Chapter Eleven: A Gift Of Pleasure
"Do you want me to hit her?"
Maryam's boyfriend smiles wolfishly at the girl's question, and in that moment, I know my fate is sealed.
In between my shocked sobs of pure terror, even my foot-dazed brain has room for a tiny moment of reflection.
No matter how many times I'm subjected to abuse, it never fails to amaze me how casual cruelty can be sometimes. Especially when there is no fear of pushback, no consequence to worry about.
Maryam is losing all inhibitions. She's asking her boyfriend about roughing me up as if I weren't even in the room.
In a way, I suppose I'm not. I'm standing in the corner, still like a statue, in a long-practiced waiting position familiar to all servants. Being seen and not heard. And even then, only at the very periphery of a master's vision.
Ready to be of service at a moment's notice, without intruding upon my betters.
As I await my fate, I try to read the emotions on Maryam's face. There's a glimmer in her eyes, and not just from the alcohol. She looks like she's having to stop herself from pouncing over her boyfriend and fucking him right here, in the guest bedroom she's dragged us to.
She clearly loves being a cruel Goddess to brick him up. There is no mistaking the fact that his pants are tenting... and that she's loving it.
"That's so hot, babe," he says, basically panting.
"It is, isn't it, love?" She says, running a hand across his broad chest, brushing her fingers against his chiseled jaw. In the over-sexed, erotically charged, power-imbued atmosphere, the weight of my own V-card is crushing my soul.
"Like she's my own handmaiden," Maryam continues in a sultry tone, pressing her body against his, "and I'm the queen bitch."
The edge in her voice as she says it makes my fingers twitch... and the words go straight to my sex. These are the words of a woman who's recognized another as her prey. After my long apprenticeship at the feet of my tormentors, I'd recognize them anywhere.
They're words of sapphic conquest and enthrallment.
"Treat her like dirt," the guy says. I still don't even know his name. "I want to see you lording it over her."
I gulp, quivering in anticipation and dread. He's way less articulate than she is, but his erection is speaking for him. The idea of his girl putting another in her place must be some fantasy of his.
Maryam knows it. The feral smirk she throws him -- and then me -- tells me all I need to know.
I'm their foreplay tonight.
Maryam turns to me, in a slightly swaggering motion, and narrows her eyes, hesitating for a moment.
Then, she slaps me.
It's a light, tentative slap -- the humiliation stings more than the pain, truly. She's testing the waters, I know, seeing how far she can take things.
"Well?" She asks me when I lift my eyes to meet hers again, blinking away my tears.
"T-t-thank you ma'am," I say, stuttering. "I d-d-deserved it."
Maryam's smile extends even further... without quite reaching her eyes. That triggers an old, atavistic instinct in my brain, the kind all prey items get when confronting a predator.
I know instantly that Maryam is one of them. Someone with no compulsion about taking what is hers.
Alia and Yasmin love to have fun with me. Cruelty is a game to them, Alia especially. Anbar wants, above all, to be worshipped. Maryam's fledgling domination is of a different flavour, though.
Those sparkling, distant eyes are contemplating me with a kind of calculating coldness.
Her cruelty feels deeper and edgier. It's like she's looking at the wall behind me, past me utterly and completely. It's her scene she's focused on. I'm just a squishy toy she can use for her needs.
And the realisation makes my clit throb.
It throbs even harder, when the second slap comes.
I tumble to the floor from the impact, much stronger this time, and the crack is so loud that I get a glimpse of her boyfriend gaping in shock. I whimper on the floor, not daring to get up or even look at my new conqueror, as I feel her drawing closer, looming over me.
"Your face looks so fucking stupid," she says, rolling me on my back with her foot. She stares down at me, laughing cruelly. "The buzzcut is one thing, but the foot prints on your face... amazing. Let me try something..."
She lifts her foot, her heeled shoe tossed aside, and places it delicately against my face. I shudder at the skin-to-skin contact with a whole new foot. I've massaged it and sucked it earlier, but it feels good to act as a footstool to a new pair of royal feet.
Because my own mind has been thoroughly turned against me.
The tenderness behind Maryam's gesture has nothing to do with being kind to me. She's pressing her foot against the tan outline of Yasmin's own foot, trying to see if it matches.
"Baby, look at this!" She says, laughing. "My feet are just barely smaller than Yasmin's, it fits perfectly. Amazing!"
"It's like she's got a step-on-me signpost on her face," the guy says, bewildered and breathless. The mere idea is so hot that I twitch under Maryam's foot, having to do my very best to avoid humping the air.
Maryam's foot travels to my cheek, where she struck me earlier with her second, devastating slap. I know it makes no sense, but as her toes brush the reddened and impacted skin, it feels almost... soothing.
"I've added my own handprint to go with Yasmin's foot prints," she tells me. "I love it. You should always bear the scars of your own inferiority on your ugly face."
I can do nothing better than whimper like a fucking dog. But then, Maryam's foot digs deeper into my face, until I groan in pain.
"But that's not the only way I'm going to mark you tonight. Babe," she says, switching her attention to her boyfriend, "give me your belt."
A shiver trickles down my spine at the hiss of the belt being removed from the guy's jeans.
None of my three permanent owners have ever used anything remotely like this on me. Their devastation of my identity has always been psychological first and foremost, but I'm starting to get the feeling that Maryam is a very physical person.
"Turn over," she tells me, without removing her foot from my face.
I do my best to twist and turn in place, Maryam's foot following me as I shift and roll belly-down. Eventually, her sole adheres closer to my cheek like a seal, pinning me against the cold marble floor.
It hurts, but it's a good hurt. The hurt of a piece of footwear being put to good use.
It occurs to me that there is no hypnotic foot scent here to bridle my will. I've been softened enough that I can now just be taken by any and all comers. And that's... hot.
"Ass up, bitch," Maryam says, and I obey, conscious of how grotesque I must look, my face planted on the floor and my ass up in the air, like I really am a bitch waiting to be mounted. The frilly skirt of my maid uniform hides nothing in this position.
I know what's to come. I brace myself, gritting my teeth, as menacing hisses fill the air -- the sound of Maryam testing the belt.
"Don't touch yourself yet," she tells her boyfriend. "I want you hard as a rock for me, babe."
"Hit her," he says, enraptured. "Show her who's the boss!"
No amount of bracing can prepare me for what comes next.
The belt hisses through the air, making all my body hair stand up -- and then, the hiss turns into a resounding crack as it lashes out against my butt cheeks.
The pain follows the sound. Heat radiates from the location of the impact as my breath catches in my throat, and immediately after, it lances up my body, making me squirm and thrash in pain.
"Stay still!" Maryam thunders above me, and her foot presses deeper into my cheek, nailing my face to the floor. I squeal and whimper and cry as the belt comes down again, smacking me, pressing Maryam's superiority into my slave flesh.
Her foot lifts from my face, and then stomps down, the heel slamming into my cheek just as the belt comes down again, engulfing me in a sea of pain at both ends of my broken body.
"Whip her ass raw," the guy says, but Maryam hardly needs any encouragement. My butt is on fire, and my cheek feels like I've been punched -- which in a way I have, I guess. By the time the fourth lash hits me, I begin to cry.
"Oh god that's so hot," Maryam says, spotting my tears. "Yes, cry like a baby. Take it, bitch."
I can't escape the knowledge that I've only met this girl mere hours before. This is Alia's true work of art. A bit of alcohol, a bit of exposure to my complete dehumanisation, the growing sexual tension in the air at the party... and here we are now.
With my personhood sinking ever deeper into the mud.
After the fifth lash, I'm openly crying my heart out, to Maryam's delight and her boyfriend's arousal. My new conqueror escalates things further, stepping on me with both feet, one digging into my face, the other in the small of my back.
Then, the latter foot migrates downward, and Maryam digs her heel into the marks the belt has left on my flesh. The wails of agony that erupt out of my throat barely sound like a person's.
"Squeal for me, little piglet," Maryam says in a low, almost tender whisper. "Do the sisters do this often to you? Do they step on you to put you in your place?"
