My true moment of realisation comes during a perfectly normal domestic event: discussing who’s going to clean the dishes.

It’s weird, I know. But this one precious moment of clarity is truly priceless. It reveals something deep and meaningful about myself, something I will need to contend with going forward, because it fundamentally alters my self-image.

It’s not just the fact that I’m volunteering to do the dishes, although of course I am. That would still be within the bounds of normality… kind of.

It’s how hard—how desperately—I’m trying to convince Frida that I should be cleaning them.

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” she says, her beautiful blond hair captivating my gaze as she shakes her head. “It’s my turn, it’s no problem.”

That’s when I put in the extra effort. Where every muscle on my face comes together to produce a vision of perfect submission and servility. My eyes widen, my eyelashes beat in supplication, my mouth pouts a little.

I imperceptibly flex my knees, to appear just that little bit shorter, and I demurely place my hands before me, out of the way. I crane my neck too, trying to give the impression that I’m looking up at her.

“No no,” I say, in a feeble voice that sounds small and harmless, “You’ve had a long day, just sit down and put your feet up. I’ll clean them!”

Of course, the reference to feet is entirely coincidental.

As I said, this is my moment of utter, undeniable clarity. Nobody in their right mind begs a roommate to be allowed to do the dishes. This whole thing is spiralling out of control, I’m losing the plot. It’s just that I…

I desperately want Frida to be my domme.

I’m not just attracted to her, I’m obsessed with her. With her cold clear eyes that look like chipped ice, with the sound of her laughter. The way her thighs and calves look when she crosses her legs. The elegance of her ankles and her petite feet.

The way she arches her eyebrow, her sarcasm, her fierce, take-charge attitude which triggers all my messy subby feelings and makes me feel like such a small girl in her presence.

I need her to put me in my place.

I’m not just yet another girl going through uni who cultivates a bunch of kinks in her free time. I’m consumed with the idea of becoming Frida’s bitch. This isn’t just banter to me.

I’m pouring every ounce of my being into trying to get what is clearly a vanilla girl—possibly a straight one, too—into seeing me as her subordinate. To convince her that she deserves to sit back and let me pamper her by cleaning the dishes for her.

I’m somewhat uncomfortable at the thought. No matter how driven by my arousal I am right now, I’m not oblivious—I see the range of emotions playing out on Frida’s face. Doubt, confusion, a degree of discomfort. I know I’m being pushy.

In a weird way, she’s getting used to this behaviour from me. Internally, I suspect she labels it as my personal oddity and calls it a day. She’s way too vanilla to get the context that gives my actions meaning.

She doesn’t understand why I always joke about doing chores or foot massages for her, why I always comment how bossy or smart she is, why I jokingly refer to myself as “her humble PA”.

She clearly does wonder why I’m so persistent with my “jokes” though, or why I never seem to just let the conversation move on from the topic.

The few times she jokes back are heaven for me, but most of the time she doesn’t really react.

That’s why I’ve been focusing on practical stuff, lately. Kinky or vanilla, everyone’s happy with getting to skip on work, right? If I offer to cover her cleaning turns, or do her homework, or buy her groceries, she’s likely to accept out of sheer convenience.

It’s not like a true power exchange, but it’s something.

And yes, I know that’s manipulative, and in all honesty I don’t really like what it says about me as a person. But… my obsession with Frida is becoming all-consuming. I just wish I could tell her she’s a blond goddess to me, that I’d do anything for her.

That she should step on me, and stake her claim on me.

Instead, I pout and wait for her to make a decision. Eventually she nods, collapsing back onto the sofa, and it takes all my discipline to hide my smirk as I make my way to the kitchen.

“You’re making me feel guilty,” Frida calls from the living room as I finally get to the dishes. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise!”

“Sure!” I answer, thinking to myself that if she really wants to make it up to me, she should toss me to the ground and plant her foot on my neck, twist the heel into my skin, and lecture me about how things are going to be…

I shake off the sexual reverie, and with a reflective grunt, I start cleaning the dishes.

It’s not like I actually enjoy doing this. If anything, now comes the boring part—the thrill was when she granted me this one opportunity for service. But actually cleaning is pretty boring, particularly because Frida isn’t really engaging with my degradation.

Well, if nothing else, I can tell myself I’m acting as her servant for the next few minutes. But of course, by the time the dishes are clean, I find myself back in my usual rut.

I should just go back to my room and masturbate. That typically clears my head, gives me enough lucidity to make me swear that I’m going to stop.

That usually lasts for an hour or so. Thereafter, I immediately revert to trying and prostrating myself for Frida.

Sigh.

My strategy of wearing her down by being gradually more and more servile isn’t really working. Yeah, she let me do the dishes for her, this time. But it’s not the same.

Worst of all, it feels like I’m having the worst of both worlds. I’m honestly being a terrible friend to my roommate, duplicitous and manipulative, which does make me feel guilty. But I’m not getting the true rewarding power exchange experience, really.

I sit down at the table and cover my face with my hands. The sane, adult, emotionally mature thing to do would be to just drop the charade, but I… I can’t. I don’t know what it is about Frida… I was a kinkster before, but I’ve never been this obsessed with the idea of a particular person utterly dominating me.

Making me pay her own share of the rent, even if I can’t really afford it.

Forcing me to clean the home until it’s spotless, even (or especially) when I’m supposed to be studying.

Sharing me with all her other friends, in a grand display of sapphic submission.

Bringing me to heel, not metaphorically, but literally.

I force myself to stop. Thinking these thoughts is just making everything even more painful. I need to resign myself to the idea that Frida is straight and vanilla, and that’s okay.

Besides, what else is there for me to try? I’ve gone with the jokes and the offers of “favours”, I can’t very well give her a beginner’s lecture to BDSM and ask her if she’s ever thought about sleeping with a girl before.

I can’t even imagine what our roommate relationship would be like after being rejected from that.

No, I have no other option but to give up.

Unless…

I remove my hands from my face. I’m very still, my mouth going dry. The seed of an idea has just taken root inside me. Of course! Why haven’t I ever considered this before?

I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts, until I find the name I’m looking for. Manfred.

I hesitate, my finger hovering inches away from the display.

Am I really going to do this? It’s crazy. I’m crazy. Manfred will tell me it isn’t possible, perhaps he’ll even laugh at me. There’s no way he’s going to take this seriously. And that’s the best case scenario.

The worst case scenario… him telling on me, maybe even to Frida… that doesn’t bear thinking about.

But I know this want is consuming me. I know it’s going to make me utterly reckless. And so, as I finally give myself permission to dive into this chat with Manfred and start typing out my message, I think back to my earlier moment of realisation.

I know the answer.

I will make Frida into my domme. No matter the price.

* * *

Manfred has a bit of a reputation.

He’s very aloof, and rarely socialises with the other students. I guess a few perceive him as a bit of a nerd, but not in the classic socially awkward sense. If anything, he’s supremely confident in himself and his own abilities. I’m not into men, so I wouldn’t know, but I’ve definitely heard the word “magnetism” used more than once by other girls to reference him. It’s just that he never seems to make use of this charm. His interests don’t really overlap with most people our age, he told me once.

One such interest is hypnosis. I was kind of perplexed when he mentioned it to me as one of his hobbies, but he was rather nonchalant about it, saying it was primarily in the context of therapy and mindfulness.

That’s not exactly the biggest lead ever, I know. But it’s the only one I’ve got, which speaks volumes as to the desperation of my predicament.

And now that I find myself under his inquiring stare, awaiting his response, I find that I’m holding my breath.

Manfred presses his hands against the table, stretching his fingers, his lips narrowing. His eyes are down to two slits as he leans closer to me.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, and then chuckles. “Haha, straight.”

I roll my eyes at the pun, and wave for him to continue. He immediately falls back into his hypnotist persona, dark and secretive.

It’s the sort of thing that would look impossibly cringey on almost anybody else, but he actually kinda pulls it off.

“You want me to hypnotise Frida,” he says, “against her consent. You want me to turn her into a lesbian, and a… dominatrix? And you want her to fall in love with you, to boot.”

When listed like that, my requests sound so absurd that I squirm uncomfortably in the chair. God, I feel so pathetic. There’s no judgement in Manfred’s tone—already a blessing—but I’m very conscious of how far I’ve fallen.

“I just…” I say, looking for something to say, for the magic words that will suddenly make this look better than it is. I don’t find them, of course, so I settle for what I really want to know. “Is it possible?”

“I can’t make anyone fall in love with anybody,” Manfred says flatly, and the casualness of his tone hits me like a stab straight through my heart. “Maybe it’s doable, but if it is, it’s beyond my skills.”

“B-b-but the rest…” I stammer, my lips trembling as I have to fight to hold back tears. Damn, I’m messed up.

“The rest,” he says, his tone careful and measured, “is eminently feasible.” And then, with a nod of his head, he adds, “for a price.”

My heart goes on a rollercoaster at his words. Relief, impossibly sweet and comforting, and then worry, as a knot forms at the back of my throat.

“Manfred, I’m a student,” I say in a whisper. “I don’t know how much I can scrape together, I…”

“Not to worry,” he says. “We’ll get to my payment later. For now, let’s discuss this more in detail.”

Alright then. This is it. Time to put all the cards on the table.

I pour my heart to him, confessing all the secret fantasies I’ve always had about Frida. The boots, the feet, the utter domestication, the findom—my cheeks redden when I get to that point. I’m describing my utter ruin as a human being, as if it’s the biggest fantasy I could ever experience on Earth.

Manfred, however, looks decisively unfazed. He nods, completely emotionless, like he’s done this sort of thing before.

A sudden chill trickles down my spine.

Has he?

I mean, even if he has, so what? I’m in no position to judge him, given what I’m asking. I’m clearly no better. And if he’s experienced, all the more chances he’ll succeed, and make me Frida’s, forever…

“Just to be clear,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m not special or anything. With enough time and dedication, you could learn this yourself. Anyone can.”

I shake my head. “It’s too risky, and who knows how long it would take, and if we’d even still be roommates by then. If you say you can do it, then I believe you. I want you to do it.”

“Good,” he says. “Now, let us discuss my payment.”

I tense up, sitting straighter in the chair, trying to suppress the hammering of my heart against my chest.

“Given the… peculiar specifics, and the fact that we’re both students, I’m going to ask for compensation that is entirely non-monetary in nature.”

Relief washes over me… but it’s shortly followed by dread. He isn’t asking for sexual favours, is he? Because I’d never, I… not even for this, I don’t think… would I?

“All I want,” he says, “is the opportunity to spend some time with Frida myself. Alone. Say, a day every week?”

Oh.

Oh!

I gulp, swallowing a lump that seems to have formed in my throat. I’m trying to process what he’s saying. He does want sexual favours… but not from me. He wants them from the girl I love.

Am I really going to stoop so low as to offer her to a man sexually, in exchange for brainwashing her? Just like that, like she’s a piece of meat? It feels… ugh. Like betraying her twice over.

Of course, it feels a bit hypocritical to act all high and mighty about her consent and sexual boundaries, when the whole premise here is that I’m trying to fundamentally rewrite her sexuality.

There is another side to this. A selfish one, but one I feel nonetheless. I would be sharing my domme/girlfriend with someone else, one day every week, for the rest of our lives. And not even with another girl, but with a man.

I’m as monogamous as they come, and the idea of my domme-girlfriend fucking a man is deeply disturbing to me. But, well… it’s either this, or nothing, isn’t it?

Would I rather share Frida with Manfred, or not have her at all?

Unfortunately for my own soul, the answer to that question is a no-brainer. I let out a weary sigh, and nod my head.

“Great! Shall we shake on it?”

Before I even process it, my hand is clasping Manfred’s—for a certain value of clasping, his dwarfs mine—and we’re shaking on this devilish deal.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, and I can’t quite place the glimmer in his eyes, but I know now there’s something else behind the cool detachment of the bright student with the weird hobbies.

Evil.

I can’t really judge him for it, though. That evil is now under my employment, after all.

Besides, it’s no more or less repugnant than the evil that dwells within me. I’ve betrayed Frida twice over, and I feel like I’ll need to cover every mirror in the house for a while…

But the price is paid.

And now, it’s time to await the delivery of my prize.

* * *

I’ve bought a collar.

In my endless trepidation, even so simple an object has acquired a whole new significance. During my years as a submissive, I’ve taken on and off countless collars so many times, in so many play scenes.

For the longest time, they were little more to me than play accessories. Pretty, scenic, appropriate, exciting… but still in a very matter-of-fact way.

But this… this is different.

I will not wear it until the time is right. I want Frida to put it on me. It will mark the transition into a new, happier life, for the both of us. I will finally be put in my place, sheltered under the protective wing of my new owner, and she will receive the service and worship she deserves.

I’ve been walking on air all day. Manfred’s text this morning was unequivocal. “Today is the day,” he wrote.

I know Frida is away all day. I’ve skipped on all classes, all commitments, in preparation for this very moment. I’ve polished the house to a high sheen, to keep me busy as well as to get in the mood.

It barely contains my excitement. I feel like I’ve overdosed on caffeine, I’m jittery and my hands are shaky. When even the compulsive cleaning proves insufficient, I head out to buy groceries and cook dinner for two. Hell, I even throw a bottle of wine into the mix.

As a final touch, I place the collar on the table in the living room. It’s a risk, in a way. If Manfred screwed up, Frida’s reaction to a kinky collar left lying around might be… unpleasant. But what the hell. I need to live a little.

My meager student finances will complain about the food and the wine, but if this occasion doesn’t warrant wild celebration, then what does?

Forget graduation, or a wedding day far in the future, or whatever other socially-mandated life milestone people ritualise by rote. I know what the most special day of my life is going to be, and it’s just around the corner. The day of my utter, irreversible, beautiful enslavement.

When at last the key turns in the lock, my heart skips a beat. And then, Frida enters in all her glory.

Her golden mane and icy eyes are the hallmarks of her aristocracy. Her toned body, the way her legs look when wrapped in her tight jeans and adorned in the heavy, knee-high leather boots she has decided to wear today… It all looks designed to stand out, dwarfing inferior girls like me, casting me in the shadows. Girls like Frida should rule girls like me. They should subdue us physically and mentally, dominate us, annihilate us as independent human beings. Frida is a woman, and a regal one like that.

Me? I’m just a girl.

I swear her demanour already looks different. She stands a little taller, a little prouder, her face is harder somehow. She looks at me like I’m a stain on the floor.

“Welcome home, Frida,” I say, in a voice so shrill it makes me wince. “How w-w-was your day?”

She doesn’t acknowledge my question, just looks around. “You’ve cleaned the house,” she says. It’s an emotionless observation.

Words fail me as her gaze fixes on me. I nod, doing my best to keep myself from trembling.

“You seem to be doing that a lot lately.”

Again, I nod.

“I wonder…” she says, trailing off. “If I flat out told you to take care of all the chores, what would you do?”

“Obey,” I say, breathless, with no hint of hesitation. Oh Manfred, you fucking genius, you magnificent bastard. It’s happening, it’s actually happening!

“Good girl,” Frida says at last, and it’s all I can do not to faint. “Let’s see what you’ve prepared for me.” I follow with my head bowed as Frida makes her way into the kitchen.

“I approve,,” she says, “but that can wait. First…”

She turns to me, contemplating me with an expression I find hard to read… but one that seems to pin me to the wall.

Frida puts a contemplative finger to her lips. “Maybe it’s time we stopped joking around, and actually discussed this further.”

And with that, Frida walks past me, her hand caressing my shoulder invitingly. She turns back to me as she’s approaching the living room, lighting up the hallway with her incredible smile.

It’s no longer the genuine, happy grin I used to know. Now, there’s something predatory about it. The way she arches her eyebrows clearly asks, coming? And I am. I basically scurry after her like a trained puppy, following into the living room.

When at last Frida sits on the sofa, theatrically crossing one booted leg over the other, my knees once again threaten to buckle underneath me. I swallow, my mouth dry. What’s going to happen next?

What programming did Manfred put in there?

Wordlessly, Frida snaps me from her reverie—by literally snapping her fingers. Then, her index finger extends in a motion that is as simple as it is unmistakable.

It points downward, to the floor. And this time, my knees do fail me.

Over our months together, I’ve used every opportunity I could to mock-kneel before Frida. Picking stuff up from the floor (whether it existed or not), looking for the remote (which I may have dropped on purpose)… you get the idea.

But none of these silly games could compete with the real moment.

How can she see me as an equal, after staring at me as I crouch down on the floor? How could I possibly see myself as a full person with human rights, after grovelling at her feet like this?

I’m so close that I can smell the leather on her boots, and it’s making me salivate…

Frida extends her right leg, curiously, tentatively. Her boot lands softly against my shoulder, then travels downwards, towards my chest. I’m surprised at how hard the edges feel against me, how solid her sole feels like.

Perfect for stomping silly little girls like me into the mud.

Eventually, her boot lands on my left boob, and the message is unmistakable. The way it bends and deforms under her sole—it matches the way I come unwound under Frida’s authority. She’s the better woman. I’m the softness of a boob, she’s the unyielding strength of a leather boot.

“You’ve been trying so hard, all this time,” she says in a half-whisper, “to make me notice. To make me see. Haven’t you, little girl?”

I can barely find the strength to nod, my huge, terrified submissive eyes fixed on the boot that’s currently exploring my chest. But eventually, that boot climbs back up my body, the tip pressing against my chin.

Deftly, delicately, Frida uses her boot to manipulate my head, to make me look up at her. She looks radiant, regal, breath-takingly beautiful from here. And the pressure of the boot against my chin reminds me I am owned.

“Thank you for trying,” she says. “I see now why this matters so much to you. I know how it makes you feel. You are seen now. I have seen true power.”

I barely register the words. My own breath is coming fast and ragged as I’m basically hyperventilating, and my heartbeat is thundering in my ears. Every fibre of my being quivers with excitement and anticipation.

But I do listen when Frida snaps her fingers again.

“Bow.”

I can’t obey fast enough. My forehead adheres to the floor, and moments later, Frida’s booted foot perches regally atop me, the heel digging into my skin. I’ve spent so much time dreaming of this moment that I can barely register it as real.

She’s stepping on my neck.

Staking her claim on me.

With one boot pinning me in place, Frida places the other mere inches from my face. I’m literally eye-level with the tip of her boots now, and it’s making me feel small and insignificant, like a bug to be squashed, or dirt under my new Mistress’s shoes.

“Show me how you really feel about me,” Frida says, and then, sending a spasm of arousal straight to my pussy, “slavegirl.”

I’ve played with boots before… but that feels so shallow next to this. This is real. What were the words Frida used? True power?

That’s certainly what I feel, electrifying the air, as my lips tentatively kiss the smooth leathery surface of her boot. The pungent aftertaste is one I’m familiar with, but whereas boot play was simply hot in the past, this is… devastating.

The symbolism is incredible. My soft, feminine lips, my revering, conquered tongue, press lascivously against the hard surfaces of Frida’s boot, leaving only polish in their wake. If this isn’t worship, then what is? She is my goddess and my owner.

“You’re going to be my maid from now on,” Frida says, her heel digging deeper into my scalp. “I deserve to have a lesser girl like you cleaning up after me. Your study time may take a hit, but it’s not like you need good grades to be a good floor-scrubber.”

I moan at her words, pressing my thighs together. God, Manfred really fucking delivered, didn’t he? This is cruel, sadistic, exploitative, evil, this will ruin me, this is… everything I’ve ever wanted…

“I will expect you to pay the entirety of the rent from now on,” Frida says, and the moan rising from my lips is impossible to contain. Oh god that’s going to absolutely nuke my finances, I will barely have enough left to scrape together a few meals!

It’s such abject degradation, literally giving over my wallet to enable Frida to pay her way comfortably through uni, like I’m nothing but her cash provider… Like I don’t deserve an academic career of my own… All I can do is pay for this house and clean it to boot.

And it’s so fucking hot!

I worship Frida’s boot like a woman possessed, my tongue travelling up and down from tip to top, debasing myself, utterly surrendering to her plans for me, which are my plans for her plans for me…

Eventually, Frida rolls me on my back, one boot descending on my throat to pin me in place, while the other hovers above my face, the heel brushing against my defeated lips.

“Suck it.”

Pinned in place by Frida’s other boot, I can’t give her the show she would deserve… but I can definitely work my tongue and hollow my cheeks, as her heel begins to unceremoniously fuck my face.

“You will not date without permission from your master,” Frida says, and I wonder at the use of that specific title—I will have to inquire if this is something she simply prefers, or if Manfred implanted it for some reason.

But that can wait. For now, the mere idea of such a loss of autonomy—being unable to even have relations of my own volition—is enough to make me desperately hump the air.

Sated with my oral ministrations, Frida retracts her boots at last. Then, the sound of a zipper fills the air—followed thereafter by the unmistakable scent of a girl’s sweaty feet.

Frida chuckles. “You seem to like cleaning so much,” she says. “The dishes, the floor, the bathrooms… why don’t you clean this?”

And just like that, her naked feet slap against my face. And I know that this is heaven.

Dutifully, I stick out my tongue and begin licking the sweat off Frida’s feet, like I’m nothing more than her humble towel girl… or perhaps just the towel.

“That’s a good PA,” Frida says, running one foot against my hair, plastering it with sweat. “There’s so many personal ways in which you can assist me…”

“Mmmpph mmh”, I mumble, pouring renewed energy in my efforts, licking in between Frida’s toes, demurely swallowing her toejam, pressing my lips to her naked heel and sucking as hard as I can.

It feels like my saliva and her foot sweat have switched places.

“You’re good,” Frida says, relaxing, eyes closed. “This feels amazing.” Then, as she reopens her eyes, they fall on the table—and the collar I’ve left there for her inspection.

“Mmmh, nice,” she says. “A good mark of ownership. You’d like to be collared, slavegirl? Maid? PA?”

I mumble in horny, desperate agreement while sucking on her toes, but Frida withdraws her feet from my face and stands up, reaching for her bag, left lying right next to the sofa.

To my surprise, Frida pulls out a length of rope from her bag. I stare at her in rapt, stupefied fascination as she quickly ties my wrists to the table, forcing me to remain sat or kneeling on the floor.

My heart is thumping like crazy in my chest. I see Frida’s eyes travel to the collar, and I know it’s about to happen, at long last! I will be owned! Oh my god oh my god!

Frida’s hands caress the collar, her fingers running along its length, contemplating it as if it’s an alien, unknownable object. I doubt she’s ever seen one in person before today.

When her eyes finally lift from the collar and settle back down on mine, they look strangely solemn.

“This collar is not mine to give,” she says.

I frown, arching an eyebrow. I hesitate to ask a question—it feels like poor slave etiquette—but I can’t quite decide if she’s trying to make a metaphorical point, or if maybe the brainwashing isn’t as thorough as I imagined. I’m just about to speak up and reassure her that this is definitely what I want, but Frida silences me with her eyes. Then, she turns away from me, walking towards the front door.

I stare at her slack-jawed as she opens the door… and lets another person in.

Tall, thin, lanky, wrapped in a giant overcoat. He—because it’s definitely a him—whispers something in Frida’s ear, and then moves towards the living room, emerging from the shadow.

My gasp of horror dies in my throat.

“Manfred?”

There’s no doubt it’s him. The sandy hair, the expressionless eyes, the lanky frame. He inclines his head in acknowledgement, but Frida, hurrying alongside him, is even more shocking.

She immediately drops to her knees, right at his side, rubbing her cheek against his thigh. He runs his long fingers through her hair like she’s a pet, and his hand travels downward, wrapping against her chin, pressing her against his body.

“What have you done to her?” I ask, horrified. Seeing Frida, my dominant goddess, my clever, beautiful girl reduced to her knees, letting a man treat her like a ditzy pet… with a distant, glassy quality to her normally bright eyes… it’s so wrong!

And it’s my fault!

“The collar is not mine to give,” Frida repeats, pressing her body against Manfred’s leg. “It’s Master’s.”

I look dumbfounded from one to the other, trying my best to suppress the fear that the twinkle in Manfred’s eye instills in me.

And then, unbidden, Frida’s previous words hit me.

You will not date without permission from your master.

I see how this makes you feel.

“I did tell you,” she continues. “I have seen true power. His. I thank you for trying to make me see the beauty of all this… but only he could succeed. Now I know how you feel, when you let me walk all over you. It’s how Master’s firm hand makes me feel…”

At the words firm hand her voice basically morphs into a purr. She arches her back, leaning backwards into Manfred’s touch, a promise and an invitation. But the bastard doesn’t even deign to look at her.

Evil. He is evil.

And what does that make me?

“I’ve always thought about a lesbian’s lips wrapped around my cock,” he says at last. “It’s time to pay the price, Julia.”

“No! Stay away from me! This wasn’t what we agreed to! I don’t consent!”

“Did Frida consent?” Manfred asks me, to which Frida throws him a puzzled look. All it takes is his hand placed possessively on her forehead to turn her meek and docile as a kitten, though.

Considering how thoroughly Frida has just dominated me, his mastery over her is truly… remarkable. But it’s only a small part of my brain that finds this remarkable.

The rest is focused on escaping.

Yes, he’s got a point, and yes, I’m a hypocrite, and yes, he did give me what I wanted with Frida. But I’ll be damned if I let this fucking creep mess up my wires until I become a little well-behaved straight girl and sex pet. I begin to thrash like crazy, trying to escape the knot, to loosen the rope, to bolt free. I kick, trying to prevent Manfred from closing in, and I snap my teeth, signalling that I’m ready to bite.

What I’m not ready for is Frida’s strength as she walks up behind me, pulls back my hair with one hand, harsh, making me scream in pain—while her other hand clamps down on my face, shutting down my nose and mouth.

The collar, still unfastened, now presses against the skin of my throat. Tears run down my cheeks as I do my best to scream through Frida’s handgag. This is my dream turned into a nightmare. A collar is being fastened on me… by a man??

“There,” Manfred says as the collar snaps shut with a final, dreadful click that sounds like a bell, tolling for me. “I did say it was a pleasure doing business with you.”

I do my best to curse and scream at him through the muzzle Frida’s hands represent, but all that comes out is a series of incoherent sounds.

Manfred looks completely unbothered. His fingers brush my chin as he considers me.

“Julia,” he says at last, “I’m afraid I’m going to need you to look into my eyes.”

And, to my ever more distant horror—like a pair of hands beating hopelessly against a pane of glass—I find that I can’t quite look away.

That’s when the words begin to flow. And they take me down with them, deeper and deeper…

* * *

Gluk gluk gluk gluk.

The sound of my evenings. One I’ve become exceedingly familiar with at this point. It’s the hopeless, defeated, humiliating sound of a conquered lesbian throat, lovingly massaging a man’s cock.

Master and Mistress are sitting at the table above me. My maid’s uniform is constrictive against my body, especially as I have to kneel under the table for the entire duration of the meal. I’m cold, too. My black nylons provide no cover against prolonged exposure of my legs to the floor.

And yet I stay, in perfect obedience. I can do nothing else. Between Manfred’s skillful and ongoing hypnotic programming, and Frida’s relentless pavlovian conditioning of my reflexes, there is less and less of the person I used to be.

I’m devoted to them. Where Frida is Manfred’s submissive and doting girlfriend, I’m the hired help—except I’m unpaid of course, and what little money exists nominally to my name is at the disposal of my new owners.

I clean, cook, provide massages on command, entertain guests, watch while Manfred has his way with Frida…

And, on evenings like this, I kneel under the table, sucking Manfred’s cock.

In his cold and detached sadism, he made sure to provide me with a compulsion to obey, without actually turning me straight. For all intents and purposes, I’m still a lesbian. Just one with no free will.

I can’t get used to this. Every stroke of my lips against his cock is a new, devastating blow to my psyche, a further compression of my very personhood. All I can do to seek a modicum of pleasure is to focus on Frida’s role in my oral humiliation.

Her booted foot is planted against my neck, regulating my pace, reminding me of my place. I do my best to block out the taste and feel of cock, and to focus on the way her sole is being imprinted in the skin of my neck.

In this, at least, Manfred was truthful. Frida is the perfect domme with me, just as cruel and dominating as she is utterly domesticated with him. I know she won’t let me come up for air until Master nods his permission. Even if I’m gagging and salivating and choking, tears running down my slavegirl face.

This is usually a very particular moment of the day. The moment where they make their grand plans for the future. The holidays, the real estate they’re going to buy, the family they’re going to have together one day… and, of course, the maid they’ll always be able to count on. For the rest of their lives.

“I like a classically socialised woman,” Manfred says this time, detailing my role in the future household. “I’m very particular about the role I want for the women in my life. Reduced to a domestic role. Unassuming, seen but not heard.”

Frida giggles at that. I can faintly hear the sound of kissing—I know she’s kissing his long hands, toying with his fingertips. Maybe gently fellating them… Her boot, in the meantime, keeps its iron pressure against my neck, forcing me to my knees, where I truly belong.

“Now, I do need a second income,” Manfred continues as he enjoys the throat massage I’m giving his dick. “Frida can keep on working. But together, her and I have more than enough to take care of the household. There’s no need for me to suffer you having a job. It would just make you uppity. Maybe give you ideas about escaping, or seeking someone’s protection. No, your place is in the house, as befits a true serving girl.”

“Besides,” Frida interjects, “her parents keep sending her money in the belief she’s just struggling with college!”

“That’s the literal, only reason why I haven’t had her drop out yet!” Manfred replies.

The loving couple breaks out in hysterical laughter at that, hard enough to cover the sounds of my own choking, of my own sobbing.

I see no way out of this. My life is over. Just like I told Manfred that fateful day, I’ve always wanted to be ruined. I just… never imagined it would look like this.

Still, as Frida impales me even further on his cock, which begins to quiver as Manfred’s orgasm starts to build, I do tell myself that in a way, I deserve all of this. Slaves don’t really get to choose their masters, and at least one of my owners is the love of my life.

Besides…

What I wanted, what I asked Manfred to deliver, was terrible. That’s the thought going through my mind as the ropes of his cum finally hit the back of my throat, painting it white, coating it in his ownership, eliciting Frida to giggle and say “good girl” above me.

I wanted something truly immoral, evil, and terrible. So, yes: I have paid an immoral, evil, and terrible price.

It is only fitting.