Fiona

There is power, in the act of putting on your boots.

The sound your foot and calf make, as they slide effortlessly in. The tight embrace of the leather, as it hugs you, like armour. The reassuring gloss of the surface, made even shinier by a slave girl’s obedient lapping… by your vanquished rival’s obedient lapping.

The feeling of the hard sole under your foot, as you now stand taller, more commanding. The resounding thunder of your steps—you’re no longer walking, but marching.

Who needs crowns and sceptres, sports cars and cigars, and all manner of other obnoxious iconographies of power one could conceive of? Boots are a woman’s crown. There is no better physical manifestation of my power, than pressing them into Maggie’s face.

Watching it contort and squeeze and deform, yielding under my pressure, the sole literally remoulding her features, hardness over softness, alpha over beta, master over slave.

In fact…

Who needs graduation ceremonial garments?

Ragnaring’s are very elaborate and elegant, slick and black, narrow at the shoulders and widening at the hips, made to vaguely resemble the flowing wings of a proud raven. All my young adult life, I dreamed of donning those garments, coveted by so many, earned by so few. Yesterday, while receiving the copy of my diploma, I felt like a queen.

But now?

Now I feel like a goddess. Because these boots, and what they symbolise, and the power I hold over Margaret, have come to mean so much more than I ever thought they could.

Hard to believe how despondent I was, six months ago, on the day of the midterm ceremony. I was so devastated over finishing second to Margaret. Ironically, I did finish the year in second place, too—behind Elizabeth this time.

I used to believe that finishing second just meant being the first of the losers. But I… no longer truly believe that. I’m proud of what I have achieved, and I’m fine with myself. All in all, it’s an exceptional result all the same. Could I have done better? Well, yes.

Admittedly, there were times during this semester in which I was… distracted…

Who could stay focused on academic pursuits, when you have a slave girl to toy with, pretty much at will? Even the few benefits I did buy from the Wheel were focused on dominating my new lezzie pet, rather than gaining academic boosts. It’s placed me in a moderate amount of debt to the school—and today, we’re finally going to learn what that debt consists of, exactly—but damn it, it was worth it.

No ceremonial garments today. With the diplomas handed out yesterday, all that’s left for this very last day at Ragnaring is a closing conference, in which the final verdict on our indebtedness will be revealed to us. I feel a little pang of worry at the thought, but just a little. I know the vast majority of the girls here are more indebted than I am, after all.

What a year this has been. Hard to believe it’s over. When I leave my room behind, boots thundering against the stone floor, I marvel even further at how much things have changed in the past six months.

The fanfare seemed oppressive and out of place, then, as the fires of my ambition were quelled by Margaret’s seeming victory over me. I just wanted to curl up in bed, stay there all day, and cry.

Little did I know that the six, happiest months of my life were about to begin.

Now, I march through the hallways with my head held high, and it pleases me that they’re festooned with scarves and banners, bearing various motivational slogans. The same as last time, and in the same order, too.

“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.”

I see these so differently, now. I started at the bottom. I didn’t have a rich daddy to pave the way for me. I don’t have opportunities lined up and waiting for me after Ragnaring, or a circle of powerful family friends that have been preparing for my arrival since before I was born. No, I had to claw my way to the top.

I tell myself that Margaret was just one step on my way here.

Except that’s not exactly true, is it? No, that sounds way too inconsequential. My victory over Margaret, my conquest of my former nemesis… it’s what defines me. The cornerstone of who I really am. And then, there’s… more.

I bite my lower lip.

The way she writhes in bondage, as the vibrating egg torments her without mercy. The way her muscles spasm, weakened and brought to the brink, glistening with sweat, the way her eyes go glassy and her desperate facial features seem to wordlessly beg for an orgasm.

The enrapturing vision of her tongue, pressed against my boots, her face so soft and pliant as I step on it. The way her eyes look up at me, barely peeking from beneath my sole—full of fear at what I might do, yes, fixated on the cocky smirk I reserve for her. But also full of arousal, and despair, and fear…

And devotion.

I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop wondering what’s going to happen after we get out of here. If I commanded Margaret to come with me, to follow me home and be my pet… would she? With the hypnosis lifted, and no obligation towards me, would she still bow and scrape and beg and whimper?

I hope so. I need it to be so.

Of course, Margaret has more considerable debt to pay than I do, given her disastrous tab from the first semester, and the utter academic failure of her second. She ranked dead last… I’ve taken a photo of her name there, at the very bottom.

Masturbated to it more times than I can count.

Sigh. I just hope Ragnaring won’t keep her too long, or that however she is meant to repay this debt, it doesn’t conflict with her being my personal subhuman pet.

There was a time when the mere idea of social mobility and success, of making it against all odds, was enough to sustain me. Somehow, that is no longer enough. It just doesn’t have the same appeal, if I don’t have my slavegirl there, my constant reminder of how strong I am. My adorable, gorgeous, hot little lesbian doggy to feast my eyes on. To use, and abuse, and dominate.

I don’t really want to move on from this, or to experience a future that doesn’t somehow include her.

God… what a silly thought, Fiona. Come on. I sound like a girl with a crush, and that’s definitely not the case. I just revel in my ability to utterly break and disassemble my former rival, and that is all.

But…

I frown. The thought of Margaret’s love and devotion being suddenly so important to me is… troubling. I shake my head, repressing it for now. There’ll be time to deal with it.

I’ll know the score about this whole debt thing soon enough anyway, whatever that may be. Then, I can make some proper plans, grounded in reality and the facts of our situation.

The auditorium is almost a mirror image from six months ago: the auditorium is eerily illuminated by rows of wall-mounted torches, and packed to the rafters. High up on the stage, Polina gazes over the room with an austere expression, our professors sitting behind her at a long table, like sitting in judgement.

Not everything is the same, however. We’re not sitting, and in fact, all chairs have been removed from the main floor. Instead, school staff rushes back and forth to organise us into groups of various sizes, distributing us across the room.

We all stand, fidgety and uncertain, studying our surroundings. My eyes narrow, as I try to figure out the rationale behind the clusters they’ve chosen… and it doesn’t take long for me to determine it.

We’re being grouped according to our level of indebtedness. I’m in a small group that includes girls who used the Wheel somewhat sparingly throughout the years. Some high achievers, like me. Others, students that performed mediocrely, but were too cautious or too scared to ever gamble much on Ragnaring’s mysterious shadow systems.

There are several groups, and my eyes quickly scan the room, looking for…

There.

I assumed Margaret would be put in the group of most indebted students, but for some reason, she’s been separated entirely from everyone else. She stands, alone and shivering with fear, in a corner of the main hall. Maybe that reflects the dizzying extent of her downfall…

I can’t wait to rub it in her face, before bringing her close to the edge of release, and denying her again, later. And again, and again, and again…

I snap myself out of the reverie. One more girl has apparently been led away from the other groups, and now stands alone—though she looks defiant, not afraid. And as well she should be.

Elizabeth hasn’t used the Wheel once, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s discipline I should admire, or close-minded thinking I should scorn. Either way, it’s impressive, especially considering that she outperformed us all, and finished first anyway.

Even I have to admit that she is the better student. I’m sure she’ll go on to do great things, after Ragnaring… but so will I. I’m no longer troubled by the thought of finishing second, especially in such a highly competitive environment.

The clearing of Polina’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. I wring my hands together, trying to keep them still, as I wait to learn how my year at Ragnaring is going to reach its conclusion.

“Once more I welcome you,” Polina begins, her voice ringing out over the assembly hall. “Not as students any longer—but as graduates of Ragnaring. Congratulations!”

We all clap mechanically at her words, and the sound dies out soon after. The weight of anticipation bears down on the auditorium, the bated sound of a hall full of people holding their breath. If Polina notices—and she must, because she’s probably given so many of these speeches over the years—she shows no sign of it.

“Here at Ragnaring,” she continues, “we try to teach you the unteachable, make you familiar with the unlearnable, with the terrible and beautiful truth of the world.”

She has a sense for showmanship, does the headmistress. Her voice climbs by an octave, then lowers expertly when she needs to draw emphasis. I find myself taken in by her sheer presence, her magnetism. Even though I just want her to get over the preliminaries already. .

“Life feeds on life,” Polina continues. “Nature’s way of handling scarcity is—ultimately—predation. Predators and prey—we all fall into one category, or the other. Whether we like it or not.”

I blush, thinking of that time Margaret had me under her thumb… the time that I was prey. And enjoyed being so.

But this? Being the predator? I like it so much more.

“By this point, you’re all familiar with the risk and reward mechanic embodied by the Wheel,” Polina says with a wry smile, which makes me in turn think back to that glorious moment, when Margaret’s life… no, Margaret herself, fell apart. Landing neatly and conveniently at my feet.

“The Wheel is not really about the benefits it sells, or the forfeits it enforces upon you.” A sly smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “No matter how… entertaining… some of those are.”

Margaret seems to be trying her best to disappear, shifting in place, hopping from one foot to the other. It’s absolutely adorable, and she seems to shrivel every time Polina says something poignant… which can really only be directed at her, given how devastatingly public her humiliation was.

“No,” Polina continues, “the Wheel is about providing a teachable moment, instead. Acquiring weapons and tools to augment your capabilities—that’s a good way to win a war. But one must know what to buy, when, and at what price… in other words, to master scarcity. Timing, skill, execution: these are the hallmarks of a predator.”

She stops for a moment, surveying the room, and I get the feeling she’s about to reach the salient point of her speech. I gulp nervously.

“By teaching you the unteachable,” Polina says, her voice lower now, soft, so soft.“We have been providing you with weapons. And those… do not come cheap. And I’m not referring to the cost of your tuition, here.”

This is it. This is the answer we’ve all been waiting for. My nails dig into my palms.

“The debt you have incurred with this institution through each purchase made at the Wheel,” Polina says solemnly, “will be paid in service to the school. The higher the debt, the longer your period of service, and the more… shall we say… peculiar the terms.”

A stunned murmur of confusion ripples across the entirety of the auditorium like a tidal wave. I look away from the stage, my mind racing, thinking. Service to the school? Peculiar?

Oh.

Oh no.

“Ragnaring has a wealth of very generous patrons, with a taste for rather… extravagant parties and functions,” Polina continues with an oblique, unreadable smile. “Cultivating these connections is essential to offering our best students the opportunities they need, to climb their way to the hallowed ranks of high society. And what better way to cultivate those relationships, to grease those wheels, as it were… than through your service?”

I pump a fist against my thigh, cursing myself for not seeing this coming. Damn it!

It… does not escape me that the second semester has involved a near-exclusive focus on sexual forfeits. Was that meant to… prepare us? But for what, and for how long? Am I going to be whored out in a skimpy maid outfit?

Am I going to be separated from Margaret?

I shut my eyes, trying not to dwell on the other thing that does not escape me.

Their hypnotic triggers are all still in place, safely buried within us.

“There is no need to fret,” Polina says, suppressing the growing whispers among us. “Well, for some of you, at least. If your debt levels are moderate, you can expect to be with us a few weeks, at most. Then, you will be able to move on with your life: your hypnotic triggers will be removed, and you will get to enjoy the fruits of your work here. For those heavily indebted, well… that is another story altogether.”

Just a few weeks, I tell myself. What are a few weeks of whoredom, against a lifetime of opportunities? Poor Margaret has done six whole months, but of course that has destroyed her beyond repair…

We all reel from the news, each in our own ways. A non-trivial number of the girls here are staring down the barrel of a metaphorical gun, having to spend months or years in service to the school, being whored out on command at parties for the rich and powerful, or maybe simply put to work here, like…

My eyes widen.

Cindy, at the Wheel. Was she a student here?

A failed student, perhaps. One like Margaret, heavily indebted, slowly spiralling to the bottom, grades struggling, more and more feminine feet pressing down against her neck whenever she was just about to get back up. Until she stayed down, and accepted her place.

Maybe that’s a better fate than being whored out, though I can’t exclude that she did that too… and her face has always looked so dejected and defeated and broken.

I shake my head. Absurd as it is, I don’t have it as bad as many others. Only a few weeks at Ragnaring’s beck and call… and then, I’ll be free.

But God, what about Margaret?

Almost as if she’s reading my thoughts, Polina makes a point of turning towards my fallen rival.

“How quickly the tide turns,” she says, softly, so softly. “Wouldn’t you say, Miss Hogen?”

There’s no mistaking the irony in that last word.

“We have a bit of a tradition, here at Ragnaring,” Polina continues, her smile widening now. “A fate we consider most fitting for the girl who comes in last, proving beyond doubt that she was the lesser among you, the interloper whose place was never meant to be here.”

I…

I find myself crossing my fingers. Whatever Margaret’s fate is, I desperately need her to not be out of my reach. I want her. I want to possess her.

“We like to…” Polina says, “shall we say, donate this lesser girl, to one of you; our way of wishing you the very best of luck in the wars to come. And therefore…”

The auditorium holds its breath as Polina pivots on stage, arms thrown wide open. “Elizabeth! You’re the girl in first place. You can choose. This lesser girl can be turned over to you, and will spend the rest of her days in your service… if you’ll have them.”

Suddenly, the world around me seems to slow down.

It’s an odd sensation, almost like a fever dream. My heart is beating faster and faster, but everything around me feels slow and lethargic, like everyone’s trying to move underwater. Sweat trickles down my forehead, and vertigo threatens to make me lose my footing.

No.

I missed out on first place by so little! I thought it wouldn’t matter! I was focused on enjoying her, I never imagined that this would be… how I could own her.

No!

Elizabeth grins. It’s not a happy smile, that. It’s the smile of a person who’s never really loved anyone in her life, a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s charming and pretty, but also cold, fake, distant. The toothed grin of a predator, ready to stab you in the back the moment your guard is down.

“I gracefully accept,” she says. And I find myself stumbling, having to lean against the wall for stability. The noise of people whispering and chatting and mumbling is a distant, muffled background to me. The sound that truly rumbles in my ears now is that of my own hopes, crashing down.

It’s like someone’s taken my heart between two hands, and twisted it. I… may have underestimated how strongly I feel for this girl…

A single snap of Polina’s fingers is enough to quell the rising tide of noise, nipping it in the bud. I try to compose myself, gritting my teeth to keep tears from rolling. God, Fiona, keep it together, fuck!

“You should all learn from Elizabeth,” Polina continues, oblivious to my lacerating emotional pain. “Whoever tops a year’s rankings here deserves to be acknowledged by all of you as your natural superior. But that’s not all. She’s done so, without never having to resort to the Wheel. Without ever having to pay any cost. Without giving others power over her.”

I lower my head, disconsolate. I left the midterm ceremony to begin the six happiest months of my life… but this ceremony is going to bookend that with misery.

“That happens very rarely,” Polina continues. “Really, usually it’s only the midterm ceremony that makes it clear. Many girls sober up, then, and stop buying altogether… though by no means all. That is intended, of course. In the first semester, you walk into a dangerous situation with insufficient information. Only the smartest and cautious of you play their hand safely. And if they get the results anyway… they are handsomely rewarded.”

“Then, in the second semester,” Polina continues, “with such… interesting forfeits on offer… you are now aware of the lesson, but are presented with a much bigger temptation to indulge anyway. Elizabeth has held fast all this time, and still outperformed you all. It’s been years since the last time I saw this happen.”

You know what? I don’t need to hear this.

It’s done, right? I have my bloody diploma. I have no doubt the school will be in touch with me about what’s expected of me in terms of temporary sexual slavery. My hypnotic triggers will make sure that I respond. I definitely don’t need to stay around here and listen to Polina pontificating about what a perfect fucking student Elizabeth is.

And I don’t even want to look at Margaret right now.

But just as I begin to turn away, Polina’s voice cracks like thunder, and somehow, I stop in my tracks.

“Elizabeth!” Polina says, turning to her with flair and enthusiasm. “We at Ragnaring seek to reward exactly this sort of conduct. As such, you get to ask one thing of us. Within limits, of course—but ask, and it will be yours.”

A playful smile ripples across Elizabeth’s lips. “That is so very generous, Headmistress. Am I correct in assuming that indebted girls who are now under your employ are fair game?”

“Naturally,” Polina nods.

There’s a… disquieting turn in Elizabeth’s expression. It lasts only a moment, like her mask of composure has slipped, to reveal what’s really underneath…

She leans towards the headmistress, batting her eyelashes. “Am I correct in assuming that, were such a girl to only be temporarily in your employ, I could nonetheless ask you to implant her with certain hypnotic triggers that… wouldn’t have an expiration date?”

The tombstone silence that descends on the auditorium gives me goosebumps. I suddenly see Elizabeth in a very different light. She’s always made me a little uneasy in a weird way, but this is… I don’t know what game she’s playing, none of us do, yet we’ve all had the same in-built response.

The response to spotting a predator, in the tall grass.

We all hold our breath. It’s like we’re all witnessing the last moment before the kill. The fluidity and grace of a true huntress, ready to pounce.

“My, my,” Polina says. “Someone has very clear ideas about what she wants, I see… Impressive…”

Elizabeth nods. “That I do, Headmistress.”

“It’s a most unusual and elaborate request,” Polina says, rubbing her chin pensively. “But then again, you’re an unusual student, and I do believe you’ve earned it. Alright, Elizabeth, spit it out. Who do you want?”

Elizabeth makes a point of theatrically thinking about it, eyes turned upwards as she taps her heels against the stone floor. And then, she turns towards the centre of the auditorium, and her eyes settle on mine, and…

I blink, stupefied. Why is she staring at me? No, surely. That’s not possible, not allowed, not…

Is it?

Elizabeth lifts one hand, gesturing with her index finger, beckoning me to come forth. Flashing me that smile, so triumphant, so cruel, the sort of smile that lets you know you’re in the presence of a cold-hearted monster that only just pretends to hide among us.

I try to turn away, to shout, to scream, or even just to stay still. But my limbs and back go rigid, as Ragnaring’s triggers override my nervous system. I look around, frantic, panicked, looking for help, for escape, anything. But I see no help coming.

I see Margaret’s confused expression, Polina’s wry smile, and most of all, Elizabeth’s smug expression, and that damn finger. Curling. Beckoning.

With a sigh of defeat… I take a step forward.

* * *

Margaret

“But why?”

The question comes from beneath me, spoken softly and quietly. There’s a hint of whining in it, frustration, indignity. But also resignation, meekness… and submission.

“Shhh,” I hush. “Quiet, little one. It’s gonna be okay.”

And then, I slightly lift myself, wobbling forward on my knees, before once more lowering myself, sitting nonchalantly on Fiona’s face.

Her oomph as my weight presses her face harder into the mattress has an air of wonderful finality to it. My goal is not to get her to eat me out, or at least, not yet. I want to take my time with this.

It’s a rare occurrence, that Elizabeth grants me the right to an orgasm, and I intend to draw this one out for as long as I can.

I press my knees together, entombing Fiona’s face in an embrace of female flesh, and adjust my position atop her, making sure to firmly press my cunt against her nose and lips. I gyrate slowly above her, using her face to stimulate myself, but not too much.

Literally rubbing her new position in her face.

Oh, she’s still defiant, poor Fiona, but only just. In the year since Elizabeth collared us, and in the six months since Fiona was formally demoted to being below even me in the household, she’s desperately tried to reclaim at least part of her former status.

And yet, it was precisely her constant complaints to Elizabeth that put her in this predicament in the first place. I know what this demotion is meant to do, what incredible tool it is when wielded by Elizabeth’s hands. She’s disassembling Fiona, piece by piece.

She’s still defiant, poor Fiona. But day after day, I see her resistance slacken, her fire grow dimmer, her strength fade.

Just like I see it right now, as her eyes begin to water, darting frantically this way and that.

God, I love the squealing sounds she makes when I master her breathing with my cunt. Her arms and legs are cuffed and secured—a light form of restraint by Elizabeth’s standard—and she hasn’t gotten to cum since way back then, on that last day at Ragnaring.

I smile. Her last orgasm was with me. Isn’t that just so romantic? Who knows, maybe it will turn out to be the last of her life.

I sit up slightly, and Fiona starts coughing, her face red and eyes teary as she gulps in precious lungfuls of air. She looks at me with such a broken expression, and I get it, because I understand every minute nuance of her downfall.

No social mobility for her, not anymore. Her parents may have been poor, but at least, they were free, while she has fallen to a slave—not just to Elizabeth, but to me as well. Her former nemesis, the rival she’d vanquished.

So many layers of humiliation in place, so much pain that she must be feeling, like the foundations of her identity are being methodically and ruthlessly peeled away, exposing the fragile, insecure girl underneath.

That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

“It’s not okay,” she whispers. “This is wrong.”

“Tut tut,” I admonish her. “Talk like that is gonna get you into even more trouble, girl.”

She opens her mouth to reply, still imperfectly disciplined… fortunately, there are ways to silence complaints from unruly slavegirls. I press my cunt against her face once more, cutting off her protests before they can be spoken. She looks at me with such betrayal, such hurt, it could almost be a painting.

I love her so much.

I love dominating her, now as much as I did the first time, and I don’t regret a single minute I’ve spent under her. But I’m no longer the self-centered, snotty brat I was before my year at Ragnaring broke me. I know that it’s my responsibility, as Fiona’s superior, to show her the error of her ways.

“I used to think of myself as the apex predator,” I say, speaking softly, my words barely audible as Fiona whimpers into my sex. She quietens her protests at that, though, her eyes focused on mine like I’m the only thing in her world.

“I learned the truth. No, you taught me the truth, Fiona. That’s exactly why I don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself.”

“Mmmpphh??” She asks, her mumbled question sending lovely vibrations into my cunt. I bite my lower lip, trying to stay focused.

“I was cast down, and subjugated, and enslaved,” I continue. “Hell, I’ve served so many girls I’ve literally lost count. I was broken, the fire of my ambition utterly extinguished. You did most of that. And yet, I found out that I… loved it. I still do. Just like I love you.”

Fiona stares at me with a look I can’t decipher. Her eyes and purple hair are the only visible parts of her, peeking out from underneath me. Tears run down her cheeks as she struggles to breathe. I lovely run my hand through her hair, matted with sweat though they are, brushing my fingers against her forehead.

“If I could do that… why can’t you?”

I once again sit up slightly, letting her catch her breath… but only for a moment. I come crashing down soon after, even harder than before.

“Besides,” I continue, bending forward, locking my eyes with hers, trying to get as close to her as possible. “Don’t you understand what this means, Fiona? We get to live together, in this amazing house, as Mistress’s treasured and pampered pets. No work, no problems, no responsibilities, all the time in the world to enjoy one another.”

I grind myself against her face, because just talking about this stuff is… mmmhh, God…

“Of course, you do have to clean the whole place on hands and knees, but you were always so good at being a maid… and you get to be supervised by me while you do it…”

God, the callback to that very first time, when I made her clean my room. Neither of us knew, back then, how long a journey was beginning that day, or where it would lead us.

“You want a bit of advice, pet? Go apologise to Mistress. Grovel like only slavegirls know how to. Make her see that you understand. Who knows,” I continue, with a sultry note to my voice, “if you’re well-behaved, maybe Mistress will even let you switch with me every now and then… wouldn’t you like that?”

A flicker passes through my beloved’s eyes. Understanding, realisation? Perhaps. I hope so.

“And then,” I say, “when Mistress comes home, we get to lie prostrate at her feet, together. Matching collars… matching slaves…”

I once more allow Fiona to breathe, sitting back on her chest. This time, however, I wrap one hand symbolically around her throat, while lifting her chin with the other. I lower my face so close to hers that I can feel the warmth of her breath.

“Truth now,” I say, my tone stern. “Is that really so unbearable?”

Fiona stares at me in silence for a long, pensive moment. The quiet is only broken by her heavy breathing, and I can see her eyes searching mine, so full of puppy dog love, of defeat, of adoration.

I love her, and she loves me. She knows I can be broken, and I know she can be broken. We’re not like Mistress, her and I. We may be better than many, even better than most… but we don’t have what it takes to stand up to her. We are barely worthy enough to bathe her incredible feet with our lowly lesbian lips.

I think deep down, Fiona knows this, too—and that’s why I know she’ll make the right choice.

Eventually, and without saying a word, Fiona averts her gaze away from mine, with a dejected and resigned look on her face. I smile to myself, knowing that I’ve gotten through to her, that I’ve helped steer her, like you should when taking care of such a lovely little pet.

And because I know that though I may have lost to Mistress, and to the Ragnaring system, this one moment, this one particular round, is one I’ve won. And I can now go ahead and claim my prize for that.

“I thought so,” I say, coyly. “Now get to work, slut.”

I close my eyes as I press her face between my thighs once more, loving the sound of her surprised squeal—and her very breathing—being suddenly cut off.

It’s the sound of victory.

* * *

Fiona

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I was wrong, and you were right.”

I deflate as the words leave me. It’s as if something fundamental has left my body, something you just can’t be a person without.

I don’t mean my dignity, or my strength, my self-respect, or even my freedom. People out there, in the normal world, lose these things all the time, and still usually find ways to reclaim them, in the fullness of time.

No, this is… something else. A part of my identity.

No, more specific than that.

It’s the admission.

We all have it. That one admission that, if ever spoken out loud, brought out under the merciless light of the sun, openly acknowledged, would destroy our self-conception. Destroy who we are. Reveal who we are. And this is mine.

I’m on my knees, my head bowed, my hands resting on my thighs, in the position I know her to prefer. Elizabeth sits in her stylish couch—which costs more than some apartments—with one leg elegantly draped over the other.

I can feel her gaze piercing through me, and it’s another admission of sorts, because I have internalised the idea that she’s always two steps ahead of me. And I mean, given our track records… isn’t that true?

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” I repeat, my voice trembling slightly. “I was wrong. You were right. Demoting me to the lowest rung has… enlightened me.”

“Has it now?” Elizabeth asks with a giggle. But there’s no mirth in it, no true emotion. To her, I’m just an amusing thing. Sometimes I feel like that’s how she sees everyone.

Even so… she’s clearly bested and broken me. That’s what Ragnaring says, right? Life feeds on life. Predator or prey. And there’s no doubt about where I fall, in that distinction…

At a loss for words, I lower my head even further, almost touching the floor. I can hear Elizabeth chuckle softly.

“Come closer, doggy,” she commands, her voice low and silky smooth. The word makes my body tingle and my cunt twitch. Months of abstinence and desire and use and abuse and…

I sigh, crawling towards her on all fours, trying my best not to dwell on the rising heat between my legs. I can feel the cool surface of the hardwood floor beneath my hands and knees as I approach her.

I... there goes an admission again, I know what’s expected of me.

I look up at her, and she’s staring down at me with a smug expression on her face. She silently extends one single, perfect, pale foot towards me, and I immediately begin running my fingers gently along the curves and contours of her toes.

Because I know what’s expected of me.

I reach out and gingerly take hold of her proffered foot, caressing them with the utmost reverence. In spite of myself, I let out a soft moan as I feel the texture of her skin, smooth and silky beneath my fingers. Any kind of touch is good, at the moment, so good… it’d be enough to make me hump the air… to beg for female flesh against my flesh…

I press my nose against her toes. The scent, a soft mix of her perfume and a little bit of faint sweat, is intoxicating. Her foot feels so heavy in my hands. The weight of her authority and power is palpable, and I can’t help but feel small and insignificant in her presence. I take a deep breath and let my hands explore her foot, tracing the contours of her toes and the arch of her foot with my fingertips.

Her skin is soft and smooth, and the warmth of her body seeps into my own as I hold her. I start to apply a little pressure, pressing my thumbs into the soles of her feet and massaging them with slow, circular motions. I can feel the tension in her muscles start to loosen under my touch, and I’m glad that I’m able to provide her with some small measure of relief.

Maybe Margaret is right… and isn’t that the real admission I’ve been dreading? The one that could destroy me, and reveal me?

I start to run my fingers along the sole of her foot, my palms pressing into the ball, massaging the tension away. With each caress, I feel more and more of my own tension melting away, replaced by a growing sense of pathetic, eager lust. I suddenly want nothing more than for Elizabeth to pin me down, and have her way with me…

As I work, Elizabeth begins to speak, her voice a low, commanding rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

“You see, doggy? This is why you can never win against me.”

I can’t take it anymore. I know it’s allowed. I know she likes it when I escalate my own debasement. I lean forward and hungrily take her toes in my mouth, suckling them energetically while my tongue traces intricate patterns over the soles of her foot. I can hear Elizabeth’s breath catch in her throat as I continue my ministrations, her toes curling in pleasure.

“You see, Fiona,” Elizabeth begins to speak, her voice a little unsteady now, “this is why you lose every round, and I win them all. You were so obsessed with possessing Margaret that you neglected to see the true nature of Ragnaring’s debt system. You were blinded by your own desires.” She gives a soft chuckle. “You were no predator. To be one requires seeing things with absolute clarity. Like I did.”

I nod my head in agreement, my tongue still lapping at Elizabeth’s foot. I lavish it with my tongue, bathing it in saliva and adoration, kissing and sucking each of her toes like I’m begging for the mercy of a higher power. I can hear her breathing deepen, and I know that I’m doing a good job.

She continues to speak, her words piercing my heart like a knife.

“I make no such mistakes. I see everything, Fiona. I know you better than you know yourself. Always have. Always will.”

I look up at her with big, submissive eyes, while my lips gently fellate her toes. Elizabeth leans forward, her expression a smirk of pure sexual power and authority.

“Give in. Surrender. Embrace your true nature, and I’ll give you the best reward you could imagine, the one thing we both know you really want: to spend the rest of your life with Margaret.”

I blink once, signalling my understanding, my mouth never leaving her toes. Margaret’s own words resound in my head.

Lying prostrate together. Matching collars, matching slaves.

United by our desperate need for one another… and by our unfailing service to the apex predator that has utterly conquered us.

I could say yes, but slavegirls have better ways of signalling their acceptance…

I redouble my efforts, pressing my lips to Elizabeth’s feet and kissing them with the utmost reverence. I use my tongue to explore every inch of her skin, savouring the salty tang of sweat and the faint scent of leather that clings to her flesh. I’ll have to ask her to polish her boots later, too.

I’ll have to ask her how I can debase myself even further for her. Become her doormat. The ground beneath her feet.

I nibble gently on her heels, then switch back to the toes, moaning and whimpering before I work my way up her legs, kissing and licking every inch of her skin…

I look up at her, my eyes filled with submission and desire.

Once again, something ripples across Elizabeth’s expression. It lasts only for a moment, a brief slipping of the mask. I don’t know what’s under this smile with no heart that she always puts forth for us all. But I know that whatever she’s really like, in there…

She has won.

“So eager,” Elizabeth says, her voice a soft purr. “Is that your way of saying yes?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I say. The admission is out there, now, and can never be taken back… but oddly enough, I find that I don’t care anymore, much like I didn’t care about finishing first at Ragnaring, at the end. Margaret is right. Some things turn out to be more important… some things simply force you to enjoy them. Even when you never thought you would.

“Yes, Mistress,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’d… love to eat you out…”

“Maggie does speak well about your skill in performing your oral duties,” Elizabeth says with a throaty chuckle. “Let’s see how much you’ve improved. Come here, doggy. Come home to your new owner.”

Elizabeth’s hands grip my head, pulling it closer and closer, into the embrace of her legs. And as my face descends to homage the sex of my new ruler, I consider that in a way, Margaret and I were both right, all along.

Finishing second does ultimately mean being the first of the losers. But sometimes, if you’re lucky… losing to an apex predator will feel incredibly good.

THE END