She’s so tall. She’s so much taller than me.

It’s difficult to keep that thought from filling my gaze with unwelcome awe as I stare across at her. My bully. No, my former bully. I need to remind myself of that. It’s been years. Still, I have to fight to keep my eyes narrowed with disinterested contempt, and my voice nothing more than businesslike.

“Ms. Robinson,” I say, straightening my back, “what makes you think you’d be suitable for this position?”

Ivy smiles, and her smile goes right through me. I have too many memories of being victim to that smile.

“Ms. Robinson?” she drawls. “C’mon, Olive. Is that really necessary?”

I twitch. “This is a job interview. Let’s keep things professional.”

Ivy shrugs. “Sure.”

I pause, waiting for her to answer. My patience breaks first. “Well? What makes you think you’d be suitable?”

“I think you’ll find I’m more than qualified,” comes her smooth reply.

She’s not wrong. It’s all on her résumé. For an entry-level position like this, she’s an outstanding candidate. When I was scanning through the stack of applications, that jumped out to me almost as much as her name did. Once I double-checked that it was actually her, I considered throwing her application straight into the trash. But I didn’t. I had to see her. Didn’t I?

She’s in really good shape. Way better shape than me. I bet she works out a lot.

“It’s about more than just educational background,” I retort, pushing down on that thought. “We take our work ethic very seriously here. You might be expected to work some long hours.”

Long, long hours. I can feel the heavy, gray bags hanging under my eyes. None of those on Ivy. She’s immaculate, as ever. Tonight will be another late one. I’ll have to tell Luna I won’t be home for dinner. She won’t like that, although I’m sure she’s getting used to it.

Maybe I should try harder to work less overtime. But…

“No problem,” Ivy assures me. “I work hard. You have my references?”

I do, and they’re all utterly hagiographic. Frankly, looking at it on paper, I have no reason to pass Ivy over. Looking at it otherwise, I have every reason. Christ, it’d be an HR disaster waiting to happen.

Her breasts. She’s so busty. So much bustier than me. How’s that fair? How does that even make sense? Isn’t she trans?

I push out my chest. “Well, you’d need to be a team player too. You’d be-“ I hesitate. “Ivy, you’d be working under me. For me. You get that, right?”

“Of course.” She’s unruffled.

“You understand that you’ll be my subordinate?”

For the briefest of moments, something glints in her eye. Something that frightens me. It passes. “Oh, yes. I understand perfectly.”

“And you’re… really OK with that?” I ask.

It’s difficult to believe. All through college, she took vindictive pride in having me wrapped around her little finger. I still remember how easily I fell for her. She offered me her hand in friendship whilst the clique of hyenas she kept around her barely hid their snickers. I was too stupid to realize what was going on. Too socially inept, as always, and too lonely. Too desperate for company.

Before I knew it, I was writing her assignments for her. She didn’t need that  - she’s smart - but she loved that I would. When she was tired after a soccer match, she’d make me rub her feet. And most of all, she’d make me buy things for her. All her meals, drinks at the bar, new clothes… whatever she wanted. Even drugs, I think. She’s always been into that scene.

I could have stopped whenever I wanted, I guess. But not really. I wasn’t strong enough, and we both knew it. She was in my head, completely and utterly. All my buttons were hers to push. I was intoxicated with Ivy Robinson. Probably, if you’d asked, I would have called her my best friend. Even as she took me to the brink of ruin.

God, I still remember that phone call I made back home, to my parents, asking for a little more allowance. Trying to laugh, trying to play off all my spending casually. Telling them I’d been going out a lot. Socializing. Enjoying myself. Overdoing it a bit. My folks didn’t question it too much. If I had to guess, I’d say they were just grateful their quiet, sheltered, weird, nerdy little girl was having a good time in college, not keeping herself cooped up alone like I always had in high school. They were inclined to be indulgent, but that didn’t mean my heart wasn’t pounding like crazy for the entire call.

Then, after our class graduated from college, it was all just over. Like it was a nightmare I was waking up from. I don’t think my heart has ever pounded like that since. Not even with my girlfriend.

Until here. Until now.

What do I look like, to her? I’m still so small everywhere. So mousy. I’m not athletic like her. Do I look just like I used to? Can she see how much I’ve grown? Can she?

“Why wouldn’t I be OK with that?” she’s asking me. She’s smiling.

What am I supposed to say? “We have some… personal history,” I settle on eventually.

She knew she was taking advantage of me. She always knew. I have no doubt about that.

But Ivy just shrugs. “Water under the bridge,” she replies easily. “I mean, unless you’re not OK with it.”

My heartbeat quickens even more. It’s an offhand comment, but I hear in it something more. A challenge: can I handle her?

Of course I can. All of that was ten years ago now. I’m a grown woman. I have a senior position here. I’m in charge.

“Don’t be silly,” I tell her, and smile. I feel good about being able to say it like that.

“Great!” Ivy beams back at me. “Do you have any more questions for me?”

“I don’t think so,” I reply, checking my notes. “Do you have any questions for us?”

She dials the job-winning smile up another notch. “Just one: when can I start?”

She’s so pretty. God, she’s so pretty. So much prettier than me.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say stiffly. “There are many other candidates under consideration.”

But none of them are going to stick in my mind like Ivy does. I definitely shouldn’t hire her; that goes without saying. It’s just that there’s genuinely nobody more qualified, and that means if I don’t, I won’t be able to shake the feeling that it was because I’m afraid of her.

I’m not, I tell myself. That would be ridiculous. I know that, but I need to make sure Ivy knows it too.

Anyway, maybe I can take pleasure in it. In having her under my thumb for a change. Bossing her around. Treating her like shit. Making her fetch me coffee. Making her days long and miserable.

Yeah. That doesn’t sound too bad at all. It’s kind of embarrassing how good it sounds, actually. The thought fills me with a girlish thrill I haven’t known since college.

I stand up and offer Ivy my hand. “Well, in any case, you’ll hear from us soon.”

She nods, rises, smiles politely, and takes my hand. And as we shake, she has this look in her eyes like she already knows what I’ve decided.

***

It’s little surprise to me when, after just a few weeks, Ivy is the office darling. The queen bee. She’s still an assistant, nominally, but you wouldn’t think it from the way they all treat her. None of it challenges professional boundaries, of course. It’s simply that they like her, and they want her to like them.

How could they not? Ivy’s so striking. She’s tall, and the contrast between her dark skin and her platinum-bleached hair makes a statement of her confidence. And she dresses so well - never flashy, just magnificently stylish, in clothes that make little secret of her perfectly-maintained body. It makes me embarrassed of the way I dress each morning, grabbing one of my rote outfits from the closet as I hastily brush my mid-length, plain, brown hair into some semblance of neatness.

Her presence and her popularity itch at me. I was never outgoing in the first place, but now, more and more, I find myself retreating to my little corner office. When the door’s shut, nobody disturbs me. One of the privileges of being a manager. It’s like my little fortress. While I’m in here, I don’t have to think about Ivy. I don’t have to think about the contrast between us; about how damn boring my life is, while she’s chattering about weekend plans, or about how nobody looks adoringly at me the way they do at her. All I have to do in here is work.

And work. And work, and work, and work. More than ever. The company keeps asking for overtime - it’s a crunch period - and I say ‘yes’ more often than ‘no’, even though Luna wishes I wouldn’t. I’ve always been like this, a little. Working is one of the few things in life I’m truly good at. It’s nice to feel like I have a place. A purpose. An identity. Finding the right balance with that has always been a struggle, but Ivy being here has made it worse. I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not career ambition. I think maybe I’m trying to show her up, in a way. Prove I’m more hard-working. Come in earlier, stay later. Impress her with my dedication.

Not a good way to try and show her up, obviously. Out of sight in my office, behind a door. Just the only way I’ve got.

Anyway, it’s not all bad. There are small pleasures to having Ivy Robinson working as an assistant in my office. She’s polite. Deferential, even. She has to be. When I ask her to do things, I get to hear her say ‘Yes, Ms. Barnes’ in that coffee-smooth voice of hers, and it sends shivers down my spine. It makes me fantasize. And there’s such a thrill to the little ritual that plays out each morning, when she knocks at my door and waits to be told to enter so she can set down my coffee on my desk. That’s always the moment I’m glad I hired her. Ivy Robinson, my subordinate.

There’s that HR disaster waiting to happen.

We don’t talk much, outside of functional little work exchanges. It makes sense; I’m no conversationalist. Not until one evening, when she cracks open my door to tell me she’s going home. She catches me at the worst time, mid-phone call to my girlfriend.

“Again? Olive, you said you were almost done with this…”

“I know, I know. We were… are. Just… not quite yet.”

“They work you too hard, I swear.” A little laugh, mostly to conceal the fact that it’s not ‘them’ she’s unhappy with.

“Sorry, Luna,” I offer eventually.

“It’s OK. You… gotta do what you gotta do, right?”

“Yeah.”

“We should really do something romantic soon. Something intimate. It’s… it’s been a while.” It sounds like more of an ultimatum than she means it to. “I miss you.”

“We will,” I offer quickly. “Promise. I miss you too. All this will be over soon. I’m just… well, it’s a busy time of year.”

“Right.” Another pause. “Well, take care, OK?”

“You too.” I hesitate. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

She hangs up. I sigh - and then see who’s standing in my doorway. I freeze. I wonder how much she overheard. 

“I was just about to head home,” Ivy says, entirely professionally. “Working late again, Ms. Barnes?”

“Yeah,” I reply, and end up yawning my way through the word, embarrassingly.

“Oh no.” Ivy frowns. “You work too hard, Olive.”

I’m instantly suspicious, but she sounds so genuine in her sympathy. It seduces me. “I know, I know. I really do.”

“Everyone’s always talking about it.” Now it’s more than an exchange. It’s a conversation. Ivy takes a step into my office. Into my territory. “You’re the most dedicated worker here!”

My heart skips a beat. Is that respect I hear in her voice? Is Ivy Robinson impressed with me? I dare to hope. “Well, I… the higher-ups are depending on me. You know how it is.”

“Of course.” Ivy carefully closes the door behind her. “It’s what I expected, when I started working here! I remember you telling me about that. I was pretty surprised when it turned out to be just another email job.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I just mean… sure, they always put out those calls for overtime,” Ivy says casually, stepping over toward my desk. “But it’s not like they’re compulsory. Hardly anyone takes them up, except you.”

“Maybe everybody else should start considering it,” I tell her tersely.

“Point taken,” she admits with a laugh. “It just makes me wonder why, you know?”

“I’m a team player, Ivy. A hard worker.” I fold my arms. I can’t resist taking a jab. “Maybe that’s why you’re out there on the floor, and I’m in here with the nice office.”

It doesn’t seem to land. Ivy ignores it. “A hard worker,” she mulls. “A team player. Yeah. Absolutely. Takes me back to college. All those long nights you spent out in the library.”

Doing Ivy’s assignments. That part remains unsaid. I start trembling. It’s been ten years, but suddenly it doesn’t feel like it at all.

“Is this import-“

I start to rebuke her, but then she perches on the edge of my desk, and in doing so, knocks over my stationary. Shifts a few papers, too. She lets out a little ‘oops’, but the look on her face says it’s no big deal.

But it is. At once, it starts to itch at me. My desk is painstakingly arranged. Every paper, every pen, every computer peripheral in its place. It’s how I like it. How I need it. And now it’s all wrong. Everything scattered and strewn. Pencils rolling haphazardly around.

It’s no big deal - not to her, and I wish it wasn’t to me either. I’m instantly upset by the unfairness of it. Why does it have to throw me off this bad?

“Honestly,” Ivy drawls, “it’s like you can’t help yourself! You’re not saving up for something big, are you?”

“No,” I blurt out in reply, before I can stop myself indulging her. Her presence is overbearing. Perched on my desk, she looms over me.

An apology is on the tip of my tongue. Why? Why do I want to say sorry? What would I even be apologizing for? For… myself?

“Didn’t think so,” she says. Her amusement is plain. “Wild. It made sense back then. I mean, it’s not like you had anything else to make time for, right? But now you have a girlfriend waiting for you at home. That’s a little sad, Olive.”

“This… this is inappropriate,” I tell her quietly, just barely managing to keep my voice measured. Even saying that is a gargantuan effort. Ivy’s attention is so potent. I can’t quite hate it, even when it’s too much, and her slight but palpable mockery is all it takes to make my head spin.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Ivy laughs and holds up her hands. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful! Thanks to you pulling these crazy hours, the rest of us get to go home nice and early. You’re doing me a favor.”

“I am?” I squeak. “R-right.”

I didn’t think about it like that. But now I certainly am, and I know instantly I won’t be able to think of it any other way. Why did she have to put it like that? Why did she have to ruin it all for me?

Oh no. It’s happening again, isn’t it? It’s just like before. Nothing’s changed.

“Which, I mean, again, just like college,” Ivy remarks. She smiles. I twitch. I’m trying to marshal my thoughts, but it’s so hard. “Hey, why don’t we go out again sometime? It’ll be like old times. You clearly need to blow off some steam. Maybe spend some of all this overtime pay on some drinks and-“

“Ms. Robinson!” I yell abruptly, bolting to my feet. Ivy looks startled. I’m startled too; I didn’t mean to get angry like this. “This is inappropriate!”

I was this close to saying ‘yes’ to her. That’s what spurred me into action. That old instinct is rusty, perhaps, but it’s still there, oh yes, and everything Ivy said was helping to grease it up. I couldn’t take another word out of her. I’d break.

But that would be unbearable. It would make me the worst, irrecoverably. I’d never be able to forgive myself, and all the anger I’ve ever felt toward Ivy Robinson rose like a tide to save me.

Watching Ivy jump up and flinch back is like a red rag to a bull. I have to give everything not to let it all flow out of me. Everything I’ve been bottling up all these years. That little hint of fear in her face is the ultimate intoxicant. The only way I can keep control is by promising myself that there’s still more satisfaction to be found in holding the high ground.

“I am your superior,” I tell her sternly. I’ll make her listen. “You are my subordinate. I suggest you take that under consideration when you decide how to speak to me.”

“Woah.” Ivy throws up her hands. There’s still a kind of smirk on her face. I want to wipe it off. “It’s just a little reminiscing, that’s all! I didn’t mean anything by-“

“Enough!” I snap. “Yes, Ivy, you did. We both know it. Well, guess what? This isn’t college anymore. Grow up. I have.”

There’s a sudden, terrible darkening of Ivy’s face. It cuts through my anger. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the one she gets whenever she hears ‘no’.

“Be careful, Olive,” Ivy warns, her voice low, silky. “Why don’t you lower your voice? You wouldn’t want anyone to overhear us, would you?”

She’s wrong. I don’t care. Let them all hear. I want them to hear this bully getting put in her place. “That’s Ms. Barnes to you, Ivy. And if I have to remind you again, you’ll be looking for another job.”

Ivy stares daggers at me. I’m terrible with eye contact, but just this once, I push myself to my limit. I stare back at her, even though it makes me twitch a little.

When she blinks, I feel like a god.

“Of course.” Ivy nods her head submissively. “I’m sorry, Ms. Barnes.”

I want to smile and cheer and rub it in her face. Instead, I just keep staring. “Now get out.”

With that, I’m treated to the sight of the tall, busty, muscular, beautiful Ivy Robinson turning her back and fleeing out of my office. I can all but see the tail between her legs. Once she closes the door behind her, like she knows I want, the smile comes to my face. No, more than just a smile. A giddy, stupid, girlish grin I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. My hands are shaking up and down, overcome with the energy of the moment. I can’t stand still.

I did it. I beat her. I won.

Nothing could be more vindicating. Suddenly every single decision that led me here feels like the thread of destiny. It’s perfect. All of it.

And its glow keeps me warm even as I sit back down, fix my desk, and prepare myself for the long, lonely night ahead.

By the next morning, the glow has faded and curdled into trepidation. I have to see Ivy again. My rattled nerves tell me that she’ll have found some way to rally herself. To turn the tables once more, in the little psychological war between us. I’m far from best prepared for it. In the end, I crawled home for barely six hours of meager sleep. I barely got to speak to Luna.

When Ivy does make her appearance - not early, but certainly not late - my fears are banished. She’s dressed a touch more modestly than usual - black slacks, a plain blouse that buttons up very high - and she knocks on my door so meekly I don’t realize it’s her at first.

“Good morning, Ms. Barnes,” she says politely. “Your morning coffee.”

“Thank you.”

My eyes widen slightly as she sets it carefully down on the corner of my desk. It’s not the usual stuff from the shitty machine in the break room. I don’t recognize the cup, but the aroma tells me that it’s good. Pricey, I have to imagine.

“I thought you deserved something a bit nicer than instant,” Ivy says in answer to my questioning look. “Since you’ve been working so hard.”

Nothing on earth could keep my face from lighting up. At once, I get it: this is a peace offering. No, better. It’s tribute. She wants to get on my good side.

And why shouldn’t she? I’m Ivy’s boss. I gave her this job, and I can take it away. She’s in the palm of my hand. My hand. After all this time. Fuck, it feels better than I’d ever imagined.

Ivy’s watching me expectantly, and I don’t even mind that she’s seeing me with such a stupid, goofy grin on my face. Like I’m a kid opening her birthday presents while all her friends have to sit at the table and watch. Her watching is fine by me. I want to savor the moment, and I want her to marinate in it. So, I reach for the cup and drink. I hope Ivy will look relieved when she sees I’m enjoying it.

The flavor is wrong. It doesn’t match the aroma. The coffee is pleasant, but chasing on its heels is an aftertaste that’s faintly but unpleasantly chemical. Some kind of artificial sweetener? There’s no way it’s deliberate. If Ivy Robinson is lowering herself to bringing me a shitty cup of coffee as petty revenge, I’ve won by even more than I’d thought. Maybe it’s an acquired taste. In any case, it’s not that bad, and I really do need the caffeine. I drink more.

“How do you like it?” Ivy asks after a moment.

“It’s good,” I reply at first, reflexively, but the chemical taste is sticking in my mouth. I frown. Maybe I should just send her to get something from the machine. “It’s a bit…”

I look down at the cup and see two of them.

Two… cups?

No.

Double vision?

Why does it take me so long to think of that?

I’m so slow.

But then Ivy steps up to my desk, and she’s not slow at all. She’s quick and pretty and tall, taller than ever, and strong, and I can’t tell if there’s two of her, or five, or a dozen, or a hundred.

“Drink up, Olive,” she instructs.

And I do. I don’t want to, but I do. Ivy’s command is a weight on my back, one so much greater than I can bear. I sink to it. I bring the cup to my lips, slowly and clumsily, and slurp more of the coffee.

“Why does it taste like that?” I ask absently.

Why did I ask something so stupid?

There are a dozen more pressing questions I should be asking, but when I reach out for one, it slips through my fingers. Only the dull chemical taste in my mouth remains.

Stupid.

All the same, I look blearily up at Ivy for an explanation.

“Because it’s drugged,” Ivy tells me. “I put something in it on the way here. Something I got from a friend of a friend. I don’t think it has a street name yet. But it’s very strong.”

It’s… strong?

No, wait.

That’s not the important part.

But it’s so hard to tell, when everyone she’s saying is twinned too.

Echoing itself. Layering. Obliterating all sense.

“D… drugged?” I manage. The words ooze from my mouth.

I say them before I even remember what that means.

“Yeah.” Ivy is standing right next to me now. Above me. I look up, and the ceiling light behind her head forms a halo. It hurts to look at. “More specifically, you’re being put in a nice, calm, suggestible state. People have been using this to relax, but I have my own ideas about the kind of fun we can have with it.”

“Fun…” I echo dumbly. “R-relax?”

I smile, at first. That sounds nice.

Then I pull Ivy’s words apart, and the rest catches up with me.

“Sug… suggestible?” It takes two tries. The first time, my mouth ends up mangling the word. It’s like I’m drunk.

“That’s right. You know what that means, don’t you?” Condescension drips like overflowing venom from Ivy’s perfect lips. Yesterday, that would have made me angry. Today, it just makes me feel small. “It’s like… it’s like your mind is the kind of foam that holds its shape perfectly when you press into it. You know?”

Like… foam? I’m like foam?

I shake my head. Analogies are beyond me now.

Why? Why am I so stupid?

It must be the coffee. The drug.

That’s right. I’m drugged. Ivy drugged me. I almost forgot.

She laughs at my plight. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. That’s all it takes to quiet my mind. I can’t go against her. “You’ll see, soon enough. See, we need to have a little chat, Olive.”

I’m drugged. That thought is finally starting to stick.

That’s bad, right?

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the door. It’s closed. Ivy must have closed it.

Is anyone coming to help me?

No. No way.

I could call out. Couldn’t I?

No. I can’t muster the will.

“I did a lot of thinking after I went home last night,” Ivy explains. Her voice isn’t loud, but it feels loud. Inside my head, it’s a cavernous, deafening sound. “About what we were talking about, Olive. Until you cut me off. That was very rude of you. Very rude.”

She says that with singular emphasis - and it hits me like a wave.

Rude. Very rude.

I cringe at myself as that conviction takes form.

I was rude. I shouldn’t be rude.

My wet lips shiver as they strain to form an apology. Ivy’s curl upwards. She can see the effect she’s having on me.

“All I was really getting at was: where’s the fun in your life, Olive?” Ivy asks. “The joy? The spark? When I took this job, I was curious to see how you’d turned out. But what’s there to see? You overwork yourself, day after day, in here, at this boring office job. You barely talk to anyone. You have a girlfriend at home that you barely see. I’d have guessed a lot of things for you, but not that you’d wind up this pathetic.”

I cringe and shrink back. Not from her words; no, when she speaks quickly like that, it’s all just meaningless sound.

I shrink from her tone. That serrated contempt that bites deep into me. I have no defense against it. My ego has been broken open. Ivy is pouring into it.

Her last word, though. That resounds.

Pathetic.

I whimper. Pathetic. It’s what I am.

“At first, I was confused,” Ivy goes on. “What makes you live like this, Olive? What makes you tick? But then I figured it out.”

I’m gasping like a fish.

She figured it out.

Figured… what?

Me?

Suddenly, it’s like I’m barely here. Like I have no substance at all. Ivy can see right through me.

“Oh, don’t look so scared,” Ivy admonishes. “I’m gonna help you out. We’re old friends, right? And that’s just what friends do.”

Friends. Yes.

I relax. We’re friends.

And she’ll… help? That’s so kind.

I soften. I exhale. The part of me that would normally see how insincere Ivy is has been smothered by her drug. Instead, I’m filled with naive, childlike gratitude.

Oh. That’s right. I’ve been drugged. She drugged me. I almost forgot.

“Thank you, Ivy,” I sigh fondly.

She laughs a little at that. “First things first,” Ivy says, fixing her gaze on me. “Let’s get something very important straight: I am superior to you, Olive.”

Her pronouncement is slow. Deliberate. She’s letting me drink in every word. Letting me absorb their meaning. Stew in their tremendous force.

Superior?

I feel it. Right away. Superior. Inferior. Just look at us. Look at her. So pretty, so tall, so strong. It’s only natural.

It certainly comes naturally to me.

“Y-you’re…” I babble. “S-superior?”

Ivy repeats it. Her words are like nails into my skull. “I am superior to you.”

Superior.

What does that mean?

It’s like something someone would say as a joke. But Ivy isn’t joking. And since she’s so completely and utterly sincere, my mind starts grappling with the task of absorbing her words as my new truth.

Superior. It’s such a big word. So encapsulating. My mind starts to race with the implications.

It’s one thing for someone to be better than you at something, or higher up in the company, or something like that. But superior? That’s something greater. It transcends any particulars. She is simply superior, and I am simply inferior. That’s a fixed point in our lives now. A guiding star. Something I can always look to. Something I can always know.

That way of thinking comes so easily for me. It’s not just the drug. It’s the fact that it’s just like riding a bicycle. It’s an old groove, easy to find once more, despite all the intervening years.

Superior. Inferior.

But then I learn that I’m not defenseless. Not quite. There it is again. That anger. It might not be enough to throw off the drug, but it proves to be enough to pierce the soporific veil it’s put over me. At least for a moment.

I can’t go back to that. To being inferior. I can’t.

“N-no,” I bleat. “I’m n-not.”

Ivy raises an eyebrow. “You’re not? Not what?”

“Not…” my voice trembles. Fighting her is so hard. “N-not inferior.”

Ivy laughs again, this time incredulously. Like my defiance impresses her. But she refuses me even a moment of indulgence.

“Olive,” she sings, “look at me, babe.”

I can’t resist two thoughts at once, so I look right at her, as close as I dare. Long practice has taught me how to fix my gaze just below someone’s eyes, sparing me direct contact.

“No, no, no,” Ivy chides. “Look at me. Properly.”

All of a sudden, her hand is on my chin. She grips it mercilessly. Her strength feels infinite as, between that and her words, she compels me to look directly into her eyes.

I start twitching. I’m not good with this. I’m really not good with this. And she knows it.

“You see?” Ivy coos, and her words are as soft as silk, threads pulling tight around me. “You can’t even look me in the eye. Can you?”

I can’t.

She relaxes her grip enough to let me shake my head. Maybe she makes me shake it. I can’t tell.

“Can’t even look a woman like me in the eye,” Ivy mocks. “How can you say you’re not inferior?”

How can I?

I…

Can’t. The words won’t come.

Her simple, brute demonstration has crushed whatever flickering spark of resistance had briefly flared. I could summon it again, but then I’d have to keep looking. I can’t handle that. It’s already unbearable. Her eyes are too sharp. They pierce me too deep.

“You can’t,” Ivy tells me. It’s a fact. More true than ever, now that it’s passed her lips. “Say it.”

“I can’t,” I repeat dully.

She rolls her eyes. “Not that, idiot. That I’m superior.”

“Oh.” My head spins briefly as I reel from my mistake. I’m an idiot. “You’re superior.”

She’s superior.

Instantly, it’s worse

Ivy was already taller, but now she towers over me. She was already hotter and stronger, but now she’s a goddess. The light behind her head was already bright; now it’s blinding, and it’s inside her, in her eyes and pouring out of her mouth as she speaks.

I’m lost to it.

“And…” she prompts, waiting for me to make the connection, before she realizes I’m way too fucked up for that. “You’re inferior.”

I nod. Even I can figure that out.

“I’m inferior,” I echo.

I am. It’s true.

I’m inferior.

Within an instant, that’s etched into every fiber of my being. Only, wasn’t it already? Wasn’t it always? When Ivy tells me that, it’s like connecting the last bit of a circuit. The Christmas tree inside me is lighting up.

Yes. I’m inferior.

And it’s so… comfortable.

How many times have I said that to myself over the years, inside my head or at the mirror? But now it’s more real than ever. Now there’s no doubt about it.

I’m inferior.

I’m inferior to Ivy Robinson.

She’s the one who puts me in my place.

“I’m taller,” Ivy pronounces slowly. Heavily. Letting each quality sink in. “Stronger. Hotter. Smarter. More confident. More sociable. More competent. More dominant. Superior.”

They build and build. My eyes widen, even though it hurts. They’re full of awe.

Stronger. Hotter. Smarter. Superior.

“Yes,” I whimper, because what else can do I for such a superior woman but agree? “Yes.”

“I’m so glad you get it.” Ivy releases me and turns away. Finally, I can breathe a little easier. Facing her is like being in the eye of the storm. I blink my eyes, grateful - pathetically grateful - for the respite. “Because that’s the key, really. To everything about you.”

That’s the key?

What is?

I don’t understand. It must be because I’m so inferior.

So stupid.

But that’s OK. I know Ivy will enlighten me.

“It’s like…” she pauses, considering, surely, how best to dumb down the concept for someone like me. “It’s like how, at a sports game, there are players and there are spectators. Both of them are having fun, but only players get to do. Spectators just get to watch. That’s you, Olive. You’re a spectator.”

Naturally, I nod. My mind is like the desert soil. Cracked, dry, parched. Eager to drink deep of whatever it’s fed. I absorb it all.

A spectator.

I just get to watch.

That’s right. That makes sense. I’m inferior, after all.

It hurts too, of course. What Ivy tells me digs into a wound that, in a way, has always been open. Since college, since high school, since before. But that doesn’t mean I’m resisting. My resistance has already been broken.

“That’s how you were in college, after all,” Ivy goes on. “My little spectator. Always watching. Always hanging on. Living vicariously, through me - because that’s simply the best you can do. That was exactly where you belonged.”

Exactly where I belonged.

I’m caught up in the terrible flow of her words now. It’s getting easier to follow, as my fragile self-esteem buckles and bends to Ivy’s will.

It’s where I belonged. Her spectator.

The notion feels so poisonously right. Didn’t I always enjoy it, a little? Ivy bullied me, yes, but there was a certain pleasure in being her hanger-on. I loved the little kiss of glamor it gave me. Made me seem progressive, too. And like there was more to me than just being some bookish, anti-social nerd.

I can’t tell if that’s the drug talking, or just me.

But if it wasn’t true before, it is now. My memories are already softening in their haste to conform to Ivy’s decrees. In my mind’s eye, those college days are already turning rosy and warm as a sickly kind of comfort colors them.

Yes, it was a shame that I couldn’t be a player. Couldn’t be like Ivy.

But at least she let me watch.

It’s where I belonged.

“Poor thing.” The faux-sympathy in Ivy’s voice makes me feel smaller still. “You’ve been lost without me, haven’t you? But don’t worry. I’m here now. I’ll give you something to latch on to.”

To latch on to.

It makes sense. That’s just what I need. A spectator like me. I need to live through Ivy.

I’m so grateful.

“I’m going to help you enjoy life,” Ivy drawls. Her face twists gleefully. “But I’m going to do it by taking away everything you have. Everything you’re too pathetic to enjoy properly by yourself. And you’re going to thank me for it.”

“Thank you,” I whisper at once.

Of course I’ll thank her.

I’d do anything for Ivy. My thanks are the least I have to give.

There’s a pit in my stomach, put there by insult piled atop insult, but a growing sense of anticipation takes the edge off the pain. I can’t wait for what Ivy’s going to do.

“Let me see.” Ivy glances around my office. She’s wondering where to start. “I wonder how many nights you spend in here. Working hard, when you could be doing anything else instead - if you weren’t such a loser. It sounds miserable. But I guess you must have a little fun when nobody else is watching, right?”

I must?

I frown, confused. I want to say yes, to please her, but my sluggish mind can’t grasp what she’s referring to.

“Oh, you know.” Ivy laughs at my baffled look. “I can just picture you sitting behind your desk, late at night, hand shoved down your boring panties.”

Shoved down my panties?

What does that mean?

Once it hits me, I blush deep. I really do want to agree with her, but telling the truth to my superior seems more important.

“N-no!” I pant. “I… never… I couldn’t!”

Ivy snorts mockingly. “Guess a private office is wasted on you, then. Time to start, Olive. Right now.”

"W-what?”

My blush deepens as I’m stained through with shame at the very thought, but that doesn’t stop my hand from twitching downward, guided by Ivy’s command. She is utterly in control of me.

“Go on,” Ivy urges. “Do it. Touch yourself.”

The way she looks at me is at once lurid and dispassionate. It’s the way you’d stare at a particularly interesting bug before you swat it away. Those eyes leave me no room to squirm out of this. Already, my hands are fumbling clumsily with the hem of my pants.

But it doesn’t make sense.

There’s something missing.

“But…” I’m not so much protesting as questioning. “But, what…”

That’s it. I’m not aroused. That’s why this is so strange.

Ivy senses it at once. And she grins at me as she says: “Just look at me.”

It’s simultaneously a command and an explanation. She wants me to look at her, and so I do. But my chemically-shattered brain takes it another way.

Look at her.

Ivy is pretty. Hot. Tall. Strong. Superior.

No wonder I’m touching myself.

Now the arousal comes. I find that I’m wet and desperately sensitive. It’s been a long time since I’ve had any gratification in that department. Longer than I’d care to admit. Sex just isn’t a big part of my life. I’ve never had much of a sex drive.

But I sure do now.

Within moments, I’m frantically rubbing at myself, letting out choked gasps of pleasure as my back arches. Maybe it’s the drug. Maybe that’s why this is so intense.

Or maybe it’s just her.

I’m looking at Ivy the way I’ve never looked at another woman before, with the shameless, rabid gaze of a pervert. My bulging, bloodshot eyes flick back and forth across her body, seeking out details to make the object of my lust.

Her tits. Her waist. Her ass. Her face, her lips, her tongue. Her legs. Even her height, her strength, her makeup. All of it dazzles me. All of it arouses me like nothing ever has. I can feel the rabid heat Ivy’s inflicted on me dumbing me down. Making my thoughts lewd and coarse. Warping me to fit her shape.

“See?” Ivy says casually. “This is what I do to you.”

This is what she does to me.

That makes sense, doesn’t it? She’s so superior to me. Every part of her I look at isn’t just a source of arousal. It’s a point of comparison. And everywhere, I come up short.

It’s a double-edged sword. But the gnawing insecurity just spurs me on.

This is right. This is how I belong. A spectator. Inferior.

“Yeah.” Ivy sighs fondly. Pleased with her handiwork. “This is so you, Olive. Locked up in your office, getting yourself off under your desk, while everyone else is out having fun. I bet you do it all the time.”

I don’t - but I do now. Her words make it a part of my being.

I nod furiously.

“You know, there’s something else about this drug I should probably mention,” Ivy adds. “It makes it very, very easy to form psychological connections. To make sure your wires get crossed, so to speak. Especially when there’s a source of pleasure involved.”

Now that I’m busy fucking myself stupid, it takes me even longer to process that. Once I do, I realize the danger. I should stop. Right now.

I can’t.

She hasn’t told me to stop.

It feels too good.

“I’m actually priming you for it just by telling you that,” Ivy throws out. “And with that in mind, since we’ve established that you can’t get any real use out of all that overtime pay you’re earning, let’s give you a new way to enjoy it.”

Ivy reaches for my phone, set down on my desk. She holds it up to my face, letting the recognition software unlock it. She starts scrolling through apps. She finds what she’s looking for. She’s tapping the screen. Typing.

I don’t stop her. I don’t even consider it. This is my place. Watching. A woman like Ivy can do whatever she wants.

“Here.” After a moment, Ivy shows me my phone with a flourish. “This is what you’re going to do.”

It takes a long moment for my eyes to focus on the screen, especially with my fingers still in my cunt. Once they do, I see that it’s my payment app and that Ivy has set up a transaction from my account to hers. To send her my money.

And the sum is eye-watering. In the hundreds.

Disobeying Ivy is unthinkable, but going through with this is just as impossible to conceive of. How many hours of hard, boring, thankless work does that sum of money represent? Admittedly, it’s not set aside for anything in particular, but seeing my bank balance grow and grow has always been a source of satisfaction. It’s made it all make sense - all my hard work, all the overtime.

If I just give it to Ivy, just because she tells me to, then what was it all for?

“Don’t worry,” she promises. “I’ll spend it better than you could.”

I shiver.

That’s right. She’ll spend it better.

She’s superior.

“And this is just the first installment,” Ivy adds. “You’re going to start putting in even more overtime from now on.” She licks her lips. “Go ahead. Press it.”

The app needs my touch to authenticate the transaction. My fingerprint. A security measure. My free hand is already reaching out, helpless to fight Ivy’s superior will.

My other hand is, of course, still buried between my legs. Any protests I might hope to make, any questions I might hope to ask, all of them dissolve into pathetic moaning. The yawning anxiety I feel about giving Ivy all my money melds with my arousal, becoming something greater than either individual emotion. Something sharp-edged that bites deep into my psyche, making my heart pound and pump me full of adrenaline. Something that fills me with a thrill I haven’t known since college.

To my drug-addled mind, it’s confirmation.

Ivy, my new god, is in her heaven. All is right with the world.

And so I smile as I reach out and press my quivering fingertip to the touchscreen.

In an instant, the transaction is done. It cannot be undone. All that money, gone. Given. Tributed.

To her. To Ivy.

My stomach drops. I feel like I’m in freefall. The pleasure has never been greater. My fingers are furious as they plunge in and out of my cunt. When I look at Ivy, I see stars.

Ivy checks the phone screen and grins. I can already see that this isn’t satisfaction, for her. It’s not the end. This is just the beginning. Then she looks at me and spits the command that seals my fate, searing my newly-formed fetish for financial domination into my every brain cell.

“Cum.”