Crawling Back Ch 04

Chapter 4 - The Shackles Of The Self

Lucy is angry.

One may wonder how I know that. After all, I'm curled up naked under her desk, exhausted by hours of slavish chores. I can't even see her, since one of her socked feet is triumphantly draped over my eyes as she rocks back and forth in her gaming chair.

The other, of course, is firmly lodged in my mouth.

Still, I know my ex-girlfriend well enough that I can tell, in my gut, when she's angry. I can tell by how aggressively she's tapping on the screen of my smartphone, ignoring the videogame she was playing until moments ago. I can tell by the sharp hitch in her breath and the huffing sounds she occasionally makes.

And of course, I love her deeply enough that I'd do anything to calm her displeasure, to win even the smallest shred of approval. To get confirmation that I'm on the path of atonement, and I'll get to be her girlfriend again some day.

Lucy shifts above me, her foot pressing harder against my forehead as she leans back in her chair. With the motion, she idly wiggles her toes in my mouth with the other foot, and I flinch at the sensation. The fabric of her sock is damp with sweat, and I can feel the rough texture scraping against my tongue.

She's been wearing these socks for days, and the smell is overwhelming. It falls on me to clean them by sucking all the sweat out.

Don't mistake this for sex, she told me when she had me crawl under here. It's understandable why she'd tell me that. What with my naked body, and all, one might think... but no: I'm not her girlfriend after all, and I have no right to sexual contact with her.

Don't mistake this for sex: this is laundry.

I hollow my cheeks and suck, suck, suck. There's a mindless peace to it. I can just lie here and siphon every drop of foot sweat out of my ex-girlfriend's socks, while she idly rifles through the eroticized ruins of my social media life. Of my reputation.

No thinking, no responsibilities, no input, no decisions. Just being her sock-washer and letting her do whatever she wants to my life.

Is there anything more surrendery than that?

Lucy returns her attention to my phone, her fingers tapping angrily. I wonder what she's looking at, but I don't dare to ask. The suspense gnaws at me, but I know better than to interrupt her when she's in a mood like this.

She pauses, and for a moment I hope that she's finished with whatever is upsetting her. But then she lets out a derisive snort and mutters something under her breath. I brace myself for the explosion, for the verbal lashing that will surely come, but it doesn't.

Instead, she stretches, her body arching in a way that momentarily lifts her foot from my forehead.

The reprieve is short-lived. She settles back into her chair, her foot coming down with a thud on my head. Then, failing to contain her frustration any longer, she finally speaks up.

"You were banned from this site, too."

Ah. That's why she's angry. That's not exactly surprising, given the content she's been posting in my name...

"Your friends are such losers, you know? All I've done is make your social media presence much more honest. Everyone now knows how you feel about me, and what you're doing to make it up to me for your disgusting behavior. You're living out your slave lifestyle in public. And yet they keep reporting you."

I want to say something, anything that will win me a little validation from Lucy, but I can't. I have an important job, sucking the sweat out of her sock. All I can do is flop my tongue uselessly against the foot invading my mouth.

It's hard to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach as I imagine what she's been posting on my social media accounts.

I've seen glimpses, of course. There are photos of me on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor in a cocktail dress I bought for an anniversary with her. My hair is perfectly done up, my makeup flawless. I look ready to step into a limo with my arm around a stunning girl. Instead, I'm her sexy little maid.

There are videos of me worshipping her feet, thanking her for the privilege of being her slave.

Even my professional profiles haven't been spared. My JobHunt profile now features an avatar of me in my graduation dress (a gift from my parents), hand-washing Lucy's grimy floor while her foot rests daintily above my neck. Like she's a huntress posing with her prey.

The caption reads 'Aspiring girlfriend interning in hopes of earning a future role.'

"The one redeeming thing that can be said about them is that they post funny comments sometimes," Lucy says from above. "Look at this one. It's from some guy named Leonard, no clue who the fuck that is. Must be some 'friend' you made after you broke up with me."

She clears her throat and starts reading.

"Bruh, imagine reaching this level of simp lmao. Get therapy. And they say dudes are the ones who get desperate."

As much as the comment makes me squirm like a worm pinned underfoot, it makes Lucy giggle with such pure joy. "That's harsh! But hey, it's not like he's wrong." She glances down at me with that smirk that always makes me feel like I'm about to be punished. "You are desperate, aren't you?"

I make a muffled noise around her foot--something between a whimper and a whine--but Lucy doesn't seem to care. She resumes her scrolling, and the angry tapping, and the huffing.

To fight off the ban wave, she's recently started to make original content, so to speak. Now, a lot of my chores are filmed and uploaded in video format, under the guise of a channel advocating for a "trad homemaking lesbian lifestyle". There's only one video that doesn't prominently feature chores...

Just thinking about that makes me squirm feebly under Lucy's feet. In preparation for that video, she'd been especially cruel and distant to for days, leaving me groveling at her feet, pleading for just one sniff, one taste of her. When she finally relented, shoving her foot in my face, I broke down sobbing in pathetic gratitude.

And of course, she filmed the whole thing. Posted it for the world to see, with the title: "How to turn your ex-girlfriend into your dog."

The thought of that moment, my lowest point, being broadcast to everyone I know makes me want to curl up and die from humiliation. But even that escape is denied to me. Lucy won't let me hide. She wants me exposed, wants everyone to witness my debasement.

These additions give Lucy an additional outlet to humble and chastise me, but they don't really make up for the ban wave. And she's angry about it.

"Well, if your friends refuse to accept who you are, I guess I really am the only person in your life. No wonder you came crawling back like a spineless worm. No wonder you let me treat you like this."

She taps her right foot against my forehead, while twisting the left foot deeper into my mouth. Then, she lifts her right foot in the air, withdrawing it from my forehead. She briefly holds it aloft, as if she's contemplating what to do with it.

Then, her foot finally comes down... and lands squarely between my spread thighs, against my traitorously wet cunt.

Oh.

A jolt of electricity shoots through me, and I gasp around the obstruction in my mouth. My hips have a mind of their own, bucking slightly against her foot in a pathetic, instinctual response.

It's not the first time Lucy's done this to me lately, but she's repeatedly warned me that it may well be the last if I start to get weird, funny ideas.

This isn't sex. It's laundry. She's just using my cunt juices to get her sock wet, so I'll have something else beyond foot sweat to suck out of it...

She starts to apply pressure, slowly, deliberately, grinding her heel into me with a measured force. It's the physical iteration of the same pressure she's been using on me, to bring me to my knees in every aspect of my life. She gets to do it because she can, because I love her, because I need her more than I need air...

"You're so predictable," she says, almost sighing. "I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. You're pathetic. In spite of what you told your friends, I was never abusive towards you, but I should have been. Look at you! You deserve it. You're so lucky you fell into my clutches and not those of a meaner girl..."

I can't suppress the moan that vibrates around her other foot, still lodged deep in my throat. The dual sensations of degradation and arousal swirl sickeningly in my stomach.

As Lucy's toes wiggle and flex, teasing the back of my throat, realization sinks in like a stone -- she's done it. She's really, truly done it. Lucy has destroyed me socially, dismantled my entire support system and isolated me completely.

The friends I've known for years, the ones who stood by me through thick and thin... they've all seen me now as I really am. Debased. Humiliated. Enslaved. How can I ever face them again after they witnessed my lowest moments broadcast for all to see? The shame is suffocating.

I'll never be able to hold down a real job, either, not after disseminating the internet with this type of content.

She's cut me off from everyone and everything. Methodically, sadistically, she's chipped away at every possible component of a hypothetical support network. And why not? A support network is what enabled me to break up with her the first time.

I had no right to do that. To deny her authority over my life. It's my fault that she has to destroy it now. She has to make sure I'm incapable of making boneheaded decisions like that again.

I have nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. Lucy is all I have left. She owns me, body and soul, and we both know it.

Bizarrely, there's some comfort in that idea... so what if Lucy is the only person in my life? I need her. If she wants a monopoly on me, it means she plans to stick around, and so long as I have her, what else do I need in life?

Maybe she's destroying my life because she really does want to be my girlfriend again, when she judges me ready.

That makes sense, doesn't it? Why else make sure I can't ever leave her, unless she plans to get back together with me?

A broken whimper escapes around her foot as it plunges deeper, choking me.

My hips roll shamelessly against the sole grinding into my needy cunt.

I shudder as Lucy's foot rubs back and forth against my sopping pussy, the rough fabric of her sock creating a delicious friction that has me whimpering around the foot stuffed down my throat. My hips undulate of their own accord, grinding shamelessly against her sole, desperate for more stimulation.

Lucy chuckles darkly above me. "Stupid dog. You're actually getting off on this, aren't you? Being used as my personal foot slave, having your entire life ruined and remodeled to apologize for breaking up with me. You're so easy, Marina. Not that I'm complaining."

She punctuates her words with a particularly forceful thrust of her foot, the toes wiggling at the back of my throat and making me gag. Drool leaks from the corners of my stretched mouth, dribbling down my chin to pool on the floor beneath me. My eyes roll back as the dual sensations of degradation and pleasure overwhelm me.

Lucy keeps up her relentless grinding, the ball of her foot pressing insistently against my throbbing clit. The obscene wet sounds of her violating me fill the room, mingling with my muffled moans and the occasional click of my phone's camera. She's documenting every humiliating second of my debasement.

"I want you to cum for me, Marina. "Cum all over my foot like the pathetic slut you are. Show me how much you need me, how badly you want to be my girlfriend again. Beg me not to take that away from you."

Her words send me hurtling towards the edge. I feel the pressure building low in my belly, my inner walls starting to flutter and clench around nothing. My world narrows to nothing but sensation -- the sour taste of Lucy's foot on my tongue, the steady pressure against my swollen clit, the burn of humiliation in my cheeks.

And then, with a broken cry that vibrates around the foot in my mouth, I'm cumming, my body convulsing and shaking as wave after wave of sick, shameful pleasure crashes over me. Lucy doesn't let up, continuing to grind mercilessly against my spasming sex, wringing every last ounce of degrading ecstasy from my body.

Through the post-orgasmic haze, I'm vaguely aware of the phone pointed at me. Lucy is capturing it all -- my tear-streaked face, her foot in my throat, the threadbare fabric of her worn socks being dipped in my cunt juices...

"Perfect," she says, sounding immensely satisfied. "Gonna add that one to the collection."

"Mmphh?" I make a questioning noise around the foot stuffed in my mouth, my brow furrowing in confusion at Lucy's words. Collection? What collection?

Lucy looks down at me, a smug smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She seems to relish my bewilderment, letting the anticipation build before she withdraws her left foot from my mouth.

I gasp for air, my jaw aching from being stretched wide for so long. Strands of drool hang obscenely from my lips, connecting me to her drenched sock. But I don't have long to catch my breath.

Lucy presents her other foot to me, the one that had been rubbing against my soaked pussy just moments ago. The gray fabric of the sock is noticeably darker at the toes and ball, stained with my arousal.

"Clean it," she commands simply, wiggling her toes expectantly.

My cheeks burn with humiliation, but I don't hesitate. I've learned better than that by now. Obediently, I lap at her sock a few times, then open my mouth and take her foot inside.

The taste of my own juices mingles with the sour musk of Lucy's sweat, creating a flavor that is uniquely degrading. I hollow my cheeks and suck, my tongue working to lap up every drop of the shameful evidence of my arousal. The texture of the damp sock is gross, thrice-damp now that my spit is being added to the mix, but there's no arguing with Lucy.

After all, she has won.

A part of me wonders if my friends will watch this video, too...

Perhaps they'll share it among themselves, commenting on how far I've fallen, how unrecognizable I've become. Will any of them feel pity for me, or will they simply wash their hands of the girl who used to be happy, radiant, popular?

Lucy sighs contentedly above me, flexing her toes against my tongue as I diligently clean her sock. "Good girl," she says, and I can't suppress the pathetic thrill that courses through me at her words.

It's going to end me, how much I crave her approval, her validation. Even now, with the taste of my own squirt in my mouth and my entire life in shambles around me, I'm still desperate for any scrap of affection she'll toss my way.

Lucy allows me to continue my foot worshipping for a few more moments before she apparently decides I've cleaned her sock thoroughly enough. She pulls her foot from my mouth, trailing saliva and the remnants of my juices across my chin as she does.

After a beat of silence, Lucy speaks. "The collection," she says, and there's a note of dark amusement in her voice that makes my stomach clench with dread, "is something special I've been working on for you."

I risk a glance up at her, my brow furrowed in confusion. Lucy is looking down at me, her eyes glinting.

"Well, since your little friends keep reporting your accounts and getting you banned, I've come up with a solution," she says, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "We're going to start a new account for you on an NSFW subscription platform. Somewhere your devoted fans can really appreciate the new lifestyle you've embraced."

My eyes widen in shock and I make a muffled noise of protest around her foot, but Lucy just grinds down harder, silencing me with the sheer force of her heel against my clit.

"Don't worry, it's perfect for a naughty girl like you," she continues, her eyes gleaming with sadistic glee. "You can post all the humiliating, degrading content you want, and no one will bat an eye. In fact, they'll pay to see more of it."

No. No no no. This can't be happening. She's going to... whore me out? Digitally, at least? She's forcibly turning me into a sex worker...

But then again, it's not like I can get a real job anymore... she's been putting me on display already, might as well do it professionally, right?

Right?

"Look, I've already set up your account," Lucy says, turning the screen towards me. "Foot-Dog Marina. Catchy, isn't it?"

She's used my real name.

"We'll post daily updates of your training," Lucy continues, her voice taking on a businesslike tone as if she's discussing a simple social media strategy and not the total annihilation of my dignity. "Photos of you scrubbing the floors in your little cocktail dresses, videos of you choking on my feet, maybe even before/after photos of my socks after you've sucked them clean. Your fans will eat it up."

She pauses, tapping a finger against her chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Oh, and of course, all the money you earn will go directly to me. Consider it another part of your ongoing penance. A way to make yourself useful since you're clearly incapable of anything else."

That's when, unexpectedly, my body ambushes me for a second time.

Lucy watches me with a mixture of contempt and triumph as my body convulses in a pathetic, whimpering orgasm. She doesn't move to help or comfort me; she simply observes as I become unwound beneath her.

In this moment, I understand something profound and horrifying about myself: I really do deserve this. I'm a pitiful, defeated creature. I should have been kissing the ground Lucy walks on from day one, instead of resisting her at every step and then daring to cut her off from my life. I deserve all of this, and worse, until I've paid my debt to her and I can be her submissive girlfriend for as long as she'll have me.

I cum, my eyes rolling back into my skull, and internally, I accept it.

I accept it all.

* * *

There is a simplicity to my days.

I clean and cook and serve and suck. I fetch groceries, I act as a footrest, I beg and lick. Lucy's whims dictate the exact share of each ingredient in the recipe, day after day, but there's a mindless predictability to it...

Which is why change, when it comes about, immediately alarms me. Like now.

Lucy wants me to really, really, really clean her place from top to bottom this time.

I've been slaving away at her domestic chores since I first begged her to take me back, that's nothing new. But my daily chores have always been about maintaining the status quo -- washing the dishes Lucy uses, doing the laundry she dirties, scrubbing the floors she treads on with her grimy socks.

Even with a dedicated live-in servant, Lucy's apartment is still a mess. My maid work is barely enough to keep up with her lifestyle.

But this... this is something else entirely. What's different this time is the scale.

Now, she wants a deep, thorough cleaning of absolutely everything. All the buildup of grime in every corner of the place, which has likely accumulated for years. All the copious dust gathered on furniture she barely uses. All the backlog of pizza boxes, soda cans, and crumpled chip bags in her room. Piles of laundry from who knows when that are still unwashed.

She wants me to do it, and so of course I'll do it. I'm her aspiring girlfriend, after all.

I'm her slave. I've used that word myself.

But what really freaks me out is the why.

Lucy is a creature of habit, and she's comfortable with being a slob. Having her own maid is usually enough for her. Why does she suddenly want this place to be spotless?

The question gnaws at me as I scrub and scour every surface with a single-minded determination. I'm dressed in one of my cocktail dresses, as per Lucy's standing orders. The fabric clings uncomfortably to my sweat-slicked skin as I huff and puff my way through the herculean task.