the two other girls in the top three. You’re quite lucky, this time. Fiona’s debt is very low, and Elizabeth’s is nonexistent. It’s only a minor increase compared to your own debt.”
I swoon in place, feeling like I’m about to faint. This is some cruel joke, it has to be.
“As for the second part…” she continues, her voice cold and cruel. “You will pay the Wheel back in full. A new benefit will be added to the store, for all students to purchase at the normal cost. The benefit will give the student the rights to your… services. Sexual, and otherwise.”
I feel my knees buckle beneath me, and I struggle to keep my balance. This can't be happening. Not to me. Things like these don’t happen to people lik me. They’re going to whore me out at the Wheel? For a whole semester? For a whole…
This can’t get any worse.
“One last thing,” Polina says as my vision begins to swim. “For the next twenty-four hours, you will make it up to the girl whose place you usurped. In your case, that means the girl who finished right behind you.”
I blink once, twice, lost in an uncomprehending fog. No, surely. That’d be preposterous to suggest even as a joke. Isn’t this bad enough? Surely she isn’t about to say -
“Fiona,” Polina says, turning towards her. “Claim your reward. For the next twenty-four hours, she is yours. Do with her as you will.”
I open my mouth to protest, to shout, to curse… but no words come out. Ragnaring’s hypnotic conditioning immediately triggers, cutting off my ability to protest, my spare capacity for resistance. I suddenly feel meek and mellow, compelled to do my duty, in service of the school, and of the girl it’s designated as my temporary taskmaster.
I stare at Fiona, who is looking back at me with a look that is hard to describe. She is confused, stunned, but there’s a twinkle in her eye, and as she turns to me, her face stretches into a devilish grin the likes of which I’ve never seen in my life.
That strikes fear into my heart.
No, not her. Please no, why her? Anybody but her!
I can't believe it. I can't believe I have to serve her, this purple-haired peon, this upstart with grubby hands, and… I mean, she’s hot, but I wanted to own her, to cut off her silly pretensions of social mobility, to quell her ambitions to something more realistic. Like being my maid.
And what? I have to serve her, do her bidding without question for twenty-four hours, whereupon I’ll be put on sale for the whole school like I’m a pound of flesh at the market?
But then, the worst twist of the knife happens.
The auditorium erupts into noise. And that noise is laughter.
I stare at the girls of Ragnaring, betrayed and on the verge of tears. I can see fingers pointing at me, hands clapping, someone whistling. And that’s when the truth hits me.
They hate me.
I just wanted to be adored. To be worshipped. They’re all so happy to witness my downfall, like sheep celebrating that the lion is in chains. I try to cling to my fierce pride, but I know this scene is going to follow and haunt me for the rest of my time at Ragnaring. For the rest of my life.
And then, Fiona steps forward, her boots making an ominous sound against the wooden floor of the stage. I find myself stepping back and cowering in her presence, but she grabs my wrist, and I yelp at the sudden pressure.
We exchange a meaningful look, and I know what I’m seeing in those eyes of hers. Her last few days have been hell, because I had embarked on a project to progressively deconstruct her. But now, she has a second wind, and wants to pay me back in kind. The predatory hunger etched on her face… I know that look so well. I see it in the mirror every day, after all.
“Well, well, well,” Fiona says, clearly savouring every word. "Looks like you have a room to clean, your highness. For starters."
The sultry, rapacious tone of her voice sends a cold shiver rippling down my spine. Stunned and in shock, I find myself spacing out, as Fiona tugs at my wrist, heading towards the exit.
I can feel the eyes of the entire student body on me as I go. I can hear their whistles and their laughter, and I’ll be hearing it forever. I have never felt so small and helpless. Constricted by the hypnosis, I yield to my fate as Fiona drags me out of the auditorium. Towards the dorms, and towards the unthinkable.
"Not used to this kind of work, are you? I bet you’ve never had to clean a single thing in your life," Fiona taunts, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair. “Not to worry. I thought that simplifying your task would help you out a little. Baby steps, you know.”
The hypnosis compels my obedience to my arch-rival. It does not compel my facial expression. I roll my eyes as best I can, showing her just what I think of her joke.
Simplify. Yeah, she’s simplified my task, alright.
Fiona’s room is tiny and stuffy, but even so, having to actually clean it would be a real chore. She’s right – of course I have staff at home who are there to clean for me. This would be my first time, and I would have no idea what I’m doing.
But I don’t need to worry about that. In her effort to one-up what I did to her for her forfeit, Fiona has decided on a… particular cleaning method.
I kneel on the cold hard floor by the chair, while she sits regally, contemplating my reduction. My arms are tied in my own armbinder, specifically fetched for the occasion from my room, and are starting to go numb. I can hear the leather stretch as I try to wiggle, to stimulate circulation.
It doesn’t do much, unfortunately. The leather always wins. I try to ignore the remote pang of arousal that I get at the thought.
To complete the picture, in my mouth is a single toothbrush.
I’m holding it between my teeth, desperately trying not to drop it – a mistake that would elicit devastating consequences, Fiona says – and feebly scrubbing at the floor with it. It’s completely pointless, of course. It won’t clean a single thing.
But Fiona has insisted that I do the whole room like this, with perhaps a few breaks here and there to… attend to her. I don’t like the tone she used when she said that. No matter what the sudden heat in my belly says.
Yes, Fiona is hot, in a street gutter rat kind of way. Fierce, cocky, and rebellious. I relished in the opportunity to tame her, to make her mine. But losing to her is… well. It just is.
On the other hand, I hate this goddamn toothbrush. Every single muscle in my body aches from my unnatural position, while Fiona relaxes in her chair, watching me work.
"You know, Margaret," Fiona says, crossing her legs, a movement that catches my eye, for entirely innocent reasons. Her form-fitting jeans do compliment her figure, though. "I really ought to thank you: I never really saw the appeal of armbinders… but I think I do, now. What do you think?"
“Gnnhh,” I say, desperately trying not to drop the toothbrush.
“Think about it, Queen Margaret. You’ve never done a single chore in your entire life… until now. This is your first time. With your arms tied, humiliated before the entire school, relegated to a maid by your own worst rival, a peon as you like to call me.”
Her voice is low and taunting, with an edge of hunger and desire that makes my knees tremble. “Well, who’s the peon now? How’s that toothbrush taste? God, I love seeing you like this. On your hands and knees, cleaning my floor."
A moan escapes my lips, suddenly replaced by a surprised yelp as a weight lands on my back – or, more technically, on my bound arms. I freeze, realisation washing over me as I feel the weight of her boots on my arms. It's a weirdly… intimate moment, and I feel a mix of emotions. I should be outraged, but instead I feel... strangely compliant. I can see why she’s doing it.
The repetition of what I did to her is not lost on me. It makes me wonder how she’s going to one-up me on this aspect of the scene…
"Come on, Margaret," she says, one of her boots playfully kicking me in the sides, like I’m a horse. “You’re not a wimp, are you? Getting tired already?”
I close my eyes, fighting against the profound discomfort of my position, wishing I could at least wipe the sweat from my forehead. It's a strange feeling, being dominated like this, but there's a small part of me that's enjoying it too. And not just because I’m succumbing to Fiona…
Maybe it's the sense of purpose I feel, knowing that I'm doing something for someone else for once.
I've never really thought about how my actions have affected others, but now I can’t stop thinking of how they laughed. They all hate me. Maybe if I’m a good girl, if I stop being a bitch, if I do what I’m told… they’ll start to like me?
Or maybe that’s just the hypnosis talking.
Either way, I find myself falling into a strange, mesmerising rhythm as I scrub pointlessly at the floor with the toothbrush. It all starts to blend together, then – the hypnosis, the discomfort, the hurt, the numbness in my muscles, the humiliation coursing through me like so many electrical discharges, the weight of Fiona’s boots on my arms.
That’s greatly adding to my discomfort, reducing circulation even further, making me grit my teeth in pain.
I know this is only to last a day, but as I lie here, broken and defeated, it’s hard to believe that I will ever be able to rise again. Besides, the next six months, I fear, are going to be a lot more of this, with so many girls…
Girls who’ve finished behind me, but now drag me down the food chain, down and down and down with no end in sight and oh god that is so hot!
I’m snapped out of my reverie by Fiona’s boot casually nudging the back of my head. I yielp in surprise, and my eyes widen in horror as the bump makes me loosen my grip on the toothbrush. It clutters to the floor, the sound followed by a deadly long silence.
“Please,” I say at last, “please don’t punish me, I didn’t mean to drop it!”
Fiona’s stern face actually breaks into a smile at that, and she begins caressing my hair with the sole of her boot. Which should be utterly disgusting, but makes me feel strangely… praised.
“Look how quickly you’ve learned,” she says. “So easily tameable. Mmmmh. God, we’ll have to make this a regular thing.”
I haven’t learnt anything, I want to tell her. It’s just the hypnosis. But I don’t utter a word, I just draw in breath at her comments, which only elicits an even bigger smile from her.
"That’s why you're the perfect choice. You're used to being pampered, to having people wait on you hand and foot. And now, you're going to have to do it for me. And we both know you’re going to love it.”
I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame. Mostly because the idea sounds as terrifying as it sounds wonderful. Because of the alien thoughts implanted in my brain.
“That’s what I thought,” Fiona says, leaning back into the chair, patting my head lightly with her boots. "Good girl. Good maid."
A maid. The thought sends pulses of defeated arousal through me. That’s what I’ve become. A lady, fallen to a maid.
Fiona’s boots stop petting me, perching atop my head. The symbolism makes me swoon. What kind of person lets someone do that? Becoming such a literal doormat? Fiona's boots feel heavy, but in a good way. It's like they're grounding me, acting as my centre of gravity, chainging me to a new place in this world.
My place, maybe.
No! That’s not me, I never have thoughts like these!
I've never had anyone use me like this before, and it's both exhilarating and embarrassing. Is this what it means to be a servant? To be used for someone else's comfort? The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
As Fiona continues to lounge with her boots on my head, I find myself thinking about the implications of this new dynamic. Am I really starting to see Fiona as my boss? Am I actually accepting the idea that I'm not meant to be an aristocrat, but a cleaning lady instead? Or is this just my conditioning?
"You’re a pretty good footrest,” Fiona says. “But now, it’s time to really have some fun.”
Fiona's boots suddenly press down on my head, guiding me to the floor. It's as if she's telling me that this is my place, and even if my brain refuses the notion, my pussy wants to believe it, and my hypnotic conditioning agrees.
Maybe I was never meant to be a high society scion, but a cleaning lady all along. I can feel my beliefs and sense of self shifting under Fiona's boots. Being reshaped, remade.
I lie there, my cheek pressed against the cool tiles, and let out a deep sigh. A sigh of surrender. I can almost see my own facial expression in my mind’s eye, with my eyes widening and my lips parting, as the sole of the boot grinds and twists, deforming my features. Pressing onto them. Reshaping me, keeping me securely pinned.
I’ve never been more aroused in my life.
I feel the pressure of Fiona's boot on my cheek and can hear her breathing steady and slow. The silence in the room is palpable, only broken by the occasional creak of the leather as Fiona shifts in her seat. The leather of the boot is rough and smooth at the same time, and I can smell the scent of leather and polish. I continue to reflect on the symbolism of the boots, how they represent Fiona's power and status, and how I am at her mercy.
The pressure on my cheek increases, and I can feel control, not as a concept, but as a physical reality. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, and let the sensation wash over me. Maybe it is the hypnosis, but so what? This feels… divine.
I open my eyes to find Fiona's gaze fixed upon me. Her eyes are deep and dark, and in them I see a reflection of my own submission. I look back, silently begging for her to just take me already. My arousal is driving me insane. I know that right now I would say anything, agree to anything. Even stuff that I don’t believe. Even stuff I might regret.
As I lie here on the floor, I find myself transfixed by the boot resting just inches away from my face. I can't help but study its every detail, the shine of the leather, the scuffs on the toe, the intricate stitching. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich scent of leather, and it feels like I'm breathing in a piece of Fiona's essence along with it.
An essence of strength and unfettered power.
I can't help but feel a sense of feminine submissiveness and vulnerability, lying here on the floor with Fiona's boot looming over me. The lady, toppled and maidified by the tough girl in her combat boots.
The silence is only broken by the sound of my heavy breathing. The boot in front of me is still so captivating, and I find myself completely absorbed by it. I can feel my breathing getting heavier.
And I find myself inching closer to the boot.
I can sense Fiona’s gaze on me and I'm aware that she's observing my behaviour.
"Margaret," Fiona says in a low voice. "What are you doing?"
It’s a genuine question, asked in a curious, eager tone. Fiona is trying to read me, but I don't answer, I'm too focused on the boot. I’m now close enough to touch it with my face, with my chin, with my cheeks. I’m rubbing against it, like a cat. The material is soft and warm to the touch, and I can feel the shape of Fiona's foot inside.
Fiona doesn't say anything, she just watches as I rub my face against her boot. I'm breathing heavily now and I can feel my heart racing. I'm not sure why I'm so drawn to it, but I can't help it.
"Margaret," Fiona says again. "You know what this means. Right?”
I find myself inching closer to the boot in front of me. My lips are now hovering right above the leather. I take a deep breath, taking in the smell of the leather and I close my eyes, feeling the aura of the boot engulf me.
And then, I begin to lick.
It’s unthinkable that I would do this of my own volition, hypnosis or not. But I just can’t help it. My head is so messed-up, the trauma of being ridiculed before the entire school, the shock of my defeat and my debasement, the conditioning… I’m sexualising all of this so goddamn hard.
How do you explain what makes licking boots so beautiful? They’re a symbol of… oppression. Glossy, shiny, unyielding. They taste leathery and pungent, and my lips and tongue feel even softer by contrast with their toughness.
The lapping sounds that feel the room sound so humble. I don’t even dare raise my eyes to look at Fiona. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling.
Like a goddess, probably.
"In a way, this experience you’re having with me… it’s the last day of your old life,” Fiona says from above, cackling. "You’re staring at six months of whoredom. Hope you enjoy."
I moan at her words, lapping even more slavishly, tossing away every aristocratic pretension, every claim to status I might ever have. I’ve been cast down and brought low by this girl. By Ragnaring’s rules, she deserves the prize.
She deserves me.
I feel like begging for mercy, submitting to a higher power.
"Starting tomorrow, you’re going to be on sale at the Wheel, just like any other benefit. That’s what you are, Margy. A little object for our amusement.”
Oh God. Oh my God if only my arms were free right now I’d be rubbing myself like crazy.
“I wonder how many girls will have their way with you,” she says, mockingly lost in thought. “Probably most of them. Although I can guarantee you, I intend to buy your services very often.”
My only reply is to pant and slobber over her boots like a fucking dog.
“Of course, there’s only one of you, and so many of us,” Fiona says. “We’ll have to figure out a rota, or something. You might not have time to study anymore, but judging by how you got first place… we all know you’re useless at it anyway.”
I moan again, in indignation and hurt, but also in humiliating arousal.
Embarassingly, when Fiona retracts her boots, I follow them with my eager lips, my slavering tongue. That makes Fiona laugh, but she has no further words for me. She places a boot against my forehead, and rolls me over with a push, without ceremony.
Rolling over hurts. I’m still in the armbinder, my arms now completely numb, and every inch of my body hurts. My gulps of air are cut short when Fiona’s boot suddenly clamps down, constricting my throat, nailing it against the floor.
I stare up at her, emitting tiny little choking squeals. Looking at her from this lowly vantage is a breathless experience. Her boot dominates my vision as it imprints itself into the skin of my throat, her shapely calf and thigh loom over me like a tower. Her face seems so far away, unreachable, like a star.
Her expression is cold and cruel, a mask of authority that terrifies me.
This is what it’s like to lose, then. To watch your triumphant opponent glare at you, as she chokes you with the simplest of things – a step. Gravity, and the pressure of her boot. There’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’re harmless, inconsequential, an afterthought.
Fiona’s fingers begin to work at the buttons of her jeans, loosening them. But she’s still wearing them when at last, she withdraws the boot from my throat. I desperately gulp in lungfuls of oxygen – but only for a few precious moments.
Immediately after, Fiona lands atop me, knees on each side of my head. They shuffle closer, and all of a sudden I find my face nestled in her supple, muscular thighs, my lips and nose being pressed into the crotch of her jeans.
I squeal, more for show than anything else. It’s warm, and I breathe in, trying to catch her scent, to let it mark me as her territory. Fiona begins to gently rub herself against my face, and I see her hand sneak inside her jeans.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “You’ll get a turn too. By my estimation, we still have eighteen hours ahead of us, and my dear Margy… I intend to enjoy every single minute of them.”
I close my eyes, losing myself in the feeling of her crotch conquering my face, as I realise that in a way… so do I.