The Thrill of Defeat

Chapter Nine: A Debt For Life

This morning is for Yasmin.

Life as a slave to the sisters is so intense that, for a while, I'd almost forgotten what kind of wonders their mansion holds.

Sucked into the abyss of utter servitude and self-annihilation, I got... something akin to tunnel vision. The house for me exists only as surfaces to be cleaned. I haven't ventured outside once since the moment I accepted Alia and Anbar's full mastery over me.

Now, I'm being reminded of the beauty and immense opulence of this place.

Birds chirp in the branches of the trees, kissed by the sun. The soft grass sways in the breeze. The water of the pool reflects the bright light of this sunny day, inviting anyone lucky enough to be invited here to take a dive.

I've used this pool countless times during the years. As I grew up, envy for this level of wealth slowly faded, and was replaced by a personal degree of displeasure -- nobody needs a house this large, with monstrous energy requirements and near-zero density.

But those are the kinds of thoughts that only a free girl can think, and I'm no longer one. Now, I'm a slave, as much a part of the estate as the toilets I scrub and the shoes I make out with. To my brain, addled by hours upon hours of grinding chores, the tranquility of this pool is almost a shock.

One would think that being ordered to spend the whole morning here would be considered a blessing.

But if there's something I've learned in serving my betters, is that there's no such thing as blessings.

Yasmin is enjoying the pool, resting and suntanning without a care in the world. I'm not here to enjoy leisurely time, no -- I'm here to serve. To fetch her drinks, to stand still and utterly immobile under the unflinching sun, and not move an inch unless it's at Yasmin's request.

I'm out of my maid uniform, but not out of my maid role. If anything, being in my swim costume only reinforces how ugly and ungainly I look next to Yasmin. It's why Alia ordered me to dress like this.

The first time I had to put a swim suit every summer was an old insecurity of mine. And look at me now, baking under the sun in my ridiculous body, fattened by the diet selected by the sisters for me, while Yasmin gets to sunbathe in peace.

In a way, it is only fitting.

The college bimbo has sunk her hooks into me in ways that drive home just how far I've fallen. She doesn't even have the foot-scent power over me that the sisters do, and yet she has me eating out of the palm of her hand like an eager dog.

Only now am I beginning to understand what it truly means to wait on somebody, hanging from their every word, at their beck and call.

Worst of all, this girl who I once considered dumber than a brick is playing mind games with me... and succeeding.

Her chestnut locks are lightening in the sun, beautiful and elegant. My own hair, matted with foot sweat and unwashed, makes me look more like a stray dog than a person.

Her lithe, slender body unfolds under the sun with almost feline elegance, while I stand obediently like a statue of fat, sweat, and stupidity.

Her long shapely legs move, the thighs rubbing against one another, the calves flexing to emphasise Yasmin's incredible silhouette. They are elegantly tanned, whereas my stubby legs are pearl-white from being kept in a storage closet all day, and will surely roast under the sun until I look redder than a pepper.

Yasmin is a vision of radiant beauty and female perfection. I -- in Anbar's words -- am just an androgynous blob, fit only to carry drinks and spend my life at women's feet.

And eventually, of course, her feet do come into play.

Wordlessly, Yasmin lifts her legs so that her ankles lie against the armrest of her beach chair.

Her petite, immaculate feet dangle invitingly, the tiny toes curling and flexing, giving me a show. An implied promise, and a threat.

I swallow.

I know my rules, and Yasmin does them too...

When I fail to react fast enough, she beckons me closer with the lift of a single finger. That's all it takes to get me moving -- like a stupid cow who will go where she's told -- and I approach Yasmin with reverence and a degree of fear.

"So," she says -- the first time she's spoken to me in hours. "Is the peasant girl ready for her cummies?"

I gulp. Yasmin's foot scent feels entirely regular to me, it doesn't melt my brain into submissive pudding.

But...

In truth, these humiliating orgasms have become the highlight of my existence. It's a terrifying admission, when phrased like that, but it's true. They humiliate and debase me, they take away a portion of my personhood each time, but they're the only true highs in a life devoted entirely to cleaning and kissing and licking and sucking...

Something inside me is permanently broken. I've been effectively saddle-broken, demoted to something less than a woman, a maidservant who exists only to make the lives of true women more entertaining and more pleasant.

My mouth belongs on toes. My body belongs in the storage closet. And my pussy...

It squirms at the mere thought of having to wring out an orgasm by acting like Yasmin's puppet on a string.

The three girls have done their work too well. I never stood a chance. Before I know it, my knees hit the marble by the poolside. It's hot, having baked in the sun all morning, and it makes me grimace, but Yasmin's cold, cruel gaze tells me this is where I'm supposed to stay.

My mouth is dry, my head is pounding from constant solar exposure, my skin feels dry, and I hate how disgustingly fatty I feel, next to this literal goddess sunbathing and enjoying what life has to offer.

But I know my rules. Yasmin's left foot rotates towards me, and I stick my face right in, nestling my nose between her toes, and taking a deep breath.

Yasmin's foot has no strong smell. Normally at this point my nostrils would already be assaulted by foot sweat, but she's pretty careful with grooming. Her feet smell... clean, almost refreshing, with only the slightest tinge of sweat from the morning spent exposed to the heat of the sun.

The mere fact that I can evaluate aromas and nuances in foot smell is proof of how much I have been debased as a living being. But I stay obediently on my knees, and sniff, and sniff.

It doesn't drive me stupid, or obedient -- but to be honest, at this point, it might as well. I've come to a point where apparently I do this even without coercion, so what is my face to be used for, if not as a footrest for girls?

"Get to work," Yasmin says, and with a weak nod, I let a hand snake under my costume, and begin to rub myself.

Yasmin hopes that, by masturbating while smelling her feet, I will eventually develop the same reaction to her foot scent as I have for the sisters'. I don't think it will work, somehow... but that doesn't make the experience any less devastating.

I'm kneeling on the scorching marble, masturbating by the pool, while sniffing the feet of a girl I disliked all the way throughout college -- and having to beg her for an orgasm.

"Please, Princess," I say, grovelling in-between humble sniffs. "Please..."

Yasmin nods pointedly towards her foot, and I gulp.

I start placing humble, worshipful kisses on her naked, petite feet. Her skin is gloriously smooth, and my increasing familiarity with every little detail of her feet makes my job easier. All the subtle differences in texture -- the ankle, harsh and smooth, the heel, rough and solid, the ball, soft and warm, and of course each toe, all ten of them, kissed in order from left to right...

I can't ignore how much this is lubricating me. How much the humiliation is getting to me, like I'm being intoxicated. How fast my hand is rubbing underneath my costume.

How strongly my cunt is pulsing, overriding what few higher cognitive processes the sisters have left me with.

I spread my lips in worship, welcoming Yasmin's right foot into my eager mouth. I pant and attack her foot like it's ice cream, or a cup of water in the desert, trying to suction every drop of sweat, every hint of taste, every residual tidbit of sock fluff, off her beautiful feet.

As I worship her right foot, the left slaps me on my cheek -- there's very little pain, but the humiliation stings to my core, especially when I realize my mistake. I'm supposed to look at her, when slobbering all over her toes.

So I roll my eyes upward, widening them as much as I can. I know I'm ugly, fat, stupid, unlovable, that there's nothing sexy in my ridiculous imitation of a devoted blowjob... but that's the intended effect. Yasmin can barely contain her laughter -- so light, crystalline, and cruel -- at the sight of me.

"God, you look so pathetic," she whispers, sultrily. "You can't even pull off the eager sucking girl look. You're hopeless."

I nod, never letting my lips off her foot for one second, while the left foot rests symbolically against my forehead, the toes clutching at my matted, sweaty hair as Yasmin makes a pretend show of regulating my pace.

"I wonder what my friends at the party will think of you," Yasmin says as her feet treat my face like their playground. "The fat loser who's too ugly to look at, and too stupid to talk to. Wait, but that's what they've always thought of you! Haha!"

The only reply I can muster is a series of gluk gluk sounds, as a single tear begins to stream down my cheek. From Yasmin's smile, I can tell she's noticed, and she approves.

When she smiles like that, she truly is so beautiful...

"I can't believe my friends will have to suffer your presence for, like, the whole evening. I'm sure you'll do everything to make it up to them," Yasmin says, withdrawing the right foot from my mouth, and using my hair to dry off my own saliva. Her left foot travels downwards, resting symbolically against my right boob. Her toes find the nipple between the fabric, toying with it.

By this point, I'm openly panting, and speeding towards the edge.

"I'll do anything... just, please, Princess Yasmin, let me... anything..."

"Alia tells me you get dumber each time you do it," Yasmin says, looking thoughtfully at me, twisting my nipple even harder. The truth is I... I don't know. Do I? Does it? I...

I can only whimper.

But that is good enough for Yasmin.

Her gaze never leaves mine as one foot suddenly lifts up, the toes clamping shut against my nose. Her other foot slams against my hand, the hand I'm using to rub myself closer and closer towards the edge of the abyss.

"My feet are taking you over the edge," she tells me, forcing me to nod along by pulling on my nose with her foot. Her other foot is matching the movements of my hand now, adding to the thrust, and oh god the stimulation is too much to bear, and my thighs are quivering, and --

"Cum," Yasmin says, and I do, moaning from deep down my throat as an insane shockwave of pleasure radiates outward from my sex. My eyes shoot open, my every muscle trembles, and for a blissful moment I feel grateful, so grateful to this princess as my smarts literally trickle out of my cunt, so full of admiration for her ability to domesticate me, so utterly and completely dehumanised...

I collapse on the scorching marble, uncaring about the heat. I'm experiencing a full system crash, my brain is sinking in a sea of molasses, and my body barely responds.

Residual waves of pleasure course through me, each weaker than the last, as my eyes roll back into my skull.

The last thing I clearly perceive is Yasmin's feet, landing elegantly on my back, the soles adhering to my skin. So now I'm to be her footrest while she sunbathes... but before I can even decide whether the thought mortifies or gratifies me, I space out.

I come back to the sound of Yasmin laughing -- as always, laughter that is both beautiful and cruel, like the depths of winter.

Her feet are no longer resting on my back. I take that as a cue that I can sit up, and I do, blinking my groggy eyes, my head swimming.

The sun above is considerably higher in the sky. How long has it been?

I open my mouth to word the question, but before I can make a sound, I find myself staring at a phone. Yasmin's.

On it is what is clearly a photo of my back. And as I look at it, my eyes widen in horror.

My skin is redder than a pepper, and I know for a fact that I'm going to be badly sunburnt from this. But there are two entirely unblemished, pearly white, untanned spots on my back.

And they are the exact shape of Yasmin's feet.

As her mocking laughter echoes around me, I'm so stupefied that I barely hear the words she whispers to me next.

"I'll remember what you've said about the party," she says. "Anything, Zainab. Anything I ask. Anything..."

***

This afternoon is for Anbar.

It's weird -- this is the first day since I first moved in that I haven't actually done any chores. If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a roundabout way to give me a day off, but neither the sisters nor Yasmin would ever countenance that.

I think they're just in the mood to play with their toy today.

My skin feels dry and leathery where the sun burned it, and my face is on fire. Worse, under the fabric of my maid uniform, I know the untanned silhouette of Yasmin's feet to be perfectly visible, and I know that will give Alia and Anbar even further ideas.

But for most of the afternoon, Anbar has used me only passively, allowing my overtaxed, overstimulated, simplified peasant brain to space out. I've been curled up under her desk for hours on end, half-listening to her play some kind of tank multiplayer videogame above me, continually cursing at the stupidity of her team mates and the inadequacy of the map rotation algorithm.

Her feet have been on me the whole time, and for once, I've been eager to breathe in their scent. I'm starting to welcome the brain fog that comes with inhalation. The dumber I am, the less I can dwell on the absolute horror that my life has become.

Every single part of it has been destroyed. Everything. Nothing is left of the old Zainab, her dreams and hopes...

Only the fears.

But with the constant scent of foot sweat permeating this room, I can allow myself to sink into ignorance, stop thinking, and start feeling.

And with feeling, come the inevitable consequences.

Mere hours after my humiliating defeat at Yasmin's feet, my cunt is throbbing once more.

The sisters have effectively drilled this routine into me. Masturbating three times a day -- let alone begging to be allowed to do it -- would have never crossed my mind, when I was free. Now, well... the routine is taking hold.

I whimper softly as I push my nose deeper into Anbar's toes, spreading my thighs to allow her other foot to worm its way between them.

"Lol. Someone's eager," Anbar says, and an old residue of my thinking brain reflects that Anbar is the only person I know who'll literally say lol in real life and out loud. But it's a trifling consideration. What's left of my brainpower is currently wrapped up around her toes, literally.

I can't see Anbar's face from here, but I don't need to. In order to survive, a slave must be very perceptive of facial expressions, be able to respond to the owner's every non-verbal cue, anticipate needs before they become orders. I'd say I'm good at this, but the truth is simpler -- Alia and Anbar have an instinct for what it takes to domesticate someone.

Right now, Anbar must be smiling a kind of predatory smile. The kind that stretches slowly from a smirk into a grin, showing just a hint of teeth, a promise and a threat. The impossibly smug self-satisfaction of a predator who sees prey stepping into a carefully-laid trap.

"Yes, Goddess, please..." I say, forcing my dumb cow brain to produce actual words. I know my rules. I could literally start humping Anbar's foot, and it wouldn't make a difference. Each orgasm is going to cost me, and I know it.

"How well-behaved," Anbar says, ruffling my hair with her toes. "What do you want me to do, exactly? Go on, ask. It's perfectly safe."

The faux-innocence behind her words make her sound like a shark, but it's only for her enjoyment. We both know it's not safe -- nothing here is -- and more importantly, we both know I'm too far gone to try and halt my slide into the abyss at this point.

My cunt is doing my thinking for me -- and there isn't much thinking to begin with.

"Goddess Anbar, I beg you," I say, beginning my recitation. "Please destroy one aspect of my life. Ruin it beyond repair, for your own entertainment."

I've learned the words so well that they're etched in my heart. They're like a prayer. An offer of thanks, a plea for mercy, and an act of worship, all rolled into one.

"Please take something that makes me a person, break it in two, and drink in the horror and defeat in my eyes."

Distantly, I consider that it's a good thing I came up with this speech when I still had the verbal capacity to do it. I can only repeat it because I've memorized it. If I were starting from scratch now...

"Please strip something essential away from me, until nothing is left except this terrified, whimpering core of a serving girl who exists only to writhe helplessy beneath your feet."

From Anbar, there is no comment. To her, this abjectly humiliating expression of worthlessness and love is entirely expected, indeed the bare minimum. But the words she does say send a chill trickling down my spine.

"I have your wallet here, you know," Anbar says above me.

One foot rests above my throat as she says this, beginning to push -- only slightly, but just enough that I feel the weight of her heel every time I have to gulp. The other is snaking further under the hem of my frilly skirt...

"Yes Goddess," I say. "You made me give it up on the first day..."

I hear the shutter of a phone camera above me, then, Anbar rolls back in her gaming chair. Her face peeks beneath the desk, grinning at me, holding something between thumb and forefinger.

A wave of dizziness courses through me when I notice it's my credit card.

"There," she says. "Now that I have the information, I don't need this anymore. You can hold it for me."

The maid uniform has no pockets, because of course it doesn't. Does Anbar want me to just hold the card in my hand, or...

But no. She rolls right back in, her arm extending in my direction, and it's a good thing the foot scent makes me perfectly obedient, because otherwise, her next words would leave me too confused to obey promptly.

"Open up! In comes the airplane!"

My mouth opens without my input, as it has done so many times to welcome a shoe or a sock or a foot... except this time, it's my own credit card that gets placed on my waiting tongue. And then, Anbar's foot slams back against my face, forcing my mouth shut.

"Start rubbing," she says. "In the meantime... I'm starting to think a gold account for this game might be well worth the price. What do you think, worm?"

"Mmmpphh," I whimper, tasting the credit card on my tongue and breathing in Anbar's foot scent, while my hand frantically rushes downward once more. The thought of my hard-earned money, saved through so many sacrifices, being thrown away on Anbar's entertainment -- when she's already filthy rich -- is so deeply hurtful, so crushing, so infuriating, so...

Hot.

She owns my money. I have no right to any. Only real people can have money, and I'm not a person, just a walking foot holster with a throbbing cunt and a swollen clit that I can't stop touching. I start to thrash and buck underneath the desk, and Anbar immediately stomps down.

The foot hovering against my face pins my head to the floor, squashing my lips, while the other lands once again against my throat, the heel grinding against my windpipe.

The foot scent -- aroma, my broken mind supplies -- is draining me of all free will, all higher cognitive processes. I'm acting as Anbar's ATM, holding her card for her while she does shopping. I'm an object. A thing. With her feet nailing me to the ground while she spends my own money, I feel like I'm being pinned down and fucked.