Domination

For years I’d been stealing her flip-flops to get off with them. The afternoon she caught me on a ladder, she knew exactly how to use my secret.

The neighbors’ complaints didn’t scare her; they turned her on. In that elevator it smelled of beer and dirty man, and she was already on her knees before reaching the top floor.

It took only her catching me on my knees beside her bed for friendship to break and something else to begin: obeying every one of her whims without a word.

The first time she ordered me to paint my toenails, my hands shook. Not from fear: from wanting to obey her.

I'd kept that secret for years. All it took was a bottle of vodka and an old white flip-flop for her to take control and bring me to my knees.

When she grabbed my arm on the way out, I understood she wasn’t looking for an apology. She was looking for a slave, and I was already on my knees before she asked.

It was enough for her to look at my bare feet on the cold tiles to understand, before I did, what kind of man I could become if she ordered me to.

I went downstairs to the bathroom with a simple urge and found her there, soaped up and smiling, already knowing the order I was about to give her.

She took off her shoe in the car, slid her foot to my crotch, and whispered, “Is your first time going to be obeying me? Better for both of us.”

I woke up tied to the leather bench, naked and gagged, and understood that the session wasn’t meant to cure me: it was meant for them to have their fun with me.

At one in the morning she slipped off her heels to provoke, as always. She had no idea that night someone would turn her whim into an order.

For weeks I’d been admiring her feet from the back row. The day she slipped off her sandals and pinned me with her gaze, I knew there was no turning back.

She came back from training still in uniform, looked down at me from above, and I understood that afternoon that something between us was going to change forever.

I’d spent years pretending I didn’t stare at her feet. That night, barefoot on the bed, she ordered me to kneel—and there was no turning back.

I started graduate school not knowing anyone. It only took one look at her crossing her legs and slipping off a sandal for me to stop paying attention to anything else.

When she came out of the bedroom wrapped in that black latex, ponytail pulled tight and high heels on, I knew we weren’t going to sleep early that night.

That afternoon, she walked through the curtain into the back room knowing she would obey every order, however degrading, without anyone forcing her to.

I didn’t need to read his name to know the green pants he described in such detail were mine. And I knew, in that instant, that I was going to make him beg.

She got thrown out of the mansion for asking too much. Lost in the night, the stench of a garbage truck made her smile: at last, someone spoke her language.

She went down those clinic stairs knowing she would not leave as the same woman: three pairs of hands were waiting to remind her what she really was.