I keep learning.

I learn that Paris is so distant. Not just geographically, really. Land, ocean, and land again separates it for me, but it’s another world altogether, one where I simply don’t belong. It’s so simple, now that I think about it.

So simple.

The corollary is obvious. If Paris is distant, everything and everyone in it must also be distant, too. The logic is literally irrefutable, and so are my emotions. Mark’s voice, a voice that used to mean so much to me now, feels just like white noise when we call, these days.

How could it not? It’s so far away… while Mira’s husky, rich, enveloping voice is so, so close…

I have learned I don’t need to fear planes. Why would I? It’s not like I’m ever going to board one. The worst thing that could happen is for a plane to fall on my head, and what are the odds of that?

It’s so simple. So, so simple. Just don’t get into a plane, done. Fear solved. Why didn’t I think of this before?

Maybe because I’m just a stupid, silly girl. But Mira knows better. Thanks to her therapy, I haven’t thought about planes in so long! Isn’t that amazing? I swear, Mira isn’t just a therapist, she’s…

Something more…

A wizard! A miracle-worker. Our sessions are so intense, now that we understand one another so well. Sometimes, we don’t even need words anymore, which if you think about it, is actually stunning – what a skilled therapist she is!

No, no words. She simply looks into my eyes, and I swim into her eyes, and my mind starts to unravel, and I learn how to overcome my fear of women – my fear of Mira. And once again, thanks to my therapist’s exceptional guidance, I see it now. This, too, is simple, so simple.

If I make myself useful to women… to Mira… then they, she, will not crush me under their heels.

"Put these away for me,” she'd command one day, her voice unyielding, and I'd find myself nodding, mindlessly accepting her files and folders, and assorting them accorting to her wishes.

Useful.

The next, it'd be, "Fetch me a latte from the café down the street." And I'd be out the door before I even realised I'd moved, powered by the biggest motivator of all: self-preservation. I know with certainty that, just as Paris is so distant, just as planes are not to be feared, that I am to be of use to women.

It’s so simple. There’s no need to fear women. If I do absolutely everything they want, why would they ever harm me? I truly get scared over the silliest of things, sometimes.

The phone buzzes, breaking my train of thought. It’s him. My boyfriend. His name, once so familiar, now feels foreign as I wordlessly mouth it. Mark. It sounds so unreal. Mark.

Meh. Pretty daft name, in retrospect… Mira sounds much more elegant.

His picture displays on the screen, but the urge to pick up is strangely absent. Instead, I let it ring, watching the screen until his face disappears, and the missed call notification pops up.

Later, I tell myself. But even as the thought forms, I know that Paris is so distant, that he’s in Paris, that I won’t board a plane, that I’m busy being useful to Mira. I know I won’t call back.

The tasks Mira assigns become more personal.

"Sort out my files," she'd instruct, and I'd find myself pouring over her personal documents, arranging them meticulously. Or, "Massage my shoulders," and I'd obediently knead away the tension, losing myself in the rhythm of the task.

Be of use.

There’s a comfort in the monotony, a peace in letting go of control. Maybe that’s the real lesson underneath it all. My fears are a subset of me, just like Mark is a subset of Paris. If you can’t conquer your fears, just let someone else conquer you.

The fears will come along. They have to, because they’re a smaller part of the whole you, and if the whole is conquered, the fears are conquered as well.

That’s why I’m not worried in the slightest when, abruptly, I find myself on the ground under Mira’s desk, my head resting against her knee. I don’t know how I got here, exactly, and I feel like I’m losing track of time… but so what?

She’s conquered my fears. I have no reason for anxiety, none in the whole wide world. She strokes my hair, a gentle touch that reassures me in that fact. I’m safe here.

Under Mira.

Even from a purely logical angle, I don’t question it much. She did once tell me that changing positions in a room can help the brain figure out creative ways to solve its problems. It’s totally normal for me to be sitting at my therapist’s feet, soaking in her lessons… learning, because it’s so simple…

“Lost, aren’t you?” she murmurs.

I stare up at her, uncertain how to respond. What should I say? There is a weird, vacant feeling where my initiative would normally be. I tentatively open my lips, but Mira’s hand cradles the back of my neck, and any potential words die in my throat.

“Shh,” she whispers, pulling me closer. “You’re right where you need to be. You’re learning.”

Her hand pushes my head down, towards her shoes, and of course that makes sense. I’m learning at her feet, as the expression goes. Gravity pulls stuff down. Her lessons flow downward, like everything else, to pool at her feet. If I’m down there, I’ll catch them all, and learn so much faster.

When you think about it… it’s so simple.

***

I'm on the floor, the cold hardwood pressing against my knees. That’s totally normal – after all, it’s a creative way to help my brain solve its problems.

My mind is both distant and sharply focused, a contrast that should be impossible but feels so very real. The smooth leather of Mira's boots stretches out before me, gleaming and inviting. Drawn to them as if by some powerful magnet, I lean in, my breath catching at the intimacy of their proximity.

"Relax your muscles, from your toes, and all the way up to your scalp,” she says, with that voice that is so close, not in a physical way, but in a deeper way. “Imagine a warm, comforting light washing over you, relaxing you more and more with each passing moment."

Mira looms above me, her words lassoing me to her design, to her will. And of course, as I relax, I lean forward, I lean in, closer and closer to her boots. They’re so close that I can smell the leather, now.

Mira's words keep flowing, unstoppable like the tide. "Perhaps we can all learn, Zara. Learn our limits. Learn our place. Learn our purpose. These sound like complicated, scary concepts, but they’re not."

“So simple,” I whisper. My lips brush the leather, the sensation oddly comforting. I feel a pulsing need to serve. It courses through my body, driving out all fear, all uncertainty. I’m literally and metaphorically grounded, here. Safe, in my place.

I will not fly. I will not fear. I will not be crushed.

"Every touch, every kiss, is an admission that I’m right," Mira coos. "You've found your place, haven't you? At my feet, serving your true purpose."

There is no need for me to nod. All I need to do is listen, as I continue to lavish attention on her boots, every inch of the leather receiving the dedication of my lips.

Mira tilts my chin up gently with the tip of the boot, forcing me to look at her. “This is the only way I will not crush you, completely and utterly. You don’t want me to do that, do you?"

Confusion mingles with the hypnotic haze in my mind. I trust Mira, but I’m afraid of Mira, but I can be of use to Mira, and therefore that I can trust that she will not crush me…

"This is your true moment of learning," Mira continues, her voice gentle yet authoritative, "your moment of daring, your triumphant fight against your fears. This is how you learn to truly fly.”

Of course. So simple.

A rush of emotions swirls within me — fear, anticipation, devotion. Mira's boot traces my jawline, teaching me, instructing me. It brushes against my lips as she sits back, reclining gracefully in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

The swivel of the chair is deliberate, allowing me a clearer view of the fastenings on her leather boots. The zippers glisten, beckoning me closer.

"Take them off," she instructs, her voice calm and even, but laden with expectation.

My hands tremble slightly as I grasp the zipper, slowly pulling it down. The soft leather yields easily, revealing her pristine white socks underneath. There's a fragility to this moment, like the shedding of an outer shell. Gently, I peel away the boots, placing them neatly to the side.

Mira's feet are before me, encased in the delicate fabric of her socks. Without needing to be told, I carefully roll them down, freeing her feet. They are pale and elegant, her toenails painted a shade of dark crimson.

"Lovely, aren't they?" Mira's voice floats down, pulling me from my rapturous observation.

I nod, swallowing hard. "Yes," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper in my hypnotic enthrallment.

Mira chuckles softly. "You've come so far, Zara. But the journey isn't over. Be of use."

I would never dare otherwise. My hands tentatively caress her feet, my fingers tracing her high arches and soft pads. I lean in, placing a tentative kiss on her big toe. The taste is intoxicating, the vaguest whiff of sweat, the lingering aftertaste of the sock that’s encased her foot all day.

It’s incredible. It leaves me feeling breathless. It makes my pussy clench with desperate need.

"You're no longer the girl who walked into this office. That girl was so useless to her betters,” she murmurs. “So terrified, so uncertain, so selfish. You’re not selfish, are you, Zara?”

I bend forward once more, in worshipful reverence.

“You’re not uncertain, are you, Zara?”

My tongue laps at her sole, savoring the slightly salty taste.

“You’re not terrified, are you, Zara?”

"Mira," I breathe, my voice filled with a desperate longing. It’s a word that seems to hold so much power over me, the power to protect, and the power to destroy.

Mira.

She smiles, her fingers stroking my hair. "I thought so. Sink for me, Zara. Be of use.”

My kisses and licks become more fervent, traveling up her instep, nipping softly at her heel. I’m so good at this, I’m so useful, like a living mani-pedi provider, my mouth made to exfoliate the skin of her feet, to take care of them, to cuddle and worship them, to stay between them and the ground, a soft cushion for Mira to walk on.

I moan softly, my heart racing. This annihilation, this remolding… my fears couldn’t possibly survive this destructive and creative energy.

And neither can the rest of my identity.

Mira shifts, drawing her feet away from me, and I look up, disoriented. “This can’t be a one-time thing,” she says, sternly. “Therapy is not a punctual thing, you don’t just change overnight. You need to work on yourself every day, Zara, or you’ll soon slip into being selfish again. Into being afraid again.”

I kneel obediently before her, her freshly-licked feet mere inches from my face. The scent of her fills my nostrils, grounding me in this very moment. “Yes, Mira,” I whisper, my gaze fixed upon the flawless beauty of her soles. “Tell me what I need to do…”

“You need to be of use every day,” she continues, extending one foot and lazily tracing circles on my cheek. “You know you’re inadequate, but that’s okay. Perhaps we can all dare, and fight, and learn, but some girls aren’t cut out for doing it on their own.”

Her other foot hooks behind my neck, pulling me deeper against the foot pressing against my cheek. Squishing my face into her sole. “You’ve always been a bit... lost. Needing direction, purpose. But now you have one. Don’t you?” Her tone is mocking, derisive, and yet I can’t help but feel a pang of gratitude. She's right. In her guidance, I've found purpose.

Mira chuckles at the way my eyes go increasingly glassy, as her feet sandwich my face. “Oh, how easy it is to break you,” she muses, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Delightful, truthfully.”

Eagerly, I take her extended big toe into my mouth, wrapping my lips around it. It’s my way of saying, thank you, Mira. I gently fellate her toe, moaning at the growing slick heat between my thighs.

She laughs, a cruel, mocking sound. “Yes, suck it. Be of use, foot girl.”

I moan louder against her foot, taking more of her toes into my mouth, bobbing my head up and down more energetically. She’s so beautiful and smart and powerful and she would be terrifying… except that I know she won’t destroy me.

All I need to do is, well, everything she tells me to.

“Look at you,” Mira says, her voice filled with a mix of disdain and amusement. “So eager, so desperate. Do you even remember the girl you once were? The first time you came in here?”

The memory feels distant, blurred. I try to speak, but her foot muffles my words, so all that comes out is an incoherent stream of guuhhkks and mmpphhs. That seems to amuse Mira to no end.

“No need to answer,” she says, impaling me deeper on her foot. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve given yourself over to me completely. You want to be useful for me.”

I look up at her, my eyes filled with tears of gratitude and devotion. Because she’s right, it’s undeniable, axiomatic, ultimately…

It really is that simple.

***

Days are still a blur.

The once-vibrant spirit that was Zara seems like a distant memory. It's almost as if she’s never existed, and all that remains is… me. Mira’s conquest, with no sense of selfishness, uncertainty, or fear.

The only emotions Mira allows, are ones that I find intensely pleasurable. Arousal, humiliation, worship, devotion. Why would anyone ever pick anything else?

Mira’s office has become a sanctuary – a place where I feel most at home. I'm by her side, always. Every morning, I greet her at the door, taking her coat, setting up her appointments, and ensuring that everything is perfect. She barely needs to ask; I'm attuned to her every desire.

When her coffee is ready, I'm there with it, prepared to her exact liking. If her shoes are even slightly scuffed, I'm on my knees, polishing them to a gleam with my eager, servile tongue.

Outside the office, things aren’t any different. I have a room in Mira's house now. A small, unassuming space, mostly barren, save for a bed and a few personal belongings. But I rarely spend time there.

Instead, I’m usually bustling around, cleaning, cooking, and attending to Mira's every need. When she calls for me, I'm there in seconds, my heart racing, eager to serve. The highlight of my days is when she allows me to worship her feet – a privilege I cherish and for which I am endlessly thankful.

I've become a ghost in the lives of those I once knew. Calls from my boyfriend in Paris – Marcus? Mike? I can’t remember - went unanswered until he stopped calling altogether. My friends and family have given up on trying to reach me, their voices fading echoes in the recesses of my mind. But that doesn't matter.

All that matters is Mira.

In the evenings, when the sun dips below the horizon and Mira’s house is bathed in the soft glow of twilight, she reclines on her plush sofa, beckoning me over. I approach, a docile creature, sinking to my knees before her, lost in the depths of her gaze. Those eyes, once so full of malice, now shimmer with contentment and a sense of ownership.

“You are mine,” she whispers, the words a sweet melody that I cling to.

I nod, tears of gratitude welling in my eyes. “Always, Mistress Mira,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

She extends a foot, and I accept the unspoken command, taking it in my hands and lavishing it with kisses, each one a silent vow of eternal servitude.

Time blurs, and the world outside fades. The past is a foggy dream, and the future is uncertain. But in this moment, under Mira’s gaze, serving at her feet, I am not afraid.

I am not selfish. I am not uncertain.

I am not scared of flying, or women, or Mira.

What I am is useful, and welcomed, and cherished, and safe. And most importantly…

Simple.