At last, I understand awe.

Everyone who’s tasted subjugation and slavery understands submission; what it’s like to bend to the will of another, conform to a firmer hand, be brought to heel. But submission is just obedience, and awe implies something else, something more.

Devotion.

As I watch Lene’s broken, softened form, I finally get it. Why mortals like me should spend our lives in awe of the apex predators that play the game and never miss a step. Why they deserve to rule, and we deserve to bow and scrape and kiss and lick.

Serving Mistress is no mere submission, it is transcendence. Being prey to someone so far above me is not a tragedy, it’s a privilege. I’m one of the steps on Mistress’ way to the top, one of the very first, and that’s all the pride a girl like me could possibly aspire to.

It’s funny to think about, but… Mistress took Margaret away from me, enslaved me, programmed me, trained me. And yet, what finally, ultimately broke me, is this. Her triumph over Lene. By setting the trap, by using me as a hypnotic Trojan horse, she’s reached out to me, opened my eyes to the truth.

Torn me down utterly, so I can finally accept my true nature as clay, to be built back up in an image more aligned with her needs - and more pleasing to her tastes.

I understand awe. In awe there is peace. The peace of knowing one's smallness, one's inescapable place in the order of things.

Awe implies worship, veneration, complete rejection of any notion of peerage. It’s almost… spiritual. It implies that some people are more, and others are less.

I am hers. She is supreme. This is the natural order.

I wonder if Lene will ever come to see things quite that way…

She’s on her knees, not just in a physical way, but like she’s buckled under some impossible force. Strength has deserted her, gone out from her. She’s been swiftly driven to her knees by an invisible hammer that’s landed on her like on a pane of glass.

I walk closer to her, studying her - vacant, receptive, ready for programming. I grab a fistful of her silky blonde hair - tentatively, oh so tentatively, this woman was a lioness until so very recently. But now…

She shivers, a little, but there’s no outward display of resistance. Failure to meet aggression with defence can only encourage the former, and I feel emboldened, confident in a way that I haven’t felt in… in…

Maybe since Ragnaring?

Be that as it may, I clutch her hair tighter, and yank her head back sharply. I look down into her eyes, and what I see makes me breathe in sharply. God, what a sight, when strength yields and turns to weakness, the glacier melting into a rivulet of water, running helplessly down the slope of a mountain.

Her eyes were chipped ice. They burned cold. Now, I watch all that icy and fiery ambition cool down, I watch it set into perfect, glistening servitude. Her eyes are brimming with crystalline tears of surrender. I watch in shock as Lene bows her head and nuzzles into my open palm. What a fucking dog.

She looks so… docile. Like a dumb cow. I can read her like an open book, see the mix of emotions - humiliation, disbelief, confusion… and lust, that most of all. Her eyes look glazed and vacant, her lips open and drooling, her identity soft and recceptive.

The sheer power of this moment overwhelms me. Only days ago, this formidable woman had me shuddering at her slightest touch, and now…

I know what she feels like.

The first time Margaret mastered me, drove me to my knees… the humiliation burned so searing hot and bright. Only my self-sabotaging arousal burned even more. And then I rose, made Maggie mine, conquering the haughty rich girl and reducing her into a perpetually horny, dumb pet. I felt on top of the world.

Elizabeth ended that dream with a single stroke.

I chuckle. I’ve been obsessing over how different Lene and I are, but in this respect, we are remarkably alike: Elizabeth has pulled the rug from underneath the both of us. I’ve felt what she’s feeling now, the devastation, the fall from grace. The uncaring perfection in Elizabeth’s design, as the jaws of her trap snap shut.

She must feel outwitted, outplayed, overpowered, as I once did. And soon, she’ll know what it’s like to be collared, to be dominated, to be fucked.

In fact… I get to be the first to give her a taste of her new life. That’s… almost poetic, in a way. Maybe it’s right and proper, that things should come full circle this way.

Maybe this is just the natural order of things.

With trembling hands, I pick up Lene’s knee-high boots, discarded in a corner of the room. The leather feels smooth under my touch, looks glossy to my eyes. How many laps of my tongue have travelled the length and breadth of these boots? How many kisses have trailed it from the tip upwards? How many times has the flat heel squished my face into the ground?

I…

I haven’t worn boots since Ragnaring. Since the day Elizabeth cast me down and stepped on my neck.

I draw in breath sharply at the pure rapture, the adrenaline coursing through me, as I slowly slide my feet into the boots. God, I’ve missed this feeling, the sound the leather makes as I shift my weight around, the way it envelops my calves, tight and snug. I flex my toes, revelling in the sight of them, zipping them up, tentatively taking a step, and then another.

And then slowly, deliberately, I begin circling Lene.

I complete a first, slow circuit around her, savouring the power in my stride. With the boots on, I almost feel like my old self again - but only almost. I know better now. I am an extension of Mistress right now, this is her dominance being channeled through me, nothing more. Lene's eyes follow me, shining with awe and fear.

The vertigo of a complete reversal of power is hard to describe. It’s dizzying, feverish, it awakens old instincts within us. A mix of thrill, primal fear, and raw sexual hunger. I know from experience.

I feel the same vertigo now. Lene sought to check Mistress’ ascent, block her path, exact tribute, and now… now she kneels before me, eyes downcast, as I lord it over her in her own footwear.

It’s… beautiful.

She’s beautiful. She was such in dominance, but now that she’s defeated, there is a broken quality to her beauty that just makes me want to… ugghh…

I lift her chin with my boot, forcing her to meet my gaze.

"You will learn, as I have, the beauty of predation," I say softly.

She swallows and nods.

Kneeling, I caress Lene's cheek with my hand. "You wanted to control me, but I was never yours," I whisper. "I belong to Mistress, my true Mistress. As you soon will."

We will be sisters in slavery.

I grasp Lene's jaw firmly, and tilt her head up. My hand trails down her neck, over the swell of her breast. I lean forward, pinching her nipple, eliciting a soft gasp. I press my mouth against her ear, and even though she can’t see my smirk, I know she can physically hear it in my words.

"Mistress says I should have a bit of fun with you before she comes to claim you," I say in a whisper, and I note with satisfaction that Lene shudders when I say claim. "And of course, I live to serve Mistress' desires."

Lene whimpers softly as I step away from her - whether from the words, or the sudden deprivation of contact, I don’t know. But she won’t need to wait long, in either case.

It’s time for the armbinder.

I walk over to the dresser and open the top drawer, retrieving it. Lene's eyes widen as I approach her with it, but she does not resist. I doubt she’s physically capable of trying anymore.

"Arms back," I command. She obeys without a word, hands clasped together behind the small of her back. I guide her arms into the sleeves of the armbinder.

"There," I say. “That’s much better, isn’t it… pet?”

Just being able to call Lene that makes my head spin - and, judging by the way her chest is heaving, it has the same effect on her, too. That’s what she is now. I’m a dog, and she’s a dog’s pet.

Pathetic.

Lene stretches her arms inside the armband, squirming helplessly. The sight of the constriction, of her movements being wrapped and constrained in the leather fist of the armbinder, is breath-taking. Escape is impossible. In mind and body, she is well and truly caught.

Shoulders pulled back and aching, arms immobilised, hands useless. This is what it feels like to lose.

To go from predator to prey.

I grasp her hair and tilt her head back. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. Fear and arousal mingle in her expression, and a bead of sweat trails down her neck. How quickly the powerful become powerless. Her lips part slightly, breaths coming in soft pants. My cunt aches at the sight.

"You’re going to kiss my boots now, pet," I say. And then, I twist her around to face me, and shove her downwards.

Her cheek presses against the cool leather of my boot as she struggles to lift herself back up.

"Go on," I say, nudging her with my toe. "Show your devotion, slut."

Lene's eyes meet mine, wide and uncertain. They were once jagged, like the silhouette of an iceberg. Now, they’re watery, tremulous… and weak.

Slowly, hesitantly, she lowers her head again. Her lips brush the tip of my boot in the barest of kisses.

"More," I say.

Closing her eyes, Lene presses her mouth fully against the leather. She begins planting reverent kisses up and down my boots. I can't help but moan softly at the sight of her utter annihilation.

I trail the other boot along her inner thigh as she continues worshipping the leather. She moans against my boot, unable to help herself. Her kisses grow increasingly fervent, tongue flicking out to caress the shiny black surface. The contrast between the harsh, unyielding boot and her soft, worshipful tongue looks like something out of a painting.

"You thought you could take me away from Mistress. From Maggie," I say coldly as I lift my boot away from her thighs, which causes Lene to whimper in pathetic sexual despair. "You thought you could use me to control her.”

I lift the boot, running it slowly across Lene's cheek.

"Look at you now, grovelling before a slave. What would your higher-ups and colleagues at Black Opal say, if they saw the formidable Lene like this? What would your servants say? Shall I call in the Overseer? Want to see how she reacts to her Mistress lapping at a working class, enslaved girl’s boots like a spineless worm? Nuzzling against the tip like some cheap slave whore?”

I can see it in her eyes. She knows I’m right. By gatekeeping Elizabeth, she was exercising the prerogatives of her station, a routine reality for her, I’m sure… but nothing about Mistress is routine. Lene has just found out how true that is, and how terrible a price she has to pay now.

“Let me see those eyes better,” I say, as I press the toe of my boot under her chin, lifting her head up. Her eyes meet mine, and I sink into them - not into their cruelty, or their cleverness, but into the shattered fragments of Lene’s pride. “There it is,” I say in a whisper. She knows she’s been bested, outmaneuvered, and utterly conquered.

I forgot what it felt like, to have so much power over another human being. Not that Lene, like Maggie and I, is going to stay fully human for long…

"Elizabeth will keep you as a trophy. You know that, right? And as for me…" I pause, savouring the words on my tongue. "I’ve always loved to dom the fuck out of silly rich girls…"

Before Lene has time to absorb my words, I line up the sole of my boot against her cheek, and push, nailing her face firmly and unequivocally against the floor. There’s something gorgeous about the way her soft facial features deform under the pressure of the boot, giving way, yielding to it, accepting to be bent and remade. The contrast between her golden hair and the glossy, dark, freshly-licked leather is gorgeous.

But not as gorgeous as the way her muscles slacken, the way she exhales in defeat beneath me, relaxing, accepting my weight, resigning herself to being pinned down under my heel.

I twist that heel, grinding into her cheek, harder. She whimpers softly, the fight gone out of her.

And then, I hook my thumbs into my panties and slide them down my legs.

I step over Lene's prone form, positioning myself above her face. Her eyes widen as she realises my intent, but she does not resist as I lower myself onto her lips and nose, my sex unceremoniously pressing against her face. My weight will put an even bigger strain on her bound arms, and I do remember how much fun I used to have, mastering Maggie’s breath with my cunt…

For now, Lene's own breath tickles between my thighs as her nose nestles against my slick folds. I grind down slightly, smearing her pale, aristocratic features with my cunt juices. It says more about her downfall than a thousand words ever could.

"That's right, breathe it in," I say. I start to slowly rock my hips, grinding against her face. I ride her lazily, slowly finding my rhythm, drawing out her humiliation. But I can barely contain myself. I’ve been too built up, my emotions are too raw. I find myself riding her faster, grinding down as she squirms helplessly beneath me.

God, those pretty features off hers, being smushed under the weight of my cunt. This boss woman, reduced to a living seat for me to rest on, a comfy piece of fuckable furniture.

Is there anything more delightful in life?

I won’t be able to cum, not on my own, not without Mistress’ permission. But that doesn’t deter me. If anything, it makes me want to take it out on Lene even more harshly.

My thighs clench around Lene's face as I ride her harder. Her nose bumps against my clit as I grind down, eliciting a soft moan from my lips. I pull my hips back just enough to let her gasp a breath, before smothering her again, drawing her deeper into my grip, into my sex. My hands tangle in her hair, holding her head firmly in place as I use her. As I facefuck her into submission.

As I welcome her into Mistress’ harem.

I’m chasing climax, but I can’t get it. I’m lagging just behind the crest of an unobtainable orgasm. I’m panting, sweating, hyperventilating…

And that’s how Mistress finds me, and Lene, as the door to the study is thrown open at last.

Mistress. She is beautiful.

She strides into the room like she owns it, radiant and terrible in her beauty and power. The overseer rushes after her, sputtering protests that fall on deaf ears. Her piercing eyes, which I’ve come to fear and revere, sweep over the scene - then, they settle on me, disheveled and straddling Lene's face.

Mistress smirks, a cold and predatory smile that never truly reaches her eyes.

“Pets who have done well deserve a just reward,” she says, looking me in the eyes. And then, just one word.

“Cum.”

The energy that swells in from inside me is impossible to process. It’s a nuke of pure eroticism, a supernova of sexual catharsis. It rips out of me like a lacerating scream, turning every muscle in my body into jelly.

I lose my balance. The floor seems to be rushing closer to meet me. Odd, I think, and thank you, and please, again.

And then, I space out.

***

I reach out with my hand, and find Margaret’s.

It doesn’t matter that we’ve been reunited for weeks. Or that she just recently used one hand to choke me and the other to finger me. I’ll never take such delights for granted anymore. I squeeze her hand, lovingly, and she smiles at me, snuggling a bit closer to me on the sofa.

We wear matching collars, but I think the black goes much better with the crown of fire that frames her face… but maybe I’m just saying that because I’m hopelessly smitten. Who could ever tell?

On the floor, Lene is curled up on a plush pillow, in a collar altogether tighter than ours. She’s been lavishing our feet with attention while Margaret disciplined me… not for any real infraction, but just because she felt like it.

And so did I.

As for Lene, we’ve been doing plenty of disciplining. It’s been intoxicating, getting to break in this haughty bitch, getting to fuck her every way we feel like it… and getting to watch, when Mistress decides to take her pleasure from her latest conquest.

I glance over at Lene, still dutifully massaging Margaret's feet. She whimpers softly as I run my fingers through her hair. Her eyes are glazed, distant. I know that look. I've seen it in the mirror often enough. Lene's mind is no longer her own.

The process has been gradual but inexorable. First small triggers, tiny cracks in her self control. Now enormous chasms, leaving her willpower in tatters. Soon there will be nothing left of the proud, disdainful manager. Just a soft, pliant slave eager to serve and obey.

Mistress Elizabeth has Lene tightly in her grasp now. Every day, her hypnotic hooks sink deeper, bending Lene's mind to her will. Step by step, Lene is transformed from proud manager to worshipful slave. She retains just enough awareness to appreciate the depths of her submission. The totality of her defeat.

Every time they are together, and right before she rides her face, Mistress strokes Lene’s hair, praising her for being such an obedient little pet. That touch is all it takes now to make Lene tremble… and the praise, I’m sure, cuts to the core too. It’s the condescending praise reserved for a particularly docile, dim dog. That’s all she is now, and that’s all she’ll ever be allowed to be.

The world doesn’t know - for now. As far as Mistress and Lene’s social circle is concerned, I was amicably loaned out and then returned. Perhaps they think Mistress was trying to bribe Lene, or that she was strong-armed into it. I’m sure that suits Mistress just fine. She does always say that predators are most effective when concealed, hidden in the long grass.

Now, Mistress casts her shadow behind Lene’s every move. People interact and deal with Lene thinking her an independent woman, a decision-maker, not knowing that she’s just a fuck puppet at this point. Mistress allows Lene to keep up appearances at Black Opal, but the moment she leaves the office, the charade ends. Even at her own mansion - the maw - she spends her time grovelling at the feet of the Overseer and the maids she dominated for years.

Such was the price Mistress had to pay to keep the overseer quiet about what really happened to Lene.

Of course, this is all temporary. One day, Mistress will be strong enough in her own power that she won’t need this fiction anymore. Once she has extracted everything from her slave girl, well…

I’m sure Lene will be publicly stripped of her lofty position. Demoted, cast down and humiliated, reduced to groveling at Mistress’ feet as the lowest of servants, a slave to slaves, a pet to dogs, the bottom rung in Mistress’ growing empire.

I know it, and Lene knows it too. She knows she's being hollowed out from the inside, her will and sense of self methodically stripped away. Soon there will be nothing left of her own self but what pleases Mistress, which is to say, not a whole lot.

And that makes her worshipful subjugation all the crueler, and all the sweeter.

I can’t believe I ever doubted my brilliant, ruthless Mistress. To watch her ensnare Lene, to see that once-defiant woman rendered so pliant and submissive… to watch her tame such a formidable woman, and make her willingly debase herself before us! It is a triumph beyond words.

"There there, little pet," Maggie says, slipping one toe past Lene’s eager, whorish lips. "Don’t think about Mistress stripping everything away. Just suck, up and down. It’ll distract you, and you’ll feel better. Up and down."

I smile as Lene complies, hollowing her cheeks - more for show than anything else - as she gently suckles Maggie’s toe. She may not know it yet, but some day, she’ll get to the same epiphany Maggie had, and that I had too, even if it took me longer to see it.

She will learn, as I have, to embrace her status as clay.

Mistress will go far. We are the lucky ones, to follow hot on her heels like loyal dogs, to be broken and remade in her image. Molded into the perfect pets and playthings. Our minds, our bodies, our very identities honed into implements of her will and desire. It is sublime, to surrender so utterly.

I once struggled against it. But no more. Now I understand it is a gift beyond price, this total belonging. One day soon, Lene will feel the same, and she’ll never look back on her past life again.

I know I won’t.

I sigh contentedly, nuzzling into Margaret's neck. The world makes sense again. My hand finds hers again, and squeezes.

Her touch is soft and warm. Once, when she still thought herself an apex predator in the making, her skin was smooth and perfect, a rich girl’s skin.

I loved that about her, for the brief blissful months when she was mine. Now, I can feel the calluses – matching my own, really – developed by scrubbing floors and washing dishes. A servant girl’s skin, no longer soft.

And yet…

The warmth remains.

THE END