Don't Be Nice To Me

by alectashadow

Tags: #D/s #dom:female #f/f #humiliation #pov:bottom #sub:female #clothing #demotion_fetish #foot_fetish #foot_kissing #foot_worship #ladytomaid #lesbian #maid #maidification #social_demotion #wealth #wealth_fantasy

Olivia is as rich as she’s lonely, and always suspects that people are being nice to her just because of her wealth. Exasperated, she asks her working class friend Anastasia to never be nice to her again. Surely this will have no consequences on their relationship. Right?

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“That’s gonna cost you.”
I look at Anastasia with wide-eyed terror, a mute plea on my trembling lips.
She looks back at me with the feral smirk of a predator. I hate that I love how confident and cocky she looks: a glowering smile, an arched eyebrow, a challenging glimmer in her eyes.
Just being under her gaze makes me shrivel in the chair. I can’t believe I’ve come to look to my friend like someone sitting in judgement, but months of incremental humiliations have progressively rendered me spineless.
I hate how weak her words make me feel. She’s used them so often that I feel like I’m being pavlovianly conditioned to respond to them.
That’s gonna cost you.
That’s what she told me the very first time, when I first made my – in retrospect, fatally unwise – request. And now, here we are, sitting in a fancy restaurant that Anastasia could never have afforded on her own. Now, she’s taken great delight in inviting me here.
I know the glint in her eye. She’s going to pick the single most expensive dish, and the single most expensive wine on the menu, and it’ll be my treat. Because it’s gonna cost me. Like it always does.
Looking at us, no-one would assume I’m the rich family heiress, and she the studious, determined working-class girl. She looks positively radiant in the cobalt dress she’s wearing, which goes so well with her deep green eyes.
My dress, of course… until it was no more. Because it was going to cost me.
Her copper hair drape her clever, beautiful face like a crown that befits a queen. Me, I’ve been confined to a more modest attire, a cheap plastic dress that makes my skin chafe. And that’s the least of my reduction.
Anastasia is wearing my jewellery – on this particular occasion, a pearly necklace that was a family heirloom for uncounted generations… until I gave it up to her, in my desperate servility.
Because it’s going to cost me.
I’m not allowed any jewellery, of course, save for a corny wristband with letters spelling out her name. Proclaiming my nature as a simp for my friend for all the world to see.
My own golden locks tied in an unassuming bun, my makeup toned down to make me look plainer. To make me disappear, while she draws all the looks. She the sun, and I the moon, unable to shine with my own light.
I feel invisible, next to her. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Isn’t it?
That’s what led to my original request, anyway. I know how it sounds, a rich girl complaining about how hard her life is, but listen… I didn’t grow up under a rock. I know I’ve been absurdly privileged, and I appreciate that. I just… didn’t want my wealth to define my social relationships.
Except, of course it did. When you’re rich like my family is, it colours every conversation, seeps into every nook and cranny. How you dress, how you hold cutlery, how you greet someone. It’s everywhere. And with it, come the vultures.
The constant barrage of tittering sycophants, the hangers-on looking for a favour or a connection they might leverage one day, the false friendships… it was exhausting. I hated that I couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake any longer.
In my frustration, one day I just asked Anastasia to stop being nice to me. A part of me knew, even back then, that she was the ideal candidate. A true and honest friend, yes. But also someone who’s always valued hard work and outspoken opinions, over wealthy affectations of propriety.
I didn’t know what I was asking for. Or maybe part of me did, and that’s where the thrill came from. I did know Anastasia has always been… bossy. Strict. Demanding. Even authoritarian… but I couldn’t imagine how much, until that first time, when I shared my frustrations with her, and asked her to never, ever be nice to me again.
That’s when she first said the cursed words to me.
It’s gonna cost you.
And it has. Oh my, it has.
It started simple, really. Anastasia really did stop being nice to me. She became curt with me, and I found myself, uh… responding. Snapping at attention, or squirming under her verbal assaults, and of course there was no mistaking the sudden warmth radiating from my sex…
I’d just wanted to be treated like an average person, a peer, but Anastasia spotted something in me, and went straight for the jugular.
She started treating me like a social inferior. And I… liked it.
I started carrying her textbooks, walking into uni a step behind her. At her direction, I always tied up my hair, trying to “be less showy” in her presence, as she put it. Our daily afternoons of study became more and more centered around her studying.
I would brew her tea, fetch her snacks, go buy pizza myself (when we could have ordered it). My grades, already lower than hers, began to dip. But my arousal began to heighten, and with it, so did my servility.
That’s when the foot massages began… and with them, my downfall. But truthfully, I don’t even think of my debasement and prostration before her as the defining moment of our new relationship. No, there is another…
In retrospect, I think the first time she directly asked me for money… that was the point of no return. The threshold in the permanent change between us.
It started with a simple fiver, but since then, it’s gone up, and up, and up – and I’ve only gone further and further down, into the abyss of my own depravity…
“Earth to Olivia,” Anastasia says, snapping me from my reverie. “I said, it’s gonna cost you. I have cooler friends I could spend time with, you know? I need motivation to hang out with a loser like you.”
My cheeks redden like the fires of hell at her demeaning words. Even more damningly, my thighs rub together in my arousal.
“C-c-cooler friends?” I say, in a half-broken whisper.
“Oh yes,” Anastasia says, leaning in with a glint in her eye. “Friends who have worked their butts off for what they have, like me. Not privileged brats like you. They have interests, hobbies, motivation. You’re so empty, and vapid…”
I mewl like a kitten, trying desperately not to let the entire restaurant hear me.
“And spoilt, and stupid…”
“Please…” I ask, putting down the glass. My hands are shaking so hard that I fear I’d drop it.
“Maybe I should show them to what degree I truly own you now,” Anastasia says, leaning even closer, looking at me languidly. “Just parade the rich heiress in front of all my friends like a trained filly that’s been reined in.”
“Oh, god…”
She smiles even more at my response. “We’d all laugh at you, you know. We’re all clear-sighted, analytical people. We’d know how to put your money to good use. You, though… you just let your working class friend walk all over you. Because secretly, you know that’s where you belong.”
My eyes dart this way and that, desperately, trying to see if anyone in the restaurant is looking our way. I grasp the edge of the table, panting. Anastasia’s ability to make my heart hammer maddeningly against my chest with mere words is unbelievable.
This is an addiction, isn’t it? That’s what I’m describing. All it takes is a few words, and I feel like I have a fever. I swoon in place, sweating, hyperventilating, my own crazed heartbeat thundering against my ribs.
“Because you know I’m smarter than you,” Anastasia says, sultrily. Then, her features harden, and her voice drops. “Say it.”
“Y-y-you’re b-better than me,” I stammer. “That’s why you’re in c-c-charge…” God, the crushing humiliation hurts.
That’s what makes it so hot.
“You need a firm hand to make you behave,” Anastasia concludes, leaning back in her chair. “But what you’re asking for… Well, my my, Olivia, it’s the biggest thing you’ve ever asked of me. You better believe it won’t come cheap.”
I gulp loudly and visibly, shivering in place. There’s a weird electricity in the air. So far, all we’ve done could be reversed, undone. But this final step, I know, will not be reversible. If I go through with it, it will be forever.
I stall, pretending to want a sweeter deal. But it’s just bait for her to remind me that I have no say in this. That she gets to impose on me whatever terms she sees fit.
“You c-c-can order anything you w-wan-”
“Of course I can,” Anastasia says, cutting me off. “We’ve been doing that already. Do not presume to talk above your station, slut.”
I knew she would put me in my place, and her reaffirmation of her power sends a jolt of electricity straight to my pussy. By way of apology, I whimper in desperate, submissive arousal.
“I’ll… pay any price…” I say at last, with a defeated sigh.
“Good girl,” Anastasia says, setting my loins on fire. “I know you will. Very good girl. Alright, I am quite convinced. We’ll go to my place after dinner, and get it done.”
That alone should elicit a massive reaction from me – it’s happening, we’re really doing this – but I stop for a second, confused. I frown, replaying her words in my head.
“Your place?” I ask. “But I thought…”
She lives in a bit of a rathole, which is unsurprising in this city, unfortunately. Student accommodation is at a massive premium, and her five roommates are always around – noisily so.
Of course, my own situation is different. Frustrated with the real estate market, my parents simply purchased a condo for me to use for my studies – and hired a maid to help me keep it clean. An insane luxury, I know.
On the upside, it’s given Anastasia and I a safe, cozy place to study all these years.
And to… engage in other, way more interesting activities…
“You heard me,” Anastasia says, batting her eyelashes. “We’re going back to my place.”
I blink at her, until at last, understanding dawns on me. Oh.
Anastasia laughs at my expression, a soft, tittering laughter that thankfully draws no attention from the other guests. “You really are pretty slow, huh?”
God, that mortifies me. In the space of two breaths she’s staked ownership to my own apartment and called me dumb, and all I can think to do is pant, squirm, rub my thighs…
I’m about to speak, but without so much as a second look at my flustered and humiliated expression, Anastasia signals for the waiter to come take our order.
Her order.
There is no more room for me in this relationship, I know. It all revolves around her, now. My looks, my behaviour, my doting fingers and mouth, even my money, it’s all being put to better use. Making life easier for my working class friend who’s smarter, prettier, and stronger than me.
Demoting me to her social inferior, like I deserve.
I look down in unassuming submission, letting her take her pick of the menu, and deliberately ordering tartare for me, which she knows I do not like. It’s part of her re-education, I know. I’m too spoilt and bratty, and I need to learn to appreciate the food my betters pick for me.
After all, I did ask her to never be nice to me again. And now, with her staking her claim on me and on my wealthy possessions, I can only wonder what the future will bring…
I change in the laundry room.
That, in and of itself, is an intensely humbling experience. Rich ladies do not concern themselves with a laundry room: it’s the domain of servants and maids. The fact that I even have enough room for a laundry room, while students like Anastasia struggle to find a bed to sleep on, makes me feel like I’m atoning. Like I deserve being confined in here.
And of course, there’s the glorious, unbelievable uniform before me…
I’ve always dressed in fineries. But now, Anastasia is sitting in the living room, wearing what used to be my beautiful dress and my family jewellery, and here I am, marvelling at the cheap polyester of the maid uniform I’ve just put on.
It feels so… transformative.
I contemplate myself in the mirror. Hair tucked back, no makeup, the shimmering black dress, the frilly hem, the black stockings, the unassuming sneakers below… Wow. It all takes my breath away. It looks so… good on me.
I look ready to serve. Practical. Humbled. Reduced.
Anyone who deigned to look my way would immediately know me for a servant, for Anastasia’s handmaid. She gets to dress in finery and splendour, to study and earn a career, to be doted on and waited hand and foot.
And what do I get? A maid uniform, a sponge in my hand, and feet on my face. There is no mistaking the reflection in the mirror, staring back at me in wide-eyed wonder, brushing the apron tied to her dress, making it more form-fitting.
She is a lackey. A pet. A lowly serving girl with no prospects and no future, except self-abnegation in the name of her masters. No heiress would dress up like this, hand money over to her bossy friend, devote her life to serve her every whim. And all because I once asked her to stop being nice to me.
With a final breath, I muster my courage and stalk out of the laundry room, into the hallway, and towards the beginning of my new life.
I asked for it. It’s time to find out how much it’s going to cost me.
But as I enter the living room, dropping obediently to my knees, the glint of triumph in Anastasia’s face is all I need to know the truth: any price will have been worth it. The way she looks at me, the way my abasement makes her sit up even straighter, look even more regal…
I deserve to be brought low, so she can stand out even more atop me.
God, she’s beautiful. It just feels so right. Getting to look up at her from a kneeling position is worth more than all the money my family’s ever owned, worth more than the friendship we used to have, before I destroyed it with my increasingly kinkier requests. Before I opened the floodgates, and let the darkness of my fantasies take over my everyday life.
“Finally,” Anastasia says. “Finally! Oh god, you look so much better like this! It’s how you should always dress from now on!”
“Yes, Miss,” I say, mimicking the flat and slavish deference I’ve been on the receiving end of, for most of my life. Knowing Anastasia, I know that is no throwaway comment. And so what? This is what I’ve asked for, after all.
For all of this to stop being just playtime. For it to become real.
Wearing this maid’s uniform, lying prostrate at Anastasia’s feet while she takes all the trappings of wealth away from me, is such a redefining experience. I can no longer be the person I once was, the beautiful socialite, no.  
I’ve been brought low, with a working class girl’s foot firmly planted on my neck. The rearrangement of our social status is the only fitting consequence to my defeat.
“Pay your dues,” Anastasia says, and I know that no maid worth her title and uniform has room for hesitation, when a mistress has a command.
I crawl forward, extending my tongue, humbly and respectfully licking Anastasia’s shoes, paid for with my own money, shoes whose bottoms have been literally stamped into my cheeks so many times that I’ve lost count.
I can't see her from my prostrate position, but I can visualise her smile, her sadistic amusement at seeing the rich snotty girl willingly licking her shoes after being demoted to a reduced status.
There is so much in each lap of my tongue. My admission that she’s better than me. My gratitude for not being nice to me. My respect for her superior role in our friendship. My acknowledgement that I’m inferior to her in every way. My snivelling request for mercy, in the knowledge that if she wanted to, she could destroy me.
It’s a hugely significant moment… and also an insanely arousing one. My heart is beating like crazy, I’m sweating, my head is spinning… and my hips are humping the empty air, to Anastasia’s endless amusement.
“If only all the maids you’ve ever had could see you now,” she says, taunting. “If they knew it was so easy to tame you, they would have had you scrubbing the floors right in your own home!”
I don’t reply. I don’t need to. My tongue runs the length of each shoe, lapping noisily, until Anastasia decides enough is enough. Her elegant feet – really, made for royalty, so petite and proportioned, pearly white, perfect for covering a submissive girl’s face – slide out of her heels.
I immediately lunge forward, sticking my servile lips inside her shoes. I obediently lap all the evening’s sweat away from the insoles, while her divinely soft soles rest atop my head, rustling my hair gently.
Then, one foot slides down my face, leaving a trail of faint female foot sweat in its wake, until it reaches my chin. Here, Anastasia arches her foot, the toes pressing against my chin as her foot curves downward, exposing her wonderful, elegant ankle to my adoring eyes.
With gentle pressure, she pushes my head up, forcing me to look up at her. She looms so large in my field of vision, seen from down here. A goddess. How could I ever believe myself her equal?
Anastasia contemplates me significantly. We both know this is a defining moment in our relationship. That’s only further reinforced when her other foot begins to hover ever downward, drawing closer and closer to my face…
Eventually, the foot comes right before my face, and I immediately flatten my tongue against the sole, lapping like an eager dog, looking up at her with wide, submissive eyes.
"It’s going to cost you," Anastasia repeats as I devote myself to my ministrations. "It’s going to cost you everything. I think it’s time you fired your maid, Olivia. Of course, you’ll give her a nice, fat severance package when you do. The girl suffered the indignity of cleaning your place. Now, you’ll make sure she never has to work another day in her life."
I open my mouth to verbalise my agreement and my submission, but I should know better. Anastasia isn’t interested in my words. Her toes find my open lips, and slide inside.
“Exactly,” Anastasia says. “That’s all I want to hear from you. You no longer need a maid, anyway. Not when you fill out that uniform so well…”
Her words are the hammer, her feet the anvil. In between is me, the girl I used to be, being hammered into nonexistence, leaving behind nothing but this misshapen, servile excuse for a woman, good enough to lap all the sweat off her betters’ feet.
"As for me, I’ll cancel my rent,” Anastasia says, driving her foot deeper into my mouth, enjoying my gagging sounds. "I’ll move right in here, won’t I, slut? Isn’t this what you wanted? No more play? Well, playtime is over. This is my condo now. Your job is to keep it clean for me, nothing more."
“Mmmpphh,” I moan around her foot, so desperate that I can’t touch myself without permission – if I tried, I know how direly it would cost me… I surrendered my orgasms to her as payment for her allowing me to lick her boots, a few weeks back. I’m not sure if I love or hate that I was perverted enough to think of that.
"For the record, I’ll be taking the bedroom," she says, the words sending a beam of arousal lancing straight through my sex. “You can sleep in the laundry room. It won’t be comfortable, but you’re so spineless that you could probably fit in a suitcase.”
Oh god. I let out a desperate, slutty moan as I take her foot down my mouth like a cocksucking champ. Is there anything more servile, more lowly than kneeling at Anastasia’s feet, while she claims my own home, and content myself with slobbering all over her toes?
"I won’t be paying you, of course. But I do expect you to work full time. No more uni for you!”
God, that makes me buck and thrash wildly like I’m getting fucked. And in some way, I am. Anastasia’s humiliation reaches deeper inside of me than any physical fucking could ever do. So many times, people told me I didn’t need to bother with university, that I had enough money to last me ten lifetimes of luxury anyway.
It’s true, but now, it is so for a different reason. I won’t be bothering with university, because I have better things to focus on. Things more befitting of my station. Who ever heard of a maid with a degree? The idea is just silly, like me. A silly, silly girl who needs a foot-pacifier in her mouth so she will shut up at last.
The wet, squelching sound of my slavish mouthfucking fills the silence. It’s a wordless agreement that I’ll be giving up my career, right alongside my condo, my clothes, my orgasm, and my dignity. That I will take all these things and pile them at Anastasia’s feet, where they deserve to be.
Anastasia pushes her foot deeper down my throat, her head thrown back as she enjoys my desperate gluk gluk sounds while I try to take it all.
"And there’s one more thing."
I look up at her, never letting up on my attempt to choke on her beautiful foot, clean it of its sweat. I blink away the tears running down my eyes, waiting for my new owner’s words.
The new mistress of the house.
"I will never, ever suffer the indignity of asking you for money, ever again," Anastasia says,  and I swear the words go straight to my clit, making me whimper and moan like a bitch in heat. “I shouldn’t have to ask. It’s my money, not yours. I want it. All of it.”
She looks down at me again, her green eyes shining with an intensity I’ve never seen before.
“You want real, Olivia?” She asks me. “This is how it becomes real. This is how it stops being a game. If you’re rich, you always have resources. You can always walk away, move somewhere else, start over. But if you give it all up to me… if you end up owning nothing, not even the maid uniform you’re wearing…”
Oh god. Oh god.
“Then you really are mine,” she says, her words a whisper laced with her own arousal. “Then you really have no escape. No option, no plan B, no fallback. No choice but to serve me as my maid, and hope I don’t throw you out, toss you away like a broken toy. Then you really have to put in an effort to please me, and worship me every minute of your miserable life.”
Her foot drives deeper into me, her toes now tickling the entrance to my throat, as her sharp, clever eyes meet my own dumb, slutty, teary ones.
“That’s how it becomes real.”
The truth is, I am so devoured by my own arousal, by my own addiction, that I would give up everything to make this come true. What use do I have for the normal world, when debasement can make me feel like this?
Where else will I get this rush of adrenaline, this insane and uncontrollable arousal?
All my neurons are firing at once, every muscle in my body is spasming and twitching. I’ve never felt so alive.
With tears running down my cheeks, and Anastasia’s toes breaching my throat, I nod, and accept my final enslavement.
Anastasia looks at me with such a regal air of superiority that she looks like a painting. Then, her feet push downward, meeting no resistance, one cheek pressed against the cold marble floor. I suckle submissively on Anastasia’s left foot, while the right foot digs heel-first into my other cheek, squeezing me deeper against the ground, where I belong.
I squirm and thrash under her feet, but it’s only for show. She has me now. This is my unconditional surrender.
And it feels divine.
For a second, a vivid image burns itself into my brain. Me, destitute, penniless, a maid in truth as well as name. Spending night after night in the laundry room, spending day after day on hands and knees, scrubbing the floors by hand.
My hands, my knees and feet, raw and callused from the work, while Anastasia’s remain pristine, soft and pampered. All her friends, joining her here to socialise and have fun together, relishing in the wealth that used to be mine… and laughing at the maid who’s kneeling under the table, moaning sluttily around her feet in gratitude at her own social demotion.
That’s when the orgasm hits me, a hammer on a pane of cracked glass. I moan and shout in loud, worshipful despair around Anastasia’s foot, my body twitching and shaking as the pleasure courses through me in waves.
It’s the best feeling in the world, and I know that – like a true addict – I will pursue it for the rest of my days, with all my will, with all my might. And each and every time, it’s going to cost me more than the last.
And it will always be worth it.


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