Mistress Susan’s legs were the first objects of worship. Meredith was on the ground, her knees pressed into the grain of the hardwood, the fibers of her stockings already abrading the skin beneath. She beheld the hypnodomme’s lower half in awe. Her legs were impossibly long, the platonic ideal befitting of a living Goddess. Meredith’s own limbs felt pale and functional by comparison, as if they had been manufactured on a Monday morning by a hungover assemblyman.

Her cheek pressed against the side of Mistress Susan’s knee. The contact was not casual; it was the first sacrament. Time, for a moment, ceased to run along a straight line and instead looped in on itself, an ouroboros of perfect sensation. All of it had its logic, its own syntax, and she was fluent in the language by instinct.

Mistress Susan’s hand in her hair dictated both the angle of Meredith’s worship and its duration. Sometimes she would relax her grip, letting the strands slip through her fingers, only to clench again at a moment of her choosing, a reminder that freedom was always the illusion and captivity the constant. Meredith found herself wanting to be guided, and more than that, to be corrected.

She kissed the hypnotist’s legs. With each repetition, the sensation deepened. It became less about the surface pleasure and more about the cumulative effects. The seam that ran up the back of Susan's calf was the axis mundi, and Meredith followed it with the tip of her tongue, mapping it centimeter by centimeter with a reverence bordering on religious mania. She did not know, until now, how large a world could exist in a single linear inch of fabric.

And still Mistress Susan’s hand did not let go. She modulated the pressure, sometimes almost loose, sometimes so tight that Meredith could feel the individual bones of her own skull shifting in response. The pain was never more than a suggestion, but it acted as a counterpoint to the pleasure, throwing it into sharper relief. Meredith felt as if she could be shattered at any moment, and she welcomed it.

The more she worshiped, the more her body responded, overwhelmed by submission itself.

There was a moment - time had become so fragmented that she could not say exactly when - when Mistress Susan lifted a foot and presented it, palm-up, as if in offering. Meredith’s heart stuttered; her world narrowed to a pinpoint. She accepted the foot into her hands, cradling it as one would an artifact or a newly hatched bird, and pressed her lips to the arch. 

The first kiss was ceremonial, but the second and third carried a deep hunger. The taste was a mélange of skin, perfume, and leather, and it was shockingly good. She licked along the instep, dragged her teeth gently over the ball, sucked a single toe into her mouth, and held it there, letting it rest against her tongue like a lozenge. Unlimited ecstasy waited for her there.

Mistress Susan did not make a sound, but her approval was audible anyway. She shifted her weight, imperceptibly, and used her grip to move Meredith’s head from ankle to toe in a choreography that was both practiced and improvisational. Meredith followed, eager to be led, eager to abandon whatever remained of her discretion. The nuzzle became a kiss, the kiss became a lick, the lick became frantic. She was losing herself, molecule by molecule, in the infinite dream of service.

There was pain, and there was pleasure, and sometimes they were indistinguishable. Her knees ached. Her neck burned. Her jaw was beginning to lock, but she did not care. She would have gone on forever had Mistress Susan not interrupted the cycle, not with a sudden, calculated pinch of her earlobe. The whimper that escaped her was not voluntary, but it was not unwelcome. If anything, it was a confirmation of her utter capitulation.

Meredith was being played like an instrument, and Mistress Susan possessed perfect pitch. Every note, every vibration, every tremor was anticipated, coaxed, and harmonized into a crescendo that was both inevitable and catastrophic.

The hypnotized woman climaxed with an earthquake that radiated from her pelvis to her teeth. Her body convulsed; her forehead slammed into the arch of Susan’s foot and rested there, as if trying to burrow inside it for protection. She sobbed, then gasped, then came again, each time more hollowed out, more emptied of her free will. God, it felt so good!

Mistress Susan pressed her foot against Meredith’s lips, insistent, and waited for the ritual to resume. It did, and Meredith was grateful for the chance to lose herself yet again, to let the boundaries between agony and ecstasy dissolve for good.

Time became recursive. Every cycle of worship and release deepened the trance. Meredith was but a vessel now, an object of utility, emptied and filled at the whim of another. And it was bliss, or something past bliss. Even her shame became a kind of fuel, feeding the fire rather than smothering it. She could feel the contours of her own self eroding, her autonomy transmuted into something richer, stranger, purer. She no longer had memories or ambitions or even a name; she had a task, and it was endless and holy.

She did not remember how she was finally pulled upright. One moment she was on the floor, pressed flat against Susan’s foot, and the next she was being held, her face cupped between two elegant hands, her jaw bracketed by thumbs that swept away tears and sweat in a single gesture. She blinked, disoriented, and saw herself reflected in Susan’s eyes, sculpted and refined by worship.

She had entered a trance so deep that nothing existed except her body and the voice that commanded it.