Futile Resistance (f/f)

I never liked July in New York: hot and stifling. Although the air conditioning was blasting in the office, the spacious place was almost as warm as a sauna. I took a break from work to take off my favorite and rather expensive jacket and hang it on the back of my chair.

In my hometown of San Francisco, it can be chilly in the summer, and it's easier to sunbathe in a tanning salon than on the beach. But in New York, I found the job I dreamed of, and for the first time, I started earning good money and living without my parents' help.

Mom and Dad are very proud of me and often use me as an example to my two older brothers: one lives on welfare and constantly begs them for money, and the other suffers from gambling addiction and owes his ex-wife alimony.

Compared to them, I seem not just a successful young girl, but also a model daughter: without bad habits, debts and scandals.

All the more terrifying is the thought that if only my parents knew about the desires that have tormented me for many years... it would break their hearts. I would become a black mark in the history of the Bennet family, and my photos would be cut out of all the family albums.

Thinking about this, I involuntarily shuddered, and my fingers froze over the graphic tablet, breaking the line of the drawing.

I know that normal people don't fantasize about such things. It's disgusting and dirty! Sometimes it seems my annoying desires are stronger than me - but I restrain myself, fearing the consequences.

I want another woman to take over me. No, not just that - to humiliate me, force me to obey and follow her orders without question. I imagine myself as her obedient slave, a thing, a nobody.

In my fantasies there are many different women, but one thing is constant - I no longer belong to myself. I am on my knees, leaning right at her feet... Overcoming my repulsion, I kiss the tip of her shoe...

No matter what the order is, in my fantasies I never resist, I just can't. The torture of humiliation goes on and on... until I come to my senses.

"These are just stupid fantasies. You are an ordinary girl, don't ruin your life," I remind myself, once again trying to calm down.

I'm just twenty-three, I got a job as a graphic designer in one of the best companies in New York, I rent a nice apartment - most of my peers haven't achieved even half of my success.

Trade all this for orders and dirty feet of some smug bitch?? I'm not crazy. So I just push these desires deeper.

When I had more free time, I even went to yoga to learn meditation and a special breathing technique. It was not much, but it helped me take control of my inner self.

My train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the cheerful clicking of heels. Only one person in the office walked like that - my boss, Amanda White. She always seemed to be walking on a catwalk, confident and energetic. And no wonder - after all, she was a former "Miss New York" with mind-blowingly long legs.

"Sofia, sweetie, take a break for a minute."

Hearing my name, I looked up from the monitor and met Amanda's gaze.

She was only three years older than me. Thick blond hair, blue eyes, beautiful full lips, always painted with rich dark pink lipstick... Amanda tried to look older and more respectable, wore strict suits that only emphasized her slender figure and thin waist.

My colleague secretly whispered to me that Amanda is the mistress of Adam Walter, the head of the company. She could have lived comfortably, bathing in the money of her rich protégé, but she persuaded Adam to give her a position.

After working with Amanda for several months, I came to the conclusion that this frivolous and talkative girl really likes to command everyone - from the staff to the delivery guys.

She always sweetly called me "sweetie" or "doll", as if trying to show her status.

Most of her work "orders" could be safely ignored and done in your own way. Amanda did not know the difference between a "mood board" and a "mind map", and in general had a vague idea about graphic design.

"Miss White, would you like to see the sketches of the exhibition stand?" I looked up at Amanda, noticing her slightly confused look.

"Yes, sweetie, that's exactly why I'm here," Amanda lied immediately, pushing a strand of hair off her forehead with a grin. "The client is a good friend of Adam's... I mean, Mr. Walter's. I want everything to be done in the best possible way."

"Of course, Ms. White, I won't let you down," I answered with a memorized phrase and turned the monitor slightly.

No matter how incompetent she was, Amanda still was my boss. Her attitude was the key to me keeping my job. I never let her feel stupid in my presence.

I don't know if she likes me as an employee, but on my first day at work, Amanda told me I was very beautiful - and if it weren't for my height, I could walk with her on the best catwalk in New York.

I was very embarrassed then and answered something mumbling, causing her to burst into laughter.

Amanda walked around and stood behind me, leaning slightly against the back of the chair. The way my boss was hovering over me, almost encircling, was causing me some bad thoughts, but I pushed them away and focused on my work.

"Hmm, very well done," Amanda praised me, finally tired of staring at the screen, "I'll expect the final sketch on Monday."

"Okay, Ms. White. If there are any edits, I'll stay late at work and redo everything."

"You're so smart, Sofia," she laughed indulgently and finally moved away, continuing to talk about how important this project was for the company's reputation.

I looked down and froze. My light beige jacket made of thin silk was lying on the floor, and Amanda's foot, wearing patent leather high-heeled shoe, was standing right on it!

Resentment and indignation immediately boiled up inside me. Did she do it on purpose?! Or didn't she see how someone else's thing fell right in front of her?

Amanda stepped back from the chair and finally noticed her mistake.

"Oh, Sophia, is this yours?" she asked without a trace of regret, removing her foot only after a few seconds. "Be careful with your things, sweetie."

Of course, it wasn't a tragedy for her. The former supermodel probably has dozens of closets with clothes. She wouldn't even notice if one of them was damaged, and I was always very careful with my belongings.

"Yes, I'm sorry, ma'am," I muttered, feeling an overwhelming urge to punch her across her well-groomed, smug face. "I'll be more careful."

"Looks like you'll have to take it to the dry cleaners," she said casually as she headed to the door.

Her dismissive tone made me feel even more hurt, but the anger was almost gone. I clutched the fabric of my jacket and exhaled quietly, calming down.

"You're right, Miss White, but it's my own fault I dropped it," I answered quickly, smiling tensely, but inside I was cursing myself for my softness and obvious lie.

Amanda didn't say anything, just giggled and walked away, clicking her heels.

I stared at the dark imprint of her shoe on my jacket for some time, at one point catching myself on a strange desire to press my cheek against it. Finally, I drove away the stupid thoughts, moved closer to the table and got back to work.

***

In the evening, I returned to my small but cozy apartment overlooking the bustling streets of Bedford Avenue and a coffee shop that served the best vegan desserts in Brooklyn.

I turned on the coffee machine and lay down on the couch for a moment, suddenly realizing that I had been clutching the ruined jacket in my hands the entire time. I should have taken it to the dry cleaners downstairs, but instead I unfolded the jacket and saw the graceful imprint of Amanda's shoe again. I remembered how her beautiful foot stood on the jacket, crushing the delicate fabric.

I suddenly imagined that instead of a jacket, there was my hand under Amanda's shoes, roughly pressed to the floor...

Closing my eyes, I tried to recreate this scene in the smallest detail.

I'm kneeling naked, not daring to cover myself with my hands because Amanda has forbidden me. I look up at her in shame as she sits comfortably in the chair, crossing her divine long legs. She finds it funny that my nipples are sticking out and my knees are shaking, although it's all because of the cold air, of course.

"Show me how happy you are," she commands in her deceptively gentle voice and smiles.

I bend down so low before Amanda that my lips are pressed to the tip of her shoe, and my ass is sticking up. In this servile position, I tenderly cover the shoe with kisses, and when Amanda lifts the toe slightly off the floor, I bend even more and kiss the sole as well.

I can't see her face, but Amanda is swinging her leg slightly from side to side, causing my lips to slide across the smooth sole of her shoe. Her other leg is pressing my right palm to the floor, lightly at first.

"Have you forgotten what you need to say, sweetie?"

"Thank you," I say, my voice hoarse from the tears welling up. "Thank you for letting me, Ms. White..."

Amanda chuckles and pushes her foot forward, forcing me to wrap my lips around the toe of her shoe. A disgruntled groan escapes my throat, and the pressure on my palm increases as punishment.

Almost feeling this pain in reality, I suddenly opened my eyes and realized that I was pressing my jacket to my face - there were even traces of a dusty print on my cheek and lips.

I threw my jacket angrily into the far corner and stood up. I was shaking slightly from the overwhelming emotions: self-loathing, fear, shame...

This little incident at the office has reawakened desires that I have been suppressing for years. I gave in to them for a while, and now I feel terrible.

Frustrated, I went to the bathroom to wash my face with cold water.

"What's wrong with you?!" I asked, looking at my reflection in the mirror, clenching my fingers into a fist. "Really, what's wrong??"

I didn't even like Amanda, that arrogant bitch. Why did I even fantasize about that with her? How disgusting...

I frowned at my face. Big green eyes, "sad fawn eyes," as my ex had said. A small but plump mouth. Dark long hair below my shoulders. Amanda wasn't the only one who called me "doll," although that nickname always irritated me. With such an appearance, you don't have to be afraid of loneliness. Finding someone is easy. But I...

My attempts to start a serious relationship ended in failure. I always thought that I was bad at choosing men - I got bored quickly, I felt dissatisfied, I got irritated over trifles... As if something was missing.

But the problem wasn't with men, it was with me. What I really wanted was unacceptable and disgusting. To let someone trample me, humiliate me morally and physically, make me hers... How would this affect my life, my work, my future?!

"I will never let this happen," I promised my reflection in the mirror. "I will cope and live a normal life."

I couldn't help but lick my lips, tasting the dust--I hadn't wiped the imprint off my face. I cursed quietly and turned on the water to finally wash my face.

***

On Monday, as promised, I sent the final sketch for review and waited for the result.

Amanda didn't like when any of the workers sat around doing nothing, even if they had a free minute, so during the break everyone tried hard to pretend being busy.

Funny guy Tommy Johnson sneakily treated my neighbor to a chocolate bar - Liv and I were sitting at tables opposite each other. When I'm nervous, I always want something sweet, but I was too shy to ask for a piece.

Will Amanda approve my first serious work for the company? Or will she bombard me with a bunch of edits just to show her fake "professionalism"?

While I was already angry at my boss for her non-existent nitpicking, I could at least not think about her legs.

I was distracted from my worries by our new secretary, Rachel, whom Tommy jokingly nicknamed "Miss Quota." A beautiful black girl with ample breasts and a butt that involuntarily caught the eye, she walked between the tables with a large cup of coffee.

"Morning latte for Miss White," I guessed.

At that moment, Liv suddenly stood up from her seat - apparently to throw the candy bar wrapper into the trash - and collided with Rachel.

They both let out a loud yelp, and the cup fell out of the secretary's hands - right on Liv.

Liv was lucky that Amanda had been drinking a latte mixed with heavy cream - she didn't burn herself, but her blue blouse was hopelessly ruined. Ugly dark stains were spreading across the light fabric, blatantly outlining her bra.

Looking at Liv's confusion, I felt sorry for her.

"Oh, Liv, I'm so sooorry," Rachel said, not looking particularly sorry. "You stood up so suddenly, I was scared."

Did it just seem to me, or the cup fell out of Rachel's hands in a too cartoonish way?

But how could I prove anything? Besides, the management wouldn't like complaints about "Miss Quota" - our HR manager was already almost accused of racial discrimination.

The colleagues were talking and quietly giggling, watching this awkward scene. If I were Liv, I would already be burning with shame, not knowing where to hide from other people's glances. Everything would end the same way as in the case with Amanda - I would apologize, taking all the blame on myself.

But the subsequent dialogue between Rachel and Liv shocked me.

"It's okay, I didn't notice you either," Liv muttered, annoyed. "I need some napkins, anyone?"

"I was bringing coffee for Amanda, she'll be mad if she doesn't get it," Rachel interrupted, smiling at Liv.

She stared at the secretary in confusion.

"Run for a new one, dear," Rachel explained condescendingly, looking at Liv as if she were an ignorant child.

"Me?" Liv's voice was filled with poorly concealed resentment.

"Well, yeah. I have a lot of work to do, and because of you, I have less time."

Liv blushed deeply.

Of course, it was Rachel's fault, let alone Liv was a valuable employee, and Rachel was just a secretary. But Liv couldn't say that outright, and Rachel knew it. She stood in front of tiny, fragile Liv, like a cobra in front of a rabbit, and waited.

Before my eyes, Liv's shoulders slumped, as if Rachel had crushed her with just one look.

With my heart pounding, I watched as Liv obediently walked across the floor to the drinks machine, catching the puzzled looks of her colleagues as they examined her blouse.

While Liv ran out to get coffee, I noticed Rachel just sitting at the table outside Amanda's office, glued to her phone.

"Miss Quota is a real bitch," Tommy whispered quietly to me, handing over the borrowed stapler.

I could only nod silently in response.

Rachel had bullied Liv into submission and proved that title meant nothing. She accepted the new coffee as if she had won the race.

I kept stealing glances at Liv: I saw how her expression changed over the next hour, from irritated to offended, almost tearful.

Because of what happened, I barely reacted to the fact that my work was accepted without edits, and I could avoid working overtime.

I thought about Rachel's provocative behavior the entire way home. I even took the subway on purpose, so that the irritation of the bustle and the sweaty passengers would push out other thoughts. But it achieved the opposite effect...

At first, I came up with sassy phrases, putting the impudent Rachel in her place.

"You're getting paid to do this, so just do your job."

"Ask Amanda for extra money for your second latte."

"My dry cleaning will cost you more than a new cup of coffee, Rachel."

But soon all these sharp phrases were drowned in a stream of incoherent fantasies. Without noticing it, I began to imagine how Rachel could humiliate me in the office.

For example, make me take off my ruined blouse and walk around like that in front of my laughing colleagues. And then order me to get on my knees and crawl down the hall to the vending machine, listening to me sobbing from humiliation...

Oh my God, I'm thinking about it again!

Enraged, I abruptly ran out of the carriage, hearing the doors clang behind me. I walked the rest of the way home on foot.

It scared me that I began to think about such things much more often than before. Usually I managed to push these frightening desires deeper for a long time.

What if things only get worse?

I wouldn't want to end up like my distant cousin Peggy, who took antidepressants her whole life and died alone. She was a lesbian, but because of pressure from her very religious family, she never had the courage to have a relationship with another woman, she hated herself and tried to commit suicide several times.

For the first time, I seriously thought that I should at least try to realize my strange fantasies.

Sometimes, if you really want something, you only need to try it once. Reality will diverge greatly from your fantasies, and will kill all their appeal.

Even trembling with shame and fear because of my thoughts, I still couldn't really feel the pain or the taste of some girl's feet -- otherwise I would have definitely come to my senses.

The closer I got to Bedford Avenue, the more determined I became.

"If I give in to my desires once, they will disappear," I seemed to be convincing myself. "I will understand that this was a huge mistake, and I will never want to even think about submitting to someone again."

I just wasn't sure how to bring my plans to life.

Ask someone I know? Go to Queens, where there are plenty of brothels and local whores brazenly pester passersby?

I didn't have any friends to ask about this. And I didn't want to tell them about this part of my life. If people found out what a pervert I was, how could I live my life in peace?

"So, then I should go to prostitutes," I decided.

But of course I didn't go to Queens. I wouldn't have had the courage to approach a woman and directly ask her to humiliate me. Besides, someone I knew might see me on my way to the brothel.

The ideal option was to call a prostitute to my home.

The prostitutes won't tell about our meeting, and maybe they won't be surprised by my request. At least, that's what I hoped.

When I got home, I put dinner in the microwave and sat cross-legged on the sofa, picking up my smartphone. My fingers froze over the screen.

I had no idea how to choose a prostitute. What if I call scammers? Or get beaten up and robbed?

I completely forgot about dinner, immersed in studying websites and reviews. Having memorized several numbers, I got down to the main thing.

The first on the list was some "Mistress Violet" - a gorgeous busty brunette with gray eyes. According to the profile, she loved to dominate in bed and promised to "completely suppress your will and bring to exhaustion." Impressed and at the same time frightened by this phrase, I dialed her number.

As soon as Violet heard my timid voice, she answered rudely:

"I don't work with women!"

And the beeps sounded...

I bit my lip in frustration. This was kind of expected - the questionnaire didn't mention women clients... But I didn't need sex!

"Just give me a chance to explain," I muttered irritably, dialing the second number.

"Catherine here," a velvety voice reached me. "What can I do for you?"

"Y-you... I want to ask you to..."

"Wait," I was rudely interrupted again, "Are you ordering for yourself?"

"Yes," I answered hastily, "But I don't need..."

"Honey, call me when you grow up a dick!" all the velvetiness disappeared from Catherine's voice, she snorted and hung up.

I even started to get angry. Does absolutely everyone in New York act like the center of the universe?

I thought the humiliation would remain within the framework of their professional activities, when we were alone and discussed everything, but these bitches started humiliating me over the phone call!