I used to be a girl with a dream.
Now, I’m the lesser of all worker bees in a fast food chain, the kind of job I told myself I’d never need to do if I studied hard enough.
The untanned outline of Yasmin’s footprints is clearly stamped over my tanned face, for the entire world to see. Alia laughed hysterically seeing that, but I also know that set off her competitiveness.
I wonder what she’s planning to one-up Yasmin, and I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.
As the burger fizzles gently before me, I space out for a moment. It’s the end of my shift, and the smells of the kitchen – burgers, fries, and onion rings – mingle with that of foot sweat in my hair.
I find the burger’s plight surprisingly relatable. Much like it, I too have been grilled, until all my dreams evaporated. I shrank, losing all the unnecessary bits – the extra water and fat in the meat patty’s case, my dreams and freedom in mine – until I was cooked to perfection.
Ready to be served to Alia, Anbar, and Yasmin on a silver platter.
It’s all come to this, then. I work one shift here, one shift at Alia’s mansion, and then spend the night in the closet with the rest of her footwear.
I don’t see a single cent of what I earn. It all goes into Alia’s dresses, Anbar’s videogames, and Yasmin’s shoes. My credit score is nuked worse than my self-esteem, and I do back-breaking labor for rich overlords who don’t need anything.
Like a medieval serf, reduced into slavish service to aristocrats and queens. And that thought alone is enough to make my pussy spasm.
I look surreptitiously around, hoping my co-workers haven’t noticed my sudden shiver. But to be honest, it’s hard to read their reactions to me. And I can’t blame them, I must be such a weirdo to them.
Maybe because of the white facemask I wear… and the dark sock that rests underneath it. Alia’s, of course, so I can spend my entire shift breathing in her scent, letting it sap my limbs of energy and my brain of thoughts.
I’m so brain-poisoned that I half expect my female colleagues to push me to my knees and stick their shoes in my face. And to be honest, if they did that, would I even oppose them? This is what I’ve become by now. A doormat for girls.
But of course, the real world doesn’t really function like the warped bubble Alia has carefully constructed for me, and my coworkers do avoid me, for the most part…
Except Alina. There’s a weird glint in her eye, a kind of curiosity, when she asks me to stay back and clean, even though it’s her turn today. Even though she’s not my boss. I don’t even think she minds the cleaning, she’s just… looking to see how I’ll react.
Some people have a sixth sense for meekness. Give them an opening, and they’ll walk all over you. Nobody on Earth knows this better than me, by this point.
I stare into Alina’s eyes, brown and flecked with gold, and she stares into mine.
And I nod with a gulp, sniffing deeper from Alia’s sock as a reward. It makes my pussy quiver.
Satisfied with my compliant response towards her assertion, Alina nods and walks off, ready to enjoy her free time.
I look around the kitchen, despondently. I have no free time to call my own anymore. And truth be told… it’s not just weakness that lets me stay back here for a bit longer.
I don’t particularly look forward to what awaits me at home. After all…
Today is Yasmin’s birthday.
I used to be a girl with self-respect.
Now, I’m a pudgy face with dark eyebags, unkempt stinky air, and a quivering upper lip.
Before my enslavement, I used to tell myself that I might not be very pretty, or rich, but I had my brain and my dedication. On merit alone, I would surely go places. I’d earn enough money to finally give my parents the comforts they could never afford for themselves.
I would prove the world that I mattered. I would right all the wrongs I felt I’d received. My self-actualization was social mobility.
But now, I find myself spacing out in front of Alia’s mirror, a ditzy serf with no ability to focus. And the reflection greeting me… let’s just say it would have been unrecognisable, mere months ago.
There are deep lines in my skin from the constant physical labor and the sleepless nights. With the junk diet imposed upon me, my old teenage acne has returned with a vengeance, populating my face like a scourge.
And of course, Yasmin’s footprints on my face simply cannot be unseen.
I consider idly that I find myself spacing out more and more, these days. Is the constant abuse making me dissociate? Or is the prolonged exposure to foot scent literally killing my brain cells one at a time?
I don’t know. I can’t really focus on anything. My days seem to proceed in flashes of sudden awareness, and long stretches of dull hard work, while my mind… well, it’s not like it goes elsewhere. It’s more like it’s vacant. No longer really there to help me.
Time is no longer a continuous progression for me, but a series of flashes, like this one. They’re vivd, like a fever dream. But each time, I sink back into the hypnotic foot haze for a little longer.
What happens when I no longer wake up?
Alia’s face appears next to mine in the mirror, as she rests her chin on my shoulder, and the contrast between us couldn’t be greater.
Even now, her beauty takes my breath away. Her eyes are so soulful and clever, her hair so silky and smooth. She is worthy of adoration and service. Handing my life over to her, for her to destroy, is the least I can do.
Her fake innocent batting of her eyelashes, on the other hand, sends a cold shiver down my spine. I guess I’m about to find out how she intends to top Yasmin’s exploit.
“So, Zainab,” she says, and as always when she uses my name now, it’s like a dagger piercing my heart. A painful memory of a past life I will no longer be able to reclaim.
“Ready for tonight’s party?”
“Yes, your M-M-Majesty,” I say in a soft, demure whisper, which wins her smirk of approval.
“I thought we could do our makeup together,” Alia says, her eyes alight with evil amusement. Oh no. “I know just how to get you ready for the party.”
Before I can dare ask what she has in mind, a sudden sound silences me.
It’s the buzzing sound of an electric shaver.
Alia lifts it up theatrically, until it becomes visible in the mirror. I shiver in rhythm with the buzzing of the shaver, as Alia brings it to the back of my neck. I can feel it hover mere inches away from my skin. It makes me want to run and hide.
“What do we say?” Alia asks, and my foot-dazed brain instantly supplies the correct answer, like I’m a good schoolgirl trying to impress my teacher in class.
“I love you…” I say, and it comes out as such a desperate admission, full of hopeless longing and self-debasement. Ever since I said it the first time, Alia has been demanding it of me all the time.
She wants to be showered in worship, and I literally can’t say no. At this point, I’m not even sure I’d want to.
At last, Alia plunges forward with the electric shaver.
The blades instantly get stuck as they start tugging at my hair. They’re tangled and matted with sweat, both mine and the foot sweat of my conquerors. But Alia doesn’t even remove her eyes from our reflections in the mirror, as she ploughs onward, pulling savagely at my hair.
Each time I wince in pain, her smile grows a little wider. A little crueler.
I see my hair begin to fall down on the floor, like leaves scattered by the wind, and I start to sob uncontrollably.
“That’s right,” Alia says, in a voice that is at once soft, and sharper than a blade. “Cry your heart out for me, slave.”
Her words are a permission to open the floodgates. She finds it annoying when I cry, but not this time. She wants to draw my pain out, revel in it, toy with it. She wants me to suffer, just because it’s fun.
Tears roll freely down my cheeks, and I let go of it all, all the fear and hurt and humiliation and arousal that’s been building up inside me.
Alia is cutting close to the skin, and I know in my heart what she’s about to say, before she even says it.
“I’m going to give you a buzzcut,” she whispers, her fingers wiping the tears from my cheeks. “You’re not even going to look like a girl anymore. Because you’re not one.”
Of course I’m not. Prisoners are given buzzcuts. It’s dehumanizing, but I haven’t been a person in a long, long time. Perhaps I’ve never been one before.
“At the party, everyone will have eyes for me, and for Yasmin,” Alia continues, whispering seductively to me as she shears me. “But you? You’ll be just some androgynous blob, paling into insignificance next to us. Beneath us. A loser fit only to serve drinks, massage feet, and…”
She stops, giggling. “And taking whatever else we see fit to give you.”
“Y-y-yes, your Majesty,” I say, in between tears. I know it’s what I truly deserve. I should disappear completely next to my owners. It is only fitting.
As the last of my hair falls to the floor, Alia grips my chin between her fingers, and forces me to look up at the mirror.
The vision before me makes me want to cry even harder.
I look disgusting. The buzzcut somehow makes my face look even pudgier, makes me look even less like a girl. I look like a tired, grey hermit, destroyed by years of back-breaking labor. A big-boned peasant that nobody could ever possibly find attractive, and right next to me – a queen, crowned in radiant splendor.
As the image of my new face is etched forever into my mind, Alia’s lips close in on my ear.
“Cum to what I’ve just done to you,” she whispers.
And my legs fail me.
I used to be a girl with ambition.
Now, I just carry trays and drinks in Alia’s home, dressed in my skimpy maid uniform. On someone ele, it might look slutty, but me?
I’m a simpering, sobbing, formless blob that only vaguely resembles a person.
My heart is thumping in my chest. I realize with a degree of horror that I haven’t been exposed to this many eyes since I became Alia’s live-in slave. It’s making my skin crawl. I’m sweating and breathing hard, and all I want to do is run and hide.
I don’t know any of the invitees well. None of my old friends are on Yasmin’s good books, her social circle and the one I had when I was free are entirely non-overlapping. But that doesn’t make it any better.
The girls are all pretty, lithe, and slender. I swear it feels like they’ve come off an assembly line of rich, beautiful, bratty bimbos. Some are more like Yasmin, carefree and unfocused, others are more like Alia, calculating and cruel.
All look at me with such a visible mix of emotions.
Disgust. Pity. Awkwardness. Amusement.
Ditto for the jocks, the football players and frat boys that surround Yasmin like bees with honey.
It’s clear the invitees can’t quite decide what to make of the silent, simpering, meek maid that’s supposed to serve them their drinks. Some avoid me, others throw questioning glances at Alia and Yasmin.
But a few recognize me. And they’re clearly happy to witness my downfall.
“Isn’t that the nerd?” Maryam asks Yasmin. She’s a tall girl with long curly hair that cascade over her shoulders. Just looking at her makes my shaven head itch, and my eyes well up.
“No more,” Yasmin says with a smile. “Tell her what you are now.”
“I’m a dumb slave, and I live to serve my princesses,” I whisper, defeated. That causes a few people to drift further away, ignoring me, but not Maryam. Her eyes narrow in my direction, as if she can’t quite decide if I’m being serious or not.
“Well,” she concludes at last, “she certainly looks the part!”
I feel like I want to dig a hole underground and bury myself in it forever. But thankfully, the party eventually moves on, and all of a sudden I find myself in the anonymity of large crowds. I don’t even need to remember anybody’s name.
As Yasmin’s friends mingle by the pool, I simply carry my tray, and let people take as many drinks as they wish. As soon as my tray is empty, I head to the kitchen for a refill, all under Sanae’s amused, approving gaze.
“I’m happy you were invited to the party,” she tells me, clearly struggling to contain an amused chuckle. I live here now, and besides, I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count as being invited, but I know better than to say this to Sanae’s face.
She intimidates me. I know I’m not her equal.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, demurring. “I’m glad I can make myself useful.”
“Off you go then,” she smiles, but it’s a cold, condescending smile, the one reserved for serfdom. “You know my daughters don’t like to wait.”
With a scared nod, I scurry away, tray in hand, ready to serve more drinks to Yasmin’s illustrious crowd.
Outside, the party is getting more and more informal. It’s a warm night, so a few people have jumped into the pool, and others mingle by the edge, their feet dangling in the waters.
Others have opted to remain dressed, and are reclining on beach chairs, or sitting on the grass.
Of course, my three conquerors have the place of honor, reclining like goddesses on three beach chairs by the edge of the pool. Alia is at the center, with Yasmin and Anbar on either side, like a bizarre holy trinity. Maryam has apparently opted to sit with them, a bit off to Yasmin’s right.
Seeing them like this makes my tummy flutter. They’re… beautiful. I love how relaxed they look, how sinuous their bodies are under the starry sky, how they get to live like queens while I scrub and clean on all fours.
The way their smiles curve upward at my pathetic sight reminds me of the way Yasmin and Anbar laughed at me, when Alia showed them my new hairstyle. And how the laughter went straight to my clit.
Unbidden, my eyes track every minor movement of their feet, every twist of their ankles, every twitch of their toes. I know it’s my sacred duty to look after them. Purely by reflex, my mouth is starting to salivate.
It’s becoming harder and harder to suppress the thought that feet turn me on, by now. And honestly, so what? They’re all the sexuality I’m likely to get for the rest of my life.
Is it really wrong if I just decide to enjoy them, to make my torture more bearable?
Alia spots me, and wordlessly, she calls me over with a twitch of her foot. With a sigh, I straighten myself to better balance the tray, and approach my queen.
A slave needs to be perceptive, to better anticipate the wishes and displeasures of her owner. And purely by instinct, I know Alia is displeased, and I can even guess why. So far, the party hasn’t gone like she’s imagined.
Yes, I’ve gotten a few taunts, and plenty of weird looks, but most people are steering well clear of me. It makes sense. Even when I was free, they would have disliked or ignored me. Now I’m at their party and being super weird about it.
But I should never doubt my queen. I’m sure she has a solution in mind.
Alia’s eyes are two glimmering gems in the night, catching the light from the dim illumination dotting the garden.
“Keeping busy, slave?”
I hear a faint gasp from Maryam, to my left, but Alia has all my focus, like she’s the sun and I’m only fit to orbit her. I nod, submissively.
“Well, I have something else for you to do,” she says, and instantly some of her bubbly enthusiasm returns. She snaps her fingers, pointing wordlessly to the grassy ground beneath her feet.
As always, my execution is flawless. I don’t just kneel. I fall to my knees like the weight of the entire world has slammed against me, conspiring to keep me to the ground, in the inferior position that suits my nature.
Placing the drinks tray to one side, I position myself on all fours before Alia, and shortly after I feel the familiar bump of her slender feet coming to rest on my shoulders.
Anbar joins her immediately, her feet landing on my pitched buttocks, and Yasmin – the birthday girl – immediately rests her left foot atop my head.
I gulp as her right foot lands against my face. I breathe in the scent. It doesn’t enslave me, unlike the sisters’, but I’ve gotten off so many times with my nose deep in between Yasmin’s toes, that it’s impossible for me not to quiver a little.
I look up.
Maryam is sitting by Yasmin’s side, contemplating me with eyes that go wide with surprise, and then narrow with scheming. A guy has joined her, standing behind her, massaging her shoulders – boyfriend, maybe.
He fits right in with the crowd. Bulky physique, chiseled jaw, and an easily impressionable look.
“Woah, dude!” He says, like he’s commenting a sportscar passing down the road. “Amazing! Yasmin, how’d you get her to agree to this?”
“Oh, that was all Alia,” Yasmin says. Birthday girl or no, she knows better than to upset the host.
I can’t see Alia’s reaction from down here, but I can easily imagine it in my mind’s eye – her chin thrust up high, a hand running through her hair to call attention to it, the self-gratified posture of a purring cat.
Maryam and mistery guy are not the only ones commenting on my display. Murmurs erupt from everywhere in the garden, as Yasmin’s friends contemplate the extent of my impropriety.
“What’s up with that?”
“Is she calling attention to herself?”
“She’s so ugly it’s the only way she can call attention to herself!”
“Damn, wonder what Alia’s got on her.”
My cheeks redden with devastating humiliation and embarassment. How long before someone takes photos and videos? Tomorrow, the whole of college will know I’m a footstool for girls. And the worst part of all is that it sounds so damn hot.
My mouth is salivating – at this point I’d have a foot in my mouth already. Instead, I’m just being used as furniture for the time being – a further demotion from waitressing.
A piece of fat, unattractive, sweaty, dumb furniture.
“Seriously, Alia,” Maryam asks, captivated. “How did you manage that?”
“Zainab did it herself,” Alia says, and though I can’t see her face right now, her tone of voice is all I need to know that her eyes glittering with amused cruelty. “She volunteered.”
The ease and spontaneous delivery of her lie takes my breath away.
“Is she that much of a slut?” Maryam asks, and her face I do see, whenever Yasmin’s toes dip lower than my line of sight, dragging against my lips or toying with the tip of my nose. Her other foot is rubbing against the top of my shaved head.
But Maryam’s expression is one of rapt fascination. Her hand travels upward to clasp with her boyfriend’s, her grip tightening.
“No,” Alia says, pausing for a second. “I mean, actually yes, haha! But more to the point, it’s just that she loves me that much. Don’t you, peasant girl?”
“Of course,” I say immediately, with a readiness and a certainty I don’t feel. My foot-dazed brain leaves me no other option. “I love you so much, your Majesty. And because I can never have you, I do… this… everything you want…”
Yasmin’s toes clamp around my nose, turning my voice into a pathetic high pitch that causes laughter to ripple across the garden. That laughter only increases when I snuggle closer to her foot, breathing in deeply.
“Honestly,” Anbar pitches in, “she’s too dumb to live. She needs her betters to oversee her. She’s much more likable now that she knows her fucking place.”
Anbar has been quiet all evening – social gatherings like these aren’t her forte – but the topic of my enslavement apparently is enough to make her feel included, and that makes me feel a strange surge of pride. Indirectly, I’ve just served my goddess.
As always, Yasmin’s feet are immaculate. Right now, they taste of freshly mowed grass, understandably so after an evening spent in the garden.
God, how I wish I could beg her to cum. Usually when I have her feet in her face, that is the end result.
“It all started with a foot massage,” Alia continues, driving her feet deeper into my back. “She’s amazing at it. She offered, and I said yes, and the rest is history.”
God… is this really going to be the public version of my own enslavement? That I volunteered for it? That I’m a fetishist?
On the other hand, what does it matter? If I wasn’t a fetishist when Alia first subjugated me, I am certainly one now.
“Can I try it?” Maryam asks. Her question isn’t directed to me, of course. It’s Alia she’s looking at.
I don’t own my consent.
Objects can’t say yes or no, and I’m nothing but a piece of footwear.
“Of course!” Alia says, and the edginess in her laughter is unmistakable. “I love to share my things with my friends.”
No, she doesn’t, and Maryam isn’t so much her friend as she’s Yasmin’s, but that’s clearly beside the point. What matters is that I am a thing, and maybe most importantly, no longer Alia’s friend.
It makes my eyes tear up, my heart bleed, and my clit throb.
I hate it, and I love it.
In a second, Maryam’s feet lie splayed out before me – slightly tanned and petite, with impeccably manicured toes. There’s no smell I can detect. I have to remind my stupid slave brain that most people don’t go around with stinky feet all day, especially to a classy party.
Of course, if they had hypnotic foot sweat, they might see things a little different…
Balancing on my elbows, my position is awkward. I can’t crawl forward without failing in my duty as a footrest, and I can’t lift my arms. It’s an uncomfortable position for a foot massage, but absurdly, when I brush my fingers along the length of Maryam’s feet, I’m grateful for it.
Yes, she’s a remote acquaintance at best, and from a social circle that despises me by instinct. Yes, she’s yet another rich bimbo like Yasmin, born of privilege and pampering…
And in that, she is just like my owners. Doesn’t she deserve to be worshipped, too? Besides, her feet are beautiful.
Between the silky smooth skin under my fingertips, and Yasmin’s foot toying mindlessly with my face, I’m getting so turned on I have to stop myself from humping the air.
“You were right,” Maryam says, breathing out a sigh of pure relaxation. “She is good.”
“Babe, that’s amazing,” mystery dude says behind her. “Seeing you treat another girl like this…”
“Oh, she can do a lot more than just massages,” Yasmin says, and Alia’s tittering in response is all I need to know that my evening is about to get much, much worse.
“Show her,” Yasmin commands me. “Show her why it was worth it to invite a loser bitch like you to my birthday party.”
I crane my neck forward as much as I can and place humble, worshipful kisses on Maryam’s feet. God, they feel so amazingly smooth under my lips. Will I have to beg her to cum, too? Could I just do it now? I’m so stimulated, I crave physical contact, I…
I’m increasingly lubricated. I can’t defy my rules, I know my owners want me pent up and frustrated, but I can at least show Maryam just how good a slavegirl I’ve really become.
And so, I let her big toe past my lips, sealing them around it like a vacuum. I gently bob my head up and down, trying my best to give Maryam a show.
Any other girl doing this would probably look insanely arousing, but not me.
I’m a lard brick on all fours, with four women placing their feet all over me. I’m ugly and no one could possibly ever desire me. I’m pathetic.
But this one thing, I can do right. Maryam catches her breath more than once during my ministrations, and so does her boyfriend.
“God, she’s pathetic,” Maryam whispers, echoing my own thoughts. She plops her toe out of my mouth, withdrawing it, her eyes never leaving mine.
I’ve seen that look before. It’s the first time someone gets their feet worshipped, and they pull back – not because they don’t like it, but because they still need to process the sudden sensory over-stimulation.
There is a fire in Maryam’s eyes, and in her boyfriend’s. They will be back for me. Like all other girls who’ve lorded it over me over the past few months.
“Alright,” Alia says, clapping her hands, and removing her feet off my back, with Yasmin and Anbar following suit. “We don’t want our guests going thirsty. Back to fetching drinks, slut.”
“Yes,” I whisper, broken and defeated. “Your Majesty.”
I used to be a girl.
Now my back adheres to the mowed grass, and I have Yasmin standing above me.
I don’t know what that makes me… but certainly not a girl.
Following my foot encounter with Maryam, the rest of the party has gone by in a blur. Hands have reached out to touch me. Feet have been shoved unceremoniously in my face. I’ve fetched drink after drink, massaged feet of girls whose faces I never even got to see, staying permanently close to the ground.
But this part… this, I’m certain to remember forever. The guests have been showering Yasmin with birthday gifts. Holiday packages to Costa Rica, dresses and purses that cost more than my education… a triumph of opulence the likes of which I could only dream of.
That’s when I was forced to present my own birthday gift.
The pink sneakers that Alia and Anbar had me buy for Yasmin, the pair that extinguished most of my savings… I still remember how I cried, purchasing them, knowing I was throwing away both my past – through years of laborious savings – and my future.
But Yasmin squealed with such glee when she saw them, demanding that I put them on…
And now, here I am. Under the sneakers I’ve paid with my life savings, with Yasmin carefully balancing atop me. One foot rests above my throat, of course, and the other is pushing deeper and deeper into my belly, driving the breath out of me…
“I’m breaking them in by breaking her in!” Yasmin says, to widespread laughter. I groan, mortified, thrashing weakly under Yasmin’s weight. The free-flowing alcohol, and the continuous public nature of my humiliation, is quickly destroying the initial awkwardness.
Now, people seem perfectly fine with my new status as the house slave.
I hear the shutter of phone cameras going off, one after the other, and I know, in my heart of hearts, that these photos are going to be all over social media tomorrow.
But then, a shutter sounds much closer than all others.
I twist my head as best I can, trying to look at Yasmin, and – oh god. She’s holding her phone in hand, cocking her hips this way and that as she poses for one selfie after the other, with me as her doormat.
Then, her right sneaker lifts from my throat – and slams hard into my face.
I whimper from the pain, sounding like a morose puppy. My cheek rubs against the grassy ground as Yasmin literally digs her heel into my face.
“Down, bitch,” she says. “I don’t want your ugly face ruining my selfies. There, much better when it’s under these great sneakers you bought me.”
The casual cruelty behind her words is so callous, so heartless, so hot… god how I wish her other sneaker would travel downward, from my belly to my sex… I don’t care if dozens of people are watching, recording my shame. I just want Yasmin to destroy my intelligence and let me cum.
Perhaps if I go even more stupid, I won’t care about all this hurt and humiliation anymore…
But I have no such luck. All of a sudden, Yasmin steps down and rushes to chat with a group of guests about something. And just like that, the slave is forgotten. I resent the sudden… emptiness I feel at not having Yasmin’s weight pinning me down anymore.
They really have turned my own mind against me. I’m my own jailer now.
I stand up, rubbing my cheek where Yasmin stomped it – pretty sure I’m carrying the footprint of her sneaker on my reddened skin by now. I’m getting ready to grab the tray and resume serving drinks, when a voice behind me instantly makes the hair at the back of my neck raise in alarm.
“So,” Maryam asks, “can I take her?”
I turn around. Maryam is standing behind me, beautiful in the eerie light of the garden at night, her raven locks swaying gently in the breeze. Her boyfriend stands behind her, one arm placed protectively around her waist.
It’s Alia she’s asked the question to.
Alia throws me a very meaningful look. See? It seems to say. This is how worthless you are. This is how quickly people become used to the idea you’re chattel. I shiver, both in fear and arousal, as Alia turns away from me.
“Sure,” she says with a little shrug, like Maryam’s asked her to borrow a pen.
Girls own their bodies. They can give consent. They can say yes or no. They’re people.
But Alia has just tossed my consent to Maryam like it’s a bone being thrown to the wolves.
I look on in a daze as Maryam’s hand grips my wrist, dragging me across the garden as the guests around us whisper and laugh.
I don’t own my body. It’s undeniable, when this couple can basically frog march me away from a party where I’ve been used and abused like a slave. Our destination is unmistakable – back to the house.
The house whose every surface I clean on my hands and knees, where my downfall happened and then cemented itself. The house where I slave away, until nothing is left of me but obedience.
The house with its many guest bedrooms where, I can only assume, Maryam and her boyfriend plan to have their way with me.
I can’t consent. I can’t say yes. I can’t say no, and I’m not a person. I’m Alia’s footwear, Anbar’s worshipper, and Yasmin’s slave, and that’s all I’ll ever be in life…
Because I’m not a girl anymore.
And that’s why I look down, meekly and submissively, without uttering a single word of protest.
And let Maryam lead me deeper into the mansion.