The Shoe On The Other Foot

Chapter 1

by alectashadow

Tags: #cw:noncon #cw:sexual_assault #D/s #dom:female #f/f #humiliation #pov:bottom #sub:female #boots #bullying #clothing #foot_fetish #foot_kissing #foot_worship #hypnosis #mind_control #mindbreak #mindfuck #revenge #revenge_hypnosis #reversal_of_fortune #simpification

I feel terribly guilty. And annoyed at how small the world can be at times.

I get it, circumstances are what they are. The market for student rooms is so hot and tight right now that it’s a small miracle I’ve found any availability at all. To be honest, this isn’t even a real choice. I either take this deal, or go back home and give up on university this year.

Still, of all people in the universe who happen to have a room available close to campus, does it really have to be Olivia?

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with her… in fact, my internal conflict is entirely the product of my own shame.

We were in high school together, and I used to bully her. Like… a lot.

I’m not proud of it. I was a bit of an ass. As I sit next to her and we discuss the terms of the rental agreement, I keep wondering if I should bring it up, apologise… my cheeks blush at the thought. If we really must live together then at least I want to start on the right foot, and get this guilty weight off my chest.

But every time I try to cut in and say “Listen,” she cuts me off. Maybe she just wants to avoid the topic.

I study her. In many ways she looks just like the Olivia I’ve always known. Spindly, no real curves to speak on, mousy brown hair cut short-ish, thick glasses, a bit of a tomboy all around.

Back in high school, it used to drive her crazy how the boys only had eyes for me—the curvy, long-legged redhead with deep green eyes. I knew it was her insecurity, and took every opportunity to drive home just how superior I was to her.

Again… Not proud of it.

Olivia’s lost the glasses—she must be using lenses now—but other than that she’s pretty much the same. Maybe a bit more toned, which wouldn’t surprise me, I’ve seen her at the gym—I only go there sporadically, but apparently she frequents it all the time.

Her demeanor seems different, so maybe it’s helping with her confidence. The insecure, stuttering nerd has morphed into a self-assured young homeowner with a room to rent, and lots of plans for the future.

Good for her. I’m happy the high school bullying didn’t leave any baggage. Still, I want to make one final attempt at setting the record straight before I leave, though.

“Listen,” I say, one more time, more forcefully this time. “It’s a bit awkward I know, but I just wanted to say… Look, I’m sorry. I was cruel. You know, in high school. I take all the blame. It was on me.”

I’m not sure what reaction to expect from Olivia. Will she accept, turn down the apology, simply change the subject? The latter is what the shy nerd she used to be would have done. Instead, she levels a flat, emotionless look at me.

“Yes, Arianna, it was on you,” she says. “But I have a room to rent, and you need a room, and that’s all there is to this. When can you move in?”

Wow. Of all the things I was mentally preparing for, this level of coldness and dissociation is not one of them. Still, I can’t blame her if that’s how she wants to deal with what are at the end of the day unpleasant memories.

The least I can do is indulge her and not rock the boat.

“Next week,” I say in a low voice. Deep down I’m kinda bummed that she seems profoundly uninterested in befriending her new roommate, but such is life.

“Cool,” she says, matter of factly. “I’ll have a roster of our chores ready by then. We’ll have a perfectly even split, and no chickening out. Rent is on the fifth of every month. Other than that, everything is chill with me, do what you want so long as you don’t disturb my study time or my privacy. Do we have a deal?”

I thrust my hand forward to meet hers—damn, she has a strong grip—and do my best to unleash my most charming smile on her. “Deal!”

It seems to have no effect. But well, whatever. I’m sure constant exposure to my positivity will wear her down.

Eventually.

* * *

I have to admit, it’s not so bad.

I just had to get over my initial embarassment and get to a point where I can appreciate all the perks of living with a solitary, nerdy roommate. No loud parties, no annoying music, no drama.

Of course, it does get a bit lonely… Back in high school, I was something of a queen bee. Now all my pretty and popular friends are far flung all over the country. We Skype every now and again of course, but it isn’t the same.

And Olivia isn’t interested in socialising. We chat over meals sometimes, but she mostly leaves me to my own devices. Which again, is fine, really. It’s just…

Well, lonely.

My life with her is full of these little contradictions. I like that she’s scrupulously fair in our allocation of daily chores—we literally have a white board in the kitchen with the roster planned out, to make sure it’s all equally distributed. I really appreciate the predictability.

On the other hand, it does make me feel scrutinised. I know Olivia is fussy and expects very high standards from her roommate, and the ugly truth is, if she wanted another tenant she’d find one in a second, while I have no alternative to this arrangement.

So, I put extra energy into my cleaning, to make sure everything is spick and span. And I feel Olivia’s penetrating, evaluating gaze on the back of my neck, as I do it.

The loneliness and the expectations of faultless performance at home are getting to me a little. Besides, my residual guilt keeps eating away at me. I decide it’s time to subject Olivia to a true charm offensive. So I buy a nice bottle of wine and offer to share over dinner, and to my delight, she accepts.

A few glasses in and we’re both slightly tipsy—nothing too outrageous, but just enough to loosen the tongue, which is what I want.

Soon enough I find myself completely distracted and engrossed by a toy that Olivia keeps on the table for some reason, one of those drinking bird toys that swing up and down all the time. The motion of the bird makes my eyes lose focus, but I try to track it nonetheless.

“It was really nice of you, to buy this for us,” Olivia says, slightly slurring, nodding towards the bottle of wine. “You should do this more often.”

“I will! I do have a lot to make up to you,” I say, and damn. I meant it as a throwaway comment, but it comes out as a sheepish apology. The subconscious guilt over my previous bullying must be really eating away at me.

Olivia narrows her eyes, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her brain. Is she thinking about that one time I pinned her against the wall in front of the boy she liked, just to prove I was stronger than her? Or all the times I pretended to invite her to one of my social functions, and then stood her up? Or back when Becca impersonated a “secret admirer” who wanted to take her to prom, only to cruelly unveil the truth just days before the event, in front of the whole class?

God… we truly were terrible girls. The guilt is unbearable…

“Tell you what,” Olivia says, rising to her feet and approaching the white board by the table. “You really want to make it up to me? Fine. I’ll scrub my name from one day on this roster, and put yours instead. It’s a little imbalance, but if you really want to apologise…”

I open and close my mouth. I’m not sure dragging our roommate relationship into this is the best idea, but… as I look at the drinking bird, I lose my train of thought.

It’s incredible how regular the motion is, like a metronome.

Up. And down.

“Please do!” I say at last, even though inside I am mortified. Even more time spent feeling pressured and evaluated like Olivia’s my supervisor? Still, my damn mouth has landed me into this predicament, and I can’t back out now. “Think of it as… reparations.”

That sends Olivia laughing, and I realize with a certain start that it’s the first time I’ve seen her truly amused since I’ve moved in. Her eyes light up as she rubs off her name and puts in mine with a black marker.

“Oh, trust me Arianna, I will.”

* * *

Will I ever make it up to Olivia?

It’s a genuine question. I ask because it’s so hard to quantify these things… and later, I’ve been having more problems than usual with numbers. Especially when I stare at the drinking bird.

Up, and down…

Olivia’s grades are better than mine (up), but that’s hardly news. But I’ve never felt this, well… dull (and down).

How do you quantify years of high school abuse? How many dishes do I need to clean before it’s okay?

It’s been six months.

Over time, more and more chores have been shifted onto me (up), and I’m starting to get a nagging feeling that Olivia is leveraging my guilt so that I do the chores for her (down). It’s just gut feeling though. Maybe because what used to be a 50/50 split has become more, like, 75/25. Or is that 75/15? God, why do I suddenly have problems with numbers?

It occurs to me, rather whimsically, that life is pretty much like the drinking bird. Stuff goes up and down.

Olivia goes up. I go down.

“You should buy me another bottle of wine, girl,” Olivia says, and her voice startles me—it’s like she’s appeared out of nowhere. I gulp. Even through the constant distraction that is the bird, the constant dulling of the senses that is the washing and cleaning that I’m doing, I bristle at the condescension with which she throws that word around.

Girl.

I open my mouth to tell her that, look, I’m sorry for all the wrong I did, but that doesn’t enable you to just boss me around like that. But before I can form words, Olivia’s eyes meet mine—dark, so dark, almost evil—and she says, “you know what, shoes too. I never find a pair of boots that fit me. I’m sure you can find me something nice.”

My eyes glaze over, the bird swinging up and down, Olivia’s eyes drilling into mine, and I feel like I’m tumbling down some endless slide into a terrible abyss and I can barely stop, and then Olivia stands up and walks right behind me, her hands running in my hair…

“You always were a pretty girl…” she says, and there’s a weird edge to her voice I’ve never got to hear before. “Such a shame that you were an evil bitch all through high school.”

I gulped, wanting to defend myself, to ask her to please stop touching me, but I can’t look away from the bird, and her fingers are so possessive as they run through my hair…

“You always had so many simps,” she says. “Doing your bidding all of the time just to gain your favor, or get to spend a bit of time with you, platonically of course. I never got to feel that experience. You made a point of mocking me for it. You and that little venomous bitch, Becca.”

The venom in Olivia’s words makes me recoil. She doesn’t sound at all like the poised, but vaguely avoidant person she was when we discussed the rental agreement. She’s wearing her grievance on her sleeve.

“And look at what you’re doing for me,” she says, sultrily. “Buying me bottles of wine, shoes, cleaning my house for me… It is only right that you make me feel like you felt all those times with those simps, isn’t it?”

“I do… have to make it up to you…” I say, my voice droning on like it doesn’t belong to me. Something about this feels wrong, and I’m trying to fight it, but…

“Must… apologise…”

“That’s it, Ary,” Olivia says, and one hand snakes down my neck to clasp my throat, making me gasp. Her lips press to my ear.

“Simp.”

My heart melts at the word. It’s so humiliating and wrong and something that should have never applied to me—I’m not even into girls, especially not flat tomboys like Olivia! But I’ve been bending over backwards to apologize to her, all this time, so really, can I blame her for labelling me like a simp and a loser?

Well, maybe I can, if only I can pry my eyes away from the bird for a minute. But I can’t, and the more I stare at it, the more my mind feels… soft, pliant. Words and numbers come hard, and so does resistance. I feel like putty in Olivia’s hands.

“What…” I croak, but no more words come out, especially as Olivia’s hand tightens around my throat. Is she implicitly telling me to shut up? When did this confrontation get so… physical? When did she gain the confidence to think she could lord it over me like this?

As if to answer my own question, Olivia grabs me by the shirt, and lifts me in the air. My eyes widen in shock—I know she’s been going to the gym, but damn.

Of course, this is what I once did to her to prove that I was stronger, and now the utter irreversible nature of this role reversal is crushing me like the hammer of a wrathful god. Olivia effortlessly pins me against the wall, her eyebrows cocked in mockery and challenge.

Her muscles ripple with strength. She’s supple where I’m soft. Sharp where I’m dumb. And I feel guilty, so guilty…

Olivia then says something and the words pierce right through my foggy brain.

“You know what, Arianna? You’d look great in glasses.”

* * *

Olivia circles me like a predator does with prey, stopping inches away from my face. The marble floor resounds to the loud clang of the flat-heeled, equestrian boots I bought her, and the goosebumps I feel aren’t just from the cold floor adhering to my back. They’re of intimidation and fear.

I strain my neck, looking up at Olivia through the glasses she had me buy, imposed on me—yet another reversal on the way things used to work in high school.

She’s still spindly and thin, but I know those muscles pack more than enough power to allow her to have her way with me. From down here, she looks like a bloody queen, and me the opponent she’s slain.

She stretches one leg right next to me, making a show of checking out the boots I got her. I swallow, praying silently that she’ll appreciate them.

I see the drinking bird even when I sleep, now. It’s one of the two things that never seem to go away. The other is the guilt.

At last, Olivia looks away from the boots, and back to me. I literally put them on for her, kneeling on the ground like a supplicant, and now I’m lying face up at her request, while she walks in circles around me.

“Apologise.”

The word hits me like the coil of a whip. There was a time, mere months ago, where Olivia was actively parrying away all my attempts at discussing our contentious high school relations. But not now. Now, she’s demanding an apology.

Still, I know I was in the wrong, and the truth is, in this house, I’ve swallowed my pride long ago.

“I’m sorry Olivia,” I say in a humble, unassuming whisper. “I was so mean to you. You didn’t deserve it.”

“Not good enough!” She says, like a clap of thunder, and the anger in her voice literally makes my eyes well up. When did I become such a fragile, simpering mess? And when did I become so utterly terrified of this nerd?

But here on the floor, I don’t see a nerd, or even just a tomboy. I see an empress, demanding her due in rightful tribute. It’s impossible for me to ignore the feeling of awe and intimidation that courses through me like a tidal wave when she says, “Beg for my forgiveness.”

I don’t need to think about the words. They come out by themselves.

“I’m worthless without your approval, Olivia,” I say in a low, supplicating voice I’ve never used with anybody. “What I did to you is inexcusable. I’ll do anything to make it right. Anything. Just please…”

I don’t even know what I’m asking for. It just feels right to say please. Like a prayer to a higher being. A call for mercy.

“That wasn’t that hard, was it?” Olivia asks, pushing the tip of her boot against my face. “You know what would make your begging better? If you kissed my boots while you apologised.”

I immediately turn around to prostrate myself, eager to prove to Olivia that I mean every word, that I truly am sorry, that I would do anything for her forgiveness. I shower her boot in kisses, even though a part of me is crumbling inside at the thought of the abject humiliation I’m performing for this girl.

God, imagine if our old class could see us now…

“I’m so sorry Olivia,” I say, in-between pecks of worship and affection on the hard, polished surface of her brand new boots. “I’ll do all the chores!”

“Yes, you will.”

“I’ll do everything you say,” I add, trying desperately to impress her, to coax out of her those words I long for to a point of physical devastation—in my mind, they sound like, yes Arianna, I accept your apology; we can be friends now; you deserve to be a person again. Yet the words never come, and so I keep trying.

“I’ll do everything you tell me. Buy everything you want me to buy.”

As I say this, I somehow transition from kissing to licking her boots, like I’m some kind of eager dog. Oh my god, is that a shutter sound I hear? Is she documenting my debasement with her smartphone?

The prospect of facing utter and irreversible social ruin should be enough to make me stop cold, but what if this is what Olivia requires to finally grant me forgiveness? I redouble my efforts, licking and sucking on the tip, rubbing my cheeks against her boots like I’m her pet.

“Look at her,” Olivia says, presumably speaking into her phone. “The queen bee is secretly a bootlicker. Haha, I love this!”

The tip of her boot finds its way into my mouth, violating it, thrusting up and down. Her other boot is now resting atop my head, keeping me in place as she foot-fucks my mouth. I squirm and thrash weakly under her weight, while she records it all for posterity.

I’m never going to live this down… but if I get to call her a friend at the end, it will be worth it, right?

“Good simps stutter,” Olivia says, thrusting deeper into my mouth. “I’m sure you’ve met your fair share of boys who were so nervous around you they could barely string coherent sentences together, much less keep their dicks hard or be able to satisfy you. That’s how I want you to be around me. So nervous that you can barely speak. Which is your appropriate place in life anyway. You don’t need to speak, just listen… and watch the drinking bird.”

I look up at her with big, submissive eyes, while the tip of her boot fucks my mouth and the sole of the other boot literally prints itself into my face.

“Can you be that for me? Can you learn to stutter, simp?”

Absurdly, I think, she’s beautiful like this. And so, with my lips sealed around the tip of her boot, I nod.

* * *

I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.

My once glorious, shoulder-length red hair is cut into a short crop, a clear sign by the owner of the house that I’m not allowed to call attention to myself. I wept when she cut it off, and I knew it was a ceremony to mark my new status in the household.

My thick, round glasses make me look like a myopic mouse. Combined with my hair, my stutter, and my ridiculous clothing, they’ve turned me into a parody of a school loser.

I titter on high heels, tight nylons hugging my legs, a frilly maid skirt twirling around me every time I move. The only moment I can be seen with no duster in hand is when I’m humbly massaging Olivia’s feet.

I’ve tried everything I could to hold on to at least a small part of me, but the truth is that Olivia always knows how to leverage my guilt, how to make it seep into every pore, pry me open, shape me, change me. I’m in her debt, and I don’t know what else I’ll have to do to repay it, but I know I’ll never say no.

I feel physically and mentally so much smaller, so much more docile, every day.

I step away from the mirror. With the bathroom cleaned spotlessly, it’s time to go service Olivia the way she demands, the way she deserves to after a tiring studying session.

God, studying… that’s something else I haven’t done in ages. Like skyping with my old friends. Olivia has decided my interactions with them needed oversight, so it’s all channeled through her. My only contact with them is through photos and videos of me frolicking at Olivia’s feet.

They stopped answering after I tried to ask Becca how she was doing while Olivia’s nyloned foot was shoved deep down my throat.

I crawl into Olivia’s room on all fours like a dog, to find her sitting in her armchair, one slender leg draped over the other. Even in her yoga pants and casual t-shirt she looks like a goddess to me now. The mere idea that I once considered myself more beautiful than this conqueror feels ridiculous.

“Hello, simp,” she says with a smile that makes my insides twist in painful longing, and knowledge that I’ll never be good enough to be her friend.

“G-g-g-greetings O-O-Oli…” I say, in the new stuttering bimbo voice she’s imposed on me. By her look of irritation, it’s clear she’s not interested in me talking, and who can blame her? I only have dumb things to say anyway. Things are much easier when I just do what I’m told, and so I resume crawling towards her.

Sitting on the armrest is the damned drinking bird. I always want to ask her about her fixation with this particular toy, but somehow, I never find the words to phrase the question. Especially when it starts bobbing up… and down…

Damn, I must have spaced out again. Olivia is leering at me, laughing at my predicament.

Before I can react, her right foot hooks behind my neck, pulling me closer. The other foot slaps against my cheeks, a stinging humiliation to remind me that I have so much to atone—but also that she’s more than capable of physically subduing me and beating me up, if she wants to.

I better behave.

I look up with my big dumb eyes—Olivia always calls them dumb anyway—while her toes sneak past my lips. I begin gently fellating them, moaning and humping the air behind me.

Olivia has been withdrawing my orgasms for months.

I think it’s a way to associate her feet with sexual pleasure, and since I have no other form of contact with humans besides her, on some level, it’s clearly working… just the thought of giving her toes a blowjob makes me feel so wet. Kneeling here, before her, taking what she sees fit to give me…

But her official explanation is that bullies have no rights to cummies, not until they’re fully reformed. And to hear her talk about it, it’s clear we still have a long way to go.

I’m being foot-fucked into my place, and that’s surely going to help rectify my bully past. I’ve outwardly and inwardly accepted my need for penance, and Olivia’s expression as she reads my defeat on my face is priceless.

She looks lost in triumph and rapture as my lips follow every single movement of her toes, lavishing them with my truest apologies. What says sorry louder than giving someone’s feet a tongue bath?

“How does it feel, knowing that this is as good as it’s going to get? That you’re never going to get access to any part of me, but my feet?”

I shoot her an empty look, never interrupting my dutiful fellatio of her toes—each in turn first, then more and more at once. And then, Olivia’s whole foot slides into my mouth, the palm adhering to my tongue as the toes inch towards the entrance to my throat.

“I know, I know,” Olivia says, one foot pushing me deeper onto the other, until it’s practically impaling me. “I’ve ruined you to such a degree that you could barely muster the words to answer me. I bet you really regret being a bully now.”

I do, I do! I can’t say so, and I settle for the next best thing, which is to gag and moan and squelch as Olivia’s foot facefucks me into submission, methodically pistoning in and out of my throat like it’s a giant cock.

“Speaking of degrees… I don’t think you really need one.”

“Mmmmpphhh?!?!” I ask, my eyes widening in horror. A degree is the whole reason why I took up this rental agreement in the first place! It’s why I’m here! What will I even do without one? What would my future possibly hold without one?

I wish I could get over it with this foot fucking session, so I could express my verbal reservations to Olivia. Instead, I keep going gluk gluk gluk around her foot, while she laughs at me.

“That’s it,” Olivia says, facefucking me. “Look at me with those glassy eyes. There’s barely any room for despair in there any longer. You’d do anything for me, and I want you to quit university. You should devote all your time to try and atone for your horrible behavior towards me in high school. I will tolerate no distraction from this task.”

I don’t react, lost in the overwhelming shocks travelling through my entire body. Just like that, Olivia has tossed my entire future away, decreeing my punishment to be something like, I don’t know…

Modern-day slavery?

Am I really going to let her do this to me?

… Am I ever going to stop sucking on this foot so I can even speak?

One more time, Olivia’s foot plunges downward, reaching the entrance to my throat, as her eyes drill into mine. And I know the answer.

As I throw myself deeper into the deepthroating of her feet, doing my best to moan and whimper now that words no longer belong to my repertoire of communication, I realize that this is my sentence, my rightful punishment, and I will do all it takes to complete my atonement.

Even if it means serving Olivia for however long she thinks is necessary.

And so, as I accept my surrender and enslavement and the first onset of an orgasm begins to ripple through my sex, the movement of my slutty head finally matches that of the drinking bird, bobbing in perfect sync as I lavish Olivia’s foot with my mouth.

Up. And down.

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