How do you find someone special?

Most people don’t give that question much thought, I suppose. It’s an emergent thing, for them, something that just happens. People meet, get to know one another, hook up… and the rest is history.

I never had that. Funny. I was born with everything you could materially wish for, and I’ve been coasting through life without having to work a single day, lucky me. The rich blond heiress, stylish and pampered, effortlessly admired…

And yet, it’s like others have been given an instruction manual on how to find romance, and I didn’t get mine.

The universe’s way of compensating, perhaps.

There are gradients to finding someone, of course. Depending on what you’re looking for. Some people set up friends on blind dates. There’s speed dating, and sites and apps, munches and play parties, and more.

Given my… tastes… I tried some of the latter. Unfortunately, it isn’t for me. You can easily find like-minded kinksters to roleplay with, sure…

But what about when you’re looking for is not just someone to roleplay with? What if you want something that can’t be negotiated, can’t be faked, can’t be a game – because the point is exactly that it has to be real?

Well, then… you have a problem.

I have a problem.

“Thanks for coming in,” I tell the girl… fuck, I’ve already forgotten her name. Sammy? Cindy? No no, that’s not it. “Sandy,” I say at last, shaking her hands. She has a tremulous look on her face as she weakly reciprocates my handshake.

“It’s Sydney,” she says in a soft voice. Awkward, or it would be, if I cared. Instead, I just give her a condescending smile – one I’ve practiced a lot – and carry on as if I hadn’t heard that. “I’ll be in touch if I decide to proceed with you.”

For the briefest of moments, her life light up with hope. False hope, the cruelest of all. “You’ll call?”

“If I decide to proceed with you,” I repeat in mock kindness, making sure to stress the hypothetical. I can see the battle playing across her face, deep within her dumb brown eyes. Part of her knows she’s not going to get the job, though not the reason why. Part of her clings to hope.

Yeah, she definitely isn’t the one, she’s basically shaking in my presence. I see her out the door without so much as a goodbye, knowing that at some point, in a few hours, a few days, that light of false hope is going to fade from her eyes. Snuffed out, by my decision, and my selfishness.

She’s clearly trying to make ends meet, this little wisp of a girl. I’m hurting her by turning her down, especially because if I really was looking for just a simple maid, she’d do just fine.

I have more money than I could spend in a lifetime, money for ten maids, even. I could write her a check as a gift, a compensation for being the unwitting victim of my own fantasies, and it would really make a difference in the quality of her life.

And yet here I am, saying no. Hiding behind a wall of courtesy and propriety as I usher her out of the door, knowing she’ll walk the long, lonely way through the garden, out the gates, and will never be back here again.

I’m saying no, because I don’t want a maid: what I’m looking for is unethical, and unspeakable.

But I don’t care that she’s a victim of that. She was unemployed before, and is still unemployed now. All I’ve truly cost her is one afternoon and a bit of disappointment, which will pass, in time.

Or maybe not. Not my problem. What matters to me is my need.

I chuckle to myself. If anything, I should feel bad about how I would have exploited her by hiring her. It’s so silly to worry about wasting her time, when I’m carrying out the literal definition of sexual harassment: hiring someone in the secret hope that they will fullfil a sexual fantasy of mine.

Even if the fantasy in question is technically about my female domestic employee take advantage of me.

No matter if it’s atypical, though, it’s still harassment. Here I am, an obscenely wealthy woman, using the fact that other women need a job to survive, to gain leverage over them. To select one to hire, and trap into my orbit, so I can force her to interact with me on a daily basis.

So that I can try to manipulate or nudge her into making the thing happen.

It’s manipulative, predatory, and abusive.

And I want it.

I tap my heeled foot against the marble floor, impatient, fidgety. I’ve hired more promising candidates than I can count, and fired all of them in time, when they failed to live up to my expectations.

Now, I find myself rejecting more and more girls out of hand. I’m less and less willing to take chances, to be disappointed again… but that makes me feel like my prospects of success are growing ever more remote.

I sit down in my office chair, swinging slowly left and right, thinking. Maybe I should just stop. It’s risky, trying to get away with sexual harassment like this, and it’s not like I’ve been succeeding at it anyway. Yes, stopping would be wise, perhaps even liberating.

I wish I knew how to do that.

For the thousandth time, I tell myself that I could always compromise. I could just hire a sex worker and set all of this up, and the simplicity and speed of that solution is tempting… but then, for the thousandth time, I ask myself, what’s the point then?

It would be fake. A fantasy, worthless, redundant. I don’t need another person for a fantasy, my own imagination and my vibrator will suffice for that.

I want real.

What I want is, in a way, simple: I want my maid to stage a coup in my own mansion, and turn the tables on me.

Yeah, simple. And at the same time, terribly complicated.

Even knowing what to look for, exactly, is so much tougher than I thought, before I spiralled into this obsession, before it completely devoured my experience of sexuality.

Should I look for a young brat who’s lazy and indolent, and will relish a chance not to get any work done at my expense?

Or perhaps a confident and intelligent woman down on her luck, who’s trying to grit her teeth through this job while aspiring to something more, who would find catharsis in gaining the upper hand over me?

Or maybe a professional governess, strict and with impossibly high standards I’ll never live up to, who’ll gradually but inexorably lose all respect for me as an employer, until she finally decides to start setting standards for me…

God, I want to masturbate. If I didn’t have another interview coming up, I’d be lunging for my bedroom already.

Unfortunately, I’ve never gotten a maid even approaching those alluring archetypes, no matter how much my imagination loves conjuring up the scenarios. I’ve tried every strategy I could think of, to spontaneously induce a reaction in a maid, one that wasn’t negotiated beforehand, one that wasn’t safe.

I’ve been unbelievably harsh and abusive, trying to get a girl to snap. I’ve been improbably kind to the point of meekness, trying to look like a weakling that could be easily exploited. None of it worked.

It brought some girls to tears, weirded others out. Some quit, but I usually don’t give them that chance: I fire them myself. I want them to know that they’ve disappointed me, even if they don’t know why. That I’m angrily casting them aside because they’re useless to me.

Sigh.

No point getting upset now. I’ll go through this one final interview for the day, and when it inevitably ends in disappointment, I’ll retire to my chambers and take care of my urges. Possibly a long, slow build up this time, spending the afternoon conjuring up a convoluted scenario in my head… so that I really get to enjoy it.

Maybe I’ll feel better when I’m done.

I don’t really believe that. But I feel like I still need to say it.

***

"I'm here for the maid position," the girl says flatly, looking around the lavish room, her gaze dismissive. As if she's seen better, or as if she believes she's too good for the job.

Mh. Not necessarily a bad sign, given what I want.

I stifle a smile, trying to assess who I’m dealing with. "Nora, is it?"

"Yes," she replies, not meeting my gaze, her eyes still scanning the room. "This is all very... grand, I suppose."

My brows raise. Most applicants are often left in awe of the opulence of my mansion, but Nora seems unimpressed. In my long quest for the right maid, I’ve become attentive to the smallest signs over time, and this affectation of indifference piques my curiosity.

I study Nora up and down. She’s certainly pretty enough… toned, someone who stays active, runs, maybe. Jet black hair and pale green eyes, which give her a quasi-goth look in her black blouse, skirt… and nylons.

I’m not immune to the way her legs look in those, especially with the right leg crossed over the left, outlining every curve, every muscle. She’s got calves like a soccer player, this one, and yet still looks elegant and feminine.

I dare not let my hopes up too much. I’ve already been disappointed enough times before. Still…

I double check the girl’s CV, to make sure – yeah, she doesn’t even do this gig formally. She cleans the homes of professors and the like. So, why does she look so unimpressed?

"Why do you want to work here, Nora?" I ask.

"I need a job," she shrugs, her voice dripping with nonchalance. "And this will do for now."

Well, that’s certainly an… interesting response. There’s a stirring inside me, a faint hope that maybe, maybe… but it’s too soon to tell, so I temper my expectations, and throw her a puzzled look. "For now?"

Nora rolls her eyes, as if she’s about to say well, duh, which is also not the typical behaviour of an interviewee… but I’m not looking for typical, am I?

"Obviously, I've got bigger plans than being someone's maid forever,” she says, sounding like she’s explaining it to a child. “But everyone has to start somewhere, right?"

I feel a tug of excitement in the pit of my stomach. There's something about this girl, an audaciousness I haven't encountered before. I lean forward slightly, "It looks to me like you started by dropping out of university."

There goes the eye roll again. God, she looks pretty when she’s being condescending. “That always comes up. Look, my reasons are my reasons, and no concerns to you. I’ll tell you it wasn’t drugs, family problems, illness, or laziness. That’s all you need to know.”

I contemplate her for a moment, toying with a pen, buying time, because for once I’m at a loss about how to proceed this interview. I feel off balance… which might be a very, very good sign. "You don’t look especially eager," I note, in a flat tone.

Nora smirks, "What, you think anyone’s actually eager to clean people’s houses for a living? It’s a job. People look eager because they have to. Because they’re desperate.”

I cock my head. “And you’re not?”

Nora shrugs. “Eh, I mean. I could walk out of here right now and find something else. Speaking of which… interviewed many people today?”

I’m taken aback by the sudden, direct question. That’s not how this conversation is supposed to go… and that makes my heart flutter.

God. Am I dreaming, or is this girl really so confident and insolent?

“It’s customary for the interviewer to ask the question,” I say, politely but coolly. The first real test. She’ll either stand up to me again, or fold.

Nora looks unfazed by my reproach. With a little shrug, she sits back in the chair, her right leg slightly bobbing up and down… calling attention to the glossy heels, and the way the fabric of the nylons catch the light.

I can barely keep myself from licking my lips.

“It’s an interview,” she says. “Of course you get to ask all the questions you want, but I also get to know a little about my employer. It’s only fair.”

The mock innocence of her tone doesn’t really hide the look of amused impatience in her eyes. She’s not very deferential, nor respectful, and I wonder why. Bratty type? Or perhaps she doesn’t really need this job? Or she dislikes the rich?

“Oh?” I ask. “And what would it tell you, if I did confirm you were the last interview for today?”

“It would confirm what I already know,” she says, scanning the room around us, the marble floor, the expensive vases delicately perched in precarious positions, the shelves full of finely ingrained books I’ve never read. “Your ad has been up a very, very long time. That’s not a good sign, is it?”

The way she’s turning the job interview back on me is making me breathe faster. I grip the edges of the desk, seeking to steady myself. Before I can say anything, however, she continues, as if she’s talking to herself more than to me.

“I mean, initially I just assumed it wasn’t worth applying, that you were looking for someone with experience working in fancy mansions. But every time I browsed the ads, the one for this position was *always* up there,” she says, her fingers drumming against her right knee, drawing my eyes in.

“So I began to wonder,” she continues. “Why isn’t anybody snatching up this job? I thought maybe it was the pay – that maybe you were putting out some lowball offer.”

Nora seems pathologically incapable of behaving like this is a real job interview, which comes as no surprise, I suppose, since she’s been doing this as a gig more than a real profession.

That’s fine. I’m not looking for a real employee anyway, am I?

“Pay’s good,” I say, my true thoughts carefully concealed behind my poker face. I hope.

“I see,” Nora says, smiling. “Well, if you’re willing to pay, I’m willing to stay. For now.”

I clear my throat, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. “Like I said, compensation isn’t a problem.”

“Right,” Nora responds, now seemingly lost in thought. “You’d think that’d be a relief, but it isn’t, really, because all the alternatives are even nastier. Maybe you’re an infernal boss to work for. Is that it?”

God, this girl speaks at a thousand miles an hour, I can barely get in a word edgewise.

“No,” I say, but it’s like I haven’t said anything, as Nora simply carries on with her stream of consciousness. “Or maybe it’s sexual harassment, is it sexual harassment? Anybody metoo’d your ass?”

I sit back, stunned, trying to keep my composure and most importantly hoping that I’m not visibly blushing. “No, no, none of that,” I say. “I’m just not willing to settle for the first girl that comes knocking at my door looking for a job. I have very high standards, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” Nora asks, seemingly paying true attention to me for the first time since she began thinking out loud. In fact, it’s almost unsettling how she seamlessly switches from her stream of consciousness, to a laser-like focus on me, her eyes unapologetically meeting mine. “And what are those?”

The few seconds of silence that follow feel like an eternity. I… wasn’t really expecting a question like this. And this time, I do blush, because I feel like an idiot at the buy-time response that comes out of my mouth.

“… Pardon?”

“Your standards,” Nora repeats, matter-of-fact. “You say they’re very high, so I’m assuming you have some pretty strong opinions about cleaning products, the order things are done in, the exact outcome you want… or maybe you want your food cooked a certain way. Is that it? Is it the food?”

Yeah. Those aren’t really the standards I had in mind, but I can’t quite tell her that, can I?

I look like an absolute fool. Which is good. It’s a promising start, the most promising that I’ve had in… maybe forever.

Something inside me tells me that what I’m doing is profoundly unwise, but I want unwise. If I didn’t, I would have just… well… hired a maid.

I take Nora’s CV, and slide it into a drawer. I won’t be needing it anymore.

“Yes,” I say, finding my voice again. “We’ll discuss those professional standards in more detail when you begin,” I say.

“When?” Nora asks. A smile begins to creep up at the corners of her mouth. “Not if?”

“Yes, when,” I repeat, suddenly feeling… almost lightheaded. Because of course, I’ve already decided… or more accurately, she’s made the decision for me, even if she may not realise it.

She’s pretty, and smart, and snarky, and completely disrespectful towards my authority. It’s… perfect. Almost too good to be true. I realise, absurdly, that I’m happier about hiring her than she is about being hired.

“Congratulations, Nora,” I say, trying to keep my voice from breaking into a squeal of eager anticipation. “You’re hired.”

***

Nora’s first day begins unlike any other I've had with previous maids.

A mansion of this size is intimidating. Its many rooms, some of ambiguous function, and fragile décor instil a sense of inadequacy in most of the girls I’ve tried out, but Nora looks completely unfazed.

Perhaps I should have expected that.

There’s no stammering nervousness, no overt eagerness to please, no insecure requests for specific guidance. Instead, she surveys the ballroom with a muted disdain, a flicker of amusement playing on her lips. "So," she casually says, "where do I start?"

I motion to the main hall. "The drawing room is the one I use the most, and will need frequent dusting. The floors could use a polish too, at least on this level."

She arches an eyebrow. "Ah, yes. I can see why your requirements are so fearsome and difficult to meet."

Her audacity makes me blush, and I’m almost trembling with excitement. My heart rate is speeding up. God, where has this girl been all my life?

A part of me still urges caution, that her brattiness does not necessarily mean anything is actually going to happen, but I don’t listen to it too carefully, this time. For once, I actually feel good, feel like my need is on the cusp of being addressed.

I plan to enjoy that feeling very much.

Over the next few days, I carefully drop hints, hoping to poke Nora into some kind of reaction.

"The previous maids always made sure my breakfast was ready by eight sharp," I mention offhandedly one morning.

Nora smirks, pouring herself a coffee first. "Guess they didn't know how to set boundaries. Eight-thirty will have to do."

There’s an electric charge in our exchanges. Each interaction becomes a way to flirt with danger, walking the thin line of plausible deniability – that’s the beauty of a fantasy like this, its sexual nature can always be denied until I really decide to commit. I’m just discussing my employee’s professional standards, that’s all. Totally innocent.

But I can see it in her eyes that Nora suspects something, even if she’s happy to play along. I pretend to try and crack the whip, and she pushes back, and of course I fold, a little too quickly. She’s curious, I can tell. But she doesn’t ask.

No, it’s more like we’re dancing, right now.

One evening, I deliberately spill a glass of wine on the pristine white carpet. It’s a test, a blatant one, but I can’t help myself. Nora strolls in, her eyes going from the spilled wine to me. She doesn't rush to clean it. Instead, she calmly walks over, her steps deliberate.

“I assume you did that on purpose,” she says, not as a question, but as a statement, her eyes locking onto mine.

A fearsome flush creeps up my neck. I expected her to be upset at me, or simply refuse to clean it. Instead, she’s on to me. How…?

I feel like I’m being dissected by her green eyes. I feel like she knows. On some level, one older and deeper than conscious thought and words.

“I... it was an accident…” I stammer.

Nora smirks, clearly not buying it for a second. “Of course. Well, accidents happen. Don’t forget to clean it up after I leave!”

“B-but,” I say, exaggerating my supposed insecurity about this, as if I don’t desperately crave precisely this, for her to say no to me. “You’re… not gonna do it?”

“Of course not,” Nora responds, again rolling her eyes at me, with that duh tone that makes me feel so belittled and dumb. “I’m almost off the clock, silly! I’m just your maid… not your keeper.”

The way she says that last word, the way the sounds roll off her tongue, makes a long, cold shiver of arousal sliver down my spine. I’ve barely collected myself that Nora saunters off, leaving me stunned, with my wine-stained carpet.

I look at the stain, and feel a sort of affinity to it. After all, I too am well on the way of becoming a submissive puddle on the ground…

The stain can wait. Right now, I need to go get my vibrator, or I’m going to go insane. This thrill, this rush… it’s as good as I’ve always imagined it in my fantasies. No, better.

I might be playing with fire, but for the first time, it feels like I’m truly alive.

***

Every day, our exchanges grow sharper, each word and glance between us heavy with unspoken emotions. There's a newfound electricity in the air, and my mansion, once my undisputed domain, feels more and more encroached by Nora’s rising influence.

Rising power.

It’s a sexual kind of electricity, even if most people wouldn’t recognise it as such. I’m wealthier than Nora imagines, and she’s a dropout, and a maid – a failure, by society’s standards. So, every time she one-ups me, proves herself the better woman…

Suggesting, through deed instead of work, that I’m the one who should be reduced, scrubbing on hands and knees…

God. I feel like a frog in boiling water, as Nora – consciously or unconsciously – slowly turns up the heat, just like I wanted her to. Like I encourage her to.

I notice the little things first. It's in the way she adjusts the settings on the house’s thermostat just a degree colder than I prefer, or how she sometimes rearranges the items on my desk, just slightly, so I know she's been there.

She pulls books out of their shelves and leave them around, which I think is a dig at the fact I’ve never read one of them, that they’re just purely decorative… but it’s hard to guess what’s going through her pretty head.

It’s also hard not to hope that she’s picking up on all my hints…

"You're rearranging my things," I comment one day, trying to sound casual.

Nora looks up from the sink she’s cleaning. God, how can she look so dismissive? Does it come natural, or did she practice it? Maybe that’s what I should have asked her instead.

"Your things?” She says, flicking a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Look, I’m busy looking after the house, so sit back and let me do my job. This is my workspace now, of course I rearrange things to my convenience."

Her audacity leaves me momentarily speechless. It makes me tremble with pure arousal. It makes my cunt slick with need. It makes my brain starved for pure, unadulterated humiliation.

Every task I set her, Nora turns into a challenge. I ask for tea, and she'll make it a tad too strong or too weak. When I point it out, she just smirks, asking if perhaps my tastes have changed. It's maddening, but also thrilling.

One evening, as I'm settling into my study, I find a note on my desk. In elegant script, it reads, “Dinner is at 8. Do not be late.”

I turn the note over in trembling fingers, reading and rereading it until the words sear themselves into my mind.

How much poignant significance, how much symbolism can there be in a simple sentence? Ordinary, mundane, and yet…

Don’t be late.

Don’t be late.

No one has ever refused to wait on my convenience. No one intimates me to be punctual. Certainly not a younger girl in my employ… who’s supposed to be on my serving staff…

I clutch the note close to my heart, biting my lower lip in desperate arousal. It’s really happening, isn’t it? I mean, she’d never write something like this if she didn’t know, right? I’m not reading too much into this, am I?

These questions, and more, gnaw at me as I let her note dictate my schedule, watching the agonising progress of the clock on my bedstand. It obscures everything else, like a bright star blinding me. I can think of nothing but the clock, the demand to be punctual.

For Nora.

At eight, sharp, I’m sitting at my table like a good girl, chastised and taken down a peg. Nora serves the dinner herself, and there's an unmistakable tension as she pours the wine, her fingers brushing against mine, her eyes briefly meeting mine.

Who needs sex, when the silent, demeaning, judgemental, amused look in my maid’s eyes feels so fucking good?

I feel lightheaded… and not from the wine.

***

I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Until, literally, it does.

I've always had a thing for shoes, collecting them obsessively. I have a walk-in closet devoted to just that. Of course, the shoes I like the most are those worn by other girls… but there is more than kink in my life, and there’s plenty of room for my own vanity.

Today, I’ve finally received a new pair, sleek black heels with a subtle shimmer, and I’m eager to try them on. Nora retrieved the package at the entrance, as she is supposed to as my maid… but when I finally catch up to her, I see that she’s already torn open the packaging.

She’s holding one shoe aloof, examining it with a raised brow.

"These look expensive," she comments. “I mean, duh. Money’s like, the one thing you’ve got plenty of. But still, why bother with shoes like these? You never seem to go out anywhere.”

Her barrage of casual, off-hand belittling remarks make me blush furiously, as does the fact that she’s basically dangling the shoe in front of me. I’m distantly aware of my heart hammering furiously against my chest. Perhaps this is the time. Perhaps this is finally it…

"They are," I reply tersely, though I feel nothing but. I extend my hand, as if expecting her to return it.

Instead, she sets it down, steps into it, and then the other shoe, too.

My own maid starts parading around in the heels I’ve just bought, her feet accentuated by the arch the heel provides, her long legs looking so regal in the glossy nylons as she prances around with glee.

I lean against the wall, feeling dizzy from the sheer sensory assault of my fantasy seeming coming to life before my very eyes.

“Careful,” I warn, my voice shaking with a mix of anger and something else. “I had them custom made…”

“Custom made for me, by any chance?” Nora asks with a smirk, stopping right in front of me. Right in front of me, straight into my personal space. I blink when I realise, and would almost take a step back, were it not for the wall behind me.

“No,” I say, softly, so softly. “Why?”

“Well, silly, obviously it’s because they fit so well!” She looks at me, then down at her feet, then back up at me.

And then, her face twists and morphs into a hungry, mocking grin.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?”

For a moment, I'm paralysed, caught in the storm of my fantasies, my hopes, my fears, the lack of a social playbook for this thing we’re doing, this thing I don’t even have a real name for. She says it with such utter confidence, this leggy goddess, this nyloned queen, this maid I want to enthrone, this dropout student who makes me feel dumb and useless under her surgical, clever emerald eyes…

I can’t resist that confidence. I’m an addict, or I wouldn’t have spent so long, looking just for this. For a girl like her. For this moment.

I can almost feel the radiation of her smirk on my skin, as my knees finally buckle, and I find myself literally and metaphorically descending down to the ground.

Without a word, I find myself leaning close to her foot, my hands delicately running over the shoes that were meant to be mine, that she’s claimed from me. I can feel the warmth of her through the shoe, the subtle press of her toes. It’s a heady mix of leather, the faintest hint of sweat, and an underlying scent that's distinctly Nora.

I glance up, finding her looking down at me with an expression straight out of my dreams.

“There,” she murmurs, her voice a soft velvet purr, "isn’t this where you’ve wanted to be all along, silly rich girl?"

The truth of her words, the incredible implications of it, rolls over me like a wave of pure pleasure, as much pleasure as you can feel without being touched. I’m panting, and my heart is thrumming, as Nora leans slightly towards me with a curious, eager look.

She points to the shoe I have just been touching. "Clean it," she commands.

The simple directive sends shivers down my spine. I cradle the shoe, and gingerly, almost reverentially, make to clean it with the hem of my dress. But that doesn't seem to satisfy Nora.

"No," she corrects, her tone mischievous, "with your tongue."

My pulse quickens. Here it is, laid out under cold, uncaring daylight. In the open. This pivotal moment that has only existed in my imagination… until now.

My submission.

Drawing a shaky breath, I bend forward, pressing my lips against the very tip of the shoe. The scent of leather and the vaguest whiff of her foot sweat flood my senses. With a trembling tongue, I trace the contours of the shoe, tasting the dust and leather.

They taste like victory.

"Good girl," she purrs, pulling her foot out of the shoe, and placing it squarely on the ground before me. The fabric is smooth, but worn out in places, and I can discern the faint outlines of her toes. "Now, the real thing."

Without waiting for further instruction, I place a humble, reverent kiss on the arch of her foot, my lips pressing softly, smooching up and down from toe to ankle. The taste of nylon is unfamiliar, but as good as I’ve always imagined it would be. Made sweeter by my knowledge of what it represents.

The world narrows down to just the two of us. With each kiss, I’m admitting to desires I'd never voiced, but only tried to coax out of the girls I’ve employed. Now that I finally have it, it feels like I’m atoning to all of them. If they’d been strong enough, they, too, could have driven me to my knees…

Nora watches me, enraptured, flexing and curling her toes, guiding my worship. Then, her foot lifts in the air, dancing before me, and slowly inching closer and closer to my face. The tips of her toes nudging my lips, and of course, I get the message.

I obediently part them, allowing the soft pad of her big toe to rest against the tip of my tongue… and then, the rest of her foot starts slowly, methodically slide past my eager, conquered lips.

The sensation of nylon against my tongue is new and intimate, the kind of humiliation that goes straight to my clit. The warmth of her foot, the slight dampness under her sole… I used to fantasise about stuff like this. And now, now…

Encouraged by her gentle push, I open my mouth wider, taking more of her foot in in. Nora lets out a soft sigh, throwing her head backwards as I deliberately start swirling my tongue around her toes.

She chuckles softly, the sound rich and indulgent. "I had a feeling you'd be good at this," she murmurs, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She starts to move her foot in rhythm with my ministrations, pushing her toes deeper into my mouth, and then retracting…

And again, it’s the knowledge of what this means that sets my teeth on edge.

“I had a feeling you were a big fucking weirdo,” she says, her voice sultry and deep. “Though I love that this is what you’re into. So fitting, and so pathetic. Not so much the lady of the house now, are you, silly girl?”

I can't respond, not with her foot still partially in my mouth. But I don’t need to. The blush on my cheeks, the enthusiasm of my oral devotion, they speak louder than a thousand words.

Drawing her foot out of my mouth, Nora places the sole against my face, gently at first, but with a firmness that leaves no room for doubt. The smooth nylon of her stockings is now damp and wet with my own saliva, and the sensation makes me shiver slightly.

Her sole caresses my skin as Nora applies more and more pressure, guiding my face down towards the cold floor.

"Down, girl," she coos with a cruel softness, her voice filled with a sultry authority that sends shivers through me. "That’s where you want to be, isn’t it? Under my pretty feet?"

My only response is a soft, breathless oh as my face lands down on the marble with a small thud that feels oddly final.

"I wonder just how weird you really are," she says, her tone dripping with playful condescension, "I wonder what exactly you’ll let me do…”

I can barely see her looming silhouette, out of the corner of my eye. This is what an empress must look like.

"Turn over," she commands, retracting her foot. Obediently, I roll onto my back, waiting for her next move. Nora steps closer, positioning her foot gracefully against the hollow of my throat. Her eyes lock with mine, an unspoken understanding passing between us in the heavy silence.

The pressure of her foot is light, a teasing promise, a wordless threat. Her arched eyebrow and the smirk on her lips are radiating brightly before me, brighter than the sun. She experiments, varying the pressure, pushing down slightly, then releasing, watching my reactions, biting her lips every time she constricts my breathing.

She slowly and theatrically leans forward, watching me gulp, clutch her ankle with my hands. "Look at you, all sprawled out beneath me,” she whispers. “The mighty have truly fallen."

Her foot presses slightly more, and I feel it now, the harshness of the heel against my windpipe. “You really want this, don’t you?”

I look at her with big, adoring eyes, but she carries on talking. "You better be sure, because you don’t know what you’re getting into. Why I dropped out of uni. What I truly think of you, and what you do, how lecherous you are…”

I gulp, audibly, and I know she felt that under that sole, and it gave her an insane rush of power… just like it gave me an insane rush of weakness. "No turning back here, you understand? I’ll own you. You’ll be mine."

Well, that’s what I’ve always wanted. The only thing I’ve ever truly needed. A deceptively simple thing… and yet an incredibly complicated one. But not this time, not right now. Right now, there is only one answer left to give.

I only manage the subtlest of nods, but it’s enough for Nora. Her foot presses down again against my throat, her eyes burning with fierce triumph as they pin me to the ground.

I’ve finally found what I’ve been looking for, who I’ve been looking for. I’ve found someone special.

And in turn…

Now I can finally start losing myself to her.