Chapter 11: The Road Ahead

From Amanda’s diary:

Dear diary,

I woke up in pain several times through the night. I had been crying so much my eyes felt sore. My throat was dry and my mouth tasted awful. My chest hurt from Clara’s punishment and my own desperate sobs. I was hungry and faint after eating almost nothing for the entire weekend.

My thoughts went in circles. I was worthless. Things like this didn’t happen to normal people. I deserved it for being so weak and allowing it. I hadn’t fought back. I was a terrible mess. It was my fault for provoking Clara. I should have known my place. If I had submitted fully from the start I would not have been punished.

Then I’d remember where I was. Fiona lay beside me, her body warm and comforting, filled with the strength and grace I would never have. Perhaps it had only been pity, but she had come for me when I’d needed her the most. She had saved me from the darkest despair, and not only that; she had taken me to her home. Ok, it wasn’t her bed, in her own room. I obviously didn’t deserve that anymore, if I ever had, but she still cared about me enough to look after me and shelter me through the night. My breath would slow down, and I’d relax a little, knowing nothing bad could get at me through her. I was safe. Then I’d fall asleep again.

Fiona woke me up and forced some medicine on me. All I wanted was to sleep, and preferably not to wake up again. I was so tired of everything. I had spent the last few years resigned to my place, knowing that there was no escape, but then Fiona had shown me something different. Something I could hardly remember from my days as a little girl: call it joy, happiness, or purpose. The notion that things could, should, would get better. She didn’t think I was worthless, and who was I to contradict her?

Those had been the thoughts that had given me the stupid idea that I had choices, that I could refuse. Clara had taught me how wrong I’d been. It had only taken a little bit of pain to compel me to obedience. My gesture of defiance had been nothing but a child’s tantrum, pointless and empty, as the broken laptop in my room made perfectly clear.

Perhaps there was one choice I could make, though; between obeying those who would destroy me, and those who would ... What were Fiona’s intentions? I’d never work her out in a thousand lifetimes. My mind just didn’t--couldn’t--work that way. Did she want to possess me, to command me, to transform me? Whatever it was, it seemed better than what I had in stock from my cousins. I couldn’t go on like that. I had come to the end of my strength.

Fiona gave me a straw to drink from, and I sucked on the refreshing liquid. Only then I realised how thirsty I was, as I guzzled it, filling my mouth with the pleasant taste of lemon. She slowed me down, and I wanted to lash out in frustration, but I’d just been reminded I had no right to contest my superiors. She was probably even doing it for my own good.

I owed her an incalculable debt. How could I repay her, when I had nothing of worth? Only myself; the only coin I could pledge. No wonder I slipped and called her Miss. Fortunately Fiona didn’t think I presumed. She had made it perfectly clear that we were only friends, and that title was the duty and the privilege of a more intimate associate: a pet, as she called it, or perhaps a girlfriend. May as well wish for the moon at my feet and the stars for my necklace.

I pressed my face against her body, hoping she would not push me away, and she allowed a respectful kiss on her soft skin. I was so close I could hear her slow breathing and heartbeat, calming me and helping me sleep again.

I woke up slowly and Fiona wasn’t there. I felt deserted, though I understood she had better things to do than taking care of a loser like me. She had a life after all. I was trying to put together the determination to get up when she came with a pile of clothes for me. She’d just gone to get something to dress me in. I hadn’t thought things through and we hadn’t brought any of my stuff when Fiona took me home. Silly me. I was so ungrateful, too, thinking she had just left me there, when she had gotten up and immediately set herself to remedy my stupidity.

“Come, now”, she said. “Time to get up. I let you sleep tons.”

It took a little convincing, but I got up and put on Fiona’s clothes. They were too big for me, but at least it stopped her grimacing whenever she looked at me. Everything hurt, but it was just about bearable. If I was careful about the way I dressed, I could keep the damage hidden.

“I guess I can’t stay in bed forever”, I said.

“You must be hungry, too. Come on.”

She coaxed me to go out of the bedroom into the living room and join her at the table for breakfast. There were all kinds of things to eat, and I really needed food. I wondered if she had prepared it all herself, or her mother had been involved. I should at least thank them for it, but I felt so small I couldn’t speak. All I could do was sit there, eating, looking at her and wondering when she was going to gently tell me she was giving up on me. At least I hoped it would be gentle. I couldn’t deal with an angry or spiteful Fiona right then.

She kept looking at me, waiting for me to talk. I concluded she was trying to be kind, letting me put together a proper apology, but the words just wouldn’t come. I hated the thought of disappointing her, but I didn’t know how to start. Eventually even her patience ran out and she asked me what was wrong.

I tried to apologise, but she would have none of it. I wasn’t sure if she was serious, at first, but it became clear she really didn’t think I was at fault. I had trouble believing it myself, but if Fiona didn’t blame me for it, perhaps I shouldn’t either. She wasn’t angry with me. She spoke softly, and I was grateful. It may have been childish, but I needed her kindness so much just then. When it became obvious she wasn’t going to scream at me or punish me, I started hoping things might still turn out well in spite of everything, and my despair began to lift, like a cloud from my heart letting the sun of her affection shine on me again.

I kept saying sorry though, especially when she asked me why I hadn’t warned her about the weekend. Retrospectively, it had been such a big mistake. I hadn’t imagine Clara would take things that far, spurred by my disobedience. When Fiona told me she was spending her time at Kira’s, though, it felt so hard to tell her why I needed her. Even now, it wasn’t easy to admit. I’d also been made to believe nothing good would come of telling someone, and while it seemed like a silly fear now, it hadn’t before. I was afraid she would get involved and get hurt, or that she would not believe me, or not care.

I gave her a little summary of my cousins. I thought I’d see contempt or disgust on her face. After all, I knew full well if anything like that had happened to her, she would have sorted it out. I didn’t know how she would have dealt with it, but the thought of Fiona letting herself be treated that way was simply ridiculous. Nevertheless, that was not her reaction at all. She was sympathetic and understanding, which made me want to tell her all about it, but I wasn’t ready to open up that much yet. I had been so hurt, so recently, I felt brittle inside, and she didn’t push.

She insisted on knowing what had made Clara so angry, though. I didn’t want to tell her. It seemed the height of ingratitude to blame her for it, when I hadn’t given her due warning. She gave me no choice but to explain, and she winced when she heard it was her text, her laptop, and my foolish defence of it that had caused my cousin to get really angry.

I couldn’t believe she apologised to me about it. More, she said we would have to make sure to communicate better. Did she mean she wanted to be my friend, still? I told her I’d understand if she didn’t want anything to do with me anymore, and she reminded me of those beautiful things she had called me on our way home, after she’d let me be her pet for a while. That was still one of the best days of my life, and when she said she still felt that way about me, I wanted to cry from relief, but Fiona had seen enough crying from me for a lifetime, so I focused on the fact she still liked me, and would hopefully continue to take care of me, and I smiled at her, my burdens feeling much lighter.

We finished breakfast, and Fiona took care of the washing up while I sat on the sofa, watching TV, trying not to think too hard. I offered to do the dishes, but she smiled at me and told me to take it easy. If she was willing to coddle me, I wasn’t going to complain. Not that day.

“I’ll make you wash up often enough when you’re well”, she said, joking.

“Really, Fiona, thanks for being so ... kind to me today”, I said.

“Are you suggesting I’m usually unkind?” She was looking at me with a smile on her face, though. She wasn’t really angry.

“Uh, no, just that you can be--”

“A bitch?”

I still wasn’t sure if she was serious so I kept quiet.

“You’re supposed to say, ‘Oh, no, Fiona. Never that. Of course you never act like a bitch.’”

I chuckled, though it was a little fragile.

“I was going to say ... difficult”, I said.

“Sure you were.” She gave me one last smile and turned back to finish her task, giving up on teasing me for the moment.

When she was done, she suggested we could have a bath together. I didn’t want to let her see me naked again, but the truth was, the damage had already been done. A bath would probably be pleasant. After a weekend of slaving for Clara I probably smelled, too.

I saw that tremendously large bath, big enough for the two of us and more, and I couldn’t help feeling sad and tearing up. It had figured in many of my fantasies since the first time I’d seen it, especially after I started picturing Fiona as an empress and me as her devoted, faithful slave. I had kept the foolish hope that one day we would bath together, and she would let me serve her the way she deserved and I longed for, and perhaps would even play with me, presumptuous as that was. I felt like such a mess, outside as well as inside, that I couldn’t imagine Fiona feeling anything for me other than pity at best, or revulsion at worst.

She gave me a token kiss, stroked my face, and tried to convince me that she liked me still. I hated how flustered I got when she complimented me, but then she said she liked seeing my red cheeks. It made the blushing even worse, but it felt nice to know that she liked having this odd power over me. I was happy to please her, even if it took embarrassment and discomfort to do it.

After checking the temperature--Fiona liked it really hot, and I didn’t dare tell her it was a bit much for me--I went into the bath first. I couldn’t avoid hissing with the pain at the start, but little by little I managed to get used to it and dip my body further in until I was resting at the bottom. Fiona came in, then, careful not to bump on me. She was being so cautious it filled me with gratitude. Sure she had been saying that she cared about me, but for me those words were almost impossible to believe, much as I tried. Her actions, though, were incontestable. There was no other way to interpret the measures she was taking to protect me from the least of harms. I mattered to her.

We lay there for a while, just relaxing and letting the warmth of the water work through our bodies, when she picked up a fragrant, green bar of soap and a soft sponge. She raised her feet, wiggling her toes at me, still showing the cherry red polish I’d put on her nails the previous weekend, and commanded me to wash her.

It was perfect, just like I had imagined it, or perhaps a little more playful and less sultry. I loved that she didn’t ask. She simply passed me the products and told me what to do, not even questioning I would comply. It felt good, and completely different to what my cousins did to me. She was the rightful owner of my heart, not some violent usurper. There was no other threat in her voice than facing her disappointment at my disobedience. It made me feel trusted, relied on, and even useful.

I blushed, surprised at how much it meant to me that she demanded not only my service, but my touch, in such an intimate way. Alright, washing someone might not seem like such a big deal, but sharing a bath made me feel so close to Fiona, even more so than sleeping in her bed. Bathing together just felt special, like a step beyond what most people our age got up to. It seemed somehow more domestic and grown up, something for real couples who stay together for years.

I held one foot with my left hand, and began applying the soap with my right, using the sponge to rub her sole. Her skin was very soft, considering how athletic she was. I set the soap aside on the ledge and used both my hands to work it all into her skin, making sure to gently spread her toes and clear out the dirt which had accumulated there with my fingers. I kept looking at Fiona’s shapely, powerful foot in my hands, and at her face, showing her increasing relaxation. She had a little smile on, expressing her enjoyment, and perhaps--I hoped not--that she knew I liked doing it. I still wasn’t ready to tell Fiona how fond of her feet I was.

The task became absorbing beyond all pretence of washing. Fiona didn’t mind, though. I could see she was enjoying my fingers learning her shape, scratching and softening the bits of dry, hard skin on her heel, and running all over her sole, seeking to please her. A greedy part of myself wished to do this outside the bath. Her feet were rather clean just from dipping in the hot water, and more so as I applied the soap, and I wanted to know what it would be like to rub them when they were sticky with sweat and a fine layer of dirt, perhaps after one of her races or matches, or simply as she lay on the sofa after a long day in school, making my fingers damp and smelly. I still enjoyed touching that lowest part of her, though. Even if it was practically immaculate by now, there still was something special for me about serving someone’s feet.

She let me indulge myself for a while more, but eventually she nudged me and told me to do the other one. Her tone was playful, getting me a little flustered but not making me feel bad. It seemed she could read me like an open book, like my skull was made of glass and she could see the gears grinding inside me, knowing what I thought of, wanted, and needed, perhaps even before I did.

I grabbed her other foot and used the soap and the sponge on it, focusing on the washing task before I allowed myself the pleasure of simply rubbing it for her, enjoying the act itself of postponing my own desires until her orders had been fulfilled. I tried not to dwell on what it all said about me. There would be time enough to fret and second guess myself. Fiona had given me the opportunity to please us both, taking on the roles of submissive servant and rightful ruler, and I had no wish to spoil it worrying about the future. I had little doubt she would take care of that if it needed doing, just as she took care of me now.

I ran my fingers over her sole, learning the differences between both her feet; little places where her skin had hardened in one but not the other, or a very faint old scar on her ankle. Trying to please her was so entrancing I even forgot my own pain while doing it, only coming back to it as my self-consciousness grew again and I realised I was lying naked in the bath with my best friend, obediently rubbing her feet as I observed the smug, satisfied smile on her face, probably as happy with my touch as with my obviously servile attitude. She had conquered me, wrapped me around her little finger--or toe--and held me captive of my own unquenchable thirst for her approval, my desires trapping me like warm, soft, but unyielding chains.

Fiona called me her good girl, making me feel all soft and pliable, like my soul was a bit of clay for her to shape however she wanted. She told me to go up her legs, and I reminded myself that I was supposed to be washing her, not just losing myself in adoration. I tried my best to concentrate on her pleasure, rather than my own, using my hands to slather the soap and massage her legs. They were muscular and toned, shaped by her training, and I felt I was handling something powerful and fragile all at once.

I was having to stretch a little to reach the top of her legs, which wasn’t so easy in my position, and she just told me to pass her the soap. She continued her own wash, and I wished I could have gone on serving her, but with me hurting as I was it was probably not a good idea. I lay there, contemplating her, watching her doing a much more efficient, but I’d wager less pleasant, job on the remainder of her body.

She was still washing her belly and chest when she raised her foot and placed it in front of me, so close I could feel the warmth of it on my face. Of course it was absolutely clean, only vaguely smelling of the aromatic soap she’d given me. Even then, its shape and presence focused my attention so strongly I was startled by her words and it took me a little time to react. She wanted to know if I had done a good job of washing it, and what better proof of it than a kiss? My goodness, did she know what she was doing to me? She couldn’t, or she would have set me aside as a depraved freak, but whether she did or not, I wasn’t going to waste the chance of a lifetime.

I nodded, letting her know I was amenable, and looked into her eyes as she placed her sole closer and closer to my lips, inflaming my desire in its deliberate and inexorable trajectory. My eyes pled with her to put an end to my frustration, and I could see her pleasure in controlling the pace, and deciding the precise moment when we touched, a humorous but relentless expression on her face. I shuddered at the feel of her sole on my mouth, not just touching me, but pressing, almost treading on me, letting its weight felt, manifesting its power over me. I was so afraid to get too carried away I gave her a light kiss, hoping it would be enough. It made me quiver, and a let a little gasp escape.

She smiled, as if an adult amused at some childish antic, or a mistress at the whimsical quirk of a beloved pet, and commanded me to do the job properly. Didn’t I know how to kiss? I did, after her tutorial, and if she wanted a review of the material, I’d be all too happy to oblige.

I closed my eyes, as if I were kissing her mouth, pressed my face on her sole, carried away by a tide of irrepressible yearning, opened my lips, and made out with her foot, knowing this act best embodied who we truly were to each other. I allowed the tip of my tongue to touch her, feeling my insides melt at my abject surrender, at last fulfilled in my desire to pay that ultimate homage to the least of her, inwardly thanking her foot for bearing her weight and treading the floor beneath her. Though there was no particular taste to be savoured, the whole sequence took my breath away, overcome by that special, selfless love I felt for Fiona, and at last I lapped at her foot, aware of how precarious my secret was, but resolute in doing my best for her.

I heard Fiona make a sound of pleasure, and I knew that even if she chose to pretend amusement, this was doing something for her too, if not perhaps as intensely as for me. I felt overwhelmed, wanting to confess everything to her: how I loved her, how I needed her, and how I wanted to be hers and serve her, especially her beautiful feet. It was a good thing she withdrew her foot then, because I couldn’t have held together much longer. Arousal was travelling straight from my lips all through my body, and I felt too small to contain it, as if I were an overflowing vessel. Her pleased smile, and her gentle teasing words tinged with approval, helped me land safely from those heights.

Fiona finished washing herself. In the meantime, I managed to relax. I wanted to touch myself, or for her to touch me. Maybe one day it would happen, though I’d wait for her to make the first move.