On a Wednesday afternoon, Hannah perched at the window in the new apartment she was only beginning to think of as her own. She was halfway through a cigarette, ash stippling the sill, when her phone buzzed with a terse message from Gabrielle: “He’s ready, Mistress. Do you wish to inspect him?”

Hannah smiled. She had been waiting for this moment for a long time. She pictured Peter in a dog crate, knees bruised, hands behind his back. The thought was obscene and beautiful, and she exhaled into the gray afternoon with a faint grin.

She replied, “I’m on my way,” stubbed the cigarette, and began preparing herself for the occasion. She selected her clothes with the precision of an executioner: black jeans, a thermal shirt, and a battered pair of boots that made her feel solid. She slicked her hair back into a tight ponytail and checked the mirror for any sign of uncertainty in her eyes. Finding none, she left the building.

Outside, the sky hung low and colorless. Hannah’s walk across the city was brisk, each step charged with the promise of a kinky spectacle like no other, of revelation. She stopped at a corner store and bought a bottle of wine, unsure if it would be an offering or a prop.

When she reached Peter’s building, a vintage block with echoing halls and the faint smell of chlorine from the basement laundry, she paced herself up the stairs. At the landing outside the front door, she paused, smoothed her shirt, and took two steadying breaths. There was no need to knock; Gabrielle had made the rules, and one of them was that Hannah could enter unannounced. She twisted the doorknob and let herself in.

The apartment had been transformed since the last time she had been there. All the shades were drawn, and every bulb in the living room glowed at its lowest setting, suffusing the space with a viscous, honeyed light. Hannah’s eyes adjusted, and the scene resolved.

Peter was kneeling in the living room, naked but for a black leather collar around his neck, his wrists resting on his thighs. Gabrielle, meanwhile, sat on the couch above him, one booted foot planted to each side of Peter’s shoulders, her latex skirt glistening like wet tar. Her face was serene, almost amused, as she watched her owner from across the room.
Hannah’s smile was carnivorous. She glided into the room, never once acknowledging the battered, trembling boy at her feet. All her attention was on her protégé.

“You did it,” Hannah said. “Was it everything you hoped?”

Gabrielle’s eyes gleamed. “He broke faster than I expected.”

“Did you program him to obey my orders as well?”

“Of course, Mistress.”

Hannah quirked an eyebrow, then turned her gaze to Peter. “Look at me, slave.”

Peter raised his eyes. Whatever residual spark had once lived behind his gaze had been smothered, replaced by a blank, docile devotion. He didn’t even flinch when Hannah took his chin and tilted his head for closer inspection.

“Beautiful,” she murmured. “Just beautiful.”

She released him with a flick of her fingers and moved to the kitchen, gesturing for Gabrielle to follow. Peter stayed where he was, motionless except for the faint tremor in his thighs.

In the kitchen, Hannah poured herself a glass of wine and leaned against the counter, her back to the captive audience in the living room. She and Gabrielle spoke in low, measured voices, as if exchanging secrets at a funeral.

“Did you use the full protocol?” Hannah asked.

Gabrielle nodded. “I started with the reinforcement script, then layered in the visual triggers. By the end of the first day, he was reciting the affirmations without prompting. Direct suggestion, too. He’ll do anything I tell him.”

Hannah’s approval was muted, but unmistakable. “It seems you’re a natural at this. I knew brainwashing you was the right choice.”

Gabrielle looked down, a flush creeping up her neck. “Thank you, Mistress.”

Hannah set her glass aside. “Let’s see what he can do.”

They returned to the living room. Gabrielle strutted to the center of the rug and snapped her fingers. “Present.”

Peter clambered forward, knees scraping the carpet, and kneeled at her feet, hands clasped behind his back. Gabrielle traced a sleek finger along his jaw, then up to his temple, as if appraising the craftsmanship of a new instrument.

“What would you like to see?” Gabrielle asked.

Hannah considered. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, calculating. “Let’s test his devotion.”

Gabrielle’s mouth curled into a fox-like smile. Then, she commanded: “Pet, beg to serve. Tell us what you are.” The syllables bit into the air, ringing with the authority of a judge pronouncing sentence.

Peter’s mouth opened but didn’t quite work at first, as if the machinery had rusted from lack of use. There was a split-second of blue-screened panic in his eyes, and then sheer obedience took the wheel. The words tumbled out, stilted and robotic: “Please let me serve you. Please let me obey. I am nothing without you. I’ll do anything you want.”
Hannah clapped once before adding, “Wonderful! Again.”

Gabrielle didn’t even need to repeat herself. Peter’s body shivered into motion like a Pavlovian dog, spine straight, eyes wide and eager. This time, his voice was less monotone, the desperation a touch more credible: “Please. Please use me. Please punish me. I belong to you.”

Hannah’s smile was all teeth. “He’s perfect,” she said, as if Peter were a well-baked pie or an especially obedient poodle. She turned to Gabrielle, savoring the performance, and found her protégé’s gaze crawling over her like a shadow seeking shelter.

For Gabrielle, every second of Hannah’s attention was a drug, the sweet, corrosive kind that made her veins tingle, and the hair on her arms stand up. She wanted to please. She wanted to impress. She wanted, more than anything, to show that she had learned the lessons Hannah had drilled into her flesh and mind. But when Hannah flicked her hand in a little downward slice, just the briefest signal, a gesture that meant “enough, return to form”, Gabrielle dropped her eyes. It was a submission so fast, so total, that even Peter noticed the way Gabrielle’s shoulders sloped, the way her lips pressed together, the way her whole body seemed to shrink by half an inch, waiting for the next command. He wasn’t the only slave in the room.

Something inside Peter fluttered. It wasn’t quite envy, but it was a cousin to envy: a longing to be controlled as completely as Gabrielle, to understand the elegant choreography of their exchange. But Gabrielle’s subservience to Hannah differed from his: deliberate, practiced, almost beautiful in its self-annihilation. He wondered, in a fuzzy, half-formed way, how his ex-girlfriend had gotten so good at controlling people’s minds.

Hannah studied them both. She knew what she was looking for: the seam where training ended and true devotion began. She wanted to push until the false edge broke away and revealed the raw, bloody core of need beneath. Peter was, as she’d anticipated, a blank slate, glassy-eyed and eager to please, but Gabrielle was the real masterpiece, the one whose mind was still alive, the one who danced at the edge of the abyss without ever falling in.

Hannah turned her attention back to Gabrielle. “I think he’s ready for the next phase, don’t you?”

Gabrielle’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “He is.”

“Good. Then let’s really test what you’ve built, hmm?” Hannah said, her voice silk over steel. She drifted to the couch and sat, crossing her legs at the ankles. “Tell him to worship you.”

Gabrielle acquiesced, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of latex stretched tight over her legs. 

“You heard her,” Gabrielle said, her voice stripped of all ambiguity or warmth. “Worship. Now.”

Peter didn’t hesitate and fell forward with the force of a dropped marionette. He buried his face against the pointed toe of Gabrielle’s right boot. At first, his lips brushed the patent leather as if it were holy scripture, soft and reverent. But then, as if electrified by contact, he escalated: kissing, licking, even trying to mouth the unyielding ridges of the sole. He moved up and down the instep with a dedicated thoroughness, as if cleaning every atom of dust was not just his job, but the purpose for which he had been born.
Gabrielle closed her eyes, head tipped back, lips parted to a near-smile. Her hands traveled slowly up her thighs, feeling the way the latex clung and shifted as she flexed beneath it. It was not a costume, not a persona, but a membrane separating her from the softer, more destructible self inside. Every pass of Peter’s tongue sent a new pulse through her, a ripple of confirmation that she had not JUST absorbed Hannah’s lessons, but already improved upon them.

Hannah watched with dead-serious amusement, the kind that never softened the corners of her mouth but set her eyes glinting in the half-light. She traced a finger around the rim of her wineglass, thinking how perfect this tableau was: Gabrielle, the prodigy, enthroned and radiant; Peter, the sacrificial lamb, lost in the endless liturgy of his own abasement; and herself, the lens through which all their filth and beauty was focused and magnified.

“More,” Hannah prompted, her tone so quiet that it felt like a voice in one’s own head rather than a spoken command.

Gabrielle’s eyelids fluttered. She opened her legs, letting Peter see the full spill of the latex skirt across her upper thighs. He took the cue, crawling upward, mouth now slavering along the zipper of her boot, across the seam at her knee, and finally to the glossy, synthetic hem of her skirt. His breath fogged the latex, leaving brief, cloudy ghosts against the black. He tried to wedge his tongue beneath the edge of the skirt, as if desperate to taste not just the material but Gabrielle herself, some proof of her reality beyond the construct of obedience.

Gabrielle let out a thin, involuntary moan. It was the first sound she’d made since giving the order, and it seemed to surprise her as much as anyone. For an instant, her self-control fractured. She threw her head back and laughed: a bright, savage, and uncontainable sound that echoed off the walls and made Peter flinch in awe.

“Fuck, he’s good!” Gabrielle said. She was now stroking his hair, guiding his mouth with the gentle, possessive firmness of an owner handling a beloved animal. She let herself lean into the sensation, rolling her hips forward just enough to force Peter’s nose up against her, smothering him in scent and synthetic warmth.

For Peter, the experience was almost narcotic. He felt himself dissolving into ecstasy, every twitch and tremor subject to the will of the women above him. There was nowhere for his brain to go but deeper and deeper into obedience.

Hannah was pleased, though pleasure meant something different to her: not satisfaction, but confirmation that her design was working, that each new iteration was more beautiful and more brutal than the last. She watched the feedback loop between Gabrielle and Peter intensify, each act of submission feeding the Domme’s hunger, which amplified the slave’s desperation to please. It was like watching two mirrors reflect each other into infinity.

Peter, emboldened by Gabrielle’s laughter, redoubled his devotion. He hunched closer, hands clasped behind his back, using only his lips and tongue to worship every square inch of boot and thigh he could reach. His eyes were huge and wet, like a dog begging for praise, but he never made eye contact; he was too consumed by the work, too lost in the task to look up.

Gabrielle’s face changed again. She was no longer enjoying the attention, but orchestrating it, conducting Peter’s performance with subtle tugs of his hair, minute shifts of her leg, a tilt of the heel. She was learning something new about herself with every passing second, something she could never have discovered outside of this electric intimacy.

Hannah gave nothing away, but her presence began to loom larger in the room, as if she could command gravity by will. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, then set her wine glass down with a soft click that seemed to echo. She was picturing the scene not just as it was, but as an artifact, an event she could replay and adjust until it was flawless.

At the foot of Gabrielle’s throne, Peter was beginning to shake. The carpet burned his knees, and the taste of latex mixed with the oily tang of boot polish and the faint, human salt of sweat. But he refused to slow down. His tongue flicked out, again and again, desperate and automatic, until the world shrank to the blackness of Gabrielle’s boots and the impossible, unreachable promise that someday he might be allowed to lick her real skin.

The tempo sped up. Gabrielle’s moans grew louder, richer, as if she were being played like an instrument tuned to Hannah’s specifications. Peter, too, began to whimper, a sound so abject and pitiful that it made both women laugh.

Then, Hannah flicked her wrist in a sharp, decisive movement. The change was immediate: Gabrielle froze in place, her hands dropping to her sides. Peter recoiled, withdrawing his tongue and folding in on himself, still on all fours but now inert, as if the animating current had been switched off.

The silence was immense. Gabrielle’s breath came ragged through her nose, and a bead of sweat rolled down her temple. Peter’s face was slick with spit and polish, his mouth ajar as he panted in short, controlled bursts. Every molecule in the room seemed to pause, waiting for what came next.

Hannah leaned forward, her voice low and dangerous. “Gabrielle. Kneel.”

The command hit Gabrielle like a thunderclap, the soundless violence of it rippling through her nerves. There was no hesitation, not even the brief flicker of resistance that sometimes showed in her posture when Hannah tested the limits. Gabrielle’s knees buckled in perfect sync with the word, surrendering her height, her power, and everything that might have separated her from Peter. She dropped beside him, the latex at her knees creasing as she folded. The movement was so fast, so absolute, that even the air seemed to shudder.

“You’ve done well,” Hannah said, and her tone was different now: less the cold, sharp edge of command and more the heat of reward. It was a tone Peter recognized, the one Hannah had used with him in the early days, when she wanted to coax confession or gratitude from her subject. There was a caress in it, a promise of pleasure if only the receiver would continue to comply.

Gabrielle’s shoulders, tensed with adrenaline, quivered at the praise. The sharp rise and fall of her breath slowed, just a little. Her eyes darted upward, searching Hannah’s face for any sign of approval, anything she could hoard for later, like a miser hiding coins under a mattress. She nodded, one, two, three times, a tremor at her jawline betraying the internal war between pride and submission. It was obvious which side was winning.

“But you know what comes next,” Hannah continued, the gentle lilt of her voice now threaded with something darker and more intimate. She didn’t need to say what “next” was; anyone who had ever been in her orbit, even for a minute, could fill in the blanks.

Gabrielle nodded again, a sharper movement this time, and Peter saw the flicker of fear in her gaze. Not terror, but the anticipation of a seasoned performer awaiting her cue from the director—the knowledge that whatever came after this would be more demanding, more humiliating, and more perfect.

Hannah let her gaze sweep over both of them, as if conducting a slow inventory. She saw Peter’s posture, spine furrowed with effort to remain still, shoulders locked in the awkward geometry of willingness. She saw Gabrielle’s hands planted flat on the rug, fingers digging in as if the weave could anchor her to the world. The symmetry of their prostration pleased Hannah more than she could articulate; it was a living diagram of her influence, the two of them side by side, heads bowed, awaiting her will.

“You both belong to me now. Isn’t that right?” Hannah asked.

Gabrielle spoke first. “Yes, Mistress.”

Peter’s lips followed the same path, his “Yes, Mistress,” lost in the muffled air between his face and the floor.

“Good,” Hannah declared. It was her universe now, and the two creatures kneeling before her were its most beautiful ornaments.

She reached out and touched Peter’s temple, her fingertips cool against his heated skin. Something electric passed between them, a momentary spark of recognition that made Peter’s eyes flutter into clarity.

For an instant, a ghost of his former self flickered behind his gaze. He remembered everything. Memories crashed through him like a wave: who he used to be, how he had been brainwashed, the life he’d lost. 

But nothing changed. The moment of clarity dissolved right away, replaced by the same blank, obedient expression. He could remember everything and yet do nothing. The horror of his own powerlessness crushed him back into submission.

“Gabrielle, become my stool,” Hannah ordered.

Without saying a word, Gabrielle adjusted her body. She positioned herself where Hannah wanted to sit, her back forming a perfect human chair. Her spine arched, creating a smooth surface, and her head bowed to avoid making eye contact.

Hannah settled onto Gabrielle’s back, her full weight pressing down. Gabrielle did not move. She had become a mere object, nothing more.

The vindictive woman allowed her eyes to drift to the window. She could see their reflections in the glass, distorted and miniature, forever bound to her whims. The thought made her smile.

“You know,” Hannah mused, reveling in her absolute dominion, but already wanting more. “I bet every single one of your friends would look even better on their knees.”
She couldn’t wait to find out.

The End