Competition is healthy. 

That’s what I tell myself every time I have the unfortunate impulse of comparing my career path to Cristina’s. Even then I realise on some level that it’s a rationalisation. I’m too used to being the top of my class with ease, as I have been through high school. The effortless way in which she’s surpassed me at every exam smarts a little. 

Sometimes I wonder.

Is she… just plain smarter than me? 

I don’t know. I mean, even if that were the case, so what? Surely I don’t think of myself as the smartest person alive, and that implies that there must be people smarter than me all around, and eventually I might even meet some. 

But there’s something about Cristina that makes me twitch in discomfort and insecurities. It never happens with anyone else. I just get this weird belittling feeling every time she obtains a new accolade. I can’t stop comparing myself obsessively to her achievements… and coming up short. 

I don’t like this new side of me, to be honest. It feels petty, and a bit spiteful, and not at all like myself, particularly because Cristina and I are good friends. 

We didn’t known each other when signing the lease, and I was afraid I would up with a roommate I disliked. I needed this arrangement to work. 

A two-bedroom uni accommodation has the clear benefit of avoiding the absolute chaos of multi-student apartments, while still allowing two people to split rent together. 

I imagine Cristina must have been as nervous as I was, but thankfully we hit it off right away. Since then, we’ve been enjoying movie nights, introducing one another to our mutual friends, and on the right days, when everything falls into place and we have enough energy left, we even cook something together. 

Maybe most importantly, we have an even split of the chores, with no drama about our turn-taking. I couldn’t have asked for a better roommate – except maybe one that didn’t trigger my academic insecurities by constantly one-upping me. But I’m mature enough to realise that it’s my problem, not hers, so I leave her alone about it. 

Hell, she’s such a good friend that, as my stress levels built up over the last few months, she’s offered to help me relieve them. She massages my shoulder sometimes, and repeat lulling statements to me in a low, soothing voice. 

Somehow, I always fall asleep when she does that, and I never remember her exact words afterwards, but it does wonders for my peace of mind. She really is an incredible friend.

And besides, competition is healthy. Surely, her achievements will spur me on and try to be an even better academic. It’s not like we’re actually playing a zero-sum game that would determine a winner and a loser, right? 

Of course, there’s one other thing I really like about having Cristina as a roommate: her feet. I’ve always been a foot fetishist, but I’ve only begun to notice Cristina’s feet recently, particularly after one of our relaxation sessions. 

Damn, they look good. They’re small and elegant, with well-proportioned toes, and an ankle that looks shaped by a fancy designer. 

Feet worthy of worship, I think to myself absurdly, as I wash the dishes.

Like any foot fetishist, I’ve long since learned to sneak a peek every now and again without looking conspicuous, and rooming together provides plenty of opportunities to enjoy the sight of her feet. 

Sometimes I think to myself that maybe I might get to rub them some day, but these thoughts usually end after a good masturbation session: they’re dangerous ideas. There’s no way to offer a foot rub without immediately giving the game away, and I don’t want to creep her out. She’s my friend, after all.

With a final sigh, I put the last washed dish to dry, and ponder the upcoming conversation I’ll need to have with Cristina when she comes home. Nothing so pleasant as a discussion on foot fetish, I’m afraid. 

She’s successfully navigated her way through uni and a PhD – the terrible bottleneck of all academic careers. But I haven’t been so lucky: like most PhD students, I’m now staring at a big pile of nothing. 

It’s been fun, while it lasted. But it’s time to see things for what they are. 

As if on cue, I hear the key turn into the front door, and then the unmistakable clank of Cristina’s boots, as she marches into the apartment. She was still an insecure wisp of a girl when I first met her. Feels like she’s been growing in confidence all this time – while I’ve been shrinking.

“Ohh, Marcos!” She calls out, and her head pokes into the kitchen.

She’s really pretty – pale skin and dark locks, a combination that seems unfortunately designed to appeal to all my weaknesses. She gives a cute giggle. 

“I knew I’d find you in the kitchen!” 

“I’m not exactly hard to find,” I tell her gently. “Listen Cri, we need to talk.” 

That drives all mirth out of the conversation in an instant, unfortunately. She can be serious when the situation demands. As we sit at the kitchen table, though, it’s all I can do not to let my eyes wander to her crossed legs. 

They’re partially obscured by the table, but I can see the tip of her equestrian, flat-bottomed boot protruding out from under the table – and the place just under the knee where the boot meets her dark, form-fitting jeans. And beyond that, the way the jeans compliment the curve of her thigh. 

It is a fetishist’s dream. 

As Cristina’s relaxation sessions slowly get me more and more into a quiet headspace, I begin to see her in a different light. I don’t have a crush on her, exactly: she’s cute, sure, but I see her as a friend first and foremost, and I don’t spend much time thinking about relationships. Anxiety over my future simply takes up way too big a portion of my mental health. 

I shake myself out of a reverie. I’m not here to discuss boots and feet and relationships with her.

“I didn’t get the research assistant position,” I say at last. I thought saying it out loud would make me feel better, like letting down a weight I’ve been carrying. Instead, it makes me feel worse. 

Every time Cristina has something to share with me, it’s incredible news. She’s successful at everything she does. I wish I could share something like that too, every now and again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry Marcos,” Cristina says, brushing my hand with  hers. I know she means it, and for all the insecurities she triggers inside me, I really feel no ill will towards her. She’s the better academic, in all honesty, as well as the better schmoozer. 

I have no patience for socialising and politicking, and that’s a real drawback in academia these days. I also don’t have her incredibly polished resume, and her string of academic accolades. She was born for this, in a way I am definitely not.

I mean, it’s no coincidence that she’s the one giving me relaxation sessions. 

“Unfortunately,” I say, getting to the even worse piece of news, “that means I’m going to have to move out…”

“Oh Marcos, no!” She looks genuinely taken aback, which puzzles me. Didn’t she see this coming?

“I know,” I say, in a calming tone. “I just can’t afford the rent here, and to be honest, there’s no point staying if I’m not working in academia anyway. I’ll go back home to my parents and figure out what to do next. You can come visit whenever you wa-”

“What if we didn’t do that?” Cristina says, as if she’s had a sudden epiphany. “I’ll pay the rent! I make more than enough. It’ll give you time to get back on your feet, and then you can figure out what you want to do next!”

I blink once, twice, just to make sure that I’ve actually understood.

“Uhm that’s very generous, Cri,” I say tentatively, and I mean it – although I am more surprised than anything else. “But it wouldn’t exactly be fair.” 

“Who cares about fair! I just want us to keep being roommates.” 

I… would have never expected this level of enthusiasm. I feel dirty for saying this – the girl obviously cares about me so much, but I swear, a part of me thinks she’s almost too eager. 

“I get that,” I say. “I want it too, but…”

“But nothing,” Cristina says in a tone that brooks no argument. Yeah, she’s really not the insecure girl she was five years ago. “Tell you what. If you want to pay me back, maybe do a bit more of the chores around the house? In between sending out resumes or whatever it is you’ll do. You should have the time.” 

“I mean… sure. That sounds fair.” And admittedly, it is. Except, it nags me on some level. I’ll wash the dishes while she’s out, working? It’s like an implicit admission that I’ve failed while she’s moving on. 

It’s deeply humiliating and the crowning of my personal defeat at her hands. As I stare into her deep brown eyes, I’m sure that on some level, she knows it too. There’s the faintest smile at the corner of her lips, the knowledge that our long but increasingly one-sided competition finally has a victor.

That I’m about to be reduced in this household. 

But I recognise necessity when I saw one, and this is still my friend, not some girl trying to take advantage of my vulnerabilities. If she feels pride for having outraced an academic competitor, can I blame her?

I shake my head. I should be thankful that my friend wants me to be part of her life. Yes, she’s moving on, but not without me. That’s what friends do. And if that means I’ll be a male version of a housewife for a little while… so what? It’s the twenty-first century. She can be the professional, and I the, uh… stay at home male friend, I guess. 

Besides, it’s only temporary.

“Cool!” Cristina says, winking at me. “How about we seal this with one of our sessions?” 

“That’d be great,” I say with a smile. Wow, she truly is a great friend. I’m so happy to let myself sink and melt into the deftness of her touch, the calmness of her whispered words. It’s like a snake of silks is coiling and wrapping around me, binding me in its embrace, ever tighter…

It works. As I lie in bed later that night, awake in the dark, I do feel relaxed, and my worries about our new living arrangement look so misplaced. What am I fretting about? I get to stay home all day, think things through, and hang out with Cri, with my friend.

How could I ever think she wanted to take advantage of me? She’s paying my half of the rent, for god’s sake. I feel so silly sometimes. 

Of course, I won’t be lazying around… but whereas before the humiliation of my new position chafed a little, now it feels oddly… pleasurable. Scrubbing floors, cleaning bathrooms, cooking each and every meal…

I find my hand wandering. My dick is throbbing. If I felt insecure about Cristina before, now it’s much worse – a raging fire of humiliation that makes me feel warm to the touch. 

Am I… sexualising my own insecurities? Is this some kind of bizarre counterphobic reaction? 

I don’t know. What I do know is that the images flood my brain by themselves as I stroke my cock. Me, cleaning the floor on all fours while Cristina writes a scientific paper. Me, polishing her boots in the corner while she eats the food I’ve prepared for her. Me, massaging her feet as she watches TV… 

I come in seconds. Literal seconds.

And as the adrenaline and pleasure recede, I find myself in the embrace of new, altogether unpleasant emotions. Self-doubt, guilt, dread… and the perverse desire to do it again.

And again, and again, and again…

***

It’s only two weeks into this arrangement, and I’m losing control. 

Cristina is sitting on the sofa, one booted leg draped elegantly over the other, placidly digesting the delicious dinner I’ve cooked for her. I open and close my mouth, shuffling in place, trying to find the strength to bring this up. 

Oh god, how pathetic can I be? I’ve been psyching myself up for this conversation all day. 

I’ve even strategised! I’ve purposefully left it until after dinner, so that she’d be more removed from the stress of the workday, and appreciative of the food I’ve cooked. 

And now, here I am. I plan to keep it simple, just ask if she feels like doing the dishes tonight. If she protests, I’ll tell her I’ve been doing absolutely everything: the laundry, the floors, the cooking… 

Hell, the work itself isn’t even the problem, it’s how she’s increasingly bossy about it. She’ll leave to-do lists for me, inspect my cleaning, she’s even started asking me to iron her shirts! 

So, why am I not saying anything? 

Cristina’s eyes meet mine, and suddenly, she doesn’t seem all so sleepy and relaxed any longer. I see the hint of a challenge.

“So,” she tells me, significantly. “Was there something you wanted to talk about, Marcos?” 

God, I hate when she says my name with that haughty tone, but I also love it. She sounds less and less like my friend and more and more like a stern supervisor, these days. God I hope my boner isn’t showing. 

To my embarassment, this is oddly… hot. It makes me look at Cristina’s boots, imagine how her feet must be sweating in there. It makes me think of literally serving her while she takes charge of the household and its finances.

My kinky fetishist’s mind knows this looks just like the many fantasy power exchange scenarios I so enjoy reading about, but… this isn’t a fetish, it’s real life. That sort of thing only happens in stories, after all.

I need to get a grip. I need to get this friendship, and these living arrangements, back onto an even footing.

Heh, footing… the word makes me think of Cristina carefully balancing atop my prostrate body, as she tramples me with her boots. I’m sure the sole would squish my cheek in the most adorable way. 

Damn, why am I so brain-poisoned?

“Yes, Cristina,” I say, and I hate how sheepish my voice sounds. Like a little boy’s, as opposed to a man’s. “I wanted to ask if err, maybe you, uhh, if you feel like it of course, if you w-”

I’m interrupted by a loud clinking sound, like that of a coin bouncing against the floor. It seems to come from the sofa. 

“Oh, I must have dropped a coin,” Cristina says, and I swear she’s exaggeratingly batting her eyelashes to feign innocence. “I’m too stuffed with lasagna to even move… Marcos, could you be a dear and pick it up for me?” 

Exasperated, I nod. If I do this, maybe the discussion will get back on track. 

I’m all too aware of how this position looks. I’m on all fours before her, so close to her legs that I could brush them with my cheeks, so close to her boots that I can smell the leather… 

“Found it,” I say, getting ready to get up, so I can hopefully clear my head. 

“Stay there,” Cristina says, proffering an open palm. “Hand over the coin.” 

I blink in confusion. She doesn’t want me to stand up? Too stupefied to object, I hand her the coin, while staying down here… on my knees, I realise, as my cheeks flush with embarassment. 

“Anyway,” Cristina says. “Sorry if I interrupted you. Please continue.” 

She wants me to have a serious discussion with her, while I’m kneeling by the sofa like a dog? My mouth opens and closes stupidly, and it’s all I can do to muster enough coherence for the simplest of responses.

“Yes, I-” but once again, she doesn’t let me finish. Her left boot lands softly against my shoulder, and I can feel the weight and bite of the sole as she uses me for support. The physical contact makes me shiver so much that I’m sure she notices.

Her eyes are an unspoken challenge. Yes, she’s using me as a bootstool, so what? Will I object? 

I gulp down, trying to muster the strength to protest, trying to ignore the raging boner in my pants or the bursts of adrenaline coursing through my veins. But I do so too slowly. Cristina’s expression morphs into a that’s what I thought smirk, and her right boot hits my left shoulder.

And then, she pushes. 

I land against the floor, gently, with the soles of her boots now rubbing against my shirt. 

“You were saying?” 

The words come out before I can properly think them through, this time. 

“I hate that you see me as a loser who’s only good to do your laundry.” 

She giggles. “Isn’t that what you are?” 

Oh God. This… this entirely non-sexual experience might be the most devastatingly arousing thing to have ever happened to me in my life. Why does playing second fiddle to her make me so horny?  

Is it because I’m a guy, and she’s a girl? 

I don’t even know where that thought came from. For some reason, I’ve imagined it in Cristina’s own voice, inside my head. But that must be it – because she’s a girl. 

I’ve always thought of myself as a model male feminist, but I’m no more immune to society around me than anyone else. Being a nerd, thinly built and socially awkward, I’ve always had one way to impress girls, and one way only, my brains.

But that could never work with someone like Cristina. My intellect simply isn’t that big of a deal for her, not when she’s clearly the smarter of the two. It makes me feel like a dull blade, one who never got to fulfill early shows of promise.

Yet another burnout-bright-kid who’s now drifting through life. 

Meanwhile, as a woman, she’s had to overcome many more challenges than me, and yet has done better than me, both in relative, and absolute terms.

So much better, in fact, that now she’s using me as a rag to clean the soles of her boots…

All of this, in defiance of what society would expect us both to achieve, based on our genders. 

I hate to admit that such a primitive instinct can exist in me, but my new inferiority to Cristina – intellectual and emotional – makes me feel…

Emasculated.

And again, I hear all of this through her own voice, even in my head.

“I asked you a question,” she says at last, with one boot resting lightly against my throat – a promise, and a threat – while the other shifts downward… 

When it finds my boner, Cristina presses down, twisting her flat heel against my dick. I look at her in shock – how could she be sure I would take it? How has she figured out I’m a fetishist? But I don’t see the slightest hint of hesitation in her determined look. 

Only pity, like she’s looking at a poor excuse for a person. 

The incredible stimulation of her boot pinning my dick down makes my eyes roll to the back of my skull, and the symbology isn’t lost on me, either.

My dick bends under her boot. She’s stronger. 

“Yes,” I whisper, defeated. “I’m the loser who does your laundry.”

“That’s what I thought, little man,” Cristina says with a giggle. “Now, I should send you off to clean the dishes for me, but before I do, I think I know just what you need, Marcos. A relaxation session! Except it’s not your shoulders I’ll be massaging, this time.” 

The boot resting on my throat begins to press harder, keeping me firmly in place, restricting just enough of my airflow that my breathing speeds up. And the other boot…

It strokes up and down, twisting, grinding, crushing my cock underfoot like it’s literally dirt under Cristina’s shoe. 

My thighs quiver and pulse, my muscles contract, and pleasure begins to build – but what cuts through all the noise, hitting straight into my brain, is Cristina’s soft words. 

They’re so softly whispered I can barely make them out, and yet I can’t stop listening to them. And so, as she jerks me off and chokes me with her boots, as I twitch and thrash helplessly underneath her, I can only listen to what she has to say.

And let her words worm their way into my mind. 

***

I perk up at the sound of the key, turning into the lock. Cristina is home! 

God, I feel like a trained dog. She’s pretty much the only source of human interaction I have during the days though, at this point. With the overlong list of chores now assigned to me, I have no time for hanging out with friends… 

Or anything else than serving Cristina. 

I remain on my hands and knees, humbly scrubbing the floor, while the sound of her boots against the marble floor grows closer. Eventually they appear in my field of view, coming to a stop right before me.

Cristina sits down on a chair by the table, with me scrubbing right before her feet. I don’t dare look up. She’s clearly drilled into me that I’m supposed to look down whenever in her presence, and right now, it feels so natural…

As always, one of the boots rests down on my outstretched hand, pinning it to the floor. I squirm a little, but promptly complete my side of the ritual – I lean forward, placing tiny, unassuming pecks of affection and worship all over the boot that’s squishing my hand. 

“That’s a good boy,” Cristina says, and the words send a shiver of pleasure through me. To me she looks and sounds so radiant and splendid, superior in every way. 

“How has your day been?” 

“Good, Mistress Cristina,” I answer in between kisses. “I’ve done all the chores.”

“Good! I knew you’d make suitable slave material when I took you on.” 

Uncertainty creeps into my voice at the word… it resonates so profoundly within me, ringing both so true and so wrong to my ears. It’s not what I’m supposed to be! I’m just a roomie who contributes to the rent by doing the chores!

But then, why am I worshipfully kissing her boots? 

I gulp, my mouth suddenly dry. “S-slave?”

“Shut up and lick my boots,” Cristina says, her voice almost bored, like any objection on my end is some annoying holdup she can brush aside without effort. “Polish them like you do my floors, while I tell you how things are going to be.”

I whimper like a puppy under the cutting disrespect oozing from her words. She doesn’t see me as anything other than a bootlicker. But every time I entertain the thought of disobeying, it’s like her mouth is back to my ears, whispering incessantly… whispering of promises and threats, of pleasure and pain. 

I start lapping at her left boot like they’re ice cream. I do it with such vigour that the flap every time my tongue performs its duty is loud as a gunshot. In its wake, the saliva makes the black boot look so shiny, I can almost see my reflection in it. 

That almost makes me proud. 

“We’re progressing to full-on slavery now,” Cristina says, with a matter-of-fact tone she might use to tell me it’s raining outside. “Why should I have to lift a finger when I have someone like you to do it for me?” 

It makes sense. I hate admitting it, but it’s true. I feel so inferior to her, I have no choice but to openly acknowledge her superiority. She’s pretty much taken the dominant role in our friendship and there’s no going back.

I can’t answer, not while busy licking her boots. But she doesn’t mind.

“You know, I always thought of gender roles as outdated, but in a twisted way I’m starting to see the appeal. We need to get you some proper garments… maid.”

The sound that escapes my sound is closer to a girl’s moan than to even a whimper. God, I sound like I’m being fucked. When did I get this pathetic? 

In my peripheral vision, I’m aware of Cristina sliding her foot right out of the other boot. I wince – she’s not wearing socks! The sweaty scent hits me from here. I redouble my efforts on the boot – at least the leather smells neutral.

But Cristina isn’t interested in my preferences. 

Her naked foot slaps me – strong enough to send me careening to the floor. In the bare moment that her sole touches my cheek, the clammy sweat immediately clings to me. It feels like I must have a footprint of sweat stamped right into my cheek. 

Cristina’s naked foot descends on my face. She grips my nose between her toes, twisting hard, laughing as tears fill my eyes at the scent. It’s pungent and it invades my nostrils, which my fetishist brain loves, even as my rational mind tries to tell me that it’s disgusting.

Shortly thereafter, I feel pressure against my lips. 

It’s the heel of Cristina’s boot. 

This final humiliation makes my spine writhe like a maggot’s. She wants to facefuck me with the heel of her boot! And it’s only a matter of time before I acquiesce. With her naked toes dominating my nose, it’s only a matter of time before I have to breathe through my mouth. 

“Suck”, she says, and it’s one simple command, so confidently spoken, so authoritatively given, that it makes my cock jump to full hardness. It’s a complete reversal of what anyone would think might happen between two straight roommates of different genders. 

She’s asking me for a blowjob. 

Eventually, defeated, my lips part. They spread open like a blooming flower, and Cristina’s heel plunges right past my teeth, sliding over my tongue, and down towards my throat. Meanwhile, her sweaty toes keep mastering my nose, the scent by now driving me completely harmless and stupid.

“Oh Marcos, if only I’d known from the start that you’d make such a perfect slave,” Cristina says as the heel begins descending up and down, fucking my slutty mouth. “All those years, wasted pretending that you were my equal… such a silly notion. Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make up for lost time.”

I moan around the heel, giving my best impression of the slutty serving girl she’s slowly moulding me into.

“All you’ll ever be good for is do my chores, lick my boots, and follow my every command. If I hadn’t put you in your place, then some other girl would have. Just be glad that it was me, a friend that you can trust. Thank me.”

And just like that, the heel slides out of my mouth. I look up at her through a haze of tears, confused, especially with her toes still clamping my nose shut. 

She wants me to thank her? 

Cristina looks at me like I’m too stupid to count two plus two, and to be honest she’s probably right. 

“Thank me for putting you in my place,” she repeats, slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Thank me for enslaving you.”

“Thank you, Mistress! I’m so lucky!” I say, meaning every word – even though, with my nose shut in between her toes, the words come out high-pitched and ridiculous. Cristina must find that endlessly amusing – she snorts, then breaks out in hysterical laughter. 

“Alright,” she says, as her boot descends back towards my mouth. “That was nice, but you’re at your best when you don’t talk, and I know exactly how to shut you up. Get your mouth where it belongs, bitch.”

And I do, distending my face and sealing my lips into a little o around the heel, like the girls I’ve seen in porn when they give blowjobs. I slobber and gag and gurgle as I let her boot facefuck me.

I really am so lucky.

Were it not for Cristina’s crushing victory over me, who knows what I would have done with my life. This outcome confirms what I’ve always known on some level, I suppose.

Competition truly is healthy.