"Sorry honey, I have to take this," Frank says, apologetically. "It's work."
"Sure thing, love," I say with a sympathetic nod. He barely lets me finish the sentence before sprinting off towards the balcony, ready for his phone chat.
He's lying, of course. It's not work, on the other end of the line.
For a moment, I consider the irony of my predicament. This whole thing started out as my infidelity, my indiscretion. I was going behind Frank's back. I didn't tell him I bought the foot pics. I didn't tell him I met Holly at the store.
I most certainly didn't tell him about the sandals, about first trying to set up a weekend with Holly here, and then actually succeeding, while he was away on business. I've been having a salacious tryst with his ex's feet, right under his nose.
And now, I'm getting my comeuppance.
As promised, Holly's coming onto him, aggressively. Like she predicted, he's falling for it, hook, line, and sinker. He doesn't even know she's not really into him. She's doing it just to cuck me. To destroy me.
The thought alone is enough to make me wet.
My boyfriend is out there on the balcony, talking to his ex on the phone. He doesn't even know the ex in question has relegated me to being her foot slave, and already he thinks she's worthier of his attention than I am.
How further will his opinion of me nosedive, when he learns the truth?
I say when, not if, because I know Holly isn't going to hold back. She's going to make it happen. I could stop it all, I suppose, but instead I sit here like in a daze, staring at my barely picked-at food, while my own boyfriend falls into Holly's web, just like I have.
Guess that makes us even.
Except... not really. We might both be cheaters, but Frank is the regular kind, at least. Falling for your ex who broke up with you, and is now courting you again, is certainly a lot more understandable than what I've been doing.
The craziest part - the part that really crushes me - is that Holly is letting me do it.
I've figured out her strategy.
She's aggressively coming onto Frank, but hasn't taken things too far yet, from what I can judge. She and I have had frequent foot fetish sessions together, but never where we could be caught. I send her regular tributes on PayPal, but never in quantities large enough to draw Frank's suspicions.
No, Holly has laid the trap for me, weaved her design all around me, readied it to snare me at my first move. But she doesn't want to spring the trap herself. She wants me to step in, of my own volition.
Like a fly, purposefully flying into the spiderweb... or a moth, flying towards the flame.
And of course I'll do it, because I'm snared, beaten, and maybe most importantly, a lesbian cuck pet at heart.
A slutty moan leaves my lips, making my legs twitch and my thighs rub against one another.
And that's why she has me.
When Frank returns, his face is flushed with embarassment. I pretend not to notice, like a polite cuck should, and we proceed to watch some Netflix together.
It's just perfunctory. We're both chatting away on the phone. Unbeknownst to Frank, we're chatting to the same person, to the Sole Monarch who's already decided it's time to break us up.
In chat with me, she can't stop gloating.
"Are you sitting side by side? Please tell me you're side by side "
"We are, Miss," I type, my cheeks blushing with embarassment... and arousal.
She pounces quickly, does Holly. I've learned that much about her beyond any doubt.
"This is such a thrill!" She texts back. "You're literally rubbing elbows as I run circles around you. Lol. Should have done this years ago."
"We would have been ripe for the picking, Miss," I type. "Then as now."
In my heart, I know this to be true. This isn't the sort of thing that happens to you by accident. Frank has clearly been a foot fetishist most of his adult life.
I would have been putty in Holly's hands the moment I found out about it.
Frank's phone chirps again, and a heartbeat after, mine does the same. Holly must be having an absolute field day! We must look so pathetic to her, so embarassingly... easy.
With trepidation making my fingers shake, I swipe on the notification, and read the message.
"Hey Jenna, remember that bit about me being a manipulative bitch? Guess I'm manipulative!"
Dutifully, I type back what she expects me to, my arousal lancing through me like a blazing fire.
"And I'm the bitch, Miss Holly."
My heart literally skips a beat when she says that! Oh God, how pussy-whipped can you get? I feel like a schoolgirl, incapable of controlling my own reactions. And apparently, I'm not the only one.
I eye Frank, sitting next to me. His face is flushed, and there's no mistaking the bulge in his pants. I guess Holly must be inundating him with her amazing foot pics, and I feel a stab of jealousy. I have to pay to get private foot pics, otherwise, all I get is Holly's demeaning insults.
But in a way, I suppose I'm grateful for those, too. Which makes me sound even more of a dumb slut than I already did.
My phone buzzes again.
"Next time Frank's away, I'm coming over," Holly says, and even though it's just text, I can feel the ominous command laced into her tone. "And then, you and I are going to show him a token of our appreciation."
I put my phone down.
I stare ahead for a second, almost uncomprehending. I can hear the furious beating of my own heart, thundering against my ears, and my knees have turned to jell-o. Is this what fetishists feel like, when their kinks are about to come true?
Frank is right here, next to me, and he doesn't know we're doing this.
We're doing this for real.
Holly has decided to proceed, and at this point in my life, her word is law. It's so irresponsible of me - an adult, with a job and a house - to let this arousal devour me, to the extent that nothing else is left.
But in this moment of sudden realization, with Holly's message awaiting for my reply, I understand.
The old world is boring.
That's why I'm ready to give it up. I've found more thrill and excitement being Holly's lesbian cuck pet than I have in a hundred working weeks, and a thousand weekends spent in front of Netflix.
I know how my friends and peers would judge me, if they knew I'm willingly rescinding my boundaries and my personal autonomy, only to throw them into the furnace of my own arousal.
I don't care. Let them judge. I'll go ahead and enjoy this ultimate thrill.
No matter the price.
With newfound determination, I grab my phone again, and start typing frantically.
"Of course, Miss Holly! Anything you want, Miss Holly!"
I can so easily picture her snigger royally, luxuriating on her own couch, pampered and paid for by legions of foot slaves. And none as low and slavish as I am.
"Good pet <3 we're going to hold a little welcome-back party for Frank," she types, as excitement and dread fill the pit of my stomach. "But the real surprise is going to be him seeing you for what you really are. Which is?"
There is no room for doubt or hesitation in my confession.
"Your foot-sucking lesbian cuck pet, Miss Holly."
Unable to take anymore, I slip the phone in a pocket of my jeans, and get up to rush to the bathroom. The frenzied need of rubbing myself has shut down all my other thought processes. Right now, I'm nothing but a dumb animal, craving Holly's feet with all my energy.
"No need to hit pause," I tell Frank, and he nods, like he's barely listening. As I make my way out the living room, I hear the unmistakable sound of his zip come down.
I suppose great minds do think alike.
The rest of the week goes by in a daze, as I eagerly wait for Frank to leave on his business trip. I carefully arrange plans for him to not go straight back home once he returns, but to stop by here instead.
I tell him I'll have a surprise ready for him.
He's curious, the way he always gets when surprises are involved, and also a little guilty - he's closer to cheating on me with every passing day, and here I am preparing a surprise for him!
Well. That little problem will take care of itself soon. One way or another, he'll find out the truth, and will never have to worry about cheating again.
Saturday is a torture of a day, spent alone at home, masturbating furiously.
But then, at last, Sunday comes. And with it, the end to my old life.
I pull out all the stops. I dress in a skimpy maid outfit with shiny stockings - paid for with my own money, of course. I arrange for a sumptuous dinner, light out the candles, prep the wine.
I'd say I have a date with Holly's feet, but that's not quite true.
I have a date with my destruction.
By the time the clock strikes seven, everything is set.
Dinner for two.
For Holly... and Frank.
I'm perfectly cognizant of my role here. I practice while waiting for my Sole Monarch, standing demurely by the side of the table, curtsying humbly, fetching things back and forth.
I've never been a waitress before, much less a maid, so my grace leaves much to be desired... but knowing Holly, she'll imbue my head with this knowledge, the same way she's been imbueing my skin with her foot sweat. Forcefully, and relentlessly.
This is what I'll be doing for the rest of my life.
By the time my practice is done, I assume the position, kneeling before the front door. I feel myself slipping into an almost meditative state, until the buzzer startles me back into wakefulness.
My heart seems to beat faster and faster as Holly ascends her staircase. When, at last, she rings the doorbell, I know a new chapter of my life is about to begin.
Once more, the Queen stands at the threshold, looking down at me. She's as beautiful as she is imperious, sporting a leather jacket that communicates confidence and toughness.
She's wearing a classy sweater, a pair of dark jeans that hug and complement the curves of her generous thighs and hips like a second skin, and a pair of slick black ankle boots, that look like they've been polished to a high sheen.
Perhaps by a slave's tongue.
She hasn't paid a penny for these clothes, I'm sure. They were bought with the sweat and labour of her simps, her orbiters, her sycophants... and the foot cucks, like me.
"Yes, Miss Holly," I say, in a repeat of her first visit. Moments later, my forehead adheres against the cold floor, making me shiver. But a shiver of an altogether different nature courses through me, when I feel pressure against the back of my head.
Holly has placed her booted foot atop me, the heel digging into my scalp, the tip resting against my neck. Her pressure is gentle, but firm, letting me know she has me, and I'm not going anywhere, whether I want to or not.
Is there anything more submissive than baring your neck like this, prostrating on the floor, letting your former adversary use it as a footstool for a victory pose? It's a gesture of sheer vulnerability, submission, and trust.
I'm placing myself at Holly's mercy, and she's posing with me like a hunter with a recently slain prey. There is so much in this small gesture, in the sole of her boot pressing against my skin.
It's the abyss. And if I'm lucky, I will never have to crawl out of it, and back into the dull everyday world. Not anymore.
"Crawl," Holly says simply, walking past me and claiming the couch as her own. I follow her on all fours, keeping my body as close to the ground as possible, and come kneeling before her like a trained dog.
She sits with one leg draped over the other, her booted foot dangling in front of me. Her stern domina face is morphing into a smug grin.
"I like what you've done with the outfit, slut," she says. My cheeks blush, and my pussy catches fire, as I lower my gaze and whisper my thanks.
"Looking the part is all well and good," Holly says, clearly forcing herself back into the role of a stern domme. "But you must act the part, too. Get to work."
That is all the instruction I require. I throw myself at her boot like a drowning woman clutching at a straw, in the middle of a sea in storm.
It isn't my first experience with shoes, of course. I did spend some lovely quality time with Holly's sandals. But this is an altogether different experience.
The texture and flavour are completely different, of course. The boot is smooth where the sandal was rough, unyielding where the sandal was flexible. And while the sandals carried years of Holly's foot sweat, the boots feel clean under my tongue, leaving only an odd, leathery, pungent aftertaste following each lap.
The psychology of it is different, too. The sandals meant debasement, being a receptacle for Holly's sweat, almost like I was her towel girl in a way, except much lower than that. The boots, on the other hand, are pristine, but harsh.
"Oh, the boots hurting your tongue?" Holly says from above, with an evil smirk. "It's fine. It's not like you need it to please Frank anymore."
I moan at her words, worshipping her boots from tip to top with even more enthusiasm, even more devotion. They do feel different from the sandals, but I enjoy the variety.
I never realised something as simple as a pair of shoes could alter a fetishist's experience so much.
Licking Holly's boots merely emphasises the contrast between their sharp angles and black sheen, and the softness of my face and tongue. Licking them feels like begging for mercy, submitting to an irresistible authority.
It's weakness, yielding before strength. Reducing me to nothing but her tame kitten.
"You lose, Jenna. The only reason I let you keep working that shitty office job of yours is so you can keep buying me stuff."
Oh God. It's true, isn't it? I'm Holly's cash cow. Her dumb paypig. As if to emphasise the point, Holly's boots rest atop my head, manipulating me towards the ground. Soon, I find myself on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
Then, Holly's boots block my field of vision. One descends, with the heel resting menacingly against my throat. The other adheres to my face, the heel seeking my slutty, waiting lips.
"Suck it," she commands, and of course I obey.
My movement range is severely limited by Holly's own boots, so I mostly lie passively and let her shoes have their way with my face. Soon enough, she's mouthfucking me with her heel.
"I control your money," she says, her words punctuated by the wet, slutty sounds of my fellatio to her heel. "Soon, I'm going to be fucking your boyfriend. I've turned you into a maid in your own home. From now on, I'll control your orgasms too. And of course, you're desperate to lick my feet. What does that say about us?"
I can't respond, of course, focusing on my servant duties, but I know what it means. Holly has everything already, and has taken what little I could call my own with effortless ease. She earns a lot more than me, yet I pay for her stuff.
Hell, she earns a lot more than me precisely because losers like me pay for her stuff.
I break my back, day-in, day-out, to earn everything I own. This gave me pride, once, but now it just marks me as a peasant in my mind's eye. Holly has so much more without batting an eye or breaking a sweat, after all.
As befits a queen.
"It says I'm the better woman, of course," Holly says, retracting her boots at last. Embarassingly, my lips stretch outward, as if seeking to stay in contact with the heel I've been sucking - which is now polished with my saliva.
That gets a chuckle out of Holly. "Patience, girly, I need something else from you now. My feet get really sweaty in those boots. Thankfully I have you to take care of that."
I wonder if she'll let me take her boots off, or if I have to change position - but before I can even think about getting up, her boots have been discarded to one side, and her naked feet have descended back upon my face.
Well. Guess I'm not moving, then.
"We're waiting for Frank anyway, so take all the time you need. But do the job right."
The familiar taste of Holly's foot sweat greets me, as her toes worm their way past my lips and into my mouth.
Familiar. Holly's foot sweat is, by now, familiar. How many grown-up, free, working women can make this claim with a straight face? I've become such a debased foot slut that I recognise Holly's taste the second it hits my lips.
Dutifully, I stick out my tongue and begin licking at Holly's foot, from toe to heel, from arch to ankle. Eagerly, but also demurely. Trying my very best to clean it for her.
My dominant cuckcake.
The better woman.
"Don't miss a single spot."
"Mmmpph mmh", I mumble, pouring renewed energy in my efforts, licking in between Holly's toes, bobbing on her big toe, adhering my lips to her heel to produce as much suction as I can.
I'm slobbering so much that I'm effectively giving her feet a tongue bath.
It's nothing she hasn't seen before. She literally makes a living by letting people worship her feet. Whatever else one could say about Holly, this alone commands respect and awe.
"That's the part I find really delicious," she says as I perform like a slavish maid for her. "It's your own obsession with my feet that got you here. I was more than happy to leave you guys alone, but nooo. You had to engineer your own destruction. Well, here you are. Congratulations, slave. Mission accomplished."
And she's right, of course. It was all my own doing.
I couldn't stop thinking about her foot pics. I couldn't stop stalking her online alias. I behaved like a dumb, ditzy slut at the store. I bought the sandals. I'm the one who's been paying tribute to her on PayPal.
I'm the one who agreed to blow up my own relationship, just so I could be here, kissing, licking, sucking every inch of Holly's feet.
I moan in the knowledge that Holly's right, that this is my fault, and my destruction.
My mission is accomplished. All that is left now...
Is to see it unfold before my very eyes.
By the time Frank slips the key inside the lock to my front door, Holly and I have recomposed ourselves... after a fashion.
She's sitting at the head of the table, as befits her, with a wine glass before her. Her legs are crossed just so that the right boot will peek from behind the table, perfectly visible to anyone entering the room.
God, what a masterful tease she is.
I stand in my maid's uniform, with my hips cocked and my head bowed, as Holly instructed - to give me an air of demure sluttiness, as she likes to call it. Available and enticing, but passive. Sexually open, but not aggressive.
Still, my fledging training can't keep my heart from racing, when Frank finally crosses the threshold into my home, and the beginning of our new lives together.
"Honey, I'm ho-" he says, stopping cold in his tracks. "Uh, hi Holly," he says, his face paling, and I know what he must be thinking. He's afraid I must have found him out, and confronted Holly, or something along those lines.
I can see his gaze lingering on Holly's boot, and that alone clarifies to me on such a bone-deep level why Holly has her claws into him in a way I could never even dream of.
She can play him like a fiddle, just like she does me.
I, on the other hand, was just a boring girlfriend - and now I will never be a girlfriend again, but rather something lesser, demoted to service and relief aid.
It seems only fitting.
Eventually, Frank's eyes come to a stop on me, taking in my outfit, my pose. Anxiety retreats from his gaze, as his eyes narrow.
"So..." he says, hesitantly, "what's going on?"
"Yeah, Jenna," Holly says with a smirk, leaning back in the chair to grin in my direction. "What's going on?"
The silence stretches awkwardly for a few seconds. Of course Holly is going to provide no assistance to me. She does want me to spring the trap on myself, willingly.
I understand. She's done her work on me, so I am willing. Ready and eager to submit.
I clear my throat, my gaze fixed on a spot on the floor, unable to meet Frank's questioning gaze. "I'm..." I begin, then falter.
I gather myself, and try again.
"Frank, I'm Holly's foot slave," I say, in a voice that is basically a whisper. "I'm her lesbian pet. Her cucked maid. She's the better woman, and she can have you if she wants. And I'll... I'll accept being put in my place. Serving the couple."
I look longingly at Holly's boots.
"She always gets what she wants, after all."
"Uh, I..." Frank's eyes dart between Holly and me. He's clearly trying to decide if we're serious or not, and if yes, what he's supposed to feel. Anger, betrayal, weirdness, embarassment... acceptance?
"Since when?" He asks, and then, with a shake of the head, "Is this a prank?"
"Since only recently," I whisper, "and no. I know you've been chatting to her too, Frank. That's okay. I won't stand in your way."
Frank walks up to me, trying to look me in the eye. I can see the conflicting emotions playing out across his face, the way he's trying to channel them, to find an appropriate response to such an unexpected situation.
"Jenna, do you..." he asks, but before he can finish, Holly stands up, draping her arms across his shoulders.
"Oh, she's already admitted it," she says, grabbing his chin, forcing him to look at her. "Besides, it's me you should be asking now. She doesn't matter anymore."
I see Frank hesitate. He looks at Holly, then at me. Then, back at Holly.
And that's when his decision is made.
"Does she... really like it?"
My heart sinks. Holly has manipulated me into a position of complete irrelevance in the space of seconds. Frank's still reeling from shock, and already he's talking about me to Holly as if I weren't in the room.
Holly looks deep into his eyes, an evil glint in her gaze.
"I'll show you."
We put on a show for him.
Say what you will about the weirdness of the situation, but Frank is a foot fetishist, just like me. And Holly's been teaching me tricks, all this time, precisely in preparation for this moment.
My slutty maid outfit clinging around my curves like a lover's embrace, my legs folded beneath me as I kneel on the floor, I throw myself at Holly's feet like a trick-turning whore.
I suck each toe individually - the sweaty taste is gone, thanks to the tongue bath I provided earlier, and any remaining toe jam has long since been scooped into my mouth - but this hardly matters to my devastated cuckquean brain, which is completely fried at this point.
What matters is the show.
I close my eyes and stretch out my lips into a little O, every muscle on my face distending and relaxing as I bob up and down Holly's toes with enthusiasm.
I want Frank to picture the world's most luxuriating, grateful blowjob as he watches me make out with my Queen's feet. To drive the point home even further, I keep my hands obediently behind my back, even though my sex is on fire by now.
The slutty moans coming out of my mouth only intensify as I start taking Holly's toes two at a time, then three.
"Look at her," Holly tells Frank. "You'll get your turn with my feet, of course." I can almost feel her wink as she says this. "But this little bitch... She's never getting off her knees ever again."
"I had no idea..." Frank says, breathless.
"I did," Holly cuts in. "I'm doing you a favour by breaking you up, really. You're mine now, boy. And as for her..."
Holly's other foot descends possessively atop my head, driving me down just as the foot I was worshiping thrusts upwards. I open my mouth as far as I can, taking her foot inside like a champ.
As Holly's foot directs my pace, I start fucking my face on the foot in my mouth, making wet, squelching, slurping, gagging noises that qualify and cement my new status in the household.
"She's never getting off her knees again."
I hear the sounds of Holly and Frank having sex through the walls.
This is nominally my apartment, but I'm not allowed in the bedroom anymore, except to clean it when they aren't around.
Holly has relegated me to the couch. Demoted me to being the hired help. I can't use the bed even when she's not around, when I have the place to myself.
It's important to enforce the divide between people who actually own the place, and the household servitude, as she explains.
I dress for work to the sound of their pleasure, the pleasure I am denied. Save for worshipping Holly's feet and sucking Frank's cock, I'm not allowed stimulation. I haven't come in three weeks.
When I return later tonight, I will have to shed these work clothes for my maid uniform. And if I do a good job... and Holly is feeling generous... and I make a sufficient donation to her PayPal...
Then maybe I might even get to cum.
The thought alone is enough to make me grunt softly. The next eight hours at work are going to be hell. But every penny I earn goes towards my Masters' household. I owe it to them.
Their little, slutty, maidified, cucked worker bee.
I pack my lunch, ready my bag, and grab my coat. Before leaving, I throw one final, longing glance at the closed bedroom door, far down the hallway.
I believe in earning what you have.
And for better or worse, I've certainly earned this. A life of sexual frustration and subjugation. A life of being second-best to this better woman. A life of foot-related and domestic servitude.
A life spent... serving the flame.
"Sorry honey, I have to take this," Frank says, apologetically. "It's work."