DISCLAIMER: as always, all characters depicted in this story are adults over the age of 18.
I find that you keep your head held higher, when you walk around with freshly-licked boots.
I make sure to, whenever I have the opportunity. The sight of my former rival, my arch-nemesis, bowing and scraping before me to polish my boots with the tongue she once used to belittle me, simply never gets old. Neither does the catharsis of putting a privileged bitch like her in her place.
She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Now, as an adult, it's my toes she's having to cradle between her lips. What a lovely mental image.
I shudder, my mind filled once again with visions of Margaret's progressive and inexorable breakdown. The way her puppy dog eyes look up at any girl who purchases her services at the Wheel. The way her body arches beneath mine when I edge her for hour after hour, cruelly teasing, denying...
God. The sheer thrill, the adrenaline rush, the intoxicating nature of what we're doing, is really hard to resist. It feels almost feverish, it gives me tunnel vision. I almost spend more time thinking about her than I do my own studies, sometimes.
Sometimes.
My booted footsteps ring once more across the empty, vast spaces of the main hall. I remember when I came here shortly before the midterms. Then as now, late at night, the place is deserted, which makes its grandeur feel all the more alien.
It's weird how things seem to have come full circle, since then. I was wallowing in misery and failure, then. But now, with graduation day approaching, as I walk across the hall with the reflective surface of my shiny boots beneath me, it is my name up there, at the very top of the screen. As it bloody should be.
Elizabeth is right behind me, but I have to read down several lines to even find Margaret's name. A sadistic smile tugs at the corner of my lips. She's spiralling ever downward, and it's no wonder. She has quickly become the single most purchasable benefit at the Wheel, and well...
Let's just say she has very little time for studying, these days. It was high time her mouth and her limited intelligence were put to better uses, I suppose. Same for her supple body, seemingly sculpted for submission, so open, receptive, accessible, inviting...
I shake my head, snapping myself out of the reverie. The Wheel awaits me.
During the first semester, I used to wonder why the benefits shelves seemed always half-empty. Now I know, of course. With the unlocking of sexual forfeits after the midterm ceremony, the products on offer have multiplied at dizzying speed. Being top girl does have certain privileges, because I've never been subject to any of them--it would be very expensive to target me, and after what happens to Margaret, few people are eager to try their luck with Ragnaring debt.
Of course, sexual forfeits now also accompany non-sexual benefits. Poor Renata bought a 35% grade boost last week, and she's been stuck serving as ponygirl to her nearest competitor ever since--I think for another ten days, if I remember correctly. She does seem to be getting into it, though.
It's funny how things always seem to turn out that way, in this place.
Margaret is certainly getting a crash course in it. Her price is quite cheap, and falling by the day. I've stopped trying to keep count of how many girls have bought time with her, or specific humiliations to degrade her, but it's come to utterly dominate her experience here at Ragnaring. The effects on her overall demeanour have been quite... transformative.
I still avoid the Wheel, for the most part. Unlike the majority of the girls here, I sort of have... privileged access to Margaret. I snap my fingers and she immediately drops to her knees, grovelling, licking, kissing, sucking, begging for release...
I don't know. Maybe she's starting to... like me. Or it's just that I was the one who broke her first. Still, I obviously enjoy the free ride, literally and metaphorically.
But on special occasions, I do splurge on the Wheel a little, to make sure we have a clear day all to ourselves, or that I get to do special things to her... and right now, I have one in mind. I pluck the envelope with trembling fingers, telling myself that maybe this isn't the wisest thing I've ever done... but it's hard to stick to my usual, overly cautious self, when the fruits on offer are so sweet...
As always, Cindy averts her eyes when I approach her counter with an envelope in hand. On the other hand, she doesn't even need to check what it is I'm buying--it's obvious at this point. She rings it in without even needing to check the envelope, and just like that, I'm out the store without a word.
My mind starts to race with all the possibilities for the long, excruciatingly interminable day I have planned for my personal, sapphic, enthralled, little peon of a pet... and it absorbs me so much, that when I notice the girl standing next to me, it nearly gives me a heart attack.
"Woah, Elizabeth," I say, taking a step back after nearly running into her. "Sorry, I didn't see you."
"That's no trouble," she says, with a polite smile that doesn't quite reach her lips. "Your mind elsewhere?" Her eyes fall theatrically to the envelope in my hand. "Got yourself something fun?"
I study her for a moment. She always looks so... composed. Truly, I've never gotten a hint of hostility from her, but I still feel uneasy around her. Like an instinctual, primordial dislike. I'd really rather focus on Margaret than try to navigate this conversation with my nearest rival in the rankings, though.
"Yep," I say, hurrying past her. "Gotta go!"
"To be sure," Elizabeth says from behind me, her voice dropping so low that I can barely hear the follow-up. "Wouldn't want to keep you..."
* * *
Margaret
Truth hunts beneath the waves.
I've always fancied myself a predator, until my downfall. But it's only in the dizzying, never-ending spiral of whoredom that followed that I'm starting to see reality: there is nothing more dangerous than pure, unadulterated truth.
The truth about who we are, what we'd do when presented with the right incentives, what we would allow ourselves to become. It is a secretive thing, stalking the blackness of the depths like some unfathomable hunter from the abyss. It is truth with the power to remake us, the power to unveil us...
And the power to destroy us.
I gulp in air, desperately coughing as precious oxygen flows down into my lungs. It's like I myself have just come up from air after being prey to truth, beneath the waves, in the pitch black of my own mind.
The burning sensation in my throat and chest, my blurry vision from my tears, they pale in comparison to the gratitude I feel, at being finally allowed to breathe.
Finally, my vision clears. In the penumbra of Fiona's bedroom, she looks like a vision, something out of a half-forgotten dream. Beautiful and triumphant, looming over me, breathing heavily, her weight grounding me in my place beneath her.
Her hair obscures her face, but I don't need to see her features clearly to know she's smirking at me.
Can I blame her? She's looming over me, her knees firmly planted on either side of my head. The sheets beneath us are soiled with our sweat and her juices--as is my face. Here I am, coughing and sputtering, after being ridden like
I'm little more than her masturbatory aid for so long that the sun outside has begun to dip beneath the horizon.
And through it all, the room has been buzzing to the sound of the vibrating egg, stimulating me, teasing me, ramping me up closer and closer to the edge, but never close enough...
Back when I thought of myself as Queen Margaret, I had an unabashedly transactional view of the world. I thought that was how the game was played, and that the system was designed to allow people like my family, like me, to stay ahead.
As such, it feels particularly devastating for me to suddenly become, not just a maid, but a thing. A product, meant to satisfy and gratify and entertain, and a cheap one, to boot.
I've embraced this new role with open arms. Over the past six months, I've had my face shoved in between the thighs of most girls at Ragnaring, and that's just for starters. I've had to lick boots, to suck the sweat out of dirty sneakers and socks, to provide tongue baths for each proffered foot at a snap of fingers.
I've been bound and spat on, slapped and collared, tied to a cross naked and gagged just outside the Wheel, with the gargantuan screen towering above me, freely open and available to any and all girls that might be passing by. Even headmistress Polina took some time to toy with me, that morning.
I once thought her and I were peers, kins, women of the world who understood how things really worked. That there was an unspoken understanding between us. But I whimpered and begged and squirmed like an unredeemable slut under her touch, all the same.
My hypnotic conditioning keeps tightening around me, like the crushing coils of a constrictor snake. Each new humiliation unlocks something new within me. I want to resist this, I do, I want to feel like myself again, Queen Margaret, heiress, scion, a girl burning bright with the fire of ambition.
But then I think of Fiona, sitting unceremoniously on my face, placing her sex on my nose and lips in a casual display of ownership, a wordless declaration that she's the better woman. And as she smothers me, she's also snuffing out that fire, too. Ending my pretensions, crushing my delusions of grandeur, relegating me to a role where my value is not self-determined... but dictated by how well I can please my betters. And her most of all.
The worst part, though?
The worst part is that throughout all this time... I've never been allowed to cum. Absurdly, I wonder what permission would leave me more grateful... permission to breathe, or to finally get release again.
The last time I got to cum, I was still free and blissful. I was myself, confident and untouchable. The new me that's slowly emerging from the ruins of my self confidence, though... Fiona has ruled the orgasms of the new me with an iron fist.
