I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and I see it. The end of my independence.
I see it in the trembling of my lips, the sweat pearling my forehead. I've always maintained I had no problem with alcohol, no issue at all. That I could always choose when to stop, I only did it on my terms, it didn't control me.
Now, with Chris and her foot-enforced sobriety, I'm... finding it harder and harder to say that with a straight face.
I get constant, lancing headaches that pound against my temples. My heart refuses to slow down. My stomach bugs me -- more than just a mere annoyance, for a chef -- and my sleeping is troubled. I'm... detoxing. It's my body's sweaty, energy-sapping, humiliating way of proving that I was wrong, no, that I was full of shit.
Just in case the fact that this sobriety is enforced by my raging foot fetish wasn't humiliating enough...
All of this, and more, is unmistakable from my reflection. Pale and sleep-deprived, trembling and insecure. I look like a broken girl, gently but firmly reined in and brought to heel by my newly dominant girlfriend. She's doing all this to make me better, she says, but somehow I feel like better in this case doesn't just mean sober.
It means lesser.
Was I always too much? Is it a good thing, if there's less of me? Less exhuberance, less ambition, less brooding melancholy and cold rage, less... everything? I don't want to believe that. Then again, I did surrender to Chris, unconditionally surrender, so maybe part of me already believes that.
Maybe that's what I've always needed. For someone stronger to pin me to the ground, and force me to confront my own bullshit. To get chisel and scalpel, and begin the excavation of my personality... removing all the bad parts, and leaving back only the good. A smaller Nicole, in every sense of the world.
A better Nicole.
My cheeks blush, and I look away from the mirror, though there's no mistaking the warm tingling between my legs. The key to my downfall, apparently. I mean, Chris has essentially made me choose between my long-time addiction to alcohol, and my growing addiction to her soft, pretty, regal feet.
Says a lot about me that the choice was obvious from the start...
At work, my reputation as the hardass bitch who's always in the zone is beginning to suffer. I'm clumsy, distracted, and most of all... embarrassed. They don't know my true motivations for doing all of this, and if they did, they'd think I'm fucking pathetic.
When I told them I was quitting alcohol, stone cold, some of the guys patted me on the back. Others are clearly unimpressed. Not such a butch after all, is what they must be thinking. What both groups have in common, though, is that they no longer fear me.
Why should they? Apparently, I'm easily conquered... The mirror testifies to that. There's more than the signs of alcohol withdrawal, staring back at me in my reflection.
Normally, when I'm not at work, I always dress in baggy, unrevealing, neutral clothing. Goth-ish stuff on occasion, if I'm feeling fancy. Butch, and practical.
That... doesn't work for Chris. Her snorts and giggles as she's slowly but unmistakably beginning to femme me up go straight to my clit. Skirts and blouses, black stockings and underwire bras... ballerinas, or outrageously pink sneakers, in place of boots.
It's subtle, really. She's not exactly slutting me up, as she's threatened to do on several occasions. I still look professional.
It's just...
It may be a quiet statement, but it's a firm statement nonetheless. That she's taken me in hand, that I'm going to be guided, that her reins steer me now. I'm honestly not even sure why she's making me look more feminine, but I don't get to question her motives. Not anymore.
Not if I want her to stay in my life... and her feet to stay in my face.
Even this modest feminisation of my work attire has a devastating impact on my already-teetering reputation. Do you know what it's like, being a woman in an environment like this? For years, I have fought tooth and nail to be seen as, well, just a chef. Not a piece of meat. And now, I'm -- what? Dressing like a waitress?
There's no mistaking the lingering stares of my male colleagues. Nor the casually dismissive tone in some of their conversations with me.
I wonder what they think of my mortal embarrassment, when my phone inevitably buzzes at the end of a shift, and I go red like a pepper, staring at a photo of my girlfriend's feet.
"They really, really miss your ministrations," she usually says, or something along those lines. "Home. Now."
And of course, I always obey.
No more beers with the guys after work, no more lewd jokes, no more shitty karaoke nights, and no more staying back and being a workaholic, either. Instead, I run back to my girlfriend at a snap of her fingers, like a well-trained puppy.
Completely pussy-whipped into submission, is my colleagues' silent diagnosis, I know. They're almost right, though. I suppose I'm foot-whipped, instead...
Once I get home, it's like a whole new work shift begins. I kneel before Chris, and tend to her needs; I do all the chores, and the cooking, and the grocery shopping, and then, I shove my face right where it belongs, in-between her feet.
Under Chris's watchful gaze, I am forced to confront my demons. She uses my foot fetish as a weapon, a tool to control me. The sight of her bare feet is a constant reminder that I'm under her rule. I'm getting pavlovianly conditioned. This much exposure is driving me crazy, to the point that I can barely remember a time when "having a girlfriend" was something that did not revolve around my slavish adoration of her feet.
The mere idea of a lesbian couple where the weaker girl does not bow to the stronger seems completely absurd to me, now. That's how fucked up I am.
As I kneel at her feet, massaging and worshipping them, Chris looks down at me. Six months ago, I wouldn't really have recognised, or been able to place, the smile she's directing at me. Now, I see it almost every day. It's the mildly sadistic, and definitely cathartic, joy of her triumph; of the domestication of her girlfriend.
"That's got to be better than any alcohol, isn't it?" she purrs, her voice a mixture of seduction and command. "Though it gets you just as drunk and stupid, doesn't it, Nicky? Come on. Go stupid for my feet..."
I nod fervently, her foot pressing against my lips. It's true, isn't it? I had a choice, and I chose feet. Surely that means she's right? From the outside, you'd think that I really shouldn't complain: I've got what I wanted, and my life is a foot fetish bonanza right now.
Every minute I spend at home seems to revolve around my girlfriend's feet, somehow. I cradle them, massage them, shower them in kisses, gently lap at the soft soles and smooth ankles like a devoted pet. I warmly cushion her toes between my lips. I only get to cum when she presses them between my legs... and that, usually, after a prolonged torture of edging and begging.
