Love Letter To My Conqueror

Love Letter To My Conqueror

Emilia is my conqueror, and I love her for it.

And she's just gotten married.

Don't get the wrong idea: I've been perfectly composed, ever since receiving the invitation to hers and Paolo's wedding. It's been four years since the last sidelong glances we've shared, the quiet whispers, the tender foot massages I offered Emilia in a dark room while she contemplated me and talked about the future.

I know she's not interested in me anymore, and just because I can't get over my love for her, that shouldn't ruin the atmosphere of her wedding. It was my problem, not hers.

So I bravely sat and stood through it all, smiling and cheering and laughing, even though my heart broke a little every time. Seeing her in person again was harder than expected.

That clever twinkle in her eyes, that smile that lights up a room... I love it, but it's a cruel, cruel smile. Fittingly so, for a cruel conqueror.

The hardest part wasn't even the wedding. It was being a guest in their new home for a few days, watching the preparations at a remove, like looking through a glass at the life I could have had. Each time after dinner, I would wish them both a good night, and then go lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Never have I felt more alone, or emptier, than in those moments. I might as well have been drifting in dark space, in-between galaxies, for how disconnected I felt from the warmth and love I craved so desperately.

But now, the wedding's done, and my bags are almost packed. I consider the future as the pale light of dawn filters through the window. I'll pack everything while the newlyweds still sleep, then leave immediately after breakfast, to minimise further interactions. I'm going to miss Emilia terribly, but I'll soon be on my way back home.

I'll take the time to have a proper cry, maybe take a sick day, and then I'll be back on track, such as it is. A less-than-cozy apartment, the less-than-stellar diner I inherited from my folks, and lots of Netflix.

Not the most glamorous life, but one that keeps me afloat and dulls the senses, and to be honest, that's more than enough.

I'm crouching on the ground and silently struggling with the zip on my luggage when Emilia steps into the room, without knocking. I'm surprised she's up so early. I look up at her, fighting the lump in my throat.

She's wearing baggy pajamas with kitten paws printed on pink, and her red mane is loose, draping her shoulders. She looks down at me with a raised eyebrow, then sits down on to the bed behind me.

"I've missed you, Rob."

"Me too, Emilia," I say, keeping my back to her as I fumble with the bag. "We should do this again some time." We totally shouldn't, and I have no intention of acting upon my words, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Totally. We haven't even had the opportunity to chat properly. There was always something to do, other people to entertain. We have a lot of catching up to do."

To be honest, being one guest among many had been a real saving grace, diverting expectations and attention away from me. But I'm not about to tell her that.

"Don't worry about it, Em. You're a wonderful host."

I could hear the smile in her voice as she replied. "Indeed. You should really show me how grateful you are. I get you here for the first time in years, I should get my old perks as well, don't you think?"

Now, that makes me turn back to face her. I'm crouching on the ground and she's sitting on the bed, her right leg crossed over the left, her foot dangling and circling in the air. Air rushes out of my lungs. All of a sudden I feel like a supplicant, looking up at my old queen. The foot dangling gets more insistent. She wants a massage, maybe more.

"That doesn't seem like a good idea, Em." And then, frowning, "Does Paolo know about this?"

Emilia's giggle makes my guts twist with longing. "You think I haven't told him you're my little wimp?"

Her tone is husky, low, conspirational. But it's the words that send me back, to a time when we spent entire days talking non-stop, when every interaction was coloured by our growing power imbalance. It was a real addiction for me, and a complete shock when I lost it.

"I'd still rather not give you a foot massage when your husband is sleeping in the next room". I know this is a bad idea. I already struggle keeping my obsession at bay as it is. I get that she wants the gratification of knowing she still has power over me, but emotionally, this would be a huge step back for me.

Unfortunately, Emilia is unused to resistance from me. I suppose that is my fault. I spent years yielding to her requests even when (in fact, especially when) they were unreasonable or violated my boundaries. It was my way of tilting our friendship into a bond among unequals. Now it was coming back to bite me in the ass.

Her foot circles in the air, coming mere inches from my face, then retreating. I got a hint of foot scent -- soft and rather mild, but enough to trigger my sensory memory to the point that my limbs trembled.

"Don't worry about Paolo," she says, smirking. "Serve him breakfast in bed after we've done and all will be forgiven. But you need to serve me first. Stop playing the adult, Rob. We both know what you really are... bitch."

That does it. The dam that's been holding my feelings back cracks and breaks, and all of a sudden I'm back in this place I thought gone forever, back in the arms of my addiction. I take Emilia's foot in my hands with trembling fingers, and the spark in her eyes tells me that the thrill of arousal coursing through her is as strong as my own, if of a different nature.

Hers is the thrill of victory, of a power trip come to life: the thrill of conquest.

Mine, on the other hand, is pure defeat. She doesn't want me as her boyfriend, but she gets to demand foot massages on a whim? And I comply, because I really am a bitch.

"I submit," I say in a low whisper as I start kneading and brushing. My fingers work their way from the callous heel to the soft toes, then back up to her smooth ankle, and then back down again. I can't believe I'm touching her feet again, they feel like heaven at my fingertips, and they humble me to the core. She's in charge because she's better than me. This is where I belong, all I'll ever be good for in our friendship.

"Of course you do." Her right foot climbs into the air, and Emilia plants it in my face. "It's your fault for getting off whenever I berate you, freak."

A low whimper escapes my lips, and I immediately regret it. Emilia only respects strength. That's why I'm little more than a foot wipe to her. She gives me a sadistic grin as I cradle her foot.

"God, this feels so good. Beg me to have mercy of you."

My heart jumps in my throat. I recognise that this isn't fancy fetish stuff that we're doing -- on the surface, it's very basic -- but it's the psychology behind it that gives it power. Emilia, sitting regally, radiating splendour. And me, with all my fears, all my pent-up feelings, a broken mess that would worship the ground she walks on.

She's wrecked me, and she loves it.

"Please, Mistress," I say, and I feel so daring and yet so meek for using that moniker again. "I've never stopped loving you."

"Oh, I know. Now, kiss."

I don't hesitate. I bend forward and smother her right foot in kisses, breathing in her scent, revelling in the softness of her skin against the worship of my lips. Her left foot slips my hands, luxuriously resting over my erection. That sends shocks of electricity through every muscle, but I focus on what really matters -- raining tiny, humble, demure kisses on her sole, her ankle, her toes.

She gently caresses my face with her right foot, wiping her sole on my forehead and cheeks, heel to toe. The sweat leaves her skin and sticks to mine, and it feels so appropriate, that she sheds it on a face that exists only to serve as her footwipe. Her smile stretches even further, her eyes lock with mine, as her toe starts tracing a slow, seductive circle around my lips.

"I love how easy it is to break you, tame you, make you the herd's bitch. Look at you. You're no man."

I know the script. I know what she expects me to say. But I would say it anyway, because right now, I feel it in my bones. "I'm a wimp."

"Yes," she whispers, in a tone that gives me footbumps. "You're my foot girl. Say it."

Oh god. My erection strains against her foot, and she clamps down harder to meet it. To subdue it. "I'm your foot girl, Mistress."

"Do I make you feel like a girl?" She stamps down harder on my cock as she says it.

"Sometimes," I say, alternating words and kisses to her proffered foot. "Other times, I..." I can't stop myself. Years of repressed emotions are bubbling back to the surface, and I can't hold them back. "Emilia, you make me feel like I'm not really a person. Even when we're not playing. You scare me, and fluster me, and you're dangerously addictive, and you play me like a fiddle."

Her throaty laughter makes me sit back and stare at her. "I do. You know why?"

"No, Mistress."

"It's because you're not a person. I don't respect you. Your boundaries mean nothing to me. You're a pet, or a footstool, and to you I am more precious than oxygen. I hold all the cards."

I know she's right. Deep down, I've always known. I'm also fully aware that this isn't healthy, but right now, I couldn't care less. If this does destroy me, then so be it. What use do I have for Emilia's respect, when her sadism and her cruelty feel so much sweeter?

"You do," I say, embracing the metaphorical yoke she's placed around my neck. "I will do everything you say just for a minute of your attention, scraps from your table. I love you."

"But I don't. And I never will."

Somehow, it doesn't hurt as much as I expected when she says it like that, while flashing me that smile. Well, it does hurt, but in a way I find altogether pleasant. God, she's really twisted my mind in knots, hasn't she?

Words fail me, so I let my gaze fall to the floor -- and then, bowing my head in shame and deference, I return to kissing her feet. Emilia lies back, eyes half-closed, shoving her feet in my face.

"Mmmm, you hear that kissing sound? That's the sound of submission. How does it feel to be on your knees, kissing the feet of someone you're still in love with, knowing you'll never have her? To be worshipping someone who hurts you with her mere presence, and has no shred of respect left for you, doesn't even think of you as a person? Keep kissing, bitch."

I want to say it feels horrifying, and awesome, and hot. I want to say the adrenaline discharge makes every square inch of my body vibrate with excitement.

I want to tell her she's conditioned me at this point to associate her mistreatment of me with sexual arousal, that she's the reason why I can't have normal relationships with other girls anymore. That I don't hire girls at the diner because I'm afraid I would immediately try to get them to boss me around at work.

That beyond love, what I have for her is an obsession she herself has carefully cultivated for years, until there was no hope I could break out on my own.

But of course, she knows all this, so I don't say it. What I do instead is moan into her feet as they press against my face, and let her have her way with me.

"I'm basically raping your face with my feet," she says, panting. "Did you really think I would ever let you push me out of your head? That's where I want to be. I can do a lot of damage in there."

Before I can think of a reply, she lunges from the bed, slamming me to the ground, and in a second she's on top of me. She towers over me, her feet at either side of my head, her smile a glimmer in the pale light of dawn. She leans with her hands against the wall, then climbs on top of me.

She treads on my cheek, slaps me with her feet, then presses her ankle against my chin to turn my stare back towards her. Then, she slaps me again. This process repeats over and over, until she rams a foot on my lips and the other on my nose, sealing both shut.

I gurgle and writhe, my cock spasming in excitement, as she asserts her control over me in such brutal fashion. I stare at her with pleading eyes, big, submissive, and full of love. She stares back with sadistic enjoyment. I know she's looking at the most loving, slavish stare I can give, while literally using my face as a doormat. She must be feeling like a goddess -- and to me, she is.

When her pressure relents, I take in desperate lungfuls of air, coughing and wheezing.

"Thank me for letting you breathe."

"Thank you, Mistress," I say in a half-broken voice, still drawing in as much breath as I can. "I promise you won't regret it. I'll be useful to you."

"Oh, you have no idea," she says with a grin as her toes brush against my lips. "Deepthroat my foot while I tell you how things are going to be."

Once again, I don't hesitate. She's conditioned me far too well for that. Instead, I lunge upwards, taking as much of her foot into my mouth as I can. My head slams back against the ground as she pushes downward, and then her foot starts traveling down, then up, then down again. She's facefucking me, and I do my best to give her a show, moaning and gagging around her foot as it subdues me.

"We've been apart long enough. I'm changing that. I want you in my life, just not as a normal friend." She flashes me a smile. "Or a boyfriend. Or as a man in general."

Of course she wouldn't. I'm not good enough. I'm barely adequate when it comes to being facefucked by her feet, let alone consider myself worthy of her. I can only grunt and gag in response as I suck.

"You might not be a real person, but you're still a very affectionate pet. I plan on taking good care of you, so long as you don't forget your place. And that's why I'm offering you a job."

"Mmmmppphh?!"

"Paolo is a surgeon. I make executive pay. We have more money than we know what to do with, and you can barely make ends meet with your crappy diner." Her hand snakes into her pants as she speaks, her foot lodged halfway down my mouth, slowy fucking it.

"So here's what you're going to do. You're going to catch your train today, and you're going to get rid of the diner. Sell it, rent it, figure it out, I don't care. Then pack your stuff and come here. Come home, with Paolo and I. That is an order."

The shock of her request snaps me out of my reverie. I'm not sure what she's implying, but the sheer arrogance of her expectations, that I would give up my own life on a whim because she says so, the complete confidence that I would obey and follow her like a dog, is so, is so....

Hot.

I gag again as her toes tickle the entrance to my throat. Her hand is thrusting inside her pants, faster and faster.

"We'll give you a job. You'll be the hired help. You'll cook and clean and give massages on command, you'll be our footrest, our pet, you'll crawl and lick and suck. I'll force you to use female pronouns in public, I'll dress you up like a French maid, ahhh..."

Emilia spasms, nearly losing her balance. I don't know which is thrusting faster, her hand against her sex, or her foot inside my mouth.

"This is me, staking my... ahh, my claim, on you... like you've always wanted! You're my slave! Say it!"

I can't say it, of course, not really. But I try anyway, and it comes out like a ridiculous, muffled sound around the foot that's fucking my face. Apparently, it's enough to get Emilia over the edge. She leans forward against the wall, moaning and spasming, and moments later her foot leaves my mouth. Unable to stand, she folds down to the ground, sitting right next to my head. My own arousal is going unattended, but somehow, that just feels right. My pleasure is not important. Hers is the only thing that matters.

We stay like that for a while, panting, coming back to earth, and contemplating. I avoid looking at her -- I don't know what to say or think, can't even tell what she actually meant and which parts were just her arousal talking -- until I feel her hands running through my hair. It's such a gentle touch.

I look deep into her eyes, sparkling now that the sun's rays are streaming through the window. She gives me a warm smile, and as if she's read my mind, she whispers: "I meant every word."

Emilia rises to her feet, and then helps me up. I still don't know what to think. Unlike her, arousal is still clouding my judgement. It mixes with confusion, fear, hope, and love -- to the point that I barely know what my real thoughts are. One thing I know for sure, though: I want to spend the rest of my life with this woman. If this means doing it on her terms, then... so be it.

"I'll go take a shower," Emilia says with a wink. "As for you... your train doesn't leave for some time yet, so it's time for your first duties. I did say you would be serving Paolo breakfast in bed. Go on. You know what he likes."

Too stunned to process the true impact of her words, I go through our well-worn motions. "Yes, Mistress," I say, and feel a degree of shame at the radiation of sheer pleasure I feel when she responds with approval.

"Good girl," she tells me, slapping my rear possessively while she walks out of the room.

And with that, I walk out too, making my way downstairs to the kitchen where I will be spending most of the time from now on. Towards my new life, with Emilia.

The conqueror I love with all my heart.

THE END