I used to be a girl with a dream.
Now, I'm the lesser of all worker bees in a fast food chain, the kind of job I told myself I'd never need to do if I studied hard enough.
The untanned outline of Yasmin's footprints is clearly stamped over my tanned face, for the entire world to see. Alia laughed hysterically seeing that, but I also know that set off her competitiveness.
I wonder what she's planning to one-up Yasmin, and I'm sure I'll find out soon enough.
As the burger fizzles gently before me, I space out for a moment. It's the end of my shift, and the smells of the kitchen -- burgers, fries, and onion rings -- mingle with that of foot sweat in my hair.
I find the burger's plight surprisingly relatable. Much like it, I too have been grilled, until all my dreams evaporated. I shrank, losing all the unnecessary bits -- the extra water and fat in the meat patty's case, my dreams and freedom in mine -- until I was cooked to perfection.
Ready to be served to Alia, Anbar, and Yasmin on a silver platter.
It's all come to this, then. I work one shift here, one shift at Alia's mansion, and then spend the night in the closet with the rest of her footwear.
I don't see a single cent of what I earn. It all goes into Alia's dresses, Anbar's videogames, and Yasmin's shoes. My credit score is nuked worse than my self-esteem, and I do back-breaking labor for rich overlords who don't need anything.
Like a medieval serf, reduced into slavish service to aristocrats and queens. And that thought alone is enough to make my pussy spasm.
I look surreptitiously around, hoping my co-workers haven't noticed my sudden shiver. But to be honest, it's hard to read their reactions to me. And I can't blame them, I must be such a weirdo to them.
Maybe because of the white facemask I wear... and the dark sock that rests underneath it. Alia's, of course, so I can spend my entire shift breathing in her scent, letting it sap my limbs of energy and my brain of thoughts.
I'm so brain-poisoned that I half expect my female colleagues to push me to my knees and stick their shoes in my face. And to be honest, if they did that, would I even oppose them? This is what I've become by now. A doormat for girls.
But of course, the real world doesn't really function like the warped bubble Alia has carefully constructed for me, and my coworkers do avoid me, for the most part...
Except Alina. There's a weird glint in her eye, a kind of curiosity, when she asks me to stay back and clean, even though it's her turn today. Even though she's not my boss. I don't even think she minds the cleaning, she's just... looking to see how I'll react.
Some people have a sixth sense for meekness. Give them an opening, and they'll walk all over you. Nobody on Earth knows this better than me, by this point.
I stare into Alina's eyes, brown and flecked with gold, and she stares into mine.
And I nod with a gulp, sniffing deeper from Alia's sock as a reward. It makes my pussy quiver.
Satisfied with my compliant response towards her assertion, Alina nods and walks off, ready to enjoy her free time.
I look around the kitchen, despondently. I have no free time to call my own anymore. And truth be told... it's not just weakness that lets me stay back here for a bit longer.
I don't particularly look forward to what awaits me at home. After all...
Today is Yasmin's birthday.
***
I used to be a girl with self-respect.
Now, I'm a pudgy face with dark eyebags, unkempt stinky air, and a quivering upper lip.
Before my enslavement, I used to tell myself that I might not be very pretty, or rich, but I had my brain and my dedication. On merit alone, I would surely go places. I'd earn enough money to finally give my parents the comforts they could never afford for themselves.
I would prove the world that I mattered. I would right all the wrongs I felt I'd received. My self-actualization was social mobility.
But now, I find myself spacing out in front of Alia's mirror, a ditzy serf with no ability to focus. And the reflection greeting me... let's just say it would have been unrecognisable, mere months ago.
There are deep lines in my skin from the constant physical labor and the sleepless nights. With the junk diet imposed upon me, my old teenage acne has returned with a vengeance, populating my face like a scourge.
And of course, Yasmin's footprints on my face simply cannot be unseen.
I consider idly that I find myself spacing out more and more, these days. Is the constant abuse making me dissociate? Or is the prolonged exposure to foot scent literally killing my brain cells one at a time?
I don't know. I can't really focus on anything. My days seem to proceed in flashes of sudden awareness, and long stretches of dull hard work, while my mind... well, it's not like it goes elsewhere. It's more like it's vacant. No longer really there to help me.
Time is no longer a continuous progression for me, but a series of flashes, like this one. They're vivd, like a fever dream. But each time, I sink back into the hypnotic foot haze for a little longer.
What happens when I no longer wake up?
Alia's face appears next to mine in the mirror, as she rests her chin on my shoulder, and the contrast between us couldn't be greater.
Even now, her beauty takes my breath away. Her eyes are so soulful and clever, her hair so silky and smooth. She is worthy of adoration and service. Handing my life over to her, for her to destroy, is the least I can do.
Her fake innocent batting of her eyelashes, on the other hand, sends a cold shiver down my spine. I guess I'm about to find out how she intends to top Yasmin's exploit.
"So, Zainab," she says, and as always when she uses my name now, it's like a dagger piercing my heart. A painful memory of a past life I will no longer be able to reclaim.
"Ready for tonight's party?"
"Yes, your M-M-Majesty," I say in a soft, demure whisper, which wins her smirk of approval.
"I thought we could do our makeup together," Alia says, her eyes alight with evil amusement. Oh no. "I know just how to get you ready for the party."
Before I can dare ask what she has in mind, a sudden sound silences me.
It's the buzzing sound of an electric shaver.
Alia lifts it up theatrically, until it becomes visible in the mirror. I shiver in rhythm with the buzzing of the shaver, as Alia brings it to the back of my neck. I can feel it hover mere inches away from my skin. It makes me want to run and hide.
"What do we say?" Alia asks, and my foot-dazed brain instantly supplies the correct answer, like I'm a good schoolgirl trying to impress my teacher in class.
"I love you..." I say, and it comes out as such a desperate admission, full of hopeless longing and self-debasement. Ever since I said it the first time, Alia has been demanding it of me all the time.
She wants to be showered in worship, and I literally can't say no. At this point, I'm not even sure I'd want to.
At last, Alia plunges forward with the electric shaver.
The blades instantly get stuck as they start tugging at my hair. They're tangled and matted with sweat, both mine and the foot sweat of my conquerors. But Alia doesn't even remove her eyes from our reflections in the mirror, as she ploughs onward, pulling savagely at my hair.
Each time I wince in pain, her smile grows a little wider. A little crueler.
I see my hair begin to fall down on the floor, like leaves scattered by the wind, and I start to sob uncontrollably.
"That's right," Alia says, in a voice that is at once soft, and sharper than a blade. "Cry your heart out for me, slave."
Her words are a permission to open the floodgates. She finds it annoying when I cry, but not this time. She wants to draw my pain out, revel in it, toy with it. She wants me to suffer, just because it's fun.
Tears roll freely down my cheeks, and I let go of it all, all the fear and hurt and humiliation and arousal that's been building up inside me.
My hair...
Alia is cutting close to the skin, and I know in my heart what she's about to say, before she even says it.
"I'm going to give you a buzzcut," she whispers, her fingers wiping the tears from my cheeks. "You're not even going to look like a girl anymore. Because you're not one."
Of course I'm not. Prisoners are given buzzcuts. It's dehumanizing, but I haven't been a person in a long, long time. Perhaps I've never been one before.
"At the party, everyone will have eyes for me, and for Yasmin," Alia continues, whispering seductively to me as she shears me. "But you? You'll be just some androgynous blob, paling into insignificance next to us. Beneath us. A loser fit only to serve drinks, massage feet, and..."
She stops, giggling. "And taking whatever else we see fit to give you."
"Y-y-yes, your Majesty," I say, in between tears. I know it's what I truly deserve. I should disappear completely next to my owners. It is only fitting.
As the last of my hair falls to the floor, Alia grips my chin between her fingers, and forces me to look up at the mirror.
The vision before me makes me want to cry even harder.
I look disgusting. The buzzcut somehow makes my face look even pudgier, makes me look even less like a girl. I look like a tired, grey hermit, destroyed by years of back-breaking labor. A big-boned peasant that nobody could ever possibly find attractive, and right next to me -- a queen, crowned in radiant splendor.
As the image of my new face is etched forever into my mind, Alia's lips close in on my ear.
"Cum to what I've just done to you," she whispers.
And my legs fail me.
***
