The Thrill Of Defeat

Chapter Eleven: A Gift Of Pleasure

by alectashadow

Tags: #cw:noncon #dom:female #f/f #sub:female #classist_control #D/s #femdom_hypnosis #foot_kissing #humiliation #hypnosis #mind_control #mindbreak #multiple_partners #pov:bottom #wealth

“Do you want me to hit her?”

Maryam’s boyfriend smiles wolfishly at the girl’s question, and in that moment, I know my fate is sealed.

In between my shocked sobs of pure terror, even my foot-dazed brain has room for a tiny moment of reflection.

No matter how many times I’m subjected to abuse, it never fails to amaze me how casual cruelty can be sometimes. Especially when there is no fear of pushback, no consequence to worry about.

Maryam is losing all inhibitions. She’s asking her boyfriend about roughing me up as if I weren’t even in the room.

In a way, I suppose I’m not. I’m standing in the corner, still like a statue, in a long-practiced waiting position familiar to all servants. Being seen and not heard. And even then, only at the very periphery of a master’s vision.

Ready to be of service at a moment’s notice, without intruding upon my betters.

As I await my fate, I try to read the emotions on Maryam’s face. There’s a glimmer in her eyes, and not just from the alcohol. She looks like she’s having to stop herself from pouncing over her boyfriend and fucking him right here, in the guest bedroom she’s dragged us to.

She clearly loves being a cruel Goddess to brick him up. There is no mistaking the fact that his pants are tenting… and that she’s loving it.

“That’s so hot, babe,” he says, basically panting.

“It is, isn’t it, love?” She says, running a hand across his broad chest, brushing her fingers against his chiseled jaw. In the over-sexed, erotically charged, power-imbued atmosphere, the weight of my own V-card is crushing my soul.

“Like she’s my own handmaiden,” Maryam continues in a sultry tone, pressing her body against his, “and I’m the queen bitch.”

The edge in her voice as she says it makes my fingers twitch… and the words go straight to my sex. These are the words of a woman who’s recognized another as her prey. After my long apprenticeship at the feet of my tormentors, I’d recognize them anywhere.

They’re words of sapphic conquest and enthrallment.

“Treat her like dirt,” the guy says. I still don’t even know his name. “I want to see you lording it over her.”

I gulp, quivering in anticipation and dread. He’s way less articulate than she is, but his erection is speaking for him. The idea of his girl putting another in her place must be some fantasy of his.

Maryam knows it. The feral smirk she throws him – and then me – tells me all I need to know.

I’m their foreplay tonight.

Maryam turns to me, in a slightly swaggering motion, and narrows her eyes, hesitating for a moment.

Then, she slaps me.

It’s a light, tentative slap – the humiliation stings more than the pain, truly. She’s testing the waters, I know, seeing how far she can take things.

“Well?” She asks me when I lift my eyes to meet hers again, blinking away my tears.

“T-t-thank you ma’am,” I say, stuttering. “I d-d-deserved it.”

Maryam’s smile extends even further… without quite reaching her eyes. That triggers an old, atavistic instinct in my brain, the kind all prey items get when confronting a predator.

I know instantly that Maryam is one of them. Someone with no compulsion about taking what is hers.

Alia and Yasmin love to have fun with me. Cruelty is a game to them, Alia especially. Anbar wants, above all, to be worshipped. Maryam’s fledgling domination is of a different flavour, though.

Those sparkling, distant eyes are contemplating me with a kind of calculating coldness.

Her cruelty feels deeper and edgier. It’s like she’s looking at the wall behind me, past me utterly and completely. It’s her scene she’s focused on. I’m just a squishy toy she can use for her needs.

And the realisation makes my clit throb.

It throbs even harder, when the second slap comes.

I tumble to the floor from the impact, much stronger this time, and the crack is so loud that I get a glimpse of her boyfriend gaping in shock. I whimper on the floor, not daring to get up or even look at my new conqueror, as I feel her drawing closer, looming over me.

“Your face looks so fucking stupid,” she says, rolling me on my back with her foot. She stares down at me, laughing cruelly. “The buzzcut is one thing, but the foot prints on your face… amazing. Let me try something…”

She lifts her foot, her heeled shoe tossed aside, and places it delicately against my face. I shudder at the skin-to-skin contact with a whole new foot. I’ve massaged it and sucked it earlier, but it feels good to act as a footstool to a new pair of royal feet.

Because my own mind has been thoroughly turned against me.

The tenderness behind Maryam’s gesture has nothing to do with being kind to me. She’s pressing her foot against the tan outline of Yasmin’s own foot, trying to see if it matches.

“Baby, look at this!” She says, laughing. “My feet are just barely smaller than Yasmin’s, it fits perfectly. Amazing!”

“It’s like she’s got a step-on-me signpost on her face,” the guy says, bewildered and breathless. The mere idea is so hot that I twitch under Maryam’s foot, having to do my very best to avoid humping the air.

Maryam’s foot travels to my cheek, where she struck me earlier with her second, devastating slap. I know it makes no sense, but as her toes brush the reddened and impacted skin, it feels almost… soothing.

“I’ve added my own handprint to go with Yasmin’s foot prints,” she tells me. “I love it. You should always bear the scars of your own inferiority on your ugly face.”

I can do nothing better than whimper like a fucking dog. But then, Maryam’s foot digs deeper into my face, until I groan in pain.

“But that’s not the only way I’m going to mark you tonight. Babe,” she says, switching her attention to her boyfriend, “give me your belt.”

A shiver trickles down my spine at the hiss of the belt being removed from the guy’s jeans.

None of my three permanent owners have ever used anything remotely like this on me. Their devastation of my identity has always been psychological first and foremost, but I’m starting to get the feeling that Maryam is a very physical person.

“Turn over,” she tells me, without removing her foot from my face.

I do my best to twist and turn in place, Maryam’s foot following me as I shift and roll belly-down. Eventually, her sole adheres closer to my cheek like a seal, pinning me against the cold marble floor.

It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. The hurt of a piece of footwear being put to good use.

It occurs to me that there is no hypnotic foot scent here to bridle my will. I’ve been softened enough that I can now just be taken by any and all comers. And that’s… hot.

“Ass up, bitch,” Maryam says, and I obey, conscious of how grotesque I must look, my face planted on the floor and my ass up in the air, like I really am a bitch waiting to be mounted. The frilly skirt of my maid uniform hides nothing in this position.

I know what’s to come. I brace myself, gritting my teeth, as menacing hisses fill the air – the sound of Maryam testing the belt.

“Don’t touch yourself yet,” she tells her boyfriend. “I want you hard as a rock for me, babe.”

“Hit her,” he says, enraptured. “Show her who’s the boss!”

No amount of bracing can prepare me for what comes next.

The belt hisses through the air, making all my body hair stand up – and then, the hiss turns into a resounding crack as it lashes out against my butt cheeks.

The pain follows the sound. Heat radiates from the location of the impact as my breath catches in my throat, and immediately after, it lances up my body, making me squirm and thrash in pain.

“Stay still!” Maryam thunders above me, and her foot presses deeper into my cheek, nailing my face to the floor. I squeal and whimper and cry as the belt comes down again, smacking me, pressing Maryam’s superiority into my slave flesh.

Her foot lifts from my face, and then stomps down, the heel slamming into my cheek just as the belt comes down again, engulfing me in a sea of pain at both ends of my broken body.

“Whip her ass raw,” the guy says, but Maryam hardly needs any encouragement. My butt is on fire, and my cheek feels like I’ve been punched – which in a way I have, I guess. By the time the fourth lash hits me, I begin to cry.

“Oh god that’s so hot,” Maryam says, spotting my tears. “Yes, cry like a baby. Take it, bitch.”

I can’t escape the knowledge that I’ve only met this girl mere hours before. This is Alia’s true work of art. A bit of alcohol, a bit of exposure to my complete dehumanisation, the growing sexual tension in the air at the party… and here we are now.

With my personhood sinking ever deeper into the mud.

After the fifth lash, I’m openly crying my heart out, to Maryam’s delight and her boyfriend’s arousal. My new conqueror escalates things further, stepping on me with both feet, one digging into my face, the other in the small of my back.

Then, the latter foot migrates downward, and Maryam digs her heel into the marks the belt has left on my flesh. The wails of agony that erupt out of my throat barely sound like a person’s.

“Squeal for me, little piglet,” Maryam says in a low, almost tender whisper. “Do the sisters do this often to you? Do they step on you to put you in your place?”

I don’t have the strength to answer her. I want to tell her that yes, they do, and that there are subtle differences – for them it’s more about teaching me my station, Maryam seems more genuinely enthusiastic about the violence – but my words fail me.

All that escapes my lips is a small whimper of agony… and arousal.

Then, Maryam repositions herself atop me, and the belt strikes again.

The white hot pain is so totalizing that I almost lose sight of my surroundings.

As consciousness floods back in, the pain seems to have shifted upwards along my body, moving to my shoulders, my neck, and then my face.

I wail and cry as Maryam leans forward above me, crouching as low as she can against my body. Her forward foot is digging ever deeper into my face, making my ears ring with pain, until she’s so low that I can feel her breath on my skin.

“I want you to stay down here,” she whispers in a sultry tone, “and listen. Take it all in. Lie like a pathetic loser on the floor and listen to a real woman giving real pleasure to a real man. You’ll never have any of this. You don’t deserve it. All you get to do is watch.”

And with that, Maryam stands up, stepping down – making a point of lightly kicking my face with each foot as she dismounts me. Every square inch of my body hurts, and emotionally I feel like I’ve just stepped into a chainsaw.

I don’t have the strength to look up, much less crawl anywhere. So I stay in place, and wince in emotional agony at the sounds of Maryam and the guy acting like two lovebirds, slipping into each other’s arms – like I never will, with any boy, because I’m not a girl, or even a person.

“Babe…” he says, disbelieving. “You’re…”

“The queen bitch,” Maryam finishes for him, pushing him back-first onto the bed, and climbing after him. “Let’s show this loser what that means.”

And then, she looks back at me, tossing her glorious hair to one side and eyeing me with a smirk.

“This is the closest she’ll ever come to sex, after all.”

***

When at last I emerge from the guest room, sobbing and limping, the house around me is quiet. Maryam and her boyfriend have left some time ago, both stepping on me on the way out, but I assumed they were simply headed back to the party.

Not so. It would seem the party itself is over, or at the very least winding down. No one seems to be in the garden outside, and in the mansion I’m greeted by silence.

Yasmin’s birthday celebrations – so long awaited and dreaded – must be over, at last. And no matter how broken inside I am, how much of a self-traitor I’ve become… I still give a sigh of relief at the thought.

Now, I find myself in the curious situation of being a slave with no assigned tasks. My first instinct is to look for one of my Mistresses, anyone to give me directions or tell me what to do, and I hate my stupid bridled brain for that.

I’m not cut out for independent life. Not anymore, at least. I doubt I’d be able to make myself a sandwich without Alia’s explicit permission.

As I wander the interminable hallways of the mansion, I eventually turn a corner into one of the living rooms – and my heart stops cold.

Splayed out over the three sofas placed at various corners of the room are my three conquerors, still in their party attire. Anbar, my goddess. Alia, my queen. And the birthday girl, Yasmin. They all recline backwards with crossed legs, impatient fingers drumming against the armrests.

They’ve been waiting for me.

Under the weight of their scrutiny, I immediately fall to my knees, giving a tiny wince at the pain coming from my buttocks as I flex downward. But it’s way more tolerable than trying to stand up to the penetrating gaze of these three monarchs.

“So, Zainab,” Alia says, wielding my old free name like Maryam wielded the belt against me, “my guests had to go without a waitress for most of the evening. I hope you did your duty for Maryam, at least.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” I say hurriedly. “She used me as a…” I gulp, hesitating. “A fluffer. I did everything she wanted. I served her like I would serve any of you.”

I don’t even know how I know that word, but that’s the truth. I was little more than a preparatory sex toy for Maryam. Goes well with being Alia’s piece of footwear.

My words cause her to snicker, but Anbar shakes her head. “She served them, alright. She was squealing like a fucking pig, I could hear her through my headphones! Can’t even game in peace, I swear.”

My heart drops at hearing Anbar’s displeasure, but before I can speak to try and make amends, Yasmin raises her voice.

“Something’s off with you,” she says, her gaze scrutinising every inch of me, making me feel even smaller. I feel so silly for ever having considered Yasmin a stupid bimbo. She’s a predator, and I’m defenseless against her.

“What is it?” She asks. “Spit it out.”

There’s no way I could defy a direct order like that. My words leave my mouth before I even notice.

“P-p-p-princess, I’m so… horny…” I stop cold, realizing what I’ve just said as the sisters begin to giggle uncontrollably.

“That’s right, I almost forgot!” Alia says. “The dumb loser is still a virgin! God, imagine Maryam and Brad having sex inches away from her. She must be going crazy right now, knowing she can never have that.”

I bite my lower lip, squirming in place on my knees while Alia and Anbar laugh at me. But Yasmin does not. She merely considers me, her chin resting on her fist.

“Slave,” she says at last, thoughtfully, “take off my new shoes.”

She’s still wearing the shoes I bought her. I take them off with supreme reverence, handling them like they’re made of stained glass, thinking that in a way I’m touching the result of all of my life’s savings. They went into this, as service, and I can think of no better use for them.

Yasmin reaches out to the ground next to the sofa, and pulls another pair of shoes – the old, smelly pair of sneakers she wore to come here before the party.

“Now put these on,” she says, and the giggles coming from Alia and Anbar alarm me. But disobedience isn’t a choice, so I wrinkle my nose at the pungent smell – but do as I’m told without a fuss.

Then, Yasmin looks to Alia, and nods.

Then, hands grab me by the shoulders and send me crashing to the ground.

Alia must have sneaked up on me while I was focused on Yasmin. As I stare at the ceiling, I see her angelic face, framed by her flowing hazel locks, her eyes shining brightly with clever amusement as she considers me.

“Spread your legs,” she commands, and with a gulp, I obey.

Moments later, Anbar is standing by her sister. Alia delicately places a foot upon my forehead, Anbar nestles hers against my throat – so snug, it’s such a perfect fit – and then, and then…

With a start, I realize the bottom of Yasmin’s old sneaker is adhering to my crotch, gently rubbing through the pantyhose.

“She’s going to take your v-card,” Alia says, giggling, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s saying. “I can’t believe we never thought of this before!”

The realization courses through me like a shock of electricity. I’ve given my owners so much that I didn’t even know if I had anything left to give. But now I know.

I turn my head as best I can, play-fighting the push of the sisters’ feet, to look pleadingly at Yasmin. While the sisters are endlessly amused, Yasmin is very serious, almost somber. That’s… intimidating.

The airhead princess imperiously looks down at me, while literally stepping on my sex and letting off with an absolute torrent of abuse.

“How humiliating this must be for you,” she says, her sneaker rubbing frantically, meeting the humping movement of my hips. “An evening spent over-stimulated and under-sexed, and your worst nemesis placing her old shoes on you… until you’re taken to orgasm.”

Yasmin’s words prove too much for Alia. With an appreciative moan, her toes sneak past my lips, and I begin fellating them, bucking harder and harder to meet Yasmin’s rubbing.

Anbar increases the pressure against my throat, constricting my air supply. My eyes begin to water as she lashes out at me.

“Your cunt deserves nothing better than this,” she snarls. “Your own slutty fingers, and the bottoms of our shoes. Say it.”

“Mmmpphhh,” I mumble from around Alia’s toes, setting off another bout of hysterical laughter from the sisters. But not from Yasmin, who contemplates me with wide, curious eyes as she shoe-fucks me.

Alia smiles, twisting her foot this way and that, revelling in the way my lips follow each and every turn of her toes. I know that every moment of suction, every lap of my tongue, is yet another declaration of love for my queen.

“Maryam had the right idea,” Yasmin says, her sneaker rubbing ever more incessantly against my pussy. “You don’t get to have sex. This is all you’ll ever get. Thank me.”

“Mmmphh!!” I moan in genuine gratitude. I’m in heaven. The sensations rolling across my body are too many for my brain to process. My self, my identity, the one that is constantly battered and broken down by the girls, isn’t here anymore – I’m experiencing a full system crash.

Now, all I can do is feel. It’s so liberating that I wish this high could last forever.

“Suck my toes,” Alia says, sultrily. “Show me your devotion.”

And I do, with more vigor than I’ve ever put into this before, while the muscles in my thighs and calves spasm and contract under Yasmin’s ministrations. Not even Anbar’s mastery over my breathing can quell my love for Alia, my conqueror.

“I bet you thought we’d run out of ideas,” Anbar says, twisting her naked heel into my throat. “Stupid bitch, you don’t get it. We’ll never get tired of toying with you. And as for figuring out what else to do to you… we have the rest of our lives.”

I do know. It doesn’t matter that I’ve exhausted my capacity to give. My conquerors are so much smarter than I am, a dumb peasant girl with no personhood and no rights. They’ll reach deep within me, remove everything that displeases them, and find something else they can take away from me.

It feels like identity death. But it also feels like just what I deserve.

“If only you knew what I’m planning for you next,” Alia says, and for a moment she almost loses her composure, her foot pushing downward into my mouth. I gag and cough, shaking my head, looking for an angle that will let her foot slide deeper into my throat.

“After college…” Alia whispers, throwing her head back as she enjoys my oral ministrations on her foot, my gluk gluk gluk sounds subdued and choked by Anbar’s unrelenting pressure on my throat.

“I can’t fucking wait,” Anbar says. “A lifetime of slavery awaits you, stupid cunt.”

I’m not even listening to them, not really, all I can focus on is the electricity ravaging my every muscle, I… ohhhh, Yasmin’s sneaker, circling my clit, I… I can smell it from here, her foot scent isn’t hypnotic but I’ve learned to serve it nonetheless, I can’t, I…

“Cum,” Yasmin says.

It’s such a simple, uncomplicated word. And yet, the moment it leaves her mouth, an orgasm crashes down upon me like a hammer on a pane of glass, and what little remains of my foot-dazed mind is sent shattering into a million pieces, flying in every direction.

With the little cognition that remains me, I widen my eyes in horror at the realization that Yasmin has, for the first time, made me cum on pure command, just like Alia and Anbar do when their foot scent worms its way into my mind.

I wiggle and shake as I ride out the orgasm, Anbar pinning me to the floor while Alia relentlessly fucks my mouth.

“She’s just taken your virginity,” Alia says, looking almost bewildered. “The first time you cum from someone’s touch, and it’s from the bottom of Yasmin’s sneaker! That can’t be undone, you know that, slave? It’s forever.”

It is. Oh my god, it is. What have I become? What has happened to me? Was I always like this?

Yasmin’s eyes glimmer with pure elation. I can only begin to imagine what she must be feeling right now.

“Again,” she says. “Cum.”

My mind crumbles and implodes, falling in upon itself as yet another devastating orgasm radiates from my sex, shaking my body like an earthquake. I’m done. This is the rest of my life. I don’t even want anything else. What other lifestyle could ever make me feel like this?

Yasmin digs the bottom of her sneaker harder against my defeated cunt. “Who am I to you?”

I try to answer, even around Alia’s foot, but it’s impossible, I can’t muster the words, my eyes are rolling back into my skull from the ongoing assault against my clit, Anbar’s restricting my airways, I can’t, I…

“Cum,” Yasmin says, not really needing an answer. And my body responds with perfect obedience, descending into a spiral of utter, irresistible pleasure. As my mind finally shuts down and lets me do nothing but enjoy, I realize that I finally know, down to my bones, who Yasmin really is.

My queen’s true best friend, the girl who took my virginity, my beautiful co-owner.

My princess.

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