All I need to do is reestablish professional boundaries.

When I put it like that, it sounds simple. Clinical. Routine. That’s good. I can do simple, and clinical, and routine. That’s exactly what I need after yesterday.

After yesterday…

I don’t remember what happened. Not exactly. I remember Ivy bringing me my morning coffee, and then it’s just a blur. When I peer into my memories, it’s indistinct. Like paint going down the drain. But I remember Ivy said some things, and I remember I did some things. Humiliating things.

I’m glad to be riding the elevator up to the office alone. There’s nobody here to see me blush.

As far as I can tell, I spent the rest of the day in a haze. It was like I was out of myself, out of my own body, watching from the other side of a screen. Unable to take control. Unable to do anything at all to keep myself from working far, far too late. Eventually—maybe just out of habit—I left the office and headed home, zombie-like. Luna, my girlfriend, hadn’t been pleased. We talked, but not really. She did all the talking.

For the entire day, I was just a spectator. For some reason, that specific word sends a throbbing shiver down my spine.

Waking up clear-headed this morning had brought back all the shame, clear and sharp like ice, even as the memories stole away. I considered calling in sick, but that would have felt too much like running away. I can’t do that.

This is my life. Mine. Ivy might have controlled me once, years ago, but I won’t let it happen again. Not again. Not again.

That’s the other half of my refrain, as the elevator door opens and I step out into the office. Not again. All I need to do is reestablish professional boundaries.

Then I see her. I freeze.

More than ever, Ivy is a queen holding court. As usual, there’s a gaggle of women standing around one of the desks, chatting, catching up, as they wait for the workday to kick into motion. This time, it’s Ivy’s desk. She’s at the heart of it, and I recognize all too well the fawning, sycophantic looks on their faces as they bend at her, and coo, and giggle.

It’s just like college.

That singular thought churns my stomach. I just stand there, stupidly, watching. The coward part of me starts suggesting: why not do it later? I could call her into my office. That would be easier—except it wouldn’t, not at all. As much as I don’t like crowds, I do need witnesses. Just in case Ivy does… something.

Then, after a moment, it strikes. It isn’t just like college. It’s like high school too. I’m on the outside looking in. Watching forlornly as another group of girls chats.

“Hello, Olive,” Ivy says, looking up. She’s neither surprised nor concerned to see me. I don’t panic the way I feared. I just feel myself growing smaller as I slip under her gaze. “Good morning.”

“Ivy.” My voice is shaky. It’s hard to talk while some of the other office girls are giggling at Ivy’s informality with me. To them, it’s daring—but innocent. To me, it’s anything but. “I… um… there’s something-“

“Oh, hey, chief,” says one of the other girls. Amanda. She doesn’t mean to interrupt. She probably didn’t notice I was talking. “We were just checking out Ivy’s new watch! Ivy, show her.”

With a wordless smile, Ivy lifts her hand and lets me see what’s on her wrist.

It’s fancy. Luxury, I presume, although I don’t know watches. The brand—Cartier—means nothing to me. It’s nice, anyone could see that. But that’s not what gets me. What gets me is that it’s new, and that, with all that gold, it’s plainly very, very expensive.

Beads of incriminating sweat form on my forehead.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Amanda prompts.

“Y-y-yes, lovely,” I stammer.

“I can’t believe you could afford something like this,” another girl admired. “Was it a gift?”

Ivy is turning her hand this way and that, letting me admire the watch from all angles. I’m all but hypnotized by it.

“Something like that,” Ivy remarks. That all but confirms my suspicions.

I paid for this watch. Last night, with the money I sent to her. Until this moment, I hadn’t been sure it had really happened.

While I’m stewing in unfathomable emotion, the girls gathering around Ivy are just making adoring little noises. “Lucky!” one of them says. “From family?”

“Nope,” Ivy replies. She just keeps looking straight at me. It’s unmaking me. Why are my cheeks so hot?

“A lover?” another guesses.

The mirth in Ivy’s voice is merciless. “Absolutely not.”

I’m lucky that all my coworkers are too busy fawning over Ivy and her watch to register the utterly stupid, stunned, humiliated look on my face. I’m offended, of course. Ivy is shamelessly flaunting the money she… stole? Took. Took from me. The sheer audacity is staggering. I’m forced to quietly pray and plead that Ivy doesn’t tell all the other girls just where that money came from. I would never live down the reputation it would give me.

I hate it. I should hate it. And yet.

Why am I so wet I can already feel the dark stain forming on my panties?

The sense of violation is transmuted in my stomach, becoming a nauseous, queasy thrill that sets me hopelessly off-balance. It’s like I’m falling, and falling, and falling, and I can’t stop. Maybe I don’t want to stop. Sometimes, when you’re standing on a balcony or at the edge of a tall rooftop, you feel this paradoxical urge to throw yourself into the open air and let gravity take you. This is just the same. One of the reasons I can’t speak is that I have to bite down on my tongue, or else I might find myself offering Ivy even more.

Why? Why would I do that? Why would I want that?

Because Ivy deserves it.

I can’t explain the answer. But it is the answer. She deserves it. And I don’t.

The whimper that escapes my throat can’t be heard over the ambient conversation going on in the office.

“Something wrong, Olive?” Ivy asks. She knows. “You look a little peaky.”

“I’m f-f-fine.” I don’t sound it. I have to remind myself. Not again. “Ivy, I… I need to speak with you.”

“Of course,” Ivy replies, unperturbed. “In your office?”

“No!” I blurt out. I need the safety of the crowd. “Here is fine. I, um…”

I pause. Where to begin? I rehearsed what I was going to say a dozen times in the mirror, but not the start. Why didn’t I practice the start?

“Perhaps you wanted to follow up on the conversation we had yesterday?” Ivy suggests sweetly.

“N-no.” I pale. “No, that’s, um…”

Everyone is looking at me. Why does everyone have to look at me? It’s not fair. I can’t take it. I try to look down, but Ivy’s watch catches my eye instead. It’s so bright. All that gold. Gold has never really suited me—but it certainly suits her, with her height, and her immaculate makeup, and her rich, dark skin. She’s so glamorous. So graceful. I could never be those things.

She’s so much better than me. That’s why I pay for her to be glamorous instead.

Pleasure throbs from between my legs. I almost moan.

“I-I-In my office!” I cave. “Yes. Yes, that’s… fine. Um.”

I need it, it turns out. The safety and privacy of that familiar space.

Waving a quick goodbye to the other girls, Ivy follows me inside. I shut the door. In my office I do, indeed, feel safer. Stronger. Even if being in such close quarters with Ivy is almost painfully distracting. I draw a deep breath.

“Yesterday,” I begin, launching into my spiel without prelude. “What happened between us was entirely u-untoward. I won’t… um… that is, ideally, there’s no need for us to involve anyone else, but I think it’s important that we put an end to… to whatever that was. For the sake of p-professional boundaries.”

I sound just like a kid on the first day of school. It’s pathetic, and Ivy knows it. Her amusement and disapproval are like hot smoke on my skin, itching at me. She lets me stew in it for a beat.

“Or what?” she says eventually.

I clench my eyes shut for a moment. I was hoping she’d simply agree, but I’d prepared for this.

“Or,” I recite calmly, “I’m prepared to raise this matter with HR.”

It’s my killer threat. And after a moment, Ivy just laughs in my face.

“You’ll go to HR?” she mocks. “Olive, Olive, Olive. You really didn’t think that one through, did you?”

Suddenly I feel so small. How can she do that to me? I’m not small. I’m not inferior. I’m not.

“W-what are you talking about?” I demand.

“You’ll go to HR and tell them… what, exactly?” Ivy asks.

Already, I’m deflating. “I’ll tell them exactly what happened,” I bluster. “That you… that you coerced me into t-that transfer. The watch! It’s evidence, even. I-“

“Is that right?” Ivy interrupts. “You’ll tell them that I, your employee and new hire, was bringing you coffee in the morning, and then you started touching yourself in front of me. You’ll tell them that?”

My cheeks turn the deepest red. It wasn’t like that! Was it? I don’t remember. The coffee. Wasn’t there something about the coffee?

“B-but the watch,” I protest. “It-“

“And tried to bribe me into silence, too,” Ivy laughs. “Wonderful story, Olive. Shall we go right now?”

It’s at that moment that I realize just how deeply, awfully powerless I am.

“No.” I slump. It feels almost natural, in front of her.

“Good,” Ivy purrs. “I’m glad we’ve put an end to that stupidity.”

My cheeks burn. Stupidity. Yes. How didn’t I see it? I feel like a child again, trying to stand up for myself. Failing.

Ivy knows best.

It’s only natural. I’m inferior.

“And when I was being so nice to you!” Ivy adds, before I can interrogate where that particular thought stems from. “Look. I even brought you coffee again.”

She gestures, and I turn to my desk. Sure enough, right there, in front of my computer, there’s a cup of coffee. It’s just the same as it was yesterday. That, more than anything, activates my fight-or-flight urge.

Ivy’s lips are thin, as she smiles. “Drink up,” she instructs.

I tremble. I shouldn’t. I know that much, even if the reason eludes me. “Maybe later,” I say feebly.

“Now.”

Being chastened like that makes me shiver. Again, it’s that child-feeling. The scorn in Ivy’s voice hits me the same way the watch on her wrist does. It feels bad, but my body yields to it willingly. Eagerly.

I could try to disobey, but what would be the point? Ivy’s already taught me how that goes.

As calmly as I can manage, I sit down at my desk and take a sip of the coffee. It tastes off, in an eerily familiar way.

“More than that.” I can tell Ivy is growing tired of my petty little rebellions. I should have known better than to think she’d be satisfied so easily. “Drink up properly, Olive.”

She sounds like a school teacher. I take a big mouthful of the coffee and drink it down with a gulp.

Just a few moments later, the world around me slows to a crawl.

The sensation is familiar, this time, and that déjà vu brings back with it the dawning horror of everything that happened before. I remember it now, in detail. Once it’s too late.

The drug.

Already, I’m too skullfucked to even articulate my dread. I just look at Ivy, stunned, opening and closing my mouth like a fish. My double-vision splits her lopsided, smirking grin into two shapes, linking at the end, an impossibly wide crescent moon of cruelty.

“That’s better,” Ivy simpers. “Isn’t that better, Olive?”

It’s better.

I’m nodding before even one of my slow, small thoughts has crawled across my mind.

It’s better. It must be.

Ivy says so. Reassured by that, I sit back. I smile. It’s easy to smile. This is better.

Then, after a few long moments, I remember that there was a question.

“Y-yeah,” I sigh dreamily.

“Of course it is,” Ivy laughs. “You’re certainly much better this way. Much more manageable. It’s the way you belong, Olive.”

It’s the way I belong.

That’s good. That’s nice.

It’s… what?

Drugged?

Yeah. Yes. There was a drug. I remember now.

I’m supposed to fight it. At least, I think so. I remember impressing something like that on myself. But it sounds so futile. My physiology is succumbing even quicker than before.

Oh well. It’s the way I belong.

“But I think we have a problem, Olive,” Ivy says lazily. “You still don’t seem to understand your place.”

My… place?

It’s right here, isn’t it?

This is my office. My desk. So this is my place.

I don’t… understand?

What don’t I understand?

In my ignorance, I feel small and weak. Ivy is anything but.

“What…” I slur. “What’s… my place?”

Ivy smiles. She’s pleased I need to ask her. “Look at this.”

She raises her hand, presenting her new watch for me to see. In truth, she didn’t need to tell me to look. The way the light glints off the gold catches my eyes instantly. It’s almost childish, really. I can’t seem to look away from something so shiny.

But of course, that’s not the only reason I’m instantly fascinated.

“You paid for this,” Ivy tells me simply.

The confirmation almost brings me to moaning. Hearing it like that, from Ivy’s lips, makes it more real than real.

I paid for this.

Fuck. That’s so hot. Fuck.

I can’t process why. Between the drug and the need, I’m overwhelmed. I just know nothing has ever been so potent.

I paid for this. For her.

“You know what’s funny?” Ivy asks as she turns her hand over. “Let me ask you something: why haven’t you ever bought a watch like this?”

Why… haven’t I?

A watch. Yes. A watch like… what?

I don’t know anything about watches.

Maybe that’s the reason. Is that the reason?

I don’t know. I just know it never occurred to me.

“You could have,” Ivy reminds me. “You have the money.”

I don’t bother trying to think. It’s easier not to. I know Ivy will serve up the truth for me on a silver platter.

“You didn’t,” Ivy says, “because you don’t deserve things like this.”

I don’t?

I don’t. That settles on me, and it settles heavy.

I don’t deserve things like Ivy’s watch.

But she does. Even I can make that connection.

“You don’t deserve nice things,” Ivy whispers. Pouring more poison in my ear. I know it for what it is. I just can’t fight it.

It feels right.

Yes. That’s right. I don’t deserve nice things.

A little voice in me wants to argue. It wants to tell me I do. Isn’t this what I work so hard for? To afford things? To buy the kind of life I want?

Another voice rises, and says the opposite. I work so hard because that’s what I deserve. Not the nice things. The work. And Ivy’s just the opposite.

“But,” Ivy confirms, just as I’m reaching the thought. “I do.”

I nod, as her words become part of me.

“I deserve them,” Ivy continues. “Because I’m better than you.”

I nod faster. I’m greedy for it. Her truth.

“Because I’m superior.”

And because I’m inferior.

She’s a player. She gets to play life. To enjoy it. I’m a spectator. I work. I watch. That’s all.

A big, dumb grin comes to my face as I figure it out. As all the different things Ivy has put in my head start to join up, forming a unified, twisted ideology. I’m like a little girl, pleased as punch because I finally figured out the dumb little puzzle the teacher gave me to solve.

“You…" I say—slowly, but I’m pushing myself. I want to show Ivy I figured it out first. I want her approval, even now. I guess I always have. “You deserve my… my nice things.”

Ivy throws back her head and cackles. There’s nothing but cruelty in her laughter, but all the same, it’s warm as it washes over me.

I made her smile.

“That’s right. Aren’t you clever, little Olive?” she coos.

Aren’t I clever?

Aren’t I?

Am I?

I don’t know. I don’t feel clever.

Ivy feels clever.

“I deserve your nice things,” Ivy repeats, rich with glee. “Which is why I’m going to make you send me more money. Lots more.”

More. More. Yes.

It makes sense to me, of course. I’m inferior. I’m a spectator. And Ivy deserves things.

But it does more than just make sense.

It turns me on like nothing else ever has.

As I sway and pant, my vision starts clouding over into pink fog. I slump over, drawing closer to the watch as I do, and my hands start straying between my thighs, drawn there by the fervent need that burns within me.

I hope Ivy makes me send to her. I hope she does it right now. I need it.

Ivy sees it at once. “God, you’re easy,” she sneers. “You get off on it. Being exploited.”

I nod again, eyes still fixed on the watch. I’m all but drooling on it.

Being exploited. Being used.

I get off on it.

Whatever part of me might want to rebel against that suggestion is smothered by how overwhelmingly obvious it is. Just look at me. Anyone would think so.

“You get off on sending me money,” Ivy repeats, hammering the message still deeper.

I nod. She’s right. She’s so right.

I’m not sure I’ve ever had a kink before. But I do now.

A fetish.

It strikes me that Ivy knew even before I did. She always knew.

She knows me better than I know myself.

“Say it,” Ivy tells me.

“I g-get off,” I say, my voice trembling and wet, “on sending you money.”

Ivy laughs at me. I smile too. The repetition is instructive. I understand better now. What I am. What she is.

I hope she lets me send her money again soon.

“That’s right. Good girl.” Ivy’s praise is sardonic, but all the same, it warms me. That’s just how superior she is. “And that’s why you’ll be working late tonight too, won’t you? Racking up that overtime? It wouldn’t do for my personal little wallet to run out of cash.”

Run out?

No. No, that wouldn’t do.

I can’t send my money to Ivy if I don’t have any.

I’m drooling. I can feel it. Threatening to let my globs of unworthy saliva drip all over Ivy’s watch. I need to send to her.

It just feels that good.

So I need to… work late? Again?

That strikes a bitter note. A chord of resistance within me I didn’t even know was there. With great effort, I stop myself nodding. It’s my promise. My promise to Luna.

“I… c-can’t…” I beg.

Ivy cocks an eyebrow. She’s impressed—genuinely, this time. “Wow. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“P-promised…” I drool. It’s hard to go against Ivy. It’s not right. I’m inferior. “My girl… my girlfriend…”

Ivy’s laughter is louder and crueler than ever. “Well, aren’t you a romantic?” she sneers. “That’s funny. I remember just a couple of nights ago, you were telling her you had to keep staying late.”

“I… uh…”

I don’t remember. Two days back is too far for my addled mind. Ivy’s drug has me far too incoherent to form anything close to an argument.

“You were going to turn over a new leaf, huh?” Ivy guesses—rightly, of course. She tuts at me theatrically. “Silly girl. You never learn, do you?”

I… never learn?

I guess not. I guess I don’t.

I’m a silly girl. Yes. That’s right.

So small.

So weak.

“Girls like you never turn over a new leaf,” Ivy reminds me. “You’re just a spectator, Olive. You don’t get story arcs. You don’t get character development. I’m a main character. You’re a… a sidekick.” Her lips curl up. “If that.”

“R-right.” I shrink into myself. She’s right. She has to be. Ivy knows best.

And it sounds right, doesn’t it? How many times have I promised myself that I would change things up? How many New Year’s Resolutions have I let lapse?

I’m… a sidekick.

“You’re still the same girl you were in college,” Ivy concludes. “And I’m superior. Let me show you.”

As whiny and needy as I thought I already was, it’s nothing compared to how I feel when Ivy reaches up, unbuttons her blouse, and lets it fall to the floor.

The way she moves, confident and sensual, is meant to catch my eye. It does, effortlessly. The moment the white peels away, revealing beneath Ivy’s dark, rich, perfect skin, is a revelation. She looks so good, and so effortlessly. The sight of her is the only thing that could have wrenched my attention away from the golden watch.

Ivy’s breasts. She’s wearing a push-up bra. Fuck, they’re perfect.

“You like what you see, Olive?” Ivy asks. Her tone is unmistakably provocative. It fills me with heat.

I nod dumbly.

“Of course you do,” Ivy purrs. “Pervert.”

That word courses through me and makes me quiver.

Pervert? Is that what I am?

“Keep watching.”

Ivy doesn’t need to tell me that. I couldn’t possibly look away as she reaches behind herself, unhooks her bra, and flicks it aside.

Stupid. I feel stupid. That’s the only way I can describe it. The way my thoughts slow to a base, horny crawl as I stare, drooling, at Ivy’s bare chest. Her tits make me stupid, because I’m a pervert. I get it now. Her chest is perfect, of course. Full, proud, shapely—and above all, bigger than mine.

When my thoughts start racing again, that’s all I can think about.

Ivy is bigger than me. Better than me. I ache with the knowledge of it. Making the comparison is instinctive. I search for all the imperfections that would undermine me if I were in Ivy’s shoes. The moles, the blemishes, the wrinkles and scars. There are none. There’s nothing—at least, nothing that does anything more than accentuate her beauty.

Ivy is so much better than me. Ivy is superior.

I’ve never known it as deeply as I do now, with it staring me in the face.

“Keep watching, little Olive.”

As Ivy removes her skirt, I should be thinking about how monstrously inappropriate this would look if any of my subordinates happened to come over and open the door to my office. I’m not. Instead, I’m just thinking about how I could never do what Ivy’s doing. I could never have her poise. Her confidence. Her perfection.

She’s superior. And I’m inferior.

I keep turning that thought over in my head. It’s bittersweet; each time, it grows sweeter and more bitter.

It hurts. Obviously. Seeing that I’m not as good as Ivy, despite it all. That I’m still just her lesser. Knowing it hurts. Feeling it hurts.

But isn’t it… right?

In a way, it’s a relief. I don’t have to fight anymore. To resist her. To prove myself to her. I don’t have to look back on my college years and cringe with shame.

It was only natural. Just like this is only natural.

This is my place.

I drool. I grin. That idea throbs through my being. It fills me with a sickening warmth, and has me rubbing at myself surreptitiously over my clothes. This is my place. This is the way I belong.

After Ivy’s skirt is gone, she takes off her shoes, and then there’s only one thing left: her underwear. She swiftly moves to remove those too. The merest hint of her bulge beneath the plain fabric makes me drool twice as hard. I need to see it. But I know this isn’t for my benefit. This isn’t a striptease. It’s a demonstration. The way Ivy moves isn’t sultry, merely supremely confident. It’s like she’s unveiling a work of art. Her very own masterpiece.

And I’m awestruck by it.

Yes, she could be in a museum. There’s no question about it. Every inch of Ivy is perfection made manifest. She works out, a lot, and it shows in the lines of musculature sculpted all across her physique. She has the kind of perfect figure only a combination of genetics and hard work can give you: hourglass, with wide shoulders and wider hips, full with the fruit of femininity.

This is why I get turned on when I send her money. It all makes sense now. It’s perfectly natural. A superior being like her is owed tribute. The arousal is my reward for submitting to the natural order.

Dazzled, my eyes flit across her, overwhelmed by the staggering spectacle that is Ivy Robinson. Perhaps I’m looking for a sign that she’s just a mere mortal like me. An imperfection. But there’s none, not that I can see. Her hair, sleek. Her lips, full. Her nails, long and painted. It’s all perfect.

Her cock.

Once I look at that, I can’t look away. Ivy is only half-hard, but that’s enough to make it clear that she’s big. The need that grips me as I think about that is so great and so deep it sweeps all self-control aside. I need it. I need her. I’m so turned on, from sending her money and seeing her watch and everything else. I’m inferior. She’s superior. So it makes sense, doesn’t it? I owe her service. I need to let her use me. Only half-consciously, I start to tip forward, my mouth drooling open, ready to slump forward to my knees and take her in my-

“What are you doing?”

Ivy’s mocking voice halts me. I look up at her, a lost lamb in need of guidance.

“I appreciate your eagerness, Olive,” she scoffs. “But no. You don’t get to touch me like that. Not yet, anyway.”

I nod and hang my head. Of course not. How could I forget?

I’m inferior. I don’t have the right. I’m still learning just how wide the gulf between us is.

I’m stupid.

But I have Ivy to teach me.

“It’s time for another lesson, Olive,” Ivy drawls. “If you want things, you have to ask nicely.”

I have to ask nicely.

That’s right.

“Do you want to touch me?” Ivy asks.

For a few seconds, I just nod. Then the lesson lands.

“P-please,” I whimper. “Please, Ivy, c-can I touch you?”

My voice has never sounded so pathetic. But it’s not enough. Not even close.

“C’mon,” Ivy taunts. “You can do better than that.”

I flinch. Her cruelty provokes no resentment in me. It’s simply her right. I lower my head even further. Whatever dignity I have left, I’ll gladly throw away.

No, I’ll offer it. To Ivy. Just like everything else I have.

“Please!” I cry, voice a rising crescendo of maddened lust. “Please, Ivy, I… I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll work as long as you want! Please. I… I could make you feel good!” An empty boast, probably, but I can’t help myself. “Whatever you want! Just… please.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Ivy’s praise, however sarcastic, makes me smile. “Really. You’re a natural, Olive. Almost there. Just… think about a little more. Think about your place.”

My place?

The unfairness of it brings petulant tears to my eyes. Ivy expects something from me, clearly. But I don’t know what. I can’t seem to figure it out. Stupid. I’m so stupid.

My… place. What’s my place?

My mind is utterly clouded with lust, but I force myself to think. I look at myself. I’m sitting in my office, behind my deck. It’s a place I feel strong. Safe. Important.

But that’s not right. I’m not any of those things. Not with Ivy.

This isn’t my place. But what is? In a flash of inspiration, the answer comes to me.

Compared to Ivy, I am utterly inferior. My place is simply the lowest I can be.

I slump forward, out of my chair, and collapse on the floor, prostrating myself. I press my face to the ground in a posture of abject groveling.

“I… I whimper meekly. “I beg you.”

For a moment, tension grips me. Is this right? But even before Ivy speaks, I can sense her satisfaction.

“Very good,” Ivy tells me. “You can touch me, Olive. But only the very lowest part of me.”

I turn my face to one side and see Ivy nudge her foot towards me. There’s no mistaking what she means or what she wants. It’s demeaning. It’s humiliating.

I couldn't be more grateful.

Without hesitation, I crawl toward Ivy and press my face into her foot. Immediately, I’m smearing my drool all over her—it’s disgusting of me, I know, to soil her perfection with my filth, but I can’t help myself. There’s only one thing I can do for a being as superior as Ivy.

Worship her.

And I do. Eagerly. Fervently, although my haste ruins any sense of reverence to what I’m doing. I kiss, I lick, I suck, intoxicated beyond reason by the wondrous gift Ivy has given me by allowing me to touch her. I must look like a dog to her, licking scraps from the floor. She’s standing over me, towering and strong, and in my mind’s eye, Ivy only grows and grows.

She’s all that matters. She is my god.

“You’re just as good of a bootlicker as I’d hoped,” Ivy comments. “Not that I’m surprised.”

Her praise fills me with a dull warmth, but it’s immediately stolen away from me when she steps around to sit down in my chair, behind my desk, robbing me, for a moment, of her feet. I scramble after her, and am rewarded when she sits back and plants her heels on the floor, feet crossed at the ankles. At once, I start lapping at her soles.

“That feels good,” Ivy purrs. “You’re a natural.”

I’m a natural. A natural at licking feet. Keen to make her feel better still, I reach forward and start massaging her feet; one, then the other. Her little sounds of pleasure are like music.

This feels so good. So right. This is my place.

I pour myself into the act of worship, and I am diminished by it. I’m a smart girl. I’ve been to college. I have a respectable job. But none of that matters now. I’m just Ivy’s creature. Her devoted servant. The thoughts in my head have become simple and crude. I focus on making sure every last inch of Ivy’s feet receives the attentions of my tongue and my fingers. The approval I can sense coming from Ivy is so poisonously affirming.

I’m good at this. It only makes it all the more obvious. This is right. This is the proper order of things.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Ivy is hard.

“C… c-can I…” I venture, pushed by my own need, “touch myself?”

I have to ask. I need it. My body is a boiling cauldron.

“Go ahead,” Ivy sneers. “Help yourself.”

I moan a “thank you,” the words melted together by moaning and drooling. Deep at the back of my mind, a voice warns me: this is dangerous. This is how the drug works. Pleasure sears Ivy’s words into me and makes them permanent.

I don’t care. I’m past caring.

I reach back with one hand and push two fingers inside my cunt, to the knuckle. I hear myself dripping all over the ground.

Fuck. It feels incredible.

It takes me no time at all to bring myself to the edge. At least, I don’t think so. Time has lost its meaning. For all I know, it’s been hours. Maybe I’ve missed meetings. If so, I don’t care. I could spend forever like this. It’s so simple. So easy. Worshiping Ivy like this is the thrill I’ve been craving my entire life. It’s everything I’ve been missing.

I get that now.

Ivy takes notice as I get close. I’m an open book to her. She leans forward. “You want to cum,” she says. It’s not a question, so I don’t reply. I just keep sucking on her toe, steaming in the scent of her sweat. “But you can’t. Something’s missing.”

Something’s missing.

With her words, I sense a barrier between myself and the release I crave. I whine, but I don’t argue. I don’t stop.

“Give and take, Olive,” Ivy taunts. “Here. You know what you need to do.”

She reaches down to me, my phone in her hand. It’s just like before. My payment app is on the screen. A transaction has been prepared—an eye-watering, four-figure sum. All I need to do is tap with my finger.

I can’t do it. I mustn’t. For a second time, I’d be throwing away hours of tireless work. Days. Maybe weeks. And worse, I can feel my psyche ready to snap. Ready to alter itself. Maybe now, even now, I can pull back from the brink. I can stop an indulgence from becoming an addiction. All I have to do is hold back.

But I don’t even want to.

I reach out and press my finger to the screen. The transaction goes through.
 
It’s like I can feel it happening. Like I feel something precious departing my body. Instantly, it’s irrevocable. No matter what I do, I’ll never not be the stupid girl who sent thousands of dollars to my bully, just so I could cum.

That’s who I am. That’s Olive, from now on.

And I want to do it again. Already. I want to give and give, more and more. I want to make Ivy greater. I want to make myself lesser. The humiliation of it bites so deep. Nothing else comes close. Nothing else makes me feel this alive. I want to give until there’s nothing left of me.

Oblivion.

I collapse in a heap as I cum all over myself.

Ivy watches, almost dispassionately, as I do. Then she stands up and, slowly, deliberately, wipes each of her feet off on my limp, twitching body, leaving my clothes soiled with my own drool. Ruined. Then, she starts to dress herself.

“I think I’ll be leaving early today,” she announces. I’m beyond replying, and she knows it. “A little shopping trip, maybe.”

I gasp. I see stars. The mere thought of what she might spend my money on has me eager for another orgasm.

“You can stay late tonight,” Ivy tells me. I just nod. I understand now. I can’t disobey her. “But don’t worry about your girlfriend. Soon, she’ll have me to keep her company instead.”

I freeze. It feels like a knife has gone into my chest.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Ivy says as she leaves, a crooked smile on her face. “I’m going to take everything from you. Everything.”