“I expect perfection and discipline.”

Can you pinpoint the singular moment when your life changes? The exact instant when an alien thought first crawls in? A vision straight out of the darkest and most repressed corner of your subconscious, worming its way into your mind.

The moment when an everyday, social interaction – say, a professional relationship – becomes contaminated with unspeakable fantasies.

It’s an important moment. The contamination cannot be undone. What’s a perfectly normal scenario for other people becomes impossibly sexualised in your head, so corrupted and twisted by your own imagination that you can never treat it with detachment, ever again.

I can pinpoint that moment. It’s when, standing proudly in front of Alessia, I place my hands on my hips, arch an eyebrow expectantly, and tell her that “There will be no slouching, and my standards are very high. I hope you’re up to the task, Alessia. I expect perfection and discipline.”

That’s not the kindest thing to tell to your newest employee. That’s fine. I’ve never been the kindest of employers. I’ve changed three maids in the past five years, for one reason or another, and I’ve been a harsh taskmistress to them all.

But I have extra reason to take it out on Alessia. Actually, more than a few reasons…

In school, we were never enemies, nor were we friends, but we viciously competed for grades. I won that fight, in the end… and from the looks of it, every subsequent round of competition, because in the years since we’ve lost track of one another, Alessia has gone nowhere.

I’m a successful and respected law professor at a prestigious university, and – uncommon enough in academia – I make enough bank that I can afford to hire a domestic cleaner. But Alessia? Well… she’s the cleaner.

Most people would gloat in such a scenario, but my reaction is a little more elaborate than that. I take in her figure, this ridiculously pretty dark-haired girl who’s had to switch into a – practical, but still so enticing – maid uniform, so she can clean her betters’ homes for a living…

I have to stop myself from biting my lip. I’ve never had a name for the thoughts that used to pass through my head over the years. That eventually one of us would do something so blatant, so manifest, that the other would have no choice but to recognise the other as the winner. And then…

And then, I’m not sure. But in the smoke and haze of these formless fantasies, I do imagine one of us standing taller than the other. The loser reclining her head in recognition and shame. Acknowledging herself as the winner’s social inferior.

Just thinking about it makes me quiver.

It feels like, at last, I’m on the cusp of realising this long-held fantasy. In truth, I’ve been thinking about it less and less over the years, so it’s a shock to realise how badly I want this. I want Alessia to avert her gaze before me, before mutely cleaning my apartment. I want to assert myself on her.

Beggars can’t be choosers, I know, so when I make my statement about perfection and discipline, I expect her to buckle, or flinch, or even just suffer it in silence, because enduring my bullying will be a condition of her employment.

But that’s not what Alessia does.

She looks me straight in the eye, looking unfazed in the slightest, and says three simple words to me.

“As do I.”

For a moment, I’m at a loss for words, confused by the seeming non sequitur in the conversation. In reality, I know this is the kind of subtle confrontation we used to have all the time in school. In a heartbeat, the crack of the old electricity is once again in the air.

Like I said, we’ve never been enemies. I honestly couldn’t even give a name to the weird, standoffish attitude we naturally developed towards one another, the wordless intensity of our competition. I’ve been looking forward to finally seeing this old nemesis humbled by her new station in life, but she isn’t, in the slightest.

It seems that falling on hard times has not sapped Alessia’s confidence, to the point that she feels like standing up to her prospective employer like this.  

I take her in, her smug expression, the way her long black hair frames her tanned face, and to my embarrassment… I’m the first to look away.

I don’t know why that makes me feel… weird. Like there’s an odd heat in my belly. I came into this conversation expecting to just browbeat my new employee into submission. Not only that, I came in with all the advantages normally ascribed to those in my position.

I’m the employer, the privileged, successful person who sets the terms. She’s the employee who needs a way to pay the bills. The mere self-enforcement of social etiquette would give me power over her.

Instead, with a curt statement whose meaning I can’t exactly parse, and a stare I couldn’t meet, she’s put me at a disadvantage. Me. The lady of the house, her prospective boss, the girl who’s definitely won our fight – in the classroom, in the job market, and in life.

“So, Chiara,” Alessia says, seemingly pleased with my wordless capitulation, “when do I begin?”

“Ahem,” I say, clearing my throat, regaining my composure, and once more locking gazes with my old rival. She caught me off guard, that is all. Soon, she’ll be literally cleaning my apartment, and we’ll see who’s confident then.

“Friday,” I say. “You’ll be doing Friday afternoons.”

For a moment, studying the glimmer in Alessia’s eyes, I think she’s going to challenge me on this point too. Instead, she thrusts her hand forward. I clasp hers in a grip that’s a little stronger than it needs to be, and she squeezes right back.

“Alright,” she says, and her eyes never leave mine. If I thought this’d be an easy win, I’m apparently in for something else entirely, but that’s fine. I know that I can take her.

Even so… this is an important moment. A moment of contamination. Lots of people hire cleaners, lots of people work as cleaners. And yet, from this moment, I know I will never be able to look at this profession the same way.

It is inexorably tied to the struggle, the competition to prove oneself the better woman, with the loser reduced to a role as a domestic helper. It’s hard for me to ignore the quiver that goes through my sex at the mere thought. If it weren’t so abstract, it’d feel almost…

Sexual.

***

“Thank god it’s Friday.”

Can you recognise the singular moment when you rediscover what it means to feel truly alive?

It’s weird to put into words just how powerful that single shot of electricity can be, how it puts the mundanity of life to shame. All of a sudden, the daily grind seems colourless and unappealing. Why care about bills, and responsibilities, and lectures, when you have this?

When you can focus on what you feel?

I can. It’s a recurring moment. To most people, thank god it’s Friday means the welcome relief of the weekend, but for me, it has acquired an altogether different meaning. Every Friday afternoon is an opportunity to be with Alessia.

Look at my choice of words. Be with Alessia. As if I’m not simply paying her to clean my home…

And I’m not, not really. Over the last few months, I’ve completely forgotten about such drab and uninteresting things as employer-employee relations. My motivations have shifted. Yes, Alessia does clean my home, but what I look forward to – what I really pay for – is our little game.

For the most part, Alessia performs her work diligently, but every Friday, she’ll find a way to challenge me, or push back on some matter. I once left dirty dishes in the sink, and she refused to clean them, saying they were not part of our agreement, and scolding me over my poor domestic discipline.

And, with cheeks blushing red and an inexplicable heat between my thighs, I looked away, and demurred.

It’s like this every Friday, and I’m starting to think I want this more than Alessia herself does. Hell, I think she realises it too, from the way she smirks whenever she catches me hovering around her as she cleans. And I do hover, pathetically eager for another opportunity to lock my will with hers in battle.

I do occasionally manage to assert myself, too, and that makes me feel like the old Chiara - but most of the time, I look away first.

What’s worse, and terrible, and thrilling, is that Alessia’s challenges seem to be pushing farther. She’s started to leave early, on multiple occasions, and even stopped trying to justify it with excuses. She occasionally takes “breaks” in which she sits in my sofa, without asking me.

She does so with full and utter confidence, one shapely nyloned leg draped over the other, her heeled foot bobbing up and down. Clever eyes that study me in open challenge and disrespect of any boundaries.

I can almost feel the radiation of her smirk on my skin, when I look away.

I know it’s meaningful, although I’m not sure why. I’ve had an unspoken multi-year rivalry with this girl, and my belief that I was finally on the cusp of securing ultimate victory seems so silly in retrospect. I know these are mind games. I know they have an impact, little by little, like water eroding stone.

So why do I keep conceding? In fact, the more brazen and open her challenges are, the stronger the electricity coursing through my veins. The pumping of my heart, the shortness of my breath.

It is with equal parts horror and arousal that I realise I want this more than she does. That I wish she would go faster, rather than test my boundaries so incrementally. That’s what I think about when I furiously touch myself in the lone evenings, my preparatory work for the next day’s lectures forgotten.

I used to do this to formless and vague fantasies, when I was younger. I recognised it was odd, to sexualise social success in such a fashion… but now, I’m sexualising failure, and the fantasy is no longer vague. In fact, it seems to be gaining clarity with every passing session.

I think about that face, that smirk, that nyloned leg. I picture her looking down at me, an adversary that’s put me with my back against the wall. It’s only a fantasy, I know, but if she’s sitting, and she’s looking down at me, that means there is only one position I could be occupying in my fantasy.

On my knees.

***

“You clearly like this.”

Can you isolate the moment when a fantasy becomes true?

You might think of it as a moment of pure elation, but in truth, it isn’t. It is a mixture of anxiety – that maybe it isn’t what it looks like, that you’ve misread the signs, that the fantasy is going to be snatched away from you – and fear. Of the consequences, if it does happen. Of having to go on without it, if it does not.

This is a new fantasy of mine. Well, a very old one, but new in its manifestation. I didn’t even know I had it – I’ve always wanted to win at everything, and especially against Alessia. But since that very first time she threw her supreme confidence back in my face, I’ve been craving more. It is a spiral, and it seems to go down faster and faster.

Alessia’s breaks are getting longer, her work hours are getting shorter, and every time she leaves, she looks me straight in the eye. As if daring me to bring up the issue of payment, which of course I never do, because of course I always look away.

She speaks more and more curtly to me, and smirks more and more openly as I keep manufacturing situations that will allow her to put me in my place – forgetting to buy a key cleaning supply she requested, for example.

A distant, ever fainter part of me tells me that I’m a monster. That I’m manipulating this person, who is technically my employee, into providing me with parasexual satisfaction while she’s at work for me. Maybe all of that is true.

But somehow, I don’t get the feeling Alessia minds this, at all.

One day, in a desperate attempt to drive her towards that last, tantalising step into full acknowledgement of our sick game, I tell her that she’s working less and less, that I’m deeply unhappy, and that our arrangement isn’t working out.

I feel like a silly girl, saying all of this while balling my hands into fists, petulantly waiting for Alessia to acknowledge my words. She’s sitting regally on my sofa, browsing her phone, her foot bobbing up and down provocatively.

She’s figured out just how mesmerised I am by her strong, toned legs and elegant feet. How her casual air of superiority and confidence saps away at my self-esteem. Every minute she spends ignoring my complaints and studying her phone screen is another minute that I race down the spiral, with no end in sight…

“On the contrary,” she says, finally looking up at me. “I think the arrangement is working out just fine. You clearly like this.”

I do. I hate that I do, I don’t understand why I do, and yet I do, so badly. I haven’t given a single thought to guys in months, but perhaps more worryingly, regular dating has lost its appeal to me. This is so much better, this covert game of manipulation and impropriety and social relegation.

It has me rubbing in a frenzy, each night before bedtime, and each morning before I go to work. It has me count the days and hours until a new Friday rolls around. It has me drift towards videos and photos and erotic stories online that gravitate around sapphic foot worship, and ladies being turned into maids, and the cruelty of a rival who knows she has you at her mercy…

Most of all, it makes me yearn for the moment when, at last, Alessia will take the plunge forward. And it doesn’t take long for yearning to become obsession, and for obsession to hatch a simple plan…

In my hope push Alessia over the brink, I devote a lot of my free time over a week to cooking complex and elaborate dishes. Over a span of days, the kitchen utensils slowly accumulate in the sink, a mountain of work for anyone to have to power through, let alone someone who has to clean the rest of the house, to boot.

Then, Friday rolls around, and with it, comes the inflection point.

Alessia is many things. Confident, of course, more than I knew, and determined, and gritty, and with a sadistic streak that makes my heart race… but she isn’t stupid. Her face when she spots the dishes is something to behold. It morphs from confused and vaguely grossed out, to furious, but then… to understanding.

That insight is compounded when she turns to face me, only to find a mortally embarassed girl, chewing nervously on her lower lip, clearly waiting for something. And that’s when the familiar smirk returns, and my heart begins to beat faster and faster.

“Oh no, this will not do at all,” Alessia says, barely able to contain her wolfish grin. “Clean the dishes, missy. In front of me.”

Oh god. She’s actually said it. Oh god.

For a moment, I feel like I might faint. The mere idea that this bizarre, taboo, carefully cultivated fantasy of mine may be about to become reality is almost too much for me to take. I steel myself, willing to see it through, and find out what awaits on the other side.

“More soap,” Alessia says as I clean up my own mess of over a week, the fruits of my own depravity and manipulations. “I’ll be inspecting all of this after you’re done. I want the dishes spick and span.”

I let out a small yelp of submissive arousal at that, which sends Alessia into a bout of cold laughter.

“God, I can’t believe you’re actually letting me do this to you. Who could have ever guessed there was such a meek bitch, under that insufferable persona you used to prance around with?”

“I’m not letting you do anything,” I say in a mousy tone, eager to cling to the idea that she’s simply overpowering me.

“Quiet,” she says, which sends a jolt of arousal straight to my sex. “Shut up and keep cleaning. Make yourself useful for once.”

The words lubricate me more than any boyfriend ever has, than vanilla sex ever could. It’s hard to focus on the dishes, with my mind so preoccupied by what may be coming next, but I stick through it nonetheless, eager that my old nemesis is finally putting me through my paces.

The last of the dishes done, I dry my hands and turn around to face my tormentor. I find her smiling mischievously, an eyebrow arched in amusement.

“You’re not done yet.”

I blink in confusion for a second – I’m pretty sure all the dishes are done. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Alessia says with a sigh, “Usually when I work here, I start with the bathroom…”

It takes a moment for understanding to dawn inside me. And when it does, and my eyes widen and my jaws slacken, I find myself swooning in place. This time, the sheer tidal wave of adrenaline is too much for me to take, and I slowly drop to my knees, panting and weaving.

“That’s the spirit,” Alessia says above me as I fold myself on the floor, whether in submission or in sheer shock I don’t know, to the sound of her victorious laughter, echoing above me.

***

“Things are going to change around here.”

There is a moment, in the life of many fetishists, when the boundaries begin to blur. When all you wish for is for your entire life to be devoured by the thrill of the fantasy, to launch yourself into the void and hurl towards its swirling, bottomless heart.

For many, that is a passing thrill, a fleeting temptation. A few orgasms, and clarity returns, until the next round of fun with their partner of choice. But for some…

For me…

Words like those uttered by Alessia are a bell, tolling for my ability to set boundaries for myself. To contain the addictive pleasure I’ve found myself yielding so much to. I can’t delude myself, not in this state.

My hands and knees are rough from a long afternoon of cleaning. Alessia has been a much tougher taskmistress than I could ever hope to be, inspecting everything, making sure that the most minuscule corners of every room were cleaned spotless.

Needless to say, there have been no breaks for me, and no finishing up early either. With the afternoon drawing to an end, I find myself on all four, aching and exhausted, and that’s when I know, in my heart of hearts, that I’m not going to resist this. How many people, throughout history, have had fantasies about fooling around with the help? Probably many. How many have ended up actually cleaning their own house at the direction of the help? Probably a smaller subset.

I’m so far gone. I’m irredeemable. I’ve loved every second of my fall.

That fateful moment of acceptance and self-reflection is crowned by the sublime, royal vision of Alessia’s heeled feet stepping into my field of view.

I look up at her, then back down immediately.

“Things are going to change around here,” she tells me, slipping one foot free of the heel, lifting it in the air. It rests elegantly upon the top of my head, gently pushing my forehead to the floor, and I gasp at the insane arousal that goes through me.

I wish someone could take a photo of this from the outside, hell, make it into a painting. One girl, kneeling so far back down that her thighs bulge and her back contorts, face contrite in humiliation and defeat. The other, her conqueror, placing her foot atop her in victory.

It leaves me breathless.

Alessia thoughtfully starts running her foot across my face, and the contact with the nylons makes me shiver. Eventually, her toes come to rest on my nose, leaving my eyes free. I’m sure they look sufficiently pleading and submissive to her, just like her smirk alone is enough to set my sex on fire.

Her words are an acknowledgement that something between us has changed forever. That there is no way for me to back out of the fantasy, and into normality. Or at the very least, that the choice is out of my hands.

And isn’t that just what a freaky, screwed-up submissive in waiting like me would want to hear?

"Remember when you told me you expected perfection and discipline?”

With the ball of her foot adhering snugly to my lips, I can’t answer, so I just look at her like a puppy would her master.

That’s what she is now, I suppose. My female master.

“So do I. That display in the kitchen earlier was unacceptable. As a maid, you are expected to keep the house tidy for your betters. If you’re useless at that, what good are you for in life?”

The humiliation of my own cleaner, my old rival saying these things to me, feels better than sex ever has. Now I understand, in an intimate and physical way, what it feels like to be thoroughly, utterly stripped of any dignity. To be hurled back down to a lesser social status. I should be grateful that these are my victor’s terms.

“I will enforce discipline,” Alessia says, pressing her foot deeper against my mouth. “Unlike you, I am actually capable of doing so. As you will see.”

My pussy twitches at her words. It’s true, look at me. Who could I ever discipline, if I’m so easily tamed?

“Oh, and one last thing before I go,” Alessia says, snapping me from my reverie. There is a weird glint in her eye, and I brace myself, because I have a feeling that whatever is going to come out of her mouth next is going to be devastating.

“You’ll be paying me for the full three hours,” Alessia says with a wink. “And my hourly rate has just doubled…”

***

“Kiss the whip.”

Can you identify the moment in which the jaws of your fetish, of your deepest desire, finally snap close around you? Because this is that moment for me. The point of no return, acceptance that there will be no going back.

Hearing Alessia’s fateful words.

Seen from down here, she's gorgeous, tall and imposing and perfect. I suppose everyone looks more impressive when you’re on your knees. She no longer wears her maid uniform – that one’s reserved for me, the black nylons emphasising my curvy legs as I kneel submissively before Alessia.

No, she is now in jeans and a sweater, the comfortable clothes of someone who doesn’t need to do manual labour. Someone who will spend the afternoon lounging on my sofa, and being paid for the privilege, while I slave away, scrubbing and cleaning on all fours. And if I’m lucky, I’ll get some time at her feet in exchange.

Or at least, that’s how regular Fridays go, but not this one. Now, I’m shirtless and afraid as I kneel humbly before my former maid, staring petrified at the instrument of dominance she holds so casually in her hands.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a whip in person before. Have you? It is an imposing thing, black and intimidating. By the mere gesture of holding it firmly in her fist, Alessia looks that much more powerful in my eyes. A girltamer, proficient in usage of the whip, and in breaking silly girls like me, when we forget our place…

Just seeing her like this, the fire in her eyes, the knowledge that the whip is soon going to be used on me… breaks me. It makes me realise that Alessia plays for keeps, that her approach to discipline is ruthless enforcement, and the only result she finds acceptable is total compliance.

It’s over. She has won.

Not because she’s smarter, or prettier. It doesn’t matter that she didn’t get better grades, or had less career success. She’s won because my own desires have ambushed me way back then, on that very first day, and set me on a path that would lead to my implosion. To her domestication of me.

To this moment.

“Are you scared, Chiara?” Alessia says, in mock-sweetness. “Poor little girl. Tell you what, kiss my feet first. That never fails to calm you down. It’s where you belong, after all.”

"Yes, Miss Alessia," I say breathlessly, seizing the chance to engage in my perversion with both hands, and with my lips. I throw myself at her naked feet, and lose myself in the trance-like state that comes with mindless worship.

I shower her heels and toes in kisses, squealing with grateful glee when she politely lifts them, allowing me to kiss the soles. I pay particular attention to her ankle, so beautiful and elegant, but then move back to the toes, warming them with the radiations of my devotion… and of my warm, soft lips.

The physical sensation of worshipping someone who literally holds the whip hand over me is impossible to describe. Every fibre of my being stretches and yearns to join my lips in reverence, as if enough devotion might sway my female master to have mercy on me, to stay her hand.

But I know she won’t. Because unlike me, Alessia plays for keeps, and every kiss is a further admission that she’s utterly annihilated me as competition, or even as something resembling a social equal.

She’s the lady of the house, and I’m the maid… and I deserve to be punished.

“I’m sorry about the dishes,” I say in-between kisses, and then I transition to licking her foot, relishing how smooth the skin feels under my worshipful tongue. This is a much better use for it than talking, which is why I always make sure to end my sentences with polite lapping at my female master’s feet. To remind her that I know my true use in life.

Alessia makes a cooing sound at my display. “I know you are. But being punished will help cement this feeling. There’s no better way to ensure good behaviour from you.”

I whimper at that, knowing that there is no escaping my fate. That perhaps I didn’t really want to – I just relished the opportunity to beg and grovel at Alessia’s feet.

“Now, enough of that, maid,” she says, stepping back from me. My lips kiss empty air for a moment, which causes her to chuckle, but I know better than to take it as a clue to be informal. Alessia expects her employees to be perfectly deferential at all times.

I sit back on my haunches, staring up at her with wide, terrified eyes as her right hand moves forward.

“Kiss the whip.”

This time, there is no room for hesitation, only obedience. I lean forward, lips pouted, and place the most humble and unassuming of kisses on the glossy black whip in front of me.

It’s impossible to escape the quasi-phallic symbology of what I’m doing. Here I am, kneeling in submission before my conqueror, placing demure kisses on the tool of sexual power and mastery she’s holding in her hand. But there is something so peculiar about kissing the whip that’s going to hurt me, too.

It’s… redefining. Doing so makes me accept that I’m just like any other dumb farm animal, a beast of burden that responds to carrot and stick alike. That no matter how many pretensions society places upon me, all the considerations about the inviolability of my rights, my personhood, or higher intellect…

At the end of the day, I can be tamed, domesticated, subjugated, and this is how. This whip is an instrument of my reduction. It can be used to keep me in line, enthralled and obedient, no longer free.

And if that can be done to me, so easily, do I not deserve to be a slave to someone stronger? Strong enough to wield the whip?

“It’s time Alessia says, and I stop kissing the whip, dropping lower once more, pressing my face to her feet. In turn, that means I arch my back, an inviting target and a gesture of utter submission, of utter trust in my conqueror… of utter defeat.

As the air hisses to the sound of the whip slicing through it for the very first time, I close my eyes, and command myself to be perfectly still and dignified.

After all, my employer expects perfection and discipline…

THE END