It’s the morning after.

Every muscle and joint in my body aches, after a night of restless sleep stored in Alia’s closet like I’m part of her footwear – which, admittedly, I am. And now, a bright and sunny morning has risen over the first full day since my complete enslavement.

It feels somewhat wrong to see the sun outside, know people are carrying on with their lives, studying, working, falling in love, chasing their dreams. All things I will never, ever get to pursue for myself, because something in my stupid brain makes me go dumb over women’s foot scent, and I deserve to  be reduced to something less than human.

Kneeling in Anbar’s room, all prim and proper in my humble devotion, I don’t dare look up to the goddess and the queen – sitting in the gaming chair and on the bed respectively – as I proffer them the essay I wrote last night.

I used the full hour at my disposal before Alia turned off the lights. It’s the most devastating, soul-rending piece of writing I’ve ever put together. It illustrates, in excruciating detail, why I’m not good enough to be a person.

Why I’m poorer, fatter, dumber, uglier than Alia and Anbar. Why I’m putty in their hands. Why their foot scent drives up my nostrils like an intoxicating drug, sapping me of all will and all IQ. Why, now that I live here full-time, the constant exposure is disassembling and rearranging my mind in novel ways even I don’t fully understand – and making my pussy spasm at the thought.

Why I’m so receptive to their training, as they slowly break me down. Why cleaning on all fours is the only task I’m suited for. Why I will devote every living minute of my time to slobbering all over their feet, lapping like a dog, licking, kissing, sucking.

For the rest of my life.

I’d say I’ve put my heart and soul in this essay, but the truth is, I don’t have either anymore. What I’ve done is, I’ve put in my dignity, my self-perception and self-confidence, my very personhood. I’ve admitted to everything the sisters say about me, and more besides. And now I’m offering this piece of paper to them, like it’s the most precious thing I own.

Except that’s wrong, too. I don’t own anything. Only people can own stuff, and I’m not a person – just footwear.

Anbar ignores the proffered essay, but Alia bends forward lithely, picking it between thumb and forefinger. “There’s a good piece of footwear,” she says like she’s talking to a dog, giggling. “Are you proud of what you’ve put together?”

“I’ve done my best, your Majesty.”

“Is it a love declaration to me?” Alia asks, batting her eyelashes.

My cheeks blush.

“It’s… everything.”

“Be patient, sis,” Anbar tells Alia. “We’ve drained all her brains away. She’s not good with words anymore!”

“Let’s hope it’s irreversible!”

As usual when it comes to my newfound limited intelligence, the sisters break out in fits of hysterical laughter.

Alia throws the essay one final sidelong glance, then places it on the ground. Her eyes match mine, and she flashes me the most evil of grins. Then, her naked, sweaty feet land straight on the page.

I stare, in equal parts shocked and horrified, as Alia begins to rub the sweaty soles of her feet into my essay.

“You know what happens when you open your mouth like that,” Anbar says, as one foot hooks behind my neck and the other plunges into my gaping mouth. I offer no resistance as she brutally impales me on her foot.

“Dumb bitch. Always looking for something to suck on.”

“Like a pacifier,” Alia says, amused.

“Or a cock.”

That makes Alia cover her mouth as she titters. “She can only dream!”

“Doesn’t matter, it has the same effect on her – she goes all docile! Keep sucking, slave.”

I obey punctilously, of course, bobbing my head up and down on Anbar’s foot, keeping my eyes closed, distending my facial features like I’ve seen girls do in porn. Anbar seems to appreciate the show – her foot thrusts more and more energetically into my slutty mouth.

“While you do that,” Alia says with a giggle, “let’s talk about the new rules we promised you.”

I’d almost forgotten about that. Oh god, what more could there possibly be?

“There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’m just going to be blunt,” Alia says. “We own your consent.”

What?

I mumble a wordless question of horror and dread around Anbar’s foot.

“It’s not that hard to understand, peasant girl. You can’t date without our permission, Zainab.”

Again, the poison laced in Alia’s usage of my name makes me feel like I’m being stabbed right through the heart.

“Not that dating is a likely prospect in your case,” Anbar says, luxuriating in the tongue bath I’m giving her foot. “God, can you imagine?”

“I know she barely ever dated before we put her in her place,” Alia says, smiling malignantly, and the casual cruelty of the observation is like a stab right through my heart.

Especially because it’s true. “Let alone now. No boyfriends for you, Zainab! You have our feet to focus on, after all.”

“That’s not all,” Anbar says. “We can also grant your consent without involving you in the discussion. Not that anyone would possibly want to have regular adult sex with a foot-smelling androgynous blob like you, but just in case someone wants to use you for their relief, we decide whether the answer is yes or no. Definitely not you. Got it, slave?”

“Mmmmppphh,” I mumble, utterly defeated. Alia had already mentioned passing me around at Yasmin’s birthday party a few days back for the sexual relief of the guests, and I wish I could say that this latest power play surprises me. But it does not.

I don’t know how far Alia and Anbar will go, but I’ve learned to live with the idea that I’ll have no barriers left, by the time they’re done with me.

“There’s more,” Alia says. “You need to answer to us for your pleasure. Any kind of pleasure at all.”

Her left foot stays on my essay, but the right slips underneath the hem of my frilly maid dress as she says it – damn this dress, designed to be so sluttily open and accessible – and rests against my pulsating crotch, a demonstration of power and ownership.

There’s no mistaking the heat that lances through my sex at the touch.

And Alia wants to own that, too?

“You need our permission to touch yourself,” Alia says.

“And likewise, you will do it when we actively command you to,” Anbar adds.

“Indeed. But that won’t be very often! Haha!” Alia winks at me. “I know the foot scent is more than enough to drive you meek and stupid, but I wonder what prolonged chastity might do to your fragile psyche… besides, having to ask all three of us for permission to come, each and every day, will surely humble you even more.”

Alia must notice my unspoken question as my eyes bulge from above Anbar’s foot, lodged deep into my mouth. “Ah yes: this rule applies to Yasmin too.”

Why? Why Yasmin?

Of course I know why, but it still crushes something fundamentally buried within me – a belief that I had nothing to share with entitled, silly bimbos like Yasmin.

I was right, but for the wrong reasons. I have nothing to share with Yasmin because she doesn’t salivate over her friends’ feet, and is in control of her own sexuality… unlike me.

“This is the way it works,” Anbar says. “Yasmin demands that you edge to pics of her on a daily basis, preferably if they show the stuff you’ll never have: beauty, wealth…”

“Friends who consider you an equal,” Alia adds.

“Parents who can actually support you…” Anbar is literally keeping count with her fingers now.

“Free time!” Alia adds.

“Dignity.”

“Control over your own body, freedom to grant or withdraw consent.”

“Romantic partners and dates!”

“Cars and any form of personal property really!”

By this point, tears flow freely down my cheeks, and not just from the deepthroating. Every word is a hammer blow against my residual humanity.

Tired of my ministrations, Anbar withdraws her left foot from my mouth. Then, she slams me to the ground with the other foot, and begins drying saliva off the former using my hair as a towel.

With my cheek pressed against the floor, and Anbar’s feet squishing me underneath her, my nose lands right next to Alia’s feet – which are still rubbing their sweat into my poor essay.

I can’t help but break out in meek, tame sobs of docile despair.

“Yasmin’s still looking for a way to get you addicted to her feet,” Alia explains. “She thinks edging to her all the time is going to work. I’m sceptical, but hey, the only way to know is to try!”

“The edging will be inconclusive of course,” Anbar says. “You’ll need Yasmin’s permission to cum, and only when she’s physically here and you can beg to sniff her feet as you take yourself to orgasm.”

“If you really want to cum, you can also ask either of us,” Alia interjects. “Actually we’d really like you to alternate between all three of us. Keep a rotation or something, haha! Just don’t neglect any of us three with your humble peasant requests.”

“I bet you can’t wait to hear what my conditions are,” Anbar says, laughing, and the small part of my brain that retains a fraction of my IQ thinks she’s using the wrong word.

Conditions are by their nature negotiated. And I have no power to negotiate anything. My surrender to the sisters, and to Yasmin, is utterly and completely unconditional: I’m at their mercy. I should be thankful they’re not asking me to jump off a bridge, or prostitute myself for them. It could be worse. They’re my masters and deserve to be. I will be good for them.

“If you want to cum,” Anbar says, pressing her foot harder  against my cheeks, “You’ll need to beg me to destroy your life in some way, shape, or form. I’ll decide how, but know this. It will be something utterly and completely irrepairable. I’m not interested in the worship you give Yasmin and Alia. I want real dominance, with real consequence. I will destroy your life… but you’ll get orgasms out of it.”

“You should really thank her generosity,” Alia says, and I do, contorting under Anbar’s weight to plant tiny kisses all over her sole – too terrified for words, too submissive for any kind of objection. What’s happening to me?

“As for my rules…” Alia says, in mock-pensiveness, as if this hasn’t been decided long ago among them. “You can play with yourself while you worship me, I suppose. But no cumming, oh no. You need to earn that.”

Alia’s eyes – lovely, so deep, so colourful – drill into mine. “You can cum while telling me about all the things you love and admire about me. I can walk all over you as you confess your love and feelings of inferiority towards me.”

I start trembling like a leaf under her gaze.

“That’s it,” she says. “You should fear me. Anbar is right. We will destroy your life. Honestly, there isn’t much of value to it, so we’re doing you a favor, really. But that’s besides the point. Fear is like, the other side to worship. Did you ever think of that? I want you to absolutely adore me. And that will only be a true feeling if you fear me as well.”

I nod, submissively, switching from kissing Anbar’s foot, to kissing Alia’s.

“You’ll praise me while you lick my sneakers and make out with my feet. You’ll tell me all your insecurities, back from when I still thought of you as a friend. You’ll come up with ideas to further your own debasement and make my life even easier and better. You’ll literally kiss the ground I walk on. And then, maybe, you may cum.”

“Ok, it’s getting late,” Anbar says, her words jarring with the atmosphere Alia managed to create. “What do you say we give her feedback on the essay, and then I can do some gaming in peace?”

“Sure thing,” Alia says. “I’ve got shopping with Yasmin anyway, and the slave has a house to clean.”

Alia picks up the essay, careful to touch only a corner of the paper between thumb and forefinger, as it is now drenched with foot sweat. She looks at me evilly, then picks the opposite corner with the other hand, and rips the sheet apart.

The sound of the paper ripping might as well be that of my own heart. Only Alia’s known irritation towards loud crying stops me from bawling like a baby. My Queen’s eyes never leave mine as her hand, clutching at the shredded pieces of my essay, draw closer to me.

“Here’s your feedback,” Alia says, laughing. “I’m going to literally feed it back to you. Haha! Open your mouth.”

I do. Damn me, but I do. The foot scent has too powerful a hold of me, and besides that, the two sisters at this point have battered me into utter submission, are training me to respond like Pavlov’s dogs, have left me devoid of the energy to even conceive of resistance, let alone attempt it.

And as Alia pushes each piece of paper into my mouth, making me squeeze all the foot sweat out of the paper by hollowing my cheeks and lashing with my tongue, I begin to chew and swallow.

“Chew on that a little,” Alia says, her eyes glimmering. “And write an even better essay tonight. Understood?”

“Yes,” I say, in between gulps of paper and foot sweat. “Your Majesty.”
 
***
 
Thereafter, the work day goes by in a blur – even more so than yesterday. I scrub and clean and polish, my hands growing callused and rough while the sisters’ stay soft. I spend it all on hands and knees, and it hurts at first, but eventually the pain dulls, as does my mind.

I effectively space out. The work is physically demanding, but intellectually unchallenging, and my brain basically shuts down as I sink into the depths of my new servility.

Not even Sanae’s occasional smirk, or instruction to clean this or that corner better, can jolt me out of this weird dissociation.

I know full well this is a perfectly intended consequence. My intellect was my last, my only weapon. Alia and Anbar want to dismantle it. They want me to drool all my intelligence over their feet. The mind-numbing work is just another way to strip me of any ability to focus and think.

It’s their right. They’re the victors. They get to dictate terms to the vanquished. If this is how they want to deconstruct me, then who am I to say no? They’ve taken everything else already, maybe if they take my intelligence away as well, I will stop noticing just how soul-crushing all of this actually is.

By the time my work is done, Alia is still out and about with Yasmin, and Sanae has retreated to her study.

And my cunt is throbbing.

Even through my brain-fog and general exhaustion, I know this is a profoundly humiliating admission. I’m now openly beginning to sexualise my own demise, perhaps in a weird kind of counterphobic reaction, or perhaps because feet are the only part of the human body I’m allowed to touch, let alone interact with with a degree of affection.

Unfortunately, the new rules imposed upon me mean that I have to go to the only person currently in the house who has the ability of granting me an orgasm. So, with a defeated sigh, I crawl my way up the stairs and towards Anbar’s room.

I find her sitting in her gaming chair, of course. She’s just turned the computer off and is stretching after a long gaming session playing some kind of FPS. She throws me one prodding look, and I glimpse instant recognition in her eyes.

She knows why I’m here.

The way her mouth stretches, slowly and inexorably, into a feral grin is kind of terrifying. I wonder where this killer instinct comes from. Both sisters have it. For Alia, it’s the curious cruelty of a bored princess in need of stimulation. But not for Anbar.

There is a weird… coldness to her. A desire for me to see her as a literal goddess. Alia wants, above all, to have fun, be entertained, be spoiled and adored. But Anbar wants absolute power. It’s her aphrodisiac. I’m someone who will never contradict her, never dare utter a word without her permission, who will unerringly conform to her wishes.

That’s why she’ll never let me go.

“Why are you here?” She asks, sneering, as if she didn’t already know the answer. “Dumb peasant girl wants cummies?”

God, she truly speaks to me like she’s talking down to a not-particularly-intelligent puppy.

“Yes, Goddess, please…” I say breathlessly, prostrating myself to her the way she likes. I can’t even feel embarassment over this request. This is my life at this point, isn’t it?

The life of a slave. If I can’t get out of it, can I really be blamed for embracing it? For trying to turn it into something somewhat pleasant?

“That’s a good maggot,” Anbar says, coldly. “You should always crawl and beg. But that’s not enough this time. You know what my rule is.”

I swallow, but the foot scent has such a hold on me that I have no hesitation in delivering with perfect obedience.

“Goddess Anbar, I beg you,” I say. “Please destroy one aspect of my life. Ruin it beyond repair, for your own entertainment. Please take something that makes me a person, break it in two, and drink in the horror and defeat in my eyes. Please strip something essential away from me, until nothing is left except this terrified, whimpering core of a serving girl who exists only to writhe helplessy beneath your feet.”

My declaration leaves me breathless, and wordless. My words terrify even me. My subconscious has produced a script to the specifications that Anbar would enjoy.

“Get in here,” Anbar says, pointing to the desk, “and give me your social media log in information.”

My eyes widen in horror, but my body rushes to obey. I slide smoothly under the desk – a familiar position for me – and shiver as Anbar’s sweaty, smelly feet come to rest respectively on my lips and my throat.

I hear her tapping at her phone above me, doubtlessly using my login information to sign into my social media accounts, but that doesn’t stop my hand from snaking down to my crotch, as soon as Anbar tells me I can begin.

This is, without a doubt, one of the most surreal experiences of my life. The intense foot scent from Anbar is worming its way up my nostrils and into my mouth, and I can hear the ftzzzs and pops as my brain begins to shut down. The idea of my social media accounts in her hands terrify me to my core. And all these feelings come together… in my arousal.

The intellectual dullness of a footslave, the fear of a helpless prey, and the lancing heat coursing through me when I begin to touch myself. I’m ready and responsive, my body going into overdrive just as Anbar’s feet make my nervous system shut down.

“I’m going to start blocking people,” Anbar says. “You don’t deserve them as your friends, not even online. Don’t stop, bitch.”

And I don’t, there’s no danger of me stopping – in fact, my fear and terror about Anbar completely destroying my internet friendships at a stroke of her fingers intermingle seamlessly with my fantasies.

“There go your parents,” she says. “And ohh, is this the girl you used to hang out with in high school? Gone. Oh, I remember this guy, you had a crush on him that summer! Aaaaand he’s gone. Members of the reading club are next – although I should send them a goodbye note mentioning that you don’t know how to read anymore.”

Tears fill my eyes at so many connections over so many years, being severed just because I need to cum, like the fat, stupid whore I am. It’s all so evil, so hot, so… perfect.

Anbar is slowly depriving me of my support network. What are the chances anyone’s ever going to save me, as she isolates me so utterly?

The only people in my life will be Alia, Anbar, Yasmin, Sanae…

There will be no one who sees or treats me as an equal. I’ll be a piece of chattel, livestock for human husbandry, footwear, and oh God I can’t stop touching myself, I can’t, I –

“Breathe it all in,” Anbar says, pressing her toes to my nose. “That’s it. No more friends. No more family. No more private life. You’re nothing, Zainab. Nothing. Every breath of my foot scent makes you dumber. Every touch of your fingers drains your intelligence. All those years studying are now gushing out of your cunt, leaking out of your mouth as you salivate over these feet. That’s how little it takes, a pair of feet, and you stop functioning like a human being. Because you’re not one.”

She’s right, I can feel my thoughts drain and leak and leave me, I can’t even claim to be a ditzy bimbo because that would imply personhood, all I am is a carpet with a clit and a mouth and the ability to clean floors and worship feet and –

“Cum your brains out, whore,” Anbar says. “Cum for me.”

And I do, and it goes on, and on, and on, and the pleasure crashes against me in waves, until my brain shuts down, and I see only darkness.
 
***
 
The devastating quality of my orgasm over the ruins of my social media friendships exceeds my ability to put it into words.

Part of it is because words come really hard to me right now. My thoughts are confined to a small area of my brain, as I crouch inside Alia’s walk-in closet, letting the fragrance of her shoes drift around my enslaved, prostrate form.

But part of it is because the intensity of it was like an earthquake. Hours later, I’m still recovering. I’m dimly aware of the fact that Anbar took many close-up photos of my post-orgasmic face, uploading them to my social media, but even that horrible realisation can’t really pierce the fog of arousal that has settled upon me.

I’m staring at a blank sheet of paper, where I’m supposed to write my essay for tomorrow. Except my words don’t come.

I screw up my face in a pout that wouldn’t belong to the repertoire of the old Zainab, but definitely fits the docile, ditzy, tamed piece of footwear I’ve become. Eventually, I settle for something simple, yet truthful.

Anbar nuked my socials, I write. Slave went ga-ga.

Before I can elaborate, the door to the walk-in closet opens, and in walks Alia, standing tall against the light like a radiant, godly figure. She’s in a lovely summer dress that costs more than my education, wearing nylons that glimmer under the artificial light, but no shoes. Her hair, her eyes, her smile – she’s perfect, a true vision of beauty.

I turn towards her, lapping and panting like a pathetically eager dog, and throw myself at her feet.

“Your Majesty,” I whisper, worshipfully.

“That’s my good piece of footwear,” Alia says, stroking my hair with her nyloned feet. “That’s my good Zainab. I hear you got your rocks off today. I really like your new profile picture, by the way! I can’t wait for you to ask me. We’re going to have so much fun.”

I blush, but redouble my efforts to shower Alia’s feet in kisses. The nylons are smooth and taut at my touch, and I admire the way they compliment the elegant lines of Alia’s feet, calves, and thighs so much. She’s got killer legs, because she’s a real girl. I just look silly and servile in my own maid stockings, because I’m built like a dumb peasant girl who needs to survive the winter so she can be of use to her betters.

“Lap at my soles, slave,” Alia says. “There’s a good bitch.”

I throw myself to the task, licking like her nyloned feet are ice cream. The taste of nylons on my tongue is odd, but not at all unpleasant. But truthfully at this point this duty is effectively routine. What really makes me perk up is Alia’s next words for me.

“You know I was always manipulative and cruel,” she says. “It’s just you never gave me any reason to pounce on you… until you showed me how inferior you truly are.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” I say in half breaths and in-between energetic licks of her nyloned feet. Even through the nylons, I can taste the sweat of a day walking up and down the mall with Yasmin. I almost feel proud for cleaning it off. Like I’m a washing machine for her nylons.

“I want you to tell me about all the insecurities you’ve had about me all these years, when I still considered you a friend. Before I came to own you. I want to know which of your worst fears have come true.”

“All of them, your Majesty,” and only upon saying this I realise how true the words are. “You’re prettier, wealthier, more popular, well-connected… every time we went dancing, all eyes would be for you, and none for me. At the mall, I could never buy anything, while you’d walk home with so many beautiful dresses that would never fit me…”

“And how did that feel?” Alia asks, a weird edge to her voice. “Did that hurt?”

“So much,” I say, mournfully. “It always hurt so much. Everything came so easy to you. I was trying so hard…”

“There, there,” she says, patting my head with one foot as I return to lick the other, my tongue softly lapping at her arch, heel, and toes. “Now you can stop trying so hard. Just accept that you’re subhuman. With acceptance comes peace, and with peace comes happiness.”

“Yes,” I say, and I mean it wholeheartedly. God, it feels so good to lie down the burden, to stop trying to stand up to Alia, to stop pretending we’re equal. I don’t need to worry about anything in life. I can just focus on cleaning and kissing and sucking and doing as I’m told. It’s so easy, to obey…

Liberating.

“Thank you for putting me in my place,” I say, taking her nyloned toes in my mouth.

“Oh, my sweet little piece of footwear,” Alia says, pushing harder against my eager lips. “You think this is as low as you’re going to sink.”

I look up at her, as her foot snakes past my lips and into my mouth. Her eyes glimmer far above me, cold and unreachable, uncaring and unflinching, like distant stars.

“But trust me. We’re only getting started.”