What comes after the end?
I’m a historian. I’m trained to consider these questions, to see that no process in human life is ever truly complete, but rather seamlessly morphs into the next. There isn’t real closure, or a true, definitive endpoint. Just change.
To be fair, my life after Jacqueline’s victory over me has been an endless routine, one designed to relentlessly batter me down.
In the classroom, students no longer respect me. If I’m lucky, I stay invisible. If I’m not, they look at me like I’m an oddity, a teaching assistant to a professor far younger than me, and a strangely subdued one, to boot.
In the department, I’m now known as “say-yes-Belle”. There isn’t a single senior male professor whose dick I haven’t sucked. I spend more time with coffee in hand than I do books.
In my own office, I’m the lowest of the low. Jacqueline rules the roost, and TAs and PhD students by this point know they can delegate much of their grunt work to me.
They rarely take further liberties. Even as they rotate in and out of their positions, each new TA soon learns to kowtow to Jacqueline, and to treat me like a ditzy intern, but very few can muster the courage to cop a feel, or more.
Still, all of them do boss me around. All of them do know I slave away at Jacqueline’s feet, usually beneath her desk – which used to be mine. And I’m pretty sure rumours are spreading on campus about me sucking a mean cock.
This over-stimulation is driving me crazy, especially because I have no opportunity for relief unless at home, masturbating. My routine is leaving me in an over-sexed haze that’s shutting down my higher mental faculties.
I’m sure that’s precisely the point. Jacqueline has taken away my professional dignity and my salary, but she wants to take away the very thing that makes me a professor – my knowledge, my articulate vocabulary, my assertiveness.
She’s treading my identity into dust, under the soft weight of her nyloned foot, and leaving me as little more than a dumb, perpetually horny office-helper who can’t focus on anything but taking orders.
By and large, she has succeeded: I’m broken. I barely even make a sound, and certainly not in protest. My defeat is complete.
And yet… change is the one constant in all of our lives. And this is why, for the past month, something’s been different.
I feel it every I dress in my modest pantyhose, pencil skirt, and cheap office blouse – I can no longer afford better clothes with my curtailed wage, and Jacqueline likes to make me look like a secretary more than a PA.
There’s a weird… longing inside me. A pang of loneliness.
I started noticing it even more when outside, and that’s when I started to realise what was going on.
Today is Valentine’s Day. And for the past month, I’ve been anticipating and dreading its approach in equal measure.
The sorry state of my romantic life was the chink in my armor that first led to my enslavement. Now, society all around me – restaurants above all – seems keen to remind me that even in my new station in life, I’m still single.
I suck cocks and worship feet on a daily basis, and I let people much younger than me – students! – boss around me like it’s my job. And yet, I’m single.
It’s an odd sort of pain, one soft and yet sharp enough to cut through the haze of my arousal. I feel it all day. I feel it in class, standing demurely with a stack of books in my arms while Jacqueline explains Goryeo military reforms. I look out across the classroom, wondering how many students have a significant other, while I don’t.
I think about it while leaving Director Francis’ office, rubbing my lips to free them of the last residual drops of his sperm.
I daydream about a date as Jacqueline sticks my foot so deep down my throat that my eyes well up with tears, and then proceeds to stay like that for an eternity while grading essays.
If only she didn’t have such a strict policy about not dating her own employees…
But she’s done the next best thing.
I worked up the courage to talk to her last week, and she’s promised she’d set up a date for me. A small reward for the slavish loyalty I’ve shown her in the wake of my demotion.
My surprise will be delivered at the end of the work day, so the hours pass in a blur, even more than they usually do. As I write and grade and fetch and massage, clean and lick and suck, all I think about it is closing time.
Even the bossing from the TAs – especially Audrey’s – can’t really distract me today.
As the last of the straddlers clear the university, I find myself in a deserted department. It occurs to me that it was precisely at closing time that I first found myself at Jacqueline’s feet. Now, I will place myself there voluntarily, awaiting her surprise for me.
It seems only fitting.
As I enter the office, I see all TAs have cleared the office. It’s only Jacqueline and me.
She sits regally at what used to be my desk, and her new status seems to be suiting her. With the extra money and the kinder working hours, her skin is unblemished and smooth, her hair done to perfection, her toned legs crossed to reveal the sexy muscles under the nylons.
I’m the one who looks like the disheveled servant, something of which I’m all too aware.
Jacqueline sits back, her heeled foot bobbing up and down. I stand before her with my hands clasped submissively before me, like a schoolgirl waiting to be scolded.
She’s every inch a professor, every inch a queen.
And I… I’m every inch a slave.
It is but one word, and yet it is enough to send a whip of warm arousal lancing through me. I drop so fast that the impact hurts my knees, but I don’t mind. I realise on some level that I’ve thrown away all my normal, adult life for this.
But who needs adult life, when you can have this thrill?
Slowly and deliberately, Jacqueline rises to her feet. She circles the desk, then me, like a predator about to pounce on a helpless prey. I swallow, keeping my eyes fixed on the ground like she’s trained me to, salivating every time her feet enter my field of vision.
“Let’s get you ready for your date,” she says, and darkness descends over me, as I feel my head being pulled backwards.
It’s a blindfold!
I breathe in deep, struggling not to get agitated. I must trust Jacqueline. I must submit. Whatever she has in mind for me, I know it will be my duty to obey.
I hear her fasten the blindfold behind, and then rest the palm of her open hand atop my head, possessively.
“I’m going home,” she says, nonchalantly. “You stay here, your date will be here to collect you shortly.”
Then, Jacqueline presses her hand against the back of my head, pushing me down to all fours. I take it and stay down like a bitch, even as I hear her heeled footsteps retreating into the hallway outside.
I gulp. Surely she’s not pranking me, right? I’m not going to spend the whole evening here, waiting for a date that will not come, right?
I sigh. All I can do is trust her. By this point I have learned that my addiction to this thrill cannot be broken.
So I sit back on my knees, letting the silence of the empty department lull me.
And I wait.
This workplace is weird.
Nothing here works the way it’s supposed to. And I smile to myself while sitting at my desk and reviewing my bibliographical notes, as I realise that, you know what? I can roll with it.
It helps that the weirdness is playing right into my hands. It’s Valentine’s Day, and when the department closes later today, I’ll be collecting my reward. I lick my lips in anticipation of what is to come.
From what I’ve heard, Isabelle used to be a hardass, when she was still called Professor Ranier.
I don’t know what she’s done to fuck up this bad, but she must have pissed off someone really powerful, because now, she’s our office gopher. Already was, by the time I got my PhD.
And from the very beginning, I was fine with it. Working for Jacqueline is actually quite pleasant, the department runs smoothly, and with Isabelle doing the grunt work, I can focus on my doctoral dissertation and avoid the endless distractions we PhD students have to deal with today.
I do admit the… explicitness of Jacqueline’s hold over Isabelle is a little troubling to the other TAs, at times. But I just found it so… seductive. Which makes me squirm in eagerness at the prize I’ll be collecting today.
Ok, I’m going to be honest: I know it’s sexual harassment. At best! No matter how I euphemise it in my head, that’s what it is. And no clear-thinking girl in this century should be okay with workplace harassment, no matter the genders of the people involved.
Oh, that word. They say nothing that comes before a but counts for anything. Hell, I’ve said the same myself, many times.
I sit back in my chair, biting the bottom of my pen in thought, and cross one nyloned leg over the other. I look at Isabelle, huffing and puffing – this is her fourth round of coffee fetching, and soon she’ll be bringing a cup to this very desk.
I sigh. Had it been anyone else, maybe my feminist credentials would have counted for something. But Ranier…
No, Isabelle. That’s who she is now.
I failed one of her exams. It was completely unfair, she used to be such a completely arbitrary bitch when she taught her course. I hear it is much better now, with Jacqueline at the helm. That’s all well and good, but I still intend to collect my prize when today’s work is done.
I take a measure of satisfaction in seeing Isabelle scurry around the department like she’s a bottom-feeder. It’s what she deserves. It’s where she belongs.
Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. Probably. But how can you resist temptation in this cursed place?
I swear, last time my fellow PhD student Remi and I were in professor Arthur’s office, there were wet, sloppy sounds coming from beneath the desk. Then there was the time when I discovered Jacqueline carefully concentrating and painting her toenails, while luxuriously resting her feet in Isabelle’s face…
I press my thighs together.
This constant exposure to inappropriate and coercive acts is making me horny. And as she nears Remi’s desk, I can’t help but observe that Isabelle has a very nice figure.
I bite my lower lip.
Even before I went ahead and asked, I knew Jacqueline wouldn’t mind. She’s loaning Isabelle off to so many colleagues at this point, she wouldn’t begrudge me a little foot fun with the bitch, would she?
By the time Isabelle makes her way to my desk, it’s all I can do not to snake a hand down towards my crotch. She looks so… delectable in her cheap skirts and nylons, her eyes downcast, her dark hair splayed out invitingly around her subdued face.
I run my hand across my own reddish locks, letting my green eyes linger on every part of Isabelle’s body that I like. This is so very naughty and disrespectful of me. I know she can feel me ogling, but she’s too well-trained to object.
I really must remember to never piss Jacqueline off.
“Your coffee, ma’am,” Isabelle says, proffering the cup towards me as if making an offering to a Pagan goddess. Then, she places the cup on my desk, and readies to turn away and leave.
Normally, our interaction would end here – but not this time.
This time, I clear my throat.
Isabelle turns towards me, her big eyes wide and scared. Whatever I want from her, it can’t be good, and she knows it.
“You know, Isabelle,” I say, lacing her name with as much condescension as I can. And I know I can make that condescension sound lustful, too. “The only reason I’m here now, as opposed to… before,” I linger on the word, stressing its significance, “is that I graduated later than expected.”
Isabelle gulps, nervously. Had I gotten my PhD in advance, I would have been out of here before her demotion. I can see it in her mortified expression that she knows it, too. I hope it’s crushing her to see the laughter in my green eyes.
“I had to resit your exam so many times,” I say, chuckling. “And now, here I am. Such a lucky coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
Isabelle’s face trembles, like she’s about to cry, but once again, her training’s too strong for it. She nods, submissively, and whispers something under her breath.
“What did you say?” I tell her, the words stern and cutting. “I didn’t hear you.”
Isabelle cowers before me, as if willing the floor to swallow her up forever. “I said you’re right, ma’am!” She says, her hands clasped together in supplication. “So lucky!”
“Very well,” I say, making it a point of bobbing my heeled foot up and down from beneath the desk, catching Isabelle’s attention.
It must be a Pavlovian reflex at this point, because she wets her lips with her tongue. The sight is almost enough to make me rub my clit then and there.
“My, my, how the mighty have fallen,” I say in a sultry voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” Isabelle says, turning to leave. I don’t stop her, this time. I don’t want to keep her from the duties Jacqueline has no doubt given her.
Man, now I’m really horny. I won’t be able to concentrate on this bibliography, that’s for sure. What I can concentrate on, though…
Is what I’ll be doing with the bitch tonight.
Steps resound behind me.
The realisation jolts me back to awareness. I don’t know how long I’ve been kneeling here in the dimness of the office, but I do know the steps are muffled, or I would have heard them approach from afar.
Whoever is behind me, they’re not wearing any shoes. This merely practical knowledge makes me wet my lips in anticipation, and the thought shames me to my core. The mere thought of feet is enough to get me wet these days.
Is this the date Jacqueline set me up with? If so, why the stealthy approach? Is this an attempt to surprise me? Is this some sapphic friend of hers who’s single and looking to hook up?
Questions flee my mind as a powerful weight slams against my back, throwing me to the floor. I’m all too aware of a warm, soft body pressed against me – a girl’s body, for sure – as our nyloned legs intertwine on the floor.
“Gotcha,” a voice whispers in my ear, low and seductive. The whisper is so low and husky that I can’t place the voice.
Irrespective of the identity of my assailant, I react by instinct, flailing and rolling around to flee myself. The mystery girl tries to wrap her arms and legs around me, but I slip away, rising to my knees.
I still haven’t taken my blindfold off. I feel like a right idiot for being so scared of defying Jacqueline that I’m voluntarily accepting this massive handicap in a fight. Then again, what if the person ambushing me is Jacqueline?
I simply can’t risk it. It’s not like I’m actually in danger anyway – this is clearly a playful set up. I just don’t know to what end.
My mystery opponent grabs my hands with hers, lifting both atop our heads. Well, that’s one confrontation I don’t need my eyes for, as we push energically into one another.
To my horror, however, it seems that my adversary is much stronger than I am. My cheeks redden with humiliation. Jacqueline is stronger than me, too, and obviously so are the men. Am I really so easily manhandled? So easily subdued? Is my weakness physical as well as psychological?
I grunt and strain, trying to use my knees to push forward, but to no avail. In short order I find myself pressed against the floor, my wrists pinned as my legs flail ineffectually.
There is rustling above me. I feel my opponent slowly slither up my body, and the physical contact sends a shiver through my undersexed, overstimulated body.
I’m such a loser slut.
My opponent has tamed me, and I feel her thighs – nyloned, but round, definitely fuller than Jacqueline’s – position themselves on either side of my face. Her knees now pin my arms to the ground, leaving her hands free to roam all over my body.
Her fingers close against one of my nipples, and pinch. Hard.
I try to scream, but immediately she descends on top of my face, luxuriantly resting her pantyhosed crotch over my nose and lips.
“Shhh,” she says, pinching my nipples harder as I shout my muffled screams of pain into her sex. She begins gyrating over my face, rubbing her crotch all over me, marking her territory, claiming me as her own.
It’s such an… animalistic behaviour. It drives me wild. It’s a signifier that she is more, and I am less. Even through the pain and humiliation, I love how silky and soft her thighs feel around my ears, and how warm her pussy is as it presses my lips into submission.
Slowly, gradually, I calm down, letting my conqueror’s hands have their way with me, and I place tiny, demure kisses on her crotch through the pantyhose.
God, I’ve been wanting sexual contact for so long…
And yet, I’m immediately denied. The victor’s pussy retreats from my face, and she sits back up against my chest, squishing my boobs under her weight. I grimace in pain, and having her pressing down on me is slightly constricting my breathing… but I take it like a bitch.
Moments after, her feet lift into the air, landing against my face. The toes rub against my blindfold, while the heels press against my lips.
It never ceases to ashame me how familiar I am with feet now that they’re part of my job description. Naked feet, socked feet, nyloned feet, shoes, and boots: this is my domain. The mere idea that I was once a professor feels sillier to me with every new humiliation.
The girl above me giggles, as her feet explore every nook and cranny of my face. The toes curl over my nose and run through my hair, the sole rests alternatively against my throat and my lips.
“God, this feels even better than I imagined,” the girl says, again in a voice too low for me to place it. I don’t care at this point. I’m so starved for relief and physical contact that I will submit to whatever she wants to do to me.
She begins grinding her soles into my face, squishing my cheeks until my lips pout. It hurts, but it also makes my pussy spasm in humiliating pleasure.
“Life at the office is much better now, isn’t it, slut?”
“Mmmpphh!” I reply, while her heel presses so hard against my lips that I shake my head, trying to make the pain stop. But it’s no use, her feet have full and utter mastery of my face.
“I mean, I’ve tried not to take advantage,” she says, as her toes begin to part my lips “but who can resist? I have a person I can use whenever I want. Power with no accountability.”
The girl shoves the toes in my mouth, and I welcome them like an eager slut, spreading my legs, hoping she’ll take pity on me and give me some attention while I suck.
I crane my neck, taking as much of her foot in my mouth, stretching the corners around its girth in lust. She lifts her other foot and places it on my forehead, pushing down.
That restricts my freedom of movement, but it also lets her facefuck me properly with her foot. My slobbering noises soon fill the room, as her big toe begins to tickle the very entrance to my throat.
I wish I could look up at her, see her smirk as she domesticates my throat as her personal foot-holster. I imagine Jacqueline’s victorious grin instead, and that alone is enough to nearly send me over the edge. I moan and squirm and gargle, while the girl above me balances to stay still, like atop a bucking bronco.
This situation is so absurd I’m almost impressed with myself. I’ve turned into such an office sexpet that I will deepthroat an unknown person’s foot on command if put in the right situation. I’m no independent woman. Jacqueline has changed me. I’ll never go back to the person I was.
I’ll never look to another person like an equal. I’ll never stand up for myself, or enforce any sort of boundaries. I am like a gloryhole given personhood, someone who exists purely for the relief of all others.
No one who licks feet and sucks dick on command for the whole department can confidently claim they deserve to be treated like a person.
As I bob and slobber over the girl’s foot, it occurs to me that this is supposed to be a date. Jacqueline is making me date someone’s feet. The thought makes something inside me curl up and wither away. Who would want to date a girl whose lips worship feet, anyway?
I will never be normal. I’m a wimp, a bitch, a sex slave. Even now, my hands lie limp and useless by my sides while this girl rapes my throat in the office that used to be mine. Jacqueline staking her claim on me was one thing, but this? This subordination of even my dating life to my slutty duties? This is a new high.
Or, I suppose, a new low.
“That’s it,” says the girl sitting atop me, as her foot is now lodged as far in as it will go. I can feel her fingers fumble against my blindfold, and with a sweeping motion, it is removed.
I blink in confusion, tears forming in my eyes, both from the deepthroating and the adjustment to light. It’s dim and veering on dark in the office, but after a prolonged period of time in the pitch black of the blindfold, even this takes a little adjusting to.
As my sight focuses, I’m greeted by the flash of a predatory smile.
Clever green eyes sparkle at me, full of laughter.
A firey red mane frames a youthful face, stretched in an expression of victory and lust.
I try to gasp in surprise, but with the entrance to my throat serving as a foot holster, it comes out as a tiny, pathetic gluk.
“Professor,” the TA says in a sultry voice, the mockery in the title evident by our respective positions. “Or should I call you Say-Yes-Belle?”
Audrey’s hand flashes to my own sex, resting atop it – a gesture of ownership, but also of promise. This, from the student who had to sit my exam more times than I can count. At this point I know, not intellectually but emotionally, just how truly irreversible my enslavement is. My demotion isn’t just professional, or social, in nature. It’s psychological.
I will be chained anywhere, any time. Because I’ll be carrying the chains with me, wherever I go.
Audrey knows it too. I see it in the absolute triumph etched in every corner of her face, as she twists her foot inside my throat, grinning in pleasure at my gagging sounds of submission and discomfort.
Her foot plunged into my throat, she leans forward, increasing the pressure even further, and giving me the sultriest, most seductive look I’ve ever seen.
And then, somewhat absurdly, she asks: “Will you be my valentine?”
Even more absurdly, I close my eyes to chase away the tears, squirm gently to accommodate her foot even better in my mouth… and nod.
“In that case,” she says, keeping her foot inside me while snaking her hand underneath my own pantyhose, “close your eyes, and let me break you.”
I obey, sinking back into a world of darkness, where every other sense is bombarded by Audrey’s assault. No sooner have her fingers found my clit, sending bolts of electricity through me, that I know this is the only date a slavegirl like me could ever deserve.
By lucky coincidence, however…
It’s also the only date I would ever really want.