I'm on the edge of a steep, dark, powerful abyss.

We spend our lives dimly aware of the abyss, but we are dull to its presence. We don't look at it directly. Politely, we pretend it isn't there, but we all feel its pull, some more than others.

The abyss colours every one of our interactions. It's the knowledge that all human relationships are fundamentally about power, about the allocation of scarce resources - money. Prestige. Sex.

Just think of the language you and I use every day. Do you see the shades of meaning when you say someone walks all over you? What about being brought to heel, or kept on a short leash?

Then there's  being someone's simp, or orbiter, or smitten. Being under someone's thumb. Being a bitch. Being bossed around. If something doesn't go your way, you're getting screwed. If you need to relax, you put your feet up. To show your submission, you place something at someone's feet. If a girl owns you, you're whipped.
 
We have more expressions to describe coercion and power imbalances than we do pretty much anything else. And I haven't even gotten to the actual sex jargon yet...

Think of all the cultural signifiers we're exposed to. A conqueror treads nations underfoot. How many times have I seen that in school books, growing up?

Girls who are rivals catfight for supremacy. That's not limited to the realms of porn - even family friendly movies will toy with the concept.

This is the abyss. The lurking knowledge, just at the edge of our perception, that we are a hierarchical species. That at any given time, we find ourselves under other people's power, and occasionally have power over others.

And on some level, that we are drawn to this concept of inequality and humiliation... like moths to a flame.

When I began this journey, when I first bought Holly's set of foot pics, I was consumed by curiosity. I wanted to understand what made fetishists tick. I didn't realise it at the time, but I, too, was drawn to the flame. Why would someone voluntarily debase themselves at another human's feet?

Well, now I know: fetishists are people who stare unblinking into the abyss, and think, cool!

As I scurry around the kitchen like a humble servant, preparing dinner for the Sole Monarch coming to visit me later tonight, I realise the description fits me more and more with every passing day.

I don't like cooking meals for Frank, and he knows it too. Combined, we have more than enough money to order food online or eat out. If we don't do either, the meals are his responsibility. I don't like to leech off him, but I do like to be pampered on this one aspect of everyday life.

Well... you wouldn't know that by looking at me now. The gentle stir fry I'm preparing requires keeping track of more spices than I can count, making sure the rice is just right, preparing the sauce carefully so that the meat isn't too dry, but just damp enough to meld with the rice afterwards.

I've been at it for hours. This is what Holly has reduced me to: a servant in my own home. And her of all people, Frank's ex wife! What does that say about me, as a woman? Who would willingly debase herself like this, admit an older rival's superiority, embrace it with such zealous, slavish submission?

A lesbian cuck pet, that's who, my brain replies, and I have to stifle a moan rising from my throat.

That's what I'm talking about. How many hours of cultural exposure have gone into this mindset? How many crappy romcoms about love triangles, how many tropes about bitchy female rivalries have slowly filtered into my brain, to the point that I would identify submission to Holly as a fundamental admission that I have failed as a woman?

The abyss has a hold of me now. And I'm not complaining.

I love it.

By the time dinner's ready, the fateful hour is fast approaching. The table is set, the wine's at the correct temperature - Frank bought that bottle for us, I think with a pang of guilt - but I still feel like something's missing in Holly's royal welcome.

I'm relatively new to this world, but the internet can go some lengths to fill in for experience - you'd be shocked at how thorough WikiHow is when it comes to some stuff! So I make a decision. Still wearing my apron from the kitchen, in my humble flats and housewifey dress, I get down to my knees before the door.

And I wait.

I do have to get up when the buzzer rings, of course - which makes me chuckle, and takes something away from the poetry of the servant's humble wait - but then I return to my knees as Holly climbs the stairs up towards my apartment.

I don't need to stand when it's time to open the door, though. I can reach the handle from down here. How fitting.

At long last, my Sole Monarch appears before me. And I gasp, as she takes my breath away.

Seen from down here, she's beautiful. It just feels so right. Everyone should have to look up at her from a kneeling position.

Especially cuck girls like me.

I am the moth, and she is the flame. Her red hair frames her clever green eyes like a royal crown, and where I first saw a slightly chubby girl, I now see a sculptor's work of elegant curves and wiry strength. Everything about her is regal, from the shape of her calves to the width of her hips.

And she knows it.

Holly stands on the threshold, looking down at me like I'm a bug to be squashed underfoot. Then she speaks, snapping me out of my reverie.

"Bow."

"Yes, Miss Holly," I say, breathless, and I launch myself forward with such energy that I nearly lose my balance. I lie prostrate at her feet, forehead pressed against the cold ground, waiting upon her pleasure.

It's definitely not my first time being under someone, in terms of power. As I was saying, we all dance around the same abyss. It's the first time I'm fully cognizant of a power imbalance, however, and the first time I can experience the thrill that comes with humiliation in all its addictive glory.

It's the first time I'm kneeling before someone.

It's such a... peculiar experience. Humbling. Redefining who I am as a person, in a way. I instantly feel less self-absorbed, more acutely aware of my limits. I'm only human, after all. That means I can be tamed and domesticated, subjugated and dominated.

And here is someone stronger, strong enough to break me in and train me.

Someone holding the whip hand over me.

Heh. There's another ostensibly non-sexual expression for you...

"Let's see what you've prepared for me," Holly says, and walks past me into the kitchen. I hurry to follow, on all fours like a dog, desperately waiting for her new owner's approval.

"Very nice," Holly says, before sitting at the table. "Serve my portion only. You'll eat after I'm finished."

For a second, I almost want to protest. That will take precious time out of the evening! Time I could spend discovering my new fetish, worshipping her feet. But I think  better of it. This is the fetish. My pleasure isn't important. The only thing that matters is Holly's will.

At her instructions, I kneel under the table and rub her feet while she eats.

So, this is it. My first time actually, consciously touching someone's foot - not just touching it, but making it the singular focus of my attention. I marvel at the softness of the sole, the unyielding strength of her heel, the way her toes flex and curl as I apply my massage.

Thank god I checked that out on WikiHow before she came over! Holly never praises my foot massaging skills - I'm probably mediocre at best - but if I were doing an actually terrible job I'm sure she would be scolding me.

On the other hand, she's full of praise for the food, and for my meekness, and that makes me glow with warmth and pride... which is, in its own way, incredibly humiliating. I really do feel like a dog, eagerly lapping at whatever scrap the owner sees fit to throw under the table, yearning desperately for an approving word, or a pat on the head.

"You know, this should be your job," she says, in between bites. "Cooking for me."

I mewl in humiliation, dutifully massaging her royal feet. Working in an office isn't exactly living the high life, but I never had to work in the service industry, and always considered that a small personal success.

So much for that. Holly has crushed that underfoot, too.

By the time Holly's done, it is my turn to eat. For a second an image flashes in my mind, of me eating on the ground like a pet, but Holly gestures for me to sit. Maybe she's not into that particular kind of humiliation, or maybe she just wants to gradually debase me?

Be that as it may, the truth is I'm too nervous and agitated to do more than nibble at my food.

With exasperation, and a hint of amusement, Holly recognises this.

"Alright," she says. "I suppose you can eat later. Now come attend me."

"Yes, Miss Holly."

Before I can move, however, Holly puts her feet on the table, gesturing for me to get off the chair and back onto my knees.

I gulp, nervously. I hate seeing feet on my table. That's not unreasonable, is it? It's where we eat! And yet, I say nothing.

Because I'm a servant in my own home.

And so, silently, I bow my head, slide off the chair, and sink back to my knees before my Sole Monarch.

My knees are getting sore from the cold tile floor beneath me, and Holly's feet are just out of reach, perched up on the kitchen table. She looks down at me with a grin that makes me quiver.

"Stare at my feet Jenna."

I don't need her telling me to. I'm captivated by the beauty of the arch, the perfect symmetry of her toes' decreasing size, the heel just begging to be sucked...

"Think about where, and how low, these feet will take you. Think about making out with them. Other women make out with hot guys, but not you. You'll be making out with my feet! Are you going to kiss Frank with the same lips you use to pay your dues to me?"

Holly cackles evilly at the question, but I only lick my lips in anticipation, the blood pumping so hard I can hear its roar in my ears.

Holly's words are cruel stabs to my heart and pride, but they set my arousal on fire in a way I didn't think possible. I should find her statements mortally offensive, and here I am instead, kneeling, panting, waiting for her permission to start worshipping her feet.

Holly looks at me with a weird glint in her eyes. "How badly do you want to do this?"

"Badly," I say, forgetting to address her appropriately, barely giving her time to finish the question. I've been reduced to something more like a starving animal than a straight-thinking person at this point. I can't think, I can't focus. I just want to stop chomping at the bit.

But Holly prolongs my torment, just a little longer, disciplining my pleasure.

And then, she speaks.

"Think about the jealousy you will feel the day I aggressively come onto Frank and make him mine again, while you watch like a little bitch."

I gasp and moan, my mouth stretching open in shock and outrage and pleasure - and that's when Holly's left foot slams into my mouth, while the right descends upon my head to guide me down, like a domineering hand would during a blowjob.

"Suck it, whore."

My body responds to her words as if possessed. I plant my knees better on the ground, like I really am a trick-turning whore about to deepthroat a guy, and I flex slightly under Holly's right foot, to give myself the space I need to give her a good show.

My tongue flattened under the ball of her left foot, I can't slurp and lick like I would with a cock, but I can still put in an effort to bob up and down, making soft gagging and gurgling sounds, looking up at her with wide, submissive eyes.

I find myself trembling at the intense, pangy taste of Holly's sweat, which I'm now cleaning off with my tongue - that's when the word servant gains a whole new connotation in my mental vocabulary, a devastatingly erotic one.

I'm a foot-licker. I'm this older woman's maid. I'm giving her foot a blowjob.

The intensity of my devotion is so deep I find myself almost collapsing. My hands have to lean against the table to provide me some stability. Holly is watching at me with rapt fascination, doubtlessly relishing in her newest conquest.

"I bet there was a time when you felt sexier than me," she tells me as I slurp with abandon. "Never mind that I was the one who broke it off with Frank, a part of you must have felt you stole him from me. You're younger, slimmer, you probably figured I was just and old, manipulating bitch. And look at you now!"

She starts driving her left foot deeper into my mouth, each time with a soft grunt and a tug of her lips that seems to say, take it, you had it coming, stupid whore. The combination of her foot scent, and her sweat now accumulating on my tongue, is making me feel heady, almost like it's an alcoholic concoction.

The sensory assault, combined with her words, is striking at me like a battering ram. I'm in complete sensory overload, mercilessly stimulated from every direction, and I have no option except to feel it.

It's overwhelming. But Holly isn't done with me.

"I confess. I am manipulative," she says with a smile. "As it turns out, however... You're the bitch!"

Her right foot withdraws from my mouth, and I find myself grimacing at the sadistic witticism behind her words... but I can't really argue with her from this position, can I?

Pathetically, I lean forward, seeking out her foot. She presses it back against my lips, ankle-first, and I smother it in kisses.

"For the record, I did always believe Frank traded down with you," she says, the words sending a beam of arousal lancing straight through my sex.  "I figured you for a dumb, replaceable vanilla girl who'd never dominated a man in her life. But you're actually worse than that. You're a spineless little sub."

"Mmmmhh," I moan, unable to respond coherently, slobbering all over her foot like my life depends on it.

Holly continues her onslaught.

"You're letting me, the ex-wife, use your mouth like a warm receptacle for my feet. That's how pathetic you are. You must have some redeeming qualities at least. You know how to suck, for instance. Show me again."

I do just that, darting my doe eyes from her face to her foot, then swallowing her toes in one gulp and suctioning with all my passion. Again, Holly's other foot returns to my head, rubbing against my hair, guiding my head in the improvised fellatio. The wet sound of my energetic mouthfucking fills the room.

"Ahhh. I see why Frank might like this part about you. Don't worry, after I take him away from you, I'll let you suck his cock every now and again. Provided you're a good slave, that is. And no more than that. You can be his suck slut!"

She pushes her foot deeper down my throat, her mouth stretching into a feral smile.

I realise with horror that her foot is now mostly devoid of sweat... unlike my hair and mouth, which are full of it. Like a warm receptacle.

"And mine. I always get what I want."

Holly withdraws her foot, curling all her toes except the big one, which remains extended. The message is clear.

"And you want Frank?" I say, while placing a demure kiss on it. Then, I slide my sloppy lips up and down the length of her big toe.

"Not really. That's the fun part."

I look up at her, curious, while obediently sucking.

"Frank and I are on good terms. He's a good guy. But my infatuation with him is long past. As I said, that's what makes this funny."

"Mmmpphh??"

"I'm not taking him away from you because I want him. Just because I can. I can, and that means you can't have him. That's how sadistic I am. That's how little consideration I have of your feelings. I'm breaking you up just to prove a point. That I'm better than you in every way that counts, and this is where you belong. This is right where I want you."

Holly's words break something within me. I would say it's my heart, but that would give the wrong impression. The truth is, I am so devoured by my own arousal that I'm barely thinking about Frank, even as Holly details how she's going to break us up. All I can think about is how much I need to cum. How I would do anything, promise anything, give away anything, to make that happen.

That's the part that snaps. When I stop thinking of myself as an autonomous being that can make decisions, and see myself as a slut who needs to perform tasks to be allowed to orgasm instead.

When I accept that this means I will be trained and programmed, turned into a trick-turning circus animal for Holly's amusement, domesticated and enslaved.

And I take it like a bitch.

"Now," Holly says, leaning in closer. "Are you going to try to stop me?"

Tears pooling in my eyes, Holly's toe resting lightly on my tongue, I realise I am already defeated. Have been since our first encounter at the store, at the very least.

Without taking my lips off her toe, I shake my head.

"That's good. So lie down on the floor, bitch, and enjoy. This is the rest of your life."

Holly's feet meet no resistance as the sweaty soles adhere to my face, and then push me down, making me lie flat against the cold tile floor. I am now her defeated footstool, something less than human, a lesbian cuck pet that the abyss has swallowed whole.

I let the crushing, serpentine spires of my own demise clench around me until my resistance breaks completely, and I lie limply in their embrace. The feeling of total, utter surrender washes over me as I suck.

And that's when the orgasm hits me. It's devastating, like a hammer striking my nervous system, making every muscle in my body tremble with tension and pleasure. I don't want this electricity to ever end. I want to feel this, over and over again.

And I realise, with sudden dread, that I will do anything to feel it again. I am officially beneath Holly, and officially a slave to the abyss.

Forever.