"This is so boring!" Slava complains, snapping me out of my immersion.

Dear. God. In. Heaven.

I give a sigh of pure exasperation. Yes, what a great idea, renting the same flat for university! We’re going to save so much money, and besides, two sisters should stick together, right?

Unfortunately, the only thing Slava is apparently capable of sticking to, is ruining my time watching my favourite true crime show.

"Just let me watch in peace,” I retort, not taking my eyes off the screen.

“You do realise we have on-demand, right?” Slava says, and the condescension in her voice makes me grit my teeth. She knows how much it angers me when she talks to me like I’m an idiot. That’s exactly why she keeps doing it.

Slava might be two years younger than me, but she’s been doing better at her studies than I am at mine. I try to suppress the sting of embarrassment that comes with it. Somehow, growing up, I always bore the greater weight of our parents’ expectations, in terms of what their two daughters would achieve.

Then, over the last two years, Slava suddenly woke up. She has better grades, better networking through her relentless volunteering, more friends. More self-confidence. It’s good for her, but it makes me feel insecure, and she knows it.

Exploiting those insecurities to win a fight over who gets to watch the TV, though? That’s just a low blow. I refuse to dignify her with an answer, focusing on the engrossing narration of the early life of yet another creepy serial killer.

“You gotta be really messed up to enjoy watching stuff like that,” Slava says. "Come on Anastasia, can we please watch something else? Literally anything else?"

Then, she tries to grab the remote from my hand, and I immediately tense up.

Alright, that’s it. Now all the pent-up frustration and insecurities that have been bubbling up within me are ready to burst.

My attention now firmly unglued from the TV, I turn to look at Slava, ready to tell her my piece. I’m confronted with her mischievous smile, her clever eyes framed by her long, wavy brown hair. Looking at her, it’s hard to escape the conclusion that this is all a game to her.

I narrow my eyes, but the amused look on her face makes me a little uneasy. I've always been the elder sibling, the one in control, but lately it seems like Slava thinks she’s just… I don’t know, better than me.

There’s a part of me that wants to deny it with all possible strength. I don’t even know why I care so much, but I do.

"You know what, Slava? Fine,” I say, with a tone of finality. “You want the remote? Come and get it.”

I realise the immediate impact my words have. Slava’s grin widens, and I feel my heart beating in my chest. I don’t even know for sure what it is that I’m suggesting, but somehow, I don’t think it’s entirely about who actually gets to use the remote.  

The next thing I know, the world is upside down.

Slava has pounced, tackling me to the floor. I flail my limbs, trying to find purchase somewhere, to figure out what’s going on. Absurdly, my remote is still clutching in my right hand. I try to put it out of reach, while Slava clambers up to try and snatch it.

She tries to stand, but I won’t let her. We’re a tangled mess on the floor, rolling and jockeying for control over the stupid remote. It might even look humorous, seen from the outside, but to me, it’s anything but. I still have control of the remote… but I also feel the weight of my sister's body pressing down on me. I suddenly realise that this is an unusual amount of physical contact, which makes me feel awkward.

But I’m snapped back to the reality of our fight, as she lunges forward, trying to snatch the remote. We tumble and roll around on the floor, each clumsily trying to gain the upper hand. We’re no fighters, I’m sure anyone could tell, but our movements become more frantic as we both try to win.

I’m panting from the exertion, and at a disadvantage from having to keep one hand on the remote. But even accounting for that, I’m having trouble bucking Slava off. She’s using her smaller frame to her advantage, twisting and turning in ways that I can't keep up with.

I feel my insecurities bite again, as I realise that my younger sister is a little stronger than I remembered, but I push those thoughts aside with denial and desperation. I need to focus on winning. I won't let my little sister best me, show me up so easily. So I put on a burst of strength, at last unseating Slava, the remote still safely in my hand.

“Alright,” I say, panting and trying to catch my breath as I begin to stand up. “Have you had eno-”

Slava tackles me again, arms wrapping around my waist, driving my breath out of me as I once again hit the ground. Slava is on me in a flash, her body landing against mine – which leaves me breathless once more. By the time I get my bearings again, her weight is pinning me down.

She’s sitting on my chest, a a triumphant grin on her face… and the remote is safely clutched in her right hand.

"Gotcha!" Slava exclaims, and I immediately reach towards her with my hands. But Slava is quick. In one fluid motion, she launches the remote towards the couch, and then her hands slam against mine in mid-air.

Our fingers intertwine, and a tug of war begins. I can’t seem to overcome Slava’s strength, though, no matter how my muscles strain. Gravity is with her, but even so, I cringe internally as she slowly, inexorably begins to push my hands towards the ground.

I grimace as Slava's grip on my hands gets stronger and stronger, her arms flexing as she exerts all her strength. My own arms start to tremble as I try to resist, but it's no use. I can feel my hands slowly but surely being pushed closer and closer downward. Somehow, my messed-up brain conjures up a whole load of symbolism going with that.

Downfall. Resistance being overcome. Bending.

Why am I thinking these thoughts? What do they even mean?

When, at last, my hands hit the floor again, they do so with a thud that makes me shiver. The look of triumph on Slava’s face is unforgettable, as she switches her grip from my hands to my wrists. My cheeks growing red with embarrassment.

I try to muster the strength to lift my arms again, but they’re firmly secure under Slava’s hands. Her weight on my chest is making my breathing laboured. “Oh no,” Slava says, “you’re not going anywhere.”

At that, she sits forward, further pinning my arms under her knees, now looming over me. In fact, her face is almost straight up above mine, and framed by her jeans on either side of my face, as her knees pin me to the floor.

My heart is racing, both from the exertion and the thrill of the moment. This isn't just a silly wrestling match anymore, this is a test of our sibling dynamic, and it’s one I’m losing. One where she’s stronger.

I give up trying to lift my arms, and just lie there, a whirlwind of confused emotions going through me. I… I legitimately can't believe my little sister has just overpowered me. That this little fight for the remote has taken a life of its own.

Slava is aware too, I can tell. Her brown hair looks disheveled, as no doubt does mine, and there’s a spark in her eyes I don’t remember seeing before. We're both panting, looking into each other's eyes, and for a moment, neither of us knows what to say. This was just supposed to be a wrestling match for the remote, but now… it feels like so much more.

The two of us look at each other, the silence between us thick with tension and meaning. We're both unsure of what just happened, but we both sense that something important has shifted between us, even if we’re not sure what. The silence stretches on, and on, and on.

I look into Slava’s eyes.

She looks into mine.

I can't help but feel a strange… thrill at having lost to my younger sister. At being in this position, with the weight of her knees on my arms, her body looming large above me, and the mockery playing in her smile.

Then, I do a double take. This is my sister. Slava, who I've known my whole life. I try to laugh it off, to come up with a joke that will make light of the situation. But the joke dies in my throat before I can even voice it, replaced by a heavy silence.

She’s just had a similar thought, I can tell. We, uh… probably both feel, on some level, that this is awkward. I’m trying really hard to focus on her face, and not on the fact that she’s sitting so far forward, her legs on either side of my face. That’s… no, I don’t even want to think about it.

Slava’s grip on my wrists releases. She wordlessly stands up, the remote clutched firmly in her hand, and refuses to look at me at all. The awkwardness is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

She heads back to the couch and changes the channel, leaving me lying here, confused and bewildered. It’s like my mind is stuck in gear. I’m not sure how we got here, how we lost control of this situation.

At last, I too muster the will to get back up on my feet. I scrupulously avoid looking at Slava, although from my peripheral vision I can tell she’s absorbed by whatever she’s watching on TV. Or pretending to be absorbed. Either way is fine with me.

Refuge, at last! I close my bedroom door behind me, flinging myself on the bed with a sigh. The adrenaline rush from the fight is still coursing through me… but so are the awkwardness, the embarrassment… and that final strange thrill at losing.

I try to cleanse my mind, to think on other things, but all I can do is replay the sensations over and over: Slava's weight on me, my hands hitting the ground, her knees mercilessly pinning my arms to the floor. Why does my heart beat faster when I think about that? Why does it feel so heady? Why do I keep revisiting this fresh memory, over and over and over?

It's as if a switch has been flipped in my brain. But the truly scary part is… I don’t know what that switch does.

***

As the days pass, the insane pull of this thrill begins to subside. I find myself slowly being able to concentrate on other things again, although studying is still harder than usual. I feel like something’s missing from my life, a strange emptiness with no name. I’m… not sure if I want to find out what it is.

With the awkwardness subsiding, however, Slava seems to bask in her victory over me. She’s more confident than ever, a radiant smile permanently affixed on her face. She misses no opportunity to rub salt in the wound, and it seems to amuse her to no end.

“What’s up, big sis? Why the long face? Upset you got your ass handed to you?”

I should talk back, I really should. I definitely shouldn’t just take it in silence while reliving the memory of being pinned. That would be inviting danger, after all. I have empirical confirmation of that, because every time I fail to talk back, Slava’s grin grows a little wider, a little hungrier.

One day after uni, I come back home later than usual. My mind is on other things for once, and I whistle at the end of a long and tiring day, looking forward to just being able to crash on the couch and relax.

But as soon as I enter the living room, I see Slava sitting on the couch, with the remote in her hand, absorbed by one of the nature documentaries she loves to watch. As I take in the sight, my heart drops.

Her feet are on the couch, and somehow, my mind immediately zeroes in on them. What a better symbol that she owns the couch? She gets to relax in full, enjoying the living room all to herself, because she’s kicked my ass. Everyone knows there’s no clearer sign of victory than putting your feet up on something.

She’s wearing the same jeans she had during our fight. Her legs are crossed, seemingly emphasising the muscles that beat me last time. Her socked foot is bobbing up and down, casually, confidently. She looks pensive and reflective, as she is absorbed in the show.

I breathe deep, trying to calm the sudden and inexplicable acceleration of my heartbeat. That’s when Slava notices my presence.

“Oh, hey sis, welcome back!” She says. Then, her welcoming smile is replaced by a mischievous one. She raises the remote, firmly held in her left hand, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Looking for this?"

For a second, it’s like the earth gives way underneath me. I feel adrenaline pumping into my limbs, and my heart beating faster. I could ask for a rematch. I could tackle her, grab the damn remote myself. I could restore my pride and my place in this household.

Of course, I could also lose again…

Just like that, I find myself once more teetering on the brink of an addictive abyss, whose nature is unclear to me. Perhaps that is the nature of the abyss, I suppose. You can only see what it looks like when you dive in.

But I don’t.

I can feel my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I lower my head and slink away, back to my room. It makes me look weak and defeated… but it allows me to hold on to my sense of self.

Even if Slava’s amused laughter follows me all the way to my room.

***

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation that's to come.

My hands shake slightly as I head towards the living room, where Slava lounges on the couch, remote in hand. I try to quell my nerves, remind myself of why I'm doing this. It's to reclaim my pride, to show Slava that I'm not a pushover.

But is it, really?

Because if that’s true, why didn’t I take the opportunity for a rematch the last time I had one?

Once more, I see myself teetering on the edge of a dark, bottomless pit. The abyss is calling me. In whispers, it promises me that there is a deep and meaningful answer about myself, if only I dare dive down, and get to the other side.

I stand in proximity of the entrance to the living room, my heart pounding in my chest. I have been thinking about this moment all week, replaying the events of the first fight over and over again in my head. Especially how it ended, and what came after.

Slava’s cocky, arrogant behaviour and endless verbal jabs in the home are beginning to get to me. The memory of her body subduing mine seems to become more vivid with time, not less. I have once more lost my ability to focus on my studies and hobbies. No, enough, whatever this weird addiction is, it has to end.

One way or another.

I take a deep breath, then cross the threshold. I find Slava lounging on the couch, flicking through channels. The remote is safely nestled in her hand, a constant reminder of my defeat.

"Hey Slava," I say, trying to sound casual.

"Oh, look who's decided to crawl out of her room," she says, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

I steel myself, trying to ignore the little twinge of embarrassment that wells up inside of me. "I was thinking... about last time," I say, struggling to get the words out. "And I was thinking that maybe we could… go again."

Slava raises an eyebrow. "Go again? You mean, like a rematch?" she asks, sounding amused. "You really want me to mop the floor with you again?"

"I want to win," I say, a note of determination creeping into my voice.

"Well, I'm game," Slava says, shrugging. "But on one condition. We have to make this interesting…”

I ball my hands into fists, trying to suppress a shiver at her words. I can see the gears turning in her head, always thinking, always planning, seeking new ways to exploit my insecurities. Maybe even widen them.

“Oh, I know!” Slava says, in a theatrical show of having had a brilliant idea. “The loser has to do all the house chores for a month."

For a second, I balk. For a heartbeat, I almost give up on this entire plan as hopelessly misguided and stupid. I don’t know what game Slava is playing, I don’t know what game I’m playing, or what it is I actually want. All I know is that, should I lose, the idea of spending an entire month doing all the chores, constantly at Slava’s beck and call…

It terrifies me. It excites me. It calls to me.

"Agreed," I say, before I can think straight enough to back out, hoping that there’s.a determined glint in my eye. Or something. "But you better watch out, little sister. I'm not going to go down without a fight."

Slava just smiles, a smug look on her face. "We'll see about that, big sister."

***

The anticipation is enough to make my body twitch. My heart won’t stay still, and my neurons keep firing. It’s going to happen again. Win or lose, I’m going to entangle myself with Slava once again, feeling her body against mine. And the stakes, well… the stakes…

Slava looks so confident and sure of herself, and why not? But I'm determined to prove to her - and to myself - that I'm not the pushover she seems to think I am. I’m sure that’s all there is to my agitated emotional state, yes. The desire to prove myself, and nothing more.

We circle each other warily, both of us trying to gauge the other's strength and weaknesses. I try to get a sense of her movements, looking for any tells or patterns that I can exploit. Meanwhile, Slava is doing the same, her eyes locked onto mine, trying to read my intentions.

Once again, we’re no fighters. We have no idea what we’re doing, truly – but at the end of the day, this isn’t about martial prowess. It’s about…

What? The remote? Pride? An unspoken hierarchy in the house?

Or the call of the abyss?

I don’t know, yet, but in a way, it doesn’t matter now. First comes the fight.

The first move is mine. I lunge forward, trying to catch her off guard, but she's quick. She sidesteps my attack, and counters by trying to grab my arm. I'm able to duck under her reach, and grapple her arm. I try to take her down, but she's too strong, and she twists out of my grasp.

We dance around each other, each trying to get the upper hand. I think about tackling her, but back out at the last second. She tries to grab me, but I dodge. Our first fight began with a playful tussle, before it morphed into something more, but this… the tension is palpable in the air. We’re both watching our steps, too anxious about making a mistake, too concerned with winning.

It's only a matter of time before one of us missteps, and when it happens, the other will be ready to pounce. Sweat starts to bead on my forehead. I'm not sure who will come out on top, but I know one thing for certain: I’ve never felt so alive.

At last, as if by unspoken agreement, we reach an inflection point. Both Slava and I throw hesitation to the wind, and charge one another – with the clumsiness of amateurs, but also the determination of wanting to win.

There is no clear outcome to our mutual tackle. We both end up on the ground, frantically trying to outmaneuver each other. Our limbs tangle, and I find myself on top – there it is, the thrill I’ve been seeking so desperately. Feeling Slava’s body squirm and struggle beneath mine is…

Not a particularly sisterly thought.

Slava topples me, and we start rolling like crazy, each only able to stay atop for a few seconds before positions reset. It’s dizzying, and it’s making my head spin, to the point that I’m beginning to lose my bearings.

The mistake does not go unexploited.

This time, when she’s on top, Slava wraps her legs around my waist, before rolling sideways. I feel her hands fumbling at my shoulder, trying to drag me towards her, to secure my neck between her arms. I know I have only seconds to break free, and I use them well.

I manage to squirm out of her hold, and Slava lunges after me, trying to stop me from getting up. We tumble once more, locked in a tight embrace, grunting with the effort of trying to overpower one another. I try to gain the upper hand, wrapping my arms around Slava's waist, but she's too quick for me and twists out of my grip. I roll to my side, and she pounces, straddling me.

Damn, she’s fast.

She doesn’t waste time sitting on my chest, now. She slides forward immediately, and to my dread and exhilaration, I find myself back where this all started. With Slava’s knees pinning my arms to the ground, her leering face swimming in my vision, the crotch of her jeans hovering over my face… no matter how hard I try not to think about it.

"You're going to be doing a lot of chores for a month, big sister," she taunts. But all I feel is the electricity coursing through my body. I wonder if she sees it too, the symbolism of this position, what it means about us, our respective stations in the house.

“I’m going to work your butt so hard,” she says, snapping me out of my reverie. I try to push her off, but she's too strong. I can feel my frustration building, and I know she's trying to get inside my head. I try to focus on the task at hand, ignoring her taunts and insults, but it's hard.

"You're too weak, Anastasia," she says, leaning in closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. "You can't even beat your little sister."

I grit my teeth and push back with all my might, managing to get one arm free. I grab her own arm and twist, trying to flip her onto her back, but once again, she’s a step ahead of me. She counters my move, pinning my arm behind my back and leaning in, her weight crushing me into the ground.

I struggle, trying to break free, but my arm hurts – at this angle, she can keep me pinned with minimal leverage. That is a sobering and humiliating thought…

I can feel Slava’s hot breath on my neck, as her body begins to adhere to mine, her front to my back. My defeat is potentially seconds away, and that makes me feel weak in the knees. But I force myself not to give up. I can't let her win, I can't let her see me break. I focus all my energy, twisting and turning, trying to find an opening.

Eventually, I do.

Slava’s grip on my arms loosen, maybe out of overconfidence, or simply distraction. Either way, I won’t let her get away with it. I twist my arm free, and for once she’s the one who is confused and uncertain. I push with my arms and legs, my back landing against Slava with enough force to topple her to the ground. I land atop her, back-first.

I know this moment could be decisive. I'm starting to tire, and this crazy amount of physical contact is starting to get to me. I know I need to end this match soon. I need to be bold. It’s now or never.

Before Slava can react, I flip and position myself on her chest. I immediately sit forward, my knees digging into her arms, and I find myself straddling my own little sister.

I hold my breath at the full reversal. My knees pinning her arms to the ground. My own thighs are framing her face this time, and she looks so small that she could easily disappear under me. A different kind of rush goes through me at the sight.

But it’s temporary.

Slava always has been more flexible than me. With a thrust of her hips, she pushes her legs up, knocking me behind the head. She catches me unprepared, and so I find myself falling forward, face-first against the carpet.

I expect to feel her weight crash atop me once more, but nothing comes. I begin to get my bearings, when I become mildly aware of Slava moving swiftly, sitting right next to my head.

I’m right where she wants me.

I start to sit up, but not fast enough. Flashes to my left and right tell me it’s already too late, and my move to sit up comes to an abrupt end. I am pulled forcefully back to the ground, with Slava’s legs wrapping around my neck.

I feel the rough jeans against my skin, and her muscles squeezing underneath, as she hooks her left foot under her right knee. This way, my face is trapped in a triangle of flesh – her calf against my throat, and her thighs against either side of my neck.

Pressure begins to build. Sounds become muffled as Slava’s legs partially cover my ears. Even so, I can hear my sister loud and clear.

“Gotcha!” Slava gloats, her voice filled with satisfaction. “I’ve got you right where I want you, sis. You’re not getting out of this one.”

I try to break free, but she's got me in a tight hold. Her legs are like steel, squeezing my neck and head. I marvel at her strength and try to resist, but it's no use.

If I roll my eyes up, I can see Slava’s face. She’s comfortably sitting, my head trapped between her legs, looking down at me. Her self-satisfied grin makes me shudder.

She uses her bent leg as a lever, slowly tightening her grip on my throat. Her calf bulges under the effort, and I can feel her thigh muscles contracting as she squeezes me from both sides, too.

"How’s it like, Anastasia?" She asks, in a strangely… husky tone. "Losing to your own sister? I personally wouldn’t know. I’ve never had the pleasure.”

I try to shut out her words, focusing on finding a way to escape. But the more I struggle, the tighter her hold gets. My breaths become shorter and shorter, and not just because of her vise grip. If being pinned under her legs filled my body with electricity, this… this is a whole other experience, and I blush at my body’s response.

I twist and turn, trying to loosen her grip, to no avail, and traitorous thoughts begin to slither into my mind. That my younger sister is subduing me with her legs. That maybe this is what it feels like to be tamed. To have your spirit broken. To bend under the firm hand… or leg… of someone stronger.

For what seems like an eternity, I stay trapped in Slava's hold. Slowly, one inch at a time, my younger sister’s grip on me continues to tighten, a thought that fills me with a strange warmth, a quiver that travels straight down my body…

"You know Anastasia, it’s one thing that I get better grades than you. Everyone knows I’m smarter. More popular too, of course, you don’t exactly have the most thrilling social life. But this?” She squeezes her thighs for emphasis, making me whimper in pain. “I’m so much stronger than you, too? Is there anything you’re good at?”

I can feel my insecurities widening into big, dark chasms. Like they, too, are a part of the abyss. They used to be chinks in my armour, but Slava’s killer instinct is too good, she’s found them all. They used to be hair-thin cracks, but Slava is too strong, she’s hammering at them, hammering and hammering until I shatter…

"I guess we’re going to find out if you’re good at doing chores,” she says, laughing at my useless attempts at breaking free.

I close my eyes, losing myself in the feeling of her legs around me, drowning out all sound, constricting my breath, ending my independence. Who ever knew that defeat could feel like this?

Slowly, inexorably, I feel my energy draining away. There can be no doubt about who’s the predator, and who the prey.

"Come on, Anastasia, give it up," Slava says. "You know you're beaten. Admit it."

I hate to admit it, but she's right. I am beaten. I've been beaten by my younger sister, twice in a row. Even so, that’s not the reason for the choice of word that I perform next.

"I submit," I say. Of course that’s what you’d say in wrestling, right? But I know nothing about wrestling, All I know is the way the word rolls off my tongue, its flavour, its connotations. Yielding. Acceptance. Being placed under.

I’m sure the intricacies of this are not at the forefront of Slava’s mind, ass triumphant laughter fills the room. "Good," she says. "You finally came to your senses. Now, tell me. What's your place in this household now?"

"D-d-doing the chores," I reply, defeated.

Slava releases the hold and gets up, still chuckling. I lie there on the ground, trying to catch my breath and come to terms with what just happened. Slava sits on my chest, still triumphant, still amused.

“This is going to be a very long month for you, sis. Believe me.”

I nod, still too winded to speak. I just lie there, humiliated and defeated, like a broken doll. The thought of being overpowered by my younger sister is difficult to accept. I can feel the weight of her body pressing down on me, a physical manifestation of her superiority.

"So Anastasia, tell me. Who's the bigger sister now?" she asks, a hint of triumph in her voice. She’s not smiling anymore. In fact, she looks so deadly serious that it makes me shiver.

Oh God.

What I’m about to say is going to devastate me. Best case scenario, it gets played off as a joke, and Slava will rub my face in it for the rest of our lives. Worst case scenario… well, let’s just say that has me hyperventilating.

“Y-y-you are,” I confess, my lips trembling. Feeling my inner walls shatter and rearrange themselves into something new, something that looks less like the old Anastasia, and more like… well… this.

Slava only nods. Then, her smile returns, as if she’s thought of a new mischief to carry out. She lifts her socked foot in the air and plants it firmly on my face.

“Mmmggnnhh,” I protest, but make no move to pull away. I can feel the rough fabric brushing against my skin, and I'm suddenly very aware of the smell of her sweat, of her toes wiggling against my cheek. The situation is surreal, and for a moment I am too shocked to react.

To my horror, two conflicting impulses clash within me when she does that. Part of me reminds me that this is my sister. This is Slava. What are we doing?

But the other part…

The other part sees Slava as a conqueror, her victorious foot rightfully treading on her latest conquest, an unmistakable sign of her victory. Wouldn’t this be the ultimate achievement for her? To dethrone her bigger sister, cast her down until she’s grovelling at her feet?

So many words and expressions flash through my mind, then, acquiring a whole new significance I never considered before.

Brought to heel. At her feet. Doormat. They all sound… oddly beautiful.

I find myself pressing my face against the sole of Slava’s foot. I can feel the moment when she realises this, her body flinching, as she quickly removes her foot from my face. Stupidly, I find myself following it with my face before I realise what I’m doing.

A long, awkward silence stretches between us. I feel like I should say something, make excuses for myself maybe, or ask her… ask her…

Slava’s brow furrows in confusion. She gets up, cutting all physical contact, stepping away from me. Pathetically, I find myself wanting more. What is wrong with me?

"Anyway," she says, trying to sound lighthearted, "you're doing the chores for a month. It's decided."

Having said her piece, Slava walks away, retreating towards her own room. I still lie on the carpet, catching my breath, my mind spinning. The chores feel like an afterthought.

I can't help but think that maybe this isn't about who's stronger, or who does the chores, no more than it ever was about the remote. Maybe it's about something more, something that's been brewing between us for a long time.

Whatever it is, it lies at the bottom of the abyss.

***

It’s been a long day of chores, in a long month of chores.

Losing to my sister might carry a strange and unspeakable excitement with it, but the reality of having to actually take responsibility for all the housework is nowhere near as charming. It’s mind-numbing work.

My hands are rough and callused, my knees raw. I’ve spent more time scrubbing pots and pans than I have studying this month, and my grades are beginning to suffer as a result. Slava’s, of course, are as high as ever.

She likes to watch me work, sometimes, sitting at the kitchen table, reminding me of something I’ve forgotten, or correcting something I haven’t done properly. Those are the lucky moments. Lucky, because they confront me with the reality that I’m taking orders from my younger sister, and that makes my entire body tingle.

I can’t stop thinking about her legs around my neck. Her foot on my face.

None of that has happened again, however, which leaves me with a strange, perplexing sense of longing. Slava has kept me at bay all this time, never providing me with an opportunity to re-establish physical contact with her.

As firm as she’s been in directing my efforts, she’s also been keen to avoid further… incidents. I’m absurdly disappointed by that, but I dare not force the issue. I would never want to make her uncomfortable, and besides, can I blame her? I’m clearly fucked up. No normal person would have these… cravings.

How do you deal with such unutterable desires, so deeply rooted that even you have no name for them? For lack of a better option, I try to channel them through my chores. It may not be like feeling Slava’s body pinning me down… but it’s something.

As the month of chores drags on, I begin to truly feel like Slava's little sister. Each day is filled with her delegating one task after another to me, and I find myself constantly seeking her approval and doing everything to the best of my ability.

I'm starting to see just how much stronger Slava has become, both physically and mentally. It's like she's outgrown me, and I'm just trying to keep up. Every time she overpowers me in a task or puts me in my place, it's a reminder that I'm not the big sister anymore.

Slava loves identifying opportunities to cement the new state of things. She corrects the way I fold the towels, the way I make her bed, small things here and there. But as the days go by, her grip on me tightens. She starts bossing me around more and more, telling me what to do and when to do it. I can see the confidence in her eyes growing each day.

Cleaning her room becomes a quasi-religious affair, a task to be performed with the utmost of care. "I want it spotless," she says with a smirk on her face. "After all, the little sister should do everything perfectly."

“B-but I have an exam…” I said once, feebly. I don’t know if I was being genuine, or if I just wanted to be put back in my place, to re-experience the thrill. But of course, what I wanted didn’t matter, because Slava needed no further prompting.

“I mean,” she told me, her face twisting in a predatory smirk. “It’s not like you’ve ever been particularly good at studying, anyway. Play to your strengths, little sister. Stick to cleaning.”

Just thinking back about that phrase makes me hyperventilate. I replay it over and over in my mind, especially when I’m alone under the covers, and my hand begins to wander…

But she’s my sister, I tell myself. This is wrong, I can’t, I can’t…

But, every time shame is about to win out, I hear her voice again.

Play to your strengths, little sister.

With every passing day, I can feel my own confidence waning, my sense of propriety eroding. I try not to let it show, but it's becoming harder and harder to hide. Slava seems to be enjoying this power dynamic, relishing in the fact that I am so firmly under her thumb.

I go to bed exhausted each night, both physically and emotionally drained. The weight of my insecurities about Slava, combined with this newfound power dynamic, is beginning to take its toll on me. But I know I’m courting the abyss, skirting ever closer to the edge, trying to peer down, into the darkness.

Slava's grip on me is getting tighter by the day. I don’t even feel like the little sister, exactly, more like… a servant. Every fibre of my being, strained in tending to her every need.

The abyss whispers to me that that sounds absolutely irresistible.

***

At last, my month of indentured servitude comes to an end.

As I crawl out of my room, with the pale light of morning filtering through the windows, I reflect on how anti-climactic it feels, for it all to end like this. But perhaps it’s for the best. Slava may have taught me a lesson, firmly rearranging our respective positions in the household, without the need to indulge my… indiscretions.

Maybe.

Still groggy from sleep, I drag myself to the living room, where I crash on the couch. Absurdly, I reflect that so many things have already taken place on this couch. In a way, it’s how this entire, warped story began.

It’s time to go back to normality now, if I can. The thought is a relief, but in a way… it’s also sad. Compared to the thrill of my strange dynamic with Slava, the real world looks irredeemably, soul-crushingly boring.

Eventually, Slava wakes up, too. She joins me on the couch, and that makes me sweat profusely. I haven’t been this physically close to her since our rematch, and I try to not go too blatantly rigid.

“Well?” Slava says, looking at me.

I stare at her in confusion, blinking. “Well what?”

“Duh! Where’s my breakfast?” Slava answers, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

A knot begins to tighten in my throat.

"Slava, the month is over," I say, carefully, slowly. Like I’m treading on a minefield. "Yesterday was the last day. Don’t you remember?"

She doesn't respond right away, making an exaggerated show of pondering the issue, her fingers brushing her chin. Then, she turns to me with a smirk on her face. "What month?" she asks, feigning innocence.

Her voice is soft, so soft, the words are almost whispered. But as far as I’m concerned, they might as well be an explosion. Immediately, the knot in my throat tightens. I can’t look away from the mischievous glint in her eyes, I can’t think past the sudden acceleration of my heartbeat. She knows exactly what she's doing, and she's enjoying it.

I try again, in a half-hearted attempt to assert myself. "The month where I had to do all the chores because you… beat me…" I say, and I swear, my voice sounds pathetic even to me.

Slava raises an eyebrow, still playing along. "Oh, that month," she says, a smile playing on her lips. "Well, I don't remember ever saying that it was over."

The wicked glint in her eyes hasn't faded.

"Slava," I say, and once again, I don’t know if my objective is resistance… or the feeling of resistance being overcome. "We had a deal. I don't have to do the chores anymore."

"Yes," Slava says, in a low and amused tone. "Technically, your forfeit for that match is over." She pauses for a moment, looking at me with a knowing smile. "So, to decide who will do the chores for the next month, maybe we should have another wrestling match..."

I stare at her, stupefied, my mouth opening and closing, as dread and desire collide within me. In the wake of this emotional stalemate, I’m looking at Slava like she’s speaking in an alien language.

Before I know it, Slava’s hands are at my shoulders, pushing. I find myself toppling downwards, knees hitting the carpeted floor as I yelp in surprise. Slava repositions herself on the sofa, behind and above me, and before I have time to react, her legs are beginning to wrap around my neck once more.

Slava tightens her legs, squeezing my head between her powerful thighs. I struggle to free myself, but she has me trapped securely. This feeling… the feeling of my resistance making no headway against the tightness of her grip. It’s the best feeling in the world.

"Relax, Anastasia," Slava says in a low, amused voice, as her calf begins to press against my throat. "You think I haven’t got you all figured out, little sister?"

I whimper, and not from the pain.

"I can keep doing this to you, if that’s what you want. Month after month. Or," Slava says, with a knowing smile in her voice, "maybe we can make a different arrangement. One that lasts not just for a month, but indefinitely."

I gasp in shock as the reality of her words sink in. Indefinitely? I try to shake my head, but her grip is too tight for that. Her legs engulf my head from every direction. She leans forward, looking me in the eye, as her hands caress my cheeks… like I’m an affectionate pet.

It’s a gesture of such utter, total, and complete ownership. It leaves me breathless.

"From now on," Slava says, her voice calm and firm, "you will do everything I say, without question. Do that, and maybe, just maybe… You might get what you want. But it will be on my terms."

In the end, my body betrays me, in more ways than one. I can’t deny that the energy coursing through me is arousal, that the idea of being slowly choked into submission is making me slick, that I want to feel my own resistance fade as Slava stomps out my will.

And then, there’s her promise. Is this the reason why she’s kept me at arm’s length for a month? To prime me for this moment, make me desperate, make me beg for it?

I nod my head in agreement, unable to utter a single word as Slava's hold continues to tighten.

But Slava is not done.

"Anastasia, I know you better than you know yourself. You’re an open book to me. And I’m going to show you.”

I want to say please, but I can’t. As my breath becomes constricted, I can feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. I realise that my life has changed forever. I'm stuck in this position, both physically and emotionally. It feels like a dream coming true.

Slava’s grip loosens by a tiny bit, and I realise she’s doing it to allow me to talk. Such fine level of control overawes me. She doesn’t even need to keep me in this state, but every moment we spend like this is a moment where she proves a point.

“Okay,” I say.

It’s not a word. It’s an incredibly faint whisper, barely audible, all I can manage with her legs mastering my airways. It’s a sound that says that I concede. That I accept my taming.

That she can reshape me.

Slava lets out a satisfied laugh as she loosens her grip on me. I cough and wheeze, trying to catch my breath, as she says, "Good girl. Now, go make us breakfast."

I nod silently, rising to my feet. I walk over to the kitchen, my mind a blur of thoughts and emotions. My own sister has just… claimed me. She says she wants to show me. What does that mean? Does it mean what I hope, what I fear?

I carry the tray of breakfast into the living room and put it on the table. Slava is sitting on the couch, looking like a self-assured queen with one leg crossed over the other. My insecurities make me feel small as I turn to her and signal that breakfast is ready.

"Like I said, little sister," she says with a smile playing on her lips. "I know exactly what you want. What you need. But it will happen on my terms."

Her socked foot bobs up and down expectantly.

One last time, a part of me tries to stave off the inevitable. She’s my sister, this is wrong, I can’t do this. It’s messed up to want this.

But the voice is feeble and distant, like it, too, was snuffed out by Slava’s grip, along with my resistance.

As my knees begin to bend, I feel like I’m tilting over, falling head-first into the abyss. When they hit the floor, they do so with a thud of profound meaning and significance.

I take her naked foot in my trembling hands and bringing it to my forehead as a sign of respect.

"I am honoured,” I say in a soft voice. “Big sister.”

I lower the foot once more, cradling it in my hands like it’s precious and delicate, slowly and tentatively exploring it with my fingers. It’s the first time I’ve ever held someone’s foot like that, let alone my sister’s, but I can’t deny that it looks beautiful. The way her toes are perfectly proportioned, the curve leading from her sole to her heel, the elegance of her ankle. The smooth skin between the ankle and the toes.

I’ve never given a massage before, and I don’t even know where to start… but somehow, softly rubbing and kneading her foot with my fingertips feels right. It’s soft under my touch, except the heel, which feels unyielding under my thumbs. I realise my lips are parted in fascination.

"That's it," Slava says, sinking back into the sofa. "Now show me how much you appreciate the fact that I'm letting you do this for me."

Letting me do it? That sounds as preposterous as it does humiliating. My cheeks redden, because of course I have to admit that on some level, she’s right. I want to do this. I continue to massage her foot, thinking about how she's making me feel small and insignificant. I can't deny that this is the closest I've ever felt to her… and to my true self.

"You know," she says, her voice a purr. "I might have to make this a regular thing. A little appreciation for all the times I let you borrow my notes and help you out with your studies."

I can feel my face turn red as I realise she has me completely in her control. But I continue massaging her foot, feeling grateful for the chance to be close to her, to experience this humbling, psychologically redefining experience.

While I massage one foot, she lifts the other in the air, nonchalantly placing it atop my head. I shudder as I feel her toes digging into my scalp, and I wince slightly. I try to focus on giving the best foot massage I can, but the sensation is overwhelming. What could possibly be more humiliating? The lowest part of her, ceremoniously placed atop the highest part of me.

Slava continues to speak, her voice calm and controlled, "From now on, you'll do anything I say. You'll worship the ground I walk on. You'll be my loyal servant, and in return, I'll allow you to bask in my presence."

I nod obediently, knowing I have no choice but to comply with her demands. The thought of disobeying her sends shivers down my spine, as does the picture she’s painting in her words. I’ll be allowed to bask in the presence of my own sister? A few weeks ago, that would have sounded nonsensical, to the point of madness. So why does it make so much sense to me now?

"Good girl," Slava says, with a satisfied nod. "Now, it’s time to show you…"

I watch in rapt fascination as she withdraws her foot from my hands. Then, she lifts it in the air, until it’s level with my face… and begins to move it closer.

The first time her naked foot makes contact with my face, I feel every muscle in my body tremble. Humiliation and arousal ripple downward, from my brain and right into my pussy. In this moment, my face is acting as the ground, on the receiving end of Slava’s soles. That’s how far low I’ve fallen, humiliated and reduced.

I press myself against the sole, rubbing my cheek against it like I’m just Slava’s little kitten. The other foot ruffles my hair, and I find myself panting, desperately wanting more.

She’s my sister, and I can’t, but that only makes it hotter.

Slava pauses for a moment, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she thinks about the possibilities.

“Kiss it,” she says.

I don’t need her to ask twice.

My first thought is how smooth the skin of her foot feels, against my lips. I wonder how I could have ever thought of feet as disgusting – because Slava’s foot is pristine and beautiful. Kissing it feels like an act of reverence, a prayer to a deity.

My second thought is how significant a moment this is. It can never be taken back. I, Anastasia, have knelt down to kiss my sister’s feet. This is the kind of woman I am now, the kind of woman I always will be.

Soon, the room is quiet, save for the sound of my slavish kisses, as I explore every inch of Slava’s foot, from the ankle to the toes. When I get there, my smooches become more daring, with my lips spread softly around her big toe.

Slava seizes the opportunity. The foot on my head pushes down, just as the one before me is lifted up. Before I know it, her big toe is pushing its way past my lips, resting onto my tongue.

I lower my head, feeling the weight of Slava's foot pressing against my scalp. "You know what this means, Anastasia," she says, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "Show me.”

For a moment, I kneel there, not sure what to do next, what this means. But then, gears begin to shift. I’m kneeling before her, her big toe in my mouth, one foot firmly planted atop my head. It occurs to me, only now, just how… sexual this position is.

That makes me quiver with the thrill of shame, taboo, humiliation… and defeat.

She’s my sister, and it’s wrong, and I can’t. And yet, I will.

“Just do what comes natural,” Slava says, and I do. I swirl my tongue around her big toe, like I’ve done for my boyfriends in the past when I was pleasuring them. I form a tiny seal around her toe, suctioning as hard as I can, eliciting a satisfied moan from her. Then, I gently begin to move my head up and down.

Soon, I lose all control of that movement, as Slava’s foot begins to regulate my pace to her liking. I piston up and down, my head bobbing, my dignity crumbling more and more with each new motion. I’m giving my sister’s foot a blowjob. I’m on my knees for her. I don’t even get to control my pace. She’ll just have her way with me, because she’s smarter, and so much stronger.

One at a time, Slava’s other toes join the big toe in my mouth. She looks on, curious and fascinated, as she methodically and mercilessly inserts them one at a time, stretching my lips more and more. It’s not just the act itself that it’s hot, it’s what it feels like.

Slava is toying with me like a predator does with fresh prey, marvelling at my inability to resist. Every muted plea for mercy in my eyes is ignored, as she meticulously disarticulates every last vestige of my dignity, turning my mouth into a warm receptacle for her foot. Metaphorically, she has me pinned down, dismantling piece by piece. Just like the two times she’s beaten me.

Then, I feel the other foot pressing down against my scalp. With no balance and no leverage, I find myself falling, with only the carpet to soften my landing. I grunt as I hit the ground, but Slava is relentless. The foot that pushed me down is now entirely pressed against my cheek, the heel digging in, the toes wiggling.

The other slithers once more past my lips with no opposition. It feels slick and warm with my own saliva as I welcome it back into my mouth, suckling gently at it. I can’t believe it. I’ve never even had a foot fetish, and now Slava’s foot is basically acting as a pacifier on me, making me feel all docile and compliant.

In this new position, my head is pressed against the floor by one foot, while the other continues to unceremoniously facefuck me.

Slava’s heel grinds a little against my cheek, as if to prove a point. "Stay there," she says in an imperious tone. I mumble my submissive agreement, which only makes her laugh.

“God, you’re so fucking pathetic,” she says. “I could tell from the first time I floored you, that you weren’t really interested in the remote. That’s so wrong, perving on your own sister.”

I squeal around her feet, in desperate and mercy-seeking humiliation and arousal. It’s all true, I crave her touch, I need her grip to tighten. I wonder what other taboos might fall next. I think back to my face underneath her as she pinned me, the way the crotch of her jeans seemed to hover just inches from my lips back then, and I wonder… and yearn… and fantasise…

But like she’s said, any such interaction will happen on her terms. My only recourse is to wait, find out… and comply with her desires.

“You never wanted a rematch. You just wanted to be put in your place again.”

I mumble gently around the foot in my mouth. I’m not sure if it’s agreement or not, but at this point, it doesn’t really matter.

“Well, let me guarantee you something, little sister,” Slava says, in a husky voice I’ve never heard her use before. “You are never going to rise again.”

The words go straight to my clit, and I emit a throaty moan around the foot I’m busy sucking. As I gaze up at her, I feel a strange sense of awe. She's always been beautiful and confident, but now she seems even more commanding. I know I'm at her mercy. I know I’m hers, forever.

I keep my lips tightly wrapped around her foot, as if I were paying homage to a higher power. This is what lies at the bottom of the abyss, then. This is who I really am, under all those layers of personality, under the thin, civilised exterior that I used to pretend coincided with my identity. It never did.

I’m a slut. A foot slut for my own sister.

I don’t know what’s going through Slava’s mind, but I doubt it’s as profound as my own epiphany. In fact, she seems to lose interest in me. She leans back against the couch, with the foot resting on my face now shifting to a more comfortable position.

Then, the TV behind me flickers to life.

For a moment, I don’t know whether to consider this hilarious, or hot. But my messed-up mind leans towards the latter. This all started with a dispute over what to watch on TV. Now, a month and change later, I’ll never have a say in which channel is on, ever again.

I lie there, performing my ministrations while Slava relaxes, enjoying the fruits of her victory. I’m just an object for her now, a footrest, a toewarmer, my mouth turned into a holster for her foot. This is her wind-down moment, and I do not feature. And I like it that way.

I know that this is only the beginning of a long journey, and that there is much more to come in terms of serving her. But for now, I am content to bask in the glow of her presence and do my best to please her in any way she deems fit.

After all…

Isn’t that the highest duty of a little sister?