Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The University library was a cathedral of silence, smelling of dust and decaying paper. Usually, this was Anya’s refuge—a place where the chaos of London couldn't reach her. But today, the silence felt oppressive. It felt dead.
Anya sat in a secluded carrel, a formidable stack of Statistics textbooks built like a fortress around her. To anyone walking past, she was just another student grinding toward a degree, her brow furrowed in concentration.
But beneath the desk, in the shadow of her lap, her phone was glowing.
Her thumb pulled down on the screen. Refresh.
The little loading wheel spun for a heartbeat, then vanished, replaced by a new number.
Views: 4,102.
Anya let out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding. It had only been up for forty-eight hours. Stephen had told her the "Intro" videos were slow burns, meant to attract long-term subscribers, but this… this was an explosion.
She scrolled down to the comments section. This had become her new ritual, a secret addiction that hit her harder than the morning caffeine. She told herself she was checking for safety, ensuring no one had recognized her, but the truth was darker. She was mining for gold.
User_Archileez: "I’ve seen a lot of debuts on this site, but ‘A’ is something else. That flinch when he first touches her arch? You can’t fake that sensitivity. She’s a live wire."
Tickle_Scholar: "The way she tries to hold the laughter in is divine. Most models ham it up, but she’s fighting it. It makes the surrender so much sweeter. We need more of her. Immediately."
Guest: "Is she real? She looks like an angel. I’ve watched the shoe removal ten times. Her feet are perfection."
Anya felt a heat rising in her chest, a flush that had nothing to do with the stuffy library air. In this room, she was invisible. She was a scholarship student with a threadbare coat and a bank account that usually hovered near zero. But on that screen, she was a goddess. She was ‘A,’ the angel with the perfect feet, the object of desire for thousands of strangers.
She read the comment about her "perfection" again. A strange, twisted pride curled in her gut. She looked at her hands—the hands that scrubbed Stephen’s floors—and then down at her feet, hidden inside her scuffed, practical sneakers.
They have no idea, she thought. They have no idea who I am.
She closed the browser tab before the urge to reply seized her. She couldn't study. The numbers and graphs on the page before her swam in nonsense circles. The adrenaline of the secret life was too potent.
She packed her bag, her movements sharp and decisive. She didn't head home. She walked out of the campus gates and turned toward the Tube, but she didn't take her usual line back to the shared house. She took the Central Line, heading West.
Oxford Street was a river of tourists and shoppers, but Anya cut through them with a new purpose. She found herself standing outside the massive, gilded doors of Selfridges.
She had passed this window a hundred times. In the past, she would linger for a moment, fogging the glass with a wistful sigh before hurrying back to her reality of ramen and rent. Today, she didn't stop. She pushed through the revolving doors.
The air inside was cool and scented with expensive perfume. She navigated the labyrinth of luxury until she reached the Shoe Galleries—a temple of leather and desire.
She felt out of place. Her coat was visibly worn at the cuffs, her backpack heavy and shapeless. A sales assistant, a woman with immaculate makeup and a gaze like a laser scanner, clocked her immediately. The woman didn't move to help; she just adjusted a display, her body language screaming, Browsing only.
Anya walked straight to the display she had memorized weeks ago. There they were. A pair of black, patent leather pumps with a heel sharp enough to draw blood and a red sole that signaled status.
She picked one up. It was light, balanced perfectly.
"Can I help you find something... more in your range?" the assistant asked, appearing at her elbow. Her voice was polite, but the condescension was thick enough to choke on.
Anya looked at the woman. A week ago, she would have stammered an apology and fled. But today, the memory of 4,000 views and Stephen’s envelope of cash burned in her mind.
"I'd like to try these in a size ten," Anya said, her voice cool and steady. "And if they fit, I'll take them."
The assistant blinked, her mask slipping. "They are six hundred pounds."
"I know," Anya said, holding the woman’s gaze. "Size ten. Please."
Five minutes later, Anya sat on the velvet ottoman. She slipped her foot out of her sneaker and sock and into the pump. It was a perfect marriage of form and function. The arch support was exquisite, forcing her foot into that high, dramatic curve that Stephen—and the commenters—loved so much.
She stood up. The click of the heel on the marble floor was a gunshot of confidence. She looked in the mirror. She didn't see the student anymore. She saw the woman from the video. She saw ‘A.’
"I'll wear them out," Anya said, handing the stunned assistant her debit card.
Walking out of the store, the rhythm of her new heels echoing on the pavement, Anya felt a transformation. The heavy, grey embrace of London didn't feel so crushing anymore. She felt taller. Sharper.
She was walking to the beat of her own secret, and for the first time in her life, she felt armored against the world.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She paused at a crosswalk, pulling it out.
Stephen: I trust the residuals are treating you well? I have a proposal. A VIP client. The Dean. He’s seen the video, and he wants to enroll you in a private lesson. Are you free to talk?
Anya looked at the message, then down at the gleaming black patent leather reflecting the city lights.
Anya: I’m listening.
---
Seven Dials was a hive of activity, a junction of cobbled streets where tourists and hipsters collided in a search for overpriced vintage and artisanal caffeine. Anya navigated the uneven stones with a newfound, precarious grace. Her new Louboutins were beautiful, but the razor-thin heels were unforgiving on the cobblestones. Each step required focus, a deliberate placement of weight that made her acutely aware of her own body.
She spotted Stephen inside Monmouth Coffee. He was seated at a small wooden table near the back, looking entirely at ease amidst the clamor of grinding beans and shouted orders. He wore a crisp navy blazer over a white t-shirt—casual, but expensive.
As she entered, the rich, heavy scent of roasted beans enveloped her. She threaded her way through the crowd, the click-clack of her heels lost in the din, but Stephen looked up the moment she approached. His eyes didn't go to her face first. They darted down to the floor, catching the flash of the red sole as she stepped up to the table.
A slow, approving smile spread across his face.
"A bold choice for Seven Dials," he said, standing to pull out her chair. "But a magnificent investment. They change your posture completely."
Anya sat, sliding her feet under the table where they could rest in the dark. "I thought 'A' deserved a uniform."
"Indeed she does," Stephen slid a ceramic cup toward her—a filter coffee, black and aromatic. "Drink. You look like you’re vibrating."
Anya took a sip. The coffee was strong, bitter, and grounding. "You mentioned a VIP. The Dean?"
Stephen leaned in, his demeanor shifting from casual acquaintance to focused producer. The noise of the café seemed to fade into the background, creating a bubble of privacy around them.
"The Dean is what we call a 'Whale' in the industry. He has very specific tastes, and very deep pockets. He’s been a subscriber for years, but he rarely commissions custom work. He’s seen 'The Scholar’s Surrender' twelve times in two days."
Anya felt a flutter in her stomach—half nerves, half thrill. "And he wants a custom video of me?"
"He wants a disciplinary scenario," Stephen nodded, smiling. "He’s fascinated by the contrast—the serious, academic exterior and the messy, helpless reality underneath. The script involves ink. A lot of it."
He paused, watching her carefully. "He wants you writing lines at a desk. He wants the pot of ink knocked over. He wants it splashing over your feet, and... if you are willing... over your shoes."
Anya’s hand instinctively went to her lap, her legs crossing protectively under the table. "Not these," she said, her voice sharp. "I literally just bought them, Stephen. I’m not ruining six hundred pounds of leather for a video."
Stephen laughed, a low, reassuring sound. "Good god, no. I wouldn't ask you to sacrifice your own wardrobe. The Dean understands luxury—that’s part of the fetish for him. The waste of it. If he wants you to ruin a pair of high-end heels, he pays for them separately. The budget for this shoot includes a 'Prop Fee' that covers the full retail price of a brand new pair, plus a twenty percent sourcing fee. You’d essentially be getting a free pair to ruin, and keeping your own pristine."
Anya relaxed, her grip on her bag loosening. The economics of this world were staggering. "He’d pay for a pair just to see them destroyed?"
"He’d pay to see you wearing them when they are destroyed," Stephen corrected. "But there is another condition, Anya. For his custom commissions, The Dean requires intimacy. He needs to see the person, not just the feet."
The air in the café suddenly felt very thin. Anya set her cup down. "He wants my face?"
"No blurring. No creative cropping," Stephen said. "He wants to see your eyes water. He wants to see the blush rise in your cheeks when you realize you’re in trouble. He pays for the humiliation, Anya, and he doesn't get that if you’re hiding behind a mask."
Anya looked out the window at the passing crowds. A group of students from her university walked by, laughing, carrying tote bags full of books. If they looked in, they would just see a girl having coffee with an older man. They wouldn't see the contract being drafted in the air between them.
"If I show my face..." she started, her voice tight. "Stephen, I’m on a scholarship. If the faculty saw this..."
"Let’s look at this logically," Stephen interjected, his voice the voice of reason itself. "The Dean is a private collector. This video won't be on the public storefront. It’s a direct transfer. And even if it were public—think about the demographic, Anya. Do you think the Head of the Economics Department is spending his evenings browsing high-end, niche tickling fetish sites? And if he is... well, he’s hardly in a position to point fingers, is he?"
He let that sink in. The risk was there, yes, but it was infinitesimally small. It was a ghost story she was telling herself to stay poor.
"And the fee?" she asked.
Stephen named a figure.
Anya blinked. It wasn't just rent money. It was 'move out of the shared house and get a studio apartment in a better zone' money. It was 'never eat instant ramen again' money. It was freedom, paid for in ink and laughter.
She moved her feet under the table. The arch of her right foot cramped slightly in the tight leather of the heel, a sharp, pleasurable pinch. She thought of the library, the invisibility, the grey grime of her window. Then she thought of the comments. 'She looks like an angel.'
The Dean didn't want to mock her. He wanted to worship her, in his own twisted, strict way.
She looked back at Stephen. His eyes were kind, waiting. He wouldn't push her. If she said no, he would buy her a pastry and send her home. That terrified her more than the camera—the idea of going back to exactly who she was yesterday.
"I'll do it," she said, her voice steady.
Stephen nodded, a single, decisive motion. "Excellent. I think you'll find the script... liberating."
He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. "Now, for a scene of this nature, I need a second pair of hands. I can't film and administer the necessary... correction at the same time. I work with a specialist for these shoots. Her name is Claire. You'll call her Mistress Claire."
"Mistress Claire," Anya tested the name. It tasted of authority.
"She's very good at what she does," Stephen said, signaling for the check. "She has a way of finding the spots you didn't even know were ticklish."
He stood up, buttoning his blazer. "Saturday at noon. See you then Anya."
Stephen then turned and left the coffee shop.
---
Saturday arrived with a sky the color of bruised slate. Anya had started her morning not in the library, but in a plush leather chair at a salon in Kensington. It was an indulgence that cost nearly a week’s food budget, but she remembered Stephen’s request for a pedicure before the first session.
This time, she hadn’t waited to be asked. She had watched the technician exfoliate her heels with a pumice stone until the skin was raw, pink, and incredibly sensitive. She had opted for a clear, high-gloss buff rather than polish—she wanted the natural perfection to shine through. It was a signal to Stephen. She wasn't just a scholarship student anymore; she was an asset, and she knew how to maintain her value.
Now, she stood on Stephen’s doorstep, clutching a pristine Selfridges shopping bag in one hand and her kit bag in the other. Inside the glossy yellow carrier was the "sacrificial" pair of pumps—brand new, identical to the ones she wore on her feet, and destined for ruin.
She rang the bell.
Usually, Stephen opened the door within seconds, greeting her with a warm, casual smile. Today, the wait was longer. When the door finally swung open, Stephen was there, but the smile was tighter, more professional. He wasn't wearing his usual knitwear; he was dressed in black slacks and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal a heavy watch. He looked like a stagehand waiting for the curtain to rise.
"Right on time," he said, ushering her in. "Come through to the kitchen. We’re doing the prep in there."
The house smelled different today. The comforting aroma of Earl Grey and old books was gone, cut through by a sharper, colder scent—something floral and metallic, like crushed lilies and hairspray.
Anya followed him down the hallway. Her heart did a traitorous double-thump as they passed the basement door, but Stephen walked right past it.
"We’re filming in the study today," he explained over his shoulder. "But first, introductions."
They stepped into the kitchen.
Leaning against the marble island was a woman who seemed to suck the warmth right out of the room. She was tall—taller than Anya even without the help of her stiletto-heeled boots. She wore a pencil skirt that fit like a second skin and a silk blouse the color of dried blood, buttoned all the way to her throat. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe, architectural bun that didn't allow a single strand to escape.
She was drinking tea, but she held the delicate cup with a lethal precision, her nails painted a deep, glossy burgundy.
"Anya," Stephen said, his voice dropping a register. "This is Mistress Claire."
Claire didn't smile. She didn't offer a hand. She simply set the cup down with a soft clink and pushed off the counter, circling Anya slowly. Her eyes, cool and assessing, swept over Anya like a searchlight. She looked at the posture, the hands, and then, inevitably, settled on the feet.
"So," Claire said. Her voice was rich, clipped, and impeccably enunciated—the voice of a woman accustomed to instant obedience. "This is the pupil with the coordination difficulties I’ve heard so much about."
She stopped in front of Anya, tilting her head slightly. "You present a veneer of composure, I suppose. Though I suspect that is about to be thoroughly dismantled."
Anya swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I... I brought the shoes."
She lifted the yellow bag. Claire took it from her, her fingers brushing Anya’s with a cool, dry touch. She pulled the shoebox out and flipped the lid. The smell of fresh leather and factory glue wafted up.
"A size ten," Claire murmured, running a manicured finger over the red sole. "An ample canvas. Stephen informs me that your feet are... delightfully sensitive."
"I... yes. I suppose they are," Anya stammered.
"We shall see," Claire said, snapping the lid shut with a sharp crack. She looked at Stephen. "She is vibrating. Excellent. Acknowledging one's own trepidation is the first step."
Claire turned back to Anya, her expression shifting from assessment and hardening into the quiet, devastating disappointment of a strict schoolteacher. She made a soft tsk-tsk sound, a sharp click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
"Good heavens, girl. You are positively quivering, and you haven't even uncorked the ink yet. I certainly hope you apply more rigor to your academic studies than you do to your emotional control."
She gestured to a garment bag hanging on the pantry door. "Your uniform has been prepared. White shirt, starch; plaid skirt, regulation length. Absolutely no hosiery. And do exchange those shoes for the... disposable pair. I shan't have you destroying your personal effects due to your own clumsiness. Hand the current pair to me."
Stephen stepped in, handing Anya a glass of water. "Claire stays in character from the moment she arrives," he explained softly, though he looked visibly pleased with the tension in the room. "The Dean pays for the atmosphere, not just the action. Go get changed, Anya. The study is prepped."
Anya took the garment bag. As she turned to leave, she heard Claire behind her.
"And, Anya?"
Anya froze. "Yes?"
"Scrub your hands before you even attempt to handle that linen," Claire warned, her tone dropping to a silken, imperious threat. "I detest grubby fingerprints. We shall have quite enough disorder dealing with your feet; let us not add to the chaos."
Anya hurried to the bathroom, her pulse thundering in her ears. She wasn't just 'A' anymore. She was the pupil, and the lesson had already begun.
---
The study was transformed into an old timey school classroom, the only sound to be heard was the rhythmic tapping of a riding crop against a palm.
Anya sat at the heavy mahogany desk, the wood cool against her forearms. She was dressed in the "uniform"—a starched white shirt buttoned to the neck and a pleated plaid skirt that ended mid-thigh.
Mistress Claire—or "Headmistress," as the script dictated—loomed over her. She picked up a sheet of cream-colored paper and dropped it in front of Anya with a disdainful flutter.
"One hundred lines," Claire commanded, slapping the paper with her riding crop, her voice clipped and imperious. "The phrase is: 'I must not be clumsy.' And I expect penmanship of the highest order. No smudges, no erratic spacing. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Headmistress," Anya murmured, keeping her eyes lowered.
"I shall return in ten minutes to inspect your progress," Claire said, turning on her heel. "Do not disappoint me. My patience is already wearing thin."
With a rustle of silk and the sharp click-clack of her boots, Claire exited the room, closing the door with a firm, final thud.
The moment the latch clicked, Anya let out a loud, theatrical sigh. She slumped in the chair, letting her head loll back, perfectly embodying the petulant, bored student.
Stephen, standing silently behind the tripod in the corner, gave her a small thumbs-up. He pointed to the floor monitor. Give me the feet, his gesture said.
Anya looked at the wall behind camera lens, rolled her eyes, and then dropped her gaze to the floor.
She was wearing the sacrificial Louboutins. They were sleek, black, and agonizingly beautiful. Slowly, deliberately, she engaged her calf muscle. She pushed her right heel down, letting the back of the shoe slip off with a huff.
She held her foot suspended in the air, the shoe hanging precariously from her toes. She swung her foot gently, the red sole flashing like a metronome.
She pointed her toes, arching her foot high, showing off the deep curve and the sheer elegance of her size ten silhouette against the studio lights. The shoe dropped another inch, clinging only by the very tips of her toes. It was a tease. A dangerous game of gravity.
She extended her leg, placing her heel on the edge of the desk’s crossbar, and wiggled her toes, letting the shoe slap softly against her sole. She picked up the pen, twirled it in her fingers, and tapped it against her cheek, looking everywhere but at the paper. She hadn't written a single word.
Click... Click... Click.*
The sound came from the hallway. Sharp. Rhythmic. Approaching fast.
Anya froze. The boredom vanished, replaced by a jolt of genuine adrenaline. She scrambled to sit up straight.
She tried to jam her right foot back into the shoe, but in her haste, her toes fumbled against the tight leather. She shoved it in, wincing as the heel cup bit into her skin.
Click-Clack. The footsteps were right outside the door.
Panic flared. She grabbed the pen and dipped it frantically into the open pot of ink.
She scribbled the first line, her handwriting jagged and rushed. I must not be clumsy.
The doorknob began to turn.
She needed more ink. She lunged for the pot again, her eyes darting to the opening door.
She was too fast. Too reckless.
Her hand clipped the side of the heavy glass bottle.
"No!" she gasped.
It happened in slow motion. The pot tipped. It rolled. And then, with a sickening lurch, it fell off the edge of the desk.
It didn't shatter; it bounced off her knee with a dull thud, upending itself completely before crashing to the floor.
The sensation was immediate and shocking. Freezing cold liquid splashed over her shins, cascading down her ankles in a dark, viscous waterfall.
Anya looked down, horror washing over her. The pristine white of her skin was streaked with rivers of midnight blue. The ink pooled on the hardwood floor, a spreading oil slick.
But the shoes...
The glossy black patent leather was coated, the ink seeping into the interior, drowning the red soles in a dark tide. She could feel it squelching between her toes, slick and wet, soaking into the sensitive skin of her arches.
The door swung fully open.
Mistress Claire stood in the doorway. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just looked. Her eyes scanned the overturned pot, the stained floor, and finally, Anya’s ink-drenched feet.
"Good heavens," Claire breathed, the words dripping with posh disdain.
She stepped into the room, navigating around the puddle with exaggerated care. She loomed over the desk, looking down at Anya like a specimen in a jar that had gone off.
"I leave you unsupervised for precisely five minutes," Claire said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper, "and you manage to turn my study into a pigsty."
"I... I was trying to hurry," Anya stammered, looking from the camera to Claire. "I heard you coming and—"
"You were rushing because you were dawdling," Claire cut her off. She walked around the desk, peering closely at the disaster. "And in your haste, you have created a catastrophe."
She pointed a manicured finger at the shoes. "Look at those pumps. Ruined. Absolutely destroyed. Do you have any conception of the cost of such items? Or do you treat everything of value with such callous disregard?"
"I can clean it," Anya offered weakly, her voice trembling.
"Clean it?" Claire let out a short, sharp laugh. "You? You would likely rub it into the carpet and make matters worse, girl!"
Claire tutted loudly—tsk, tsk, tsk—shaking her head. She crouched down, though she kept a safe distance from the splash zone.
"Take them off," she commanded. "Immediately. Before you stain the leather of the chair as well."
Anya reached down, her fingers slipping on the ink-slicked heel of the left shoe. She pried it off with a wet squelch.
SHHH-HUCK.
Her foot emerged, and the sight was striking. The sole was no longer pink; it was a deep, stained indigo. The ink had seeped into every crease, every wrinkle of her arch, and settled heavily in the gaps between her toes.
She removed the second shoe, placing the dripping, ruined pair on the floor. She sat there, barefoot and blue, her toes curling instinctively against the cold air.
Claire stood up, smoothing her pencil skirt. She crossed her arms, the silk of her blouse rustling softly in the quiet room.
"Disgraceful," she declared. "Your feet are positively steeped in it. Look at the webbing between your toes. It’s practically dyed into the skin."
She turned to Stephen, who was silently filming from the side, then back to Anya, a dangerous glint entering her eyes.
"There is only one course of action," she announced. "We shall have to scrub you. And given the viscosity of that ink... I daresay I shall have to be extremely vigorous."
She pointed to the door with a sharp, imperious gesture. "To the basin. Now. And do try not to drip on the rug."
The "cleaning station" had been set up in the center of the room, bathed in the unforgiving glare of the studio lights. It was a simple, terrifying tableau: a low wooden stool for the "student," a higher stool for the "Headmistress," and between them, a large, porcelain basin filled with steaming, sudsy water.
Anya sat on the low stool. The ink had begun to dry, making her skin feel tight and itchy. Her feet, usually so pale and elegant, looked alien—stained a deep, bruised indigo that darkened in the creases of her arches.
"Present the left foot," Mistress Claire commanded, snapping a pair of latex gloves onto her hands with a sharp thwack.
Anya lifted her left leg. Claire gripped her ankle with a firmness that bordered on bruising, positioning the foot over the basin.
"Into the water. And do not splash."
Anya lowered her foot. The heat of the water was a shock against the cold, drying ink. As she submerged her sole, wisps of dark blue immediately began to swirl into the white foam, clouding the water like a storm front.
Claire tutted, picking up a large, rough sea sponge. "Look at that. The water is filthy already. We shall have to work quickly before it sets."
She didn't start gently. She plunged the sponge into the hot water and brought it down hard on the top of Anya’s foot, scrubbing the instep with brisk, no-nonsense strokes.
Anya squealed and tried to pull her foot back, but Claire's grip was like iron. "Hold... Still, girl," Mistress Claire barked, not relenting with the scrubbing.
"I... I can do it myself, Headmistress," Anya gasped, her voice wavering.
"Silence," Claire snapped, not breaking her rhythm. "You had your chance to handle ink responsibly, and you failed. Now you must endure the consequences."
Claire flipped the foot over, exposing the ink-stained sole. She lifted it closer to her face, inspecting the damage like a mechanic looking at a broken engine.
"Unsatisfactory," she declared. "The surface ink is lifting, but it has pooled in the arch. It’s embedded in the ridges."
She pressed the soapy sponge into the center of Anya’s arch and began to scrub in tight, circular motions. The sensation was confusing—the rough texture of the sponge, the heat of the water, and the underlying, electric spark of the tickle. Anya’s toes curled violently, scrunching down as if trying to hide the sole from the sponge.
"Ah! Mmph!" Anya bit her lip, her head falling back. She forced herself to look at the camera, her eyes watering.
"Stop curling," Claire ordered, slapping the top of Anya’s foot lightly. "You are making it difficult. Flatten the foot."
"I... I can't! It tickles!"
"Don't be ridiculous, girl, it's cleaning," Claire corrected sharply. "If it tickles, that is merely a symptom of your own lack of discipline."
She tossed the sponge back into the water with a wet splash. "The sponge is too soft. It’s not lifting the stain from the deeper wrinkles. We require something with more... bite."
Claire reached to the side table and picked up the toothbrush. It wasn't a soft, drugstore brush. It was an old-fashioned, stiff-bristled tool, the kind meant for scrubbing grime from grout.
Anya’s eyes widened. "Please, Miss. Not the brush."
"The stain is stubborn, Anya. Therefore, I must be stubborn."
Claire gripped Anya’s heel, locking the foot in place. She lathered the brush, the white foam turning blue instantly.
"I’m going to start at the heel," Claire announced. "And I am going to scrub until I see pink skin."
She brought the bristles down. Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch.
The sound was loud in the quiet room. The hard nylon bristles raked over the sensitive skin of Anya’s heel—skin that was already raw and tender from her morning exfoliation. It wasn't pain, but it was an intense, scratching overstimulation that sent a jolt straight up Anya’s spine.
"IIIII-YIH-YIH-YIH! KEEE-HEEE-HEEE! N-N-NO! MISS! AAAA-HAAA-HAAA-STOP!"
Anya tried to yank her leg back, but Claire’s grip was iron.
"Hold still!" Claire barked. She moved the brush up, tracing the outer edge of the foot, digging the bristles into the sensitive skin below the pinky toe.
"HA-HA-HA-HA! MISS! PLEASE! IT’S TOO MUCH! HA-HA-HA NO MORE!"
"It is still remarkably blue here," Claire observed clinically, ignoring the pleas. "I need to go deeper into the arch."
She drove the brush into the hollow of Anya’s foot, scrubbing with a vigorous, relentless speed. Scrub-scrub-scrub.
"NOOO! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! I’LL BE GOOD! I’LL BE GOOD!"
"You will be clean," Claire countered. She paused for a second to inspect her work. "Better. The arch is fading to a lighter bruise color. But the toes... the toes are a disgrace."
She dropped the toothbrush and reached for a crisp, white linen handkerchief. She dipped it into the hot water, then wrapped it taut around her index finger, positioning her sharp fingernail beneath the fabric.
"Spread them," Claire commanded.
Anya shook her head, tears flying. "No... please... not the toes, I can't take the toes..."
"I will not ask again, girl," Claire said coldly. She didn't wait for permission. She jammed her cloth-wrapped finger between Anya’s big toe and the second toe, forcing them apart.
"There," she pointed. "Dark blue. Right in the webbing. I’m going to have to scrape it out."
She began to work. She dug her fingernail into the sensitive valley, scraping back and forth through the linen.
"No—don't—AHHHHH-HA-HA-HA-HA! NO-HO-HOOT THERE"
"Still dirty," Claire muttered, scraping harder. "Some elbow grease should do the trick."
"HEADMISTRESS! PLEASE! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! I CAN’T—I CAN’T BREATHE! HAVE MERCYYYYY! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Anya was thrashing on the stool now, her hands gripping the seat so hard her knuckles were white. She looked directly into the lens, her eyes wide and pleading.
"The webbing is clear," Claire announced finally. "But the sides of the smaller toes are still stained. We need friction."
She unwrapped the handkerchief, dipped it into the basin, and twisted the linen into a tight, rope-like shape.
"I’m going to floss them," she stated simply.
She slid the linen rope between the second and third toes. She grabbed both ends and began to saw back and forth. Zip-zip-zip-zip.
"NO! NOT THE TOES! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! ANYTHING BUT THE TOES! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"Stop fussing," Claire scolded, increasing the speed, the cloth heating up against the tender skin. "It’s coming off. I can see the pink returning."
She moved to the final gap—the pinky toe. She sawed the cloth vigorously, the motion a blur. Anya let out a high, keening wail of laughter that bordered on sobbing.
Claire gave one final, merciless tug, then pulled the cloth free.
"There," Mistress Claire said, finally satisfied. She released the foot, letting it drop into the water with a splash. "One foot clean. Now... lift the right one. And do be quick about it. The water is cooling."
Anya, chest heaving and face streaked with tears, hesitated. Her left foot was throbbing, a confusing mix of raw sensitivity and relief, but her right foot was still coated in the drying, tacky ink.
"Please, Headmistress..." she whimpered, her voice small and broken. "Please... Miss... I need... hhh-huh... one minute...?"
"You may have a minute when you are spotless," Claire corrected sharply. She didn't wait. She reached into the water, grabbed Anya’s right ankle, and hauled it onto her lap.
"Goodness," Claire murmured, inspecting the sole with a critical eye. "This one is even worse. You truly mashed the ink into the skin when you tried to force your foot back into the shoe. It’s dried into a crust."
She reached for the sponge again, re-soaking it in the darkening water. "I shall have to rehydrate the stain."
She squeezed the hot water over the sole, then began to scrub the ball of the foot with heavy, dragging strokes.
"No... oh god, please..." Anya twisted her hands in her lap. "It’s too sensitive, Miss! Please, not again!"
"If you hadn't been so careless, we wouldn't be here," Claire lectured, scrubbing harder. "The ball of the foot is filthy. It looks like a bruise. I need to get this off."
She tossed the sponge aside and picked up the stiff-bristled brush immediately. "The sponge is ineffective against this level of incompetence. We need the bristles."
"No! No, I’m sorry! I’M SORRY! NOT AGAIN!" Anya begged, her feet kicking slightly, but Claire’s grip was absolute.
Claire lathered the brush and drove it into the center of the arch. Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch.
"AHHH! MISS! HAVE MERCY! PLEASE! AAA-HA-HA-HAA-HAA!"
"I am showing mercy by cleaning you," Claire stated calmly. "Look at the heel. It’s still navy blue. I have to scour it."
She moved the brush to the heel, scrubbing in small, aggressive circles.
"I PROMISE I WON'T BE CLUMSY! I PROMISE! NAAA-HA-HA-HAA-HAA! I'LL BE GOOD!"
Anya wailed, tears streaming down her face again.
"PLEASE STOP SCRUBBING! IT’S TOO MUCH! HA-HA-HA PLEASE! STAAAAAHP!"
"It is lifting," Claire observed, ignoring the pleas. "But as I suspected, the toes are the real problem."
She set the brush down and reached for the linen handkerchief.
Anya saw the white cloth and the way Claire was wrapping it around her finger. Her eyes went wide with panic.
"Wh-no... Not the toes again, please Miss," Anya sobbed, shaking her head violently. "I'll be good! I'll do anything!"
"Anything?" Claire raised an eyebrow. "Then you will hold still and spread your toes."
Claire positioned her fingernail beneath the cloth and jammed it into the gap between the big toe and the second.
"EEEEEE! HIII-EEE! NO-HO-HO! IT’S SHARP! AAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA! NOT THE NAAAIIIIIL!"
"It’s caked in here," Claire muttered, scraping her nail against the sensitive skin of the webbing. "I have to dig it out."
"MISS! PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU! HA-HA-HA-HA! JUST STAAAHP!"
"Still dirty," Claire announced. She withdrew her finger and twisted the linen into a tight rope. "We need the friction method for the smaller toes. It’s the only way."
She slid the rope between the second and third toes.
"No, no, no! Not again! Please, miss! Wait!" Anya gasped.
Claire didn't wait. "Stop fussing," Claire scolded. She widened her stance and increased the speed, sawing the linen back and forth in a blur.
Zip-zip-zip-zip.
The friction was immediate. The cloth heated up against the tender skin, turning the tickle into a burning, electric fire.
"AAAA-HAAA-HAAA! IT’S HOT! IT’S HOT! HEEEE-YAAAA-HAAA-NOOOO!" Anya thrashed, her head thrown back, spit flying as she lost all control.
"It’s coming off," Claire muttered, watching the ink stain fade. "I can see the pink returning."
She moved to the final gap—the pinky toe. The most sensitive toe. She didn't hesitate. She looped the cloth and yanked it tight, scrubbing with merciless, rapid-fire strokes.
SKRR-SKRR-SKRR-SKRR.
"I CAN’T! I CAN’T! GUH-HAAAA-HAAAA! PLEASE! I’M GONNA PEE! I’M GONNA PEEE-HEEE-HEEE! STAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-P!"
Anya was convulsing on the stool, her legs kicking wildly against Claire’s iron grip, her pleas dissolving into ragged, wet, desperate laughter that echoed off the studio walls. She looked at the camera, her face a mask of beautiful, humiliated defeat.
"Almost... there..." Claire grunted, giving one final, punishing tug on the cloth.
She pulled the linen free. She inspected the foot, turning it this way and that. The ink was gone. The skin was red, raw, and pristine.
"There," Mistress Claire said. She released Anya’s ankle, letting the foot drop back to the floor.
Then she peeled off the wet, blue-stained gloves, dropping them into the basin with a wet plop.
"You are clean," Claire pronounced, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "Though I cannot say the same for my study floor."
She looked down at Anya, who was slumped on the stool, trembling and gasping, her head hanging low.
"Class dismissed," Claire said coolly. "Stephen, cut the feed."
"And... clear," Stephen called out, reaching up to kill the recording light on the main camera.
The effect on the room was instantaneous. The tension, which had been pulled as tight as a piano wire, snapped.
Claire, who a second ago had looked ready to flay Anya alive with a linen handkerchief, let out a long, soft exhale. Her shoulders dropped, the rigid posture of the Headmistress melting away to reveal a woman who just looked tired and slightly sympathetic.
She immediately grabbed a thick, fluffy towel from the side table and knelt down in front of Anya.
"You okay, darling?" she asked, her voice unrecognizable. Gone was the clipped, icy diction of the Headmistress. In its place was a warm, slightly husky London accent. "That was a hell of a session."
Anya blinked, her chest still hitching with the aftershocks of the laughter. She felt disoriented, floating in a haze of endorphins. "I... I think so. My feet are burning."
"I bet they are," Claire said gently. She lifted Anya’s right foot—handling it with the delicacy of a nurse dressing a wound—and wrapped it in the towel. She didn't scrub; she patted the skin dry with slow, comforting presses. "I had to go quite hard to get that ink out of the webbing. You were incredibly brave."
"Brave?" Anya let out a wet, shaky laugh. "I was screaming my head off."
"That’s the bravery," Claire smiled, looking up. Her eyes were kind now, crinkling at the corners. "Letting go like that? Letting the camera see you completely undone? Most people can't do it. They hold back. You didn't hold back an inch."
Stephen stepped out from behind the camera rig, a bottle of water in his hand. He looked like a man who had just won the lottery.
"She’s right, Anya," he said, handing her the bottle. "I’ve filmed a hundred disciplinary scenes, and I’ve never seen energy like that. The chemistry between you two was off the charts. It wasn't just 'A' getting tickled; it was a genuine power struggle. The Dean is going to lose his mind."
Anya took a long, desperate gulp of the water. The cool liquid grounded her. She looked at Claire, who was now drying her left foot, massaging the arch with a firm, soothing pressure to work out the cramps.
"You were terrifying," Anya told her honestly. "When you got the toothbrush... I actually thought I was gonna die."
Claire laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "Good. That means I did my job. But I promise, I’m actually quite nice when I’m not scrubbing people with nylon bristles."
She finished drying Anya’s feet and sat back on her heels. "Seriously, though. You have natural instincts for this. The way you fought the restraints, the way you begged... you made me look good. A Dom is only as scary as the sub makes her look."
Anya felt a warm flush of pride. It was a strange camaraderie, born in the trenches of sensation. She looked at this woman—this beautiful, intimidating creature who had just tortured her toes for twenty minutes—and felt a desire to know her, not just fear her.
"Thank you," Anya said softly. "For... bringing it out of me. And for cleaning me up."
"Part of the service," Claire winked. She stood up, smoothing her silk blouse, which miraculously hadn't caught a single drop of ink. "Stephen, I’m going to head out. I have a dinner reservation in Soho at eight."
"Of course," Stephen said. "I’ll wire your fee tonight."
Claire picked up her bag. She paused, looking back at Anya, who was slowly putting her heels—her clean, dry ones—back on.
"Hey," Claire said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small, sleek business card. She scribbled something on the back with a silver pen. "This is my personal mobile. Not the business one."
She handed it to Anya.
"This work... it takes a toll on the nervous system," Claire said, her voice lowering so it was just between the two women. "The 'drop' can hit you hard a few hours later. You might feel weepy or just exhausted. If you need to chat, or you just want to grab a drink with someone who understands what it's like to be on the receiving end... text me."
Anya took the card. It felt heavy, like an invitation to a secret club. "I will. Thank you, Claire."
"Anytime, Anya," Claire smiled. "Us girls have to stick together."
She nodded to Stephen and swept out of the room, the click-clack of her boots fading down the hallway.
Anya looked down at the card in her hand. Then she looked at her feet, snug in her socks. She felt drained, raw, and incredibly heavy. But as she listened to the front door close, she realized she wasn't just a cleaner anymore. She wasn't just a student. She had a colleague. She had a mentor.
Stephen began dismantling the lights. "You did well, Anya. Go home. Rest. You no doubt need it."
Anya stood up, her legs wobbling only slightly. She clutched the card in her pocket like a talisman. The ink was gone, washed down the drain, but the mark the afternoon had left on her wasn't going anywhere.
The University library was a cathedral of silence, smelling of dust and decaying paper. Usually, this was Anya’s refuge—a place where the chaos of London couldn't reach her. But today, the silence felt oppressive. It felt dead.
Anya sat in a secluded carrel, a formidable stack of Statistics textbooks built like a fortress around her. To anyone walking past, she was just another student grinding toward a degree, her brow furrowed in concentration.
But beneath the desk, in the shadow of her lap, her phone was glowing.
Her thumb pulled down on the screen. Refresh.
The little loading wheel spun for a heartbeat, then vanished, replaced by a new number.
Views: 4,102.
Anya let out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding. It had only been up for forty-eight hours. Stephen had told her the "Intro" videos were slow burns, meant to attract long-term subscribers, but this… this was an explosion.
She scrolled down to the comments section. This had become her new ritual, a secret addiction that hit her harder than the morning caffeine. She told herself she was checking for safety, ensuring no one had recognized her, but the truth was darker. She was mining for gold.
User_Archileez: "I’ve seen a lot of debuts on this site, but ‘A’ is something else. That flinch when he first touches her arch? You can’t fake that sensitivity. She’s a live wire."
Tickle_Scholar: "The way she tries to hold the laughter in is divine. Most models ham it up, but she’s fighting it. It makes the surrender so much sweeter. We need more of her. Immediately."
Guest: "Is she real? She looks like an angel. I’ve watched the shoe removal ten times. Her feet are perfection."
Anya felt a heat rising in her chest, a flush that had nothing to do with the stuffy library air. In this room, she was invisible. She was a scholarship student with a threadbare coat and a bank account that usually hovered near zero. But on that screen, she was a goddess. She was ‘A,’ the angel with the perfect feet, the object of desire for thousands of strangers.
She read the comment about her "perfection" again. A strange, twisted pride curled in her gut. She looked at her hands—the hands that scrubbed Stephen’s floors—and then down at her feet, hidden inside her scuffed, practical sneakers.
They have no idea, she thought. They have no idea who I am.
She closed the browser tab before the urge to reply seized her. She couldn't study. The numbers and graphs on the page before her swam in nonsense circles. The adrenaline of the secret life was too potent.
She packed her bag, her movements sharp and decisive. She didn't head home. She walked out of the campus gates and turned toward the Tube, but she didn't take her usual line back to the shared house. She took the Central Line, heading West.
Oxford Street was a river of tourists and shoppers, but Anya cut through them with a new purpose. She found herself standing outside the massive, gilded doors of Selfridges.
She had passed this window a hundred times. In the past, she would linger for a moment, fogging the glass with a wistful sigh before hurrying back to her reality of ramen and rent. Today, she didn't stop. She pushed through the revolving doors.
The air inside was cool and scented with expensive perfume. She navigated the labyrinth of luxury until she reached the Shoe Galleries—a temple of leather and desire.
She felt out of place. Her coat was visibly worn at the cuffs, her backpack heavy and shapeless. A sales assistant, a woman with immaculate makeup and a gaze like a laser scanner, clocked her immediately. The woman didn't move to help; she just adjusted a display, her body language screaming, Browsing only.
Anya walked straight to the display she had memorized weeks ago. There they were. A pair of black, patent leather pumps with a heel sharp enough to draw blood and a red sole that signaled status.
She picked one up. It was light, balanced perfectly.
"Can I help you find something... more in your range?" the assistant asked, appearing at her elbow. Her voice was polite, but the condescension was thick enough to choke on.
Anya looked at the woman. A week ago, she would have stammered an apology and fled. But today, the memory of 4,000 views and Stephen’s envelope of cash burned in her mind.
"I'd like to try these in a size ten," Anya said, her voice cool and steady. "And if they fit, I'll take them."
The assistant blinked, her mask slipping. "They are six hundred pounds."
"I know," Anya said, holding the woman’s gaze. "Size ten. Please."
Five minutes later, Anya sat on the velvet ottoman. She slipped her foot out of her sneaker and sock and into the pump. It was a perfect marriage of form and function. The arch support was exquisite, forcing her foot into that high, dramatic curve that Stephen—and the commenters—loved so much.
She stood up. The click of the heel on the marble floor was a gunshot of confidence. She looked in the mirror. She didn't see the student anymore. She saw the woman from the video. She saw ‘A.’
"I'll wear them out," Anya said, handing the stunned assistant her debit card.
Walking out of the store, the rhythm of her new heels echoing on the pavement, Anya felt a transformation. The heavy, grey embrace of London didn't feel so crushing anymore. She felt taller. Sharper.
She was walking to the beat of her own secret, and for the first time in her life, she felt armored against the world.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She paused at a crosswalk, pulling it out.
Stephen: I trust the residuals are treating you well? I have a proposal. A VIP client. The Dean. He’s seen the video, and he wants to enroll you in a private lesson. Are you free to talk?
Anya looked at the message, then down at the gleaming black patent leather reflecting the city lights.
Anya: I’m listening.
---
Seven Dials was a hive of activity, a junction of cobbled streets where tourists and hipsters collided in a search for overpriced vintage and artisanal caffeine. Anya navigated the uneven stones with a newfound, precarious grace. Her new Louboutins were beautiful, but the razor-thin heels were unforgiving on the cobblestones. Each step required focus, a deliberate placement of weight that made her acutely aware of her own body.
She spotted Stephen inside Monmouth Coffee. He was seated at a small wooden table near the back, looking entirely at ease amidst the clamor of grinding beans and shouted orders. He wore a crisp navy blazer over a white t-shirt—casual, but expensive.
As she entered, the rich, heavy scent of roasted beans enveloped her. She threaded her way through the crowd, the click-clack of her heels lost in the din, but Stephen looked up the moment she approached. His eyes didn't go to her face first. They darted down to the floor, catching the flash of the red sole as she stepped up to the table.
A slow, approving smile spread across his face.
"A bold choice for Seven Dials," he said, standing to pull out her chair. "But a magnificent investment. They change your posture completely."
Anya sat, sliding her feet under the table where they could rest in the dark. "I thought 'A' deserved a uniform."
"Indeed she does," Stephen slid a ceramic cup toward her—a filter coffee, black and aromatic. "Drink. You look like you’re vibrating."
Anya took a sip. The coffee was strong, bitter, and grounding. "You mentioned a VIP. The Dean?"
Stephen leaned in, his demeanor shifting from casual acquaintance to focused producer. The noise of the café seemed to fade into the background, creating a bubble of privacy around them.
"The Dean is what we call a 'Whale' in the industry. He has very specific tastes, and very deep pockets. He’s been a subscriber for years, but he rarely commissions custom work. He’s seen 'The Scholar’s Surrender' twelve times in two days."
Anya felt a flutter in her stomach—half nerves, half thrill. "And he wants a custom video of me?"
"He wants a disciplinary scenario," Stephen nodded, smiling. "He’s fascinated by the contrast—the serious, academic exterior and the messy, helpless reality underneath. The script involves ink. A lot of it."
He paused, watching her carefully. "He wants you writing lines at a desk. He wants the pot of ink knocked over. He wants it splashing over your feet, and... if you are willing... over your shoes."
Anya’s hand instinctively went to her lap, her legs crossing protectively under the table. "Not these," she said, her voice sharp. "I literally just bought them, Stephen. I’m not ruining six hundred pounds of leather for a video."
Stephen laughed, a low, reassuring sound. "Good god, no. I wouldn't ask you to sacrifice your own wardrobe. The Dean understands luxury—that’s part of the fetish for him. The waste of it. If he wants you to ruin a pair of high-end heels, he pays for them separately. The budget for this shoot includes a 'Prop Fee' that covers the full retail price of a brand new pair, plus a twenty percent sourcing fee. You’d essentially be getting a free pair to ruin, and keeping your own pristine."
Anya relaxed, her grip on her bag loosening. The economics of this world were staggering. "He’d pay for a pair just to see them destroyed?"
"He’d pay to see you wearing them when they are destroyed," Stephen corrected. "But there is another condition, Anya. For his custom commissions, The Dean requires intimacy. He needs to see the person, not just the feet."
The air in the café suddenly felt very thin. Anya set her cup down. "He wants my face?"
"No blurring. No creative cropping," Stephen said. "He wants to see your eyes water. He wants to see the blush rise in your cheeks when you realize you’re in trouble. He pays for the humiliation, Anya, and he doesn't get that if you’re hiding behind a mask."
Anya looked out the window at the passing crowds. A group of students from her university walked by, laughing, carrying tote bags full of books. If they looked in, they would just see a girl having coffee with an older man. They wouldn't see the contract being drafted in the air between them.
"If I show my face..." she started, her voice tight. "Stephen, I’m on a scholarship. If the faculty saw this..."
"Let’s look at this logically," Stephen interjected, his voice the voice of reason itself. "The Dean is a private collector. This video won't be on the public storefront. It’s a direct transfer. And even if it were public—think about the demographic, Anya. Do you think the Head of the Economics Department is spending his evenings browsing high-end, niche tickling fetish sites? And if he is... well, he’s hardly in a position to point fingers, is he?"
He let that sink in. The risk was there, yes, but it was infinitesimally small. It was a ghost story she was telling herself to stay poor.
"And the fee?" she asked.
Stephen named a figure.
Anya blinked. It wasn't just rent money. It was 'move out of the shared house and get a studio apartment in a better zone' money. It was 'never eat instant ramen again' money. It was freedom, paid for in ink and laughter.
She moved her feet under the table. The arch of her right foot cramped slightly in the tight leather of the heel, a sharp, pleasurable pinch. She thought of the library, the invisibility, the grey grime of her window. Then she thought of the comments. 'She looks like an angel.'
The Dean didn't want to mock her. He wanted to worship her, in his own twisted, strict way.
She looked back at Stephen. His eyes were kind, waiting. He wouldn't push her. If she said no, he would buy her a pastry and send her home. That terrified her more than the camera—the idea of going back to exactly who she was yesterday.
"I'll do it," she said, her voice steady.
Stephen nodded, a single, decisive motion. "Excellent. I think you'll find the script... liberating."
He pulled a small notebook from his pocket. "Now, for a scene of this nature, I need a second pair of hands. I can't film and administer the necessary... correction at the same time. I work with a specialist for these shoots. Her name is Claire. You'll call her Mistress Claire."
"Mistress Claire," Anya tested the name. It tasted of authority.
"She's very good at what she does," Stephen said, signaling for the check. "She has a way of finding the spots you didn't even know were ticklish."
He stood up, buttoning his blazer. "Saturday at noon. See you then Anya."
Stephen then turned and left the coffee shop.
---
Saturday arrived with a sky the color of bruised slate. Anya had started her morning not in the library, but in a plush leather chair at a salon in Kensington. It was an indulgence that cost nearly a week’s food budget, but she remembered Stephen’s request for a pedicure before the first session.
This time, she hadn’t waited to be asked. She had watched the technician exfoliate her heels with a pumice stone until the skin was raw, pink, and incredibly sensitive. She had opted for a clear, high-gloss buff rather than polish—she wanted the natural perfection to shine through. It was a signal to Stephen. She wasn't just a scholarship student anymore; she was an asset, and she knew how to maintain her value.
Now, she stood on Stephen’s doorstep, clutching a pristine Selfridges shopping bag in one hand and her kit bag in the other. Inside the glossy yellow carrier was the "sacrificial" pair of pumps—brand new, identical to the ones she wore on her feet, and destined for ruin.
She rang the bell.
Usually, Stephen opened the door within seconds, greeting her with a warm, casual smile. Today, the wait was longer. When the door finally swung open, Stephen was there, but the smile was tighter, more professional. He wasn't wearing his usual knitwear; he was dressed in black slacks and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal a heavy watch. He looked like a stagehand waiting for the curtain to rise.
"Right on time," he said, ushering her in. "Come through to the kitchen. We’re doing the prep in there."
The house smelled different today. The comforting aroma of Earl Grey and old books was gone, cut through by a sharper, colder scent—something floral and metallic, like crushed lilies and hairspray.
Anya followed him down the hallway. Her heart did a traitorous double-thump as they passed the basement door, but Stephen walked right past it.
"We’re filming in the study today," he explained over his shoulder. "But first, introductions."
They stepped into the kitchen.
Leaning against the marble island was a woman who seemed to suck the warmth right out of the room. She was tall—taller than Anya even without the help of her stiletto-heeled boots. She wore a pencil skirt that fit like a second skin and a silk blouse the color of dried blood, buttoned all the way to her throat. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe, architectural bun that didn't allow a single strand to escape.
She was drinking tea, but she held the delicate cup with a lethal precision, her nails painted a deep, glossy burgundy.
"Anya," Stephen said, his voice dropping a register. "This is Mistress Claire."
Claire didn't smile. She didn't offer a hand. She simply set the cup down with a soft clink and pushed off the counter, circling Anya slowly. Her eyes, cool and assessing, swept over Anya like a searchlight. She looked at the posture, the hands, and then, inevitably, settled on the feet.
"So," Claire said. Her voice was rich, clipped, and impeccably enunciated—the voice of a woman accustomed to instant obedience. "This is the pupil with the coordination difficulties I’ve heard so much about."
She stopped in front of Anya, tilting her head slightly. "You present a veneer of composure, I suppose. Though I suspect that is about to be thoroughly dismantled."
Anya swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "I... I brought the shoes."
She lifted the yellow bag. Claire took it from her, her fingers brushing Anya’s with a cool, dry touch. She pulled the shoebox out and flipped the lid. The smell of fresh leather and factory glue wafted up.
"A size ten," Claire murmured, running a manicured finger over the red sole. "An ample canvas. Stephen informs me that your feet are... delightfully sensitive."
"I... yes. I suppose they are," Anya stammered.
"We shall see," Claire said, snapping the lid shut with a sharp crack. She looked at Stephen. "She is vibrating. Excellent. Acknowledging one's own trepidation is the first step."
Claire turned back to Anya, her expression shifting from assessment and hardening into the quiet, devastating disappointment of a strict schoolteacher. She made a soft tsk-tsk sound, a sharp click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
"Good heavens, girl. You are positively quivering, and you haven't even uncorked the ink yet. I certainly hope you apply more rigor to your academic studies than you do to your emotional control."
She gestured to a garment bag hanging on the pantry door. "Your uniform has been prepared. White shirt, starch; plaid skirt, regulation length. Absolutely no hosiery. And do exchange those shoes for the... disposable pair. I shan't have you destroying your personal effects due to your own clumsiness. Hand the current pair to me."
Stephen stepped in, handing Anya a glass of water. "Claire stays in character from the moment she arrives," he explained softly, though he looked visibly pleased with the tension in the room. "The Dean pays for the atmosphere, not just the action. Go get changed, Anya. The study is prepped."
Anya took the garment bag. As she turned to leave, she heard Claire behind her.
"And, Anya?"
Anya froze. "Yes?"
"Scrub your hands before you even attempt to handle that linen," Claire warned, her tone dropping to a silken, imperious threat. "I detest grubby fingerprints. We shall have quite enough disorder dealing with your feet; let us not add to the chaos."
Anya hurried to the bathroom, her pulse thundering in her ears. She wasn't just 'A' anymore. She was the pupil, and the lesson had already begun.
---
The study was transformed into an old timey school classroom, the only sound to be heard was the rhythmic tapping of a riding crop against a palm.
Anya sat at the heavy mahogany desk, the wood cool against her forearms. She was dressed in the "uniform"—a starched white shirt buttoned to the neck and a pleated plaid skirt that ended mid-thigh.
Mistress Claire—or "Headmistress," as the script dictated—loomed over her. She picked up a sheet of cream-colored paper and dropped it in front of Anya with a disdainful flutter.
"One hundred lines," Claire commanded, slapping the paper with her riding crop, her voice clipped and imperious. "The phrase is: 'I must not be clumsy.' And I expect penmanship of the highest order. No smudges, no erratic spacing. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Headmistress," Anya murmured, keeping her eyes lowered.
"I shall return in ten minutes to inspect your progress," Claire said, turning on her heel. "Do not disappoint me. My patience is already wearing thin."
With a rustle of silk and the sharp click-clack of her boots, Claire exited the room, closing the door with a firm, final thud.
The moment the latch clicked, Anya let out a loud, theatrical sigh. She slumped in the chair, letting her head loll back, perfectly embodying the petulant, bored student.
Stephen, standing silently behind the tripod in the corner, gave her a small thumbs-up. He pointed to the floor monitor. Give me the feet, his gesture said.
Anya looked at the wall behind camera lens, rolled her eyes, and then dropped her gaze to the floor.
She was wearing the sacrificial Louboutins. They were sleek, black, and agonizingly beautiful. Slowly, deliberately, she engaged her calf muscle. She pushed her right heel down, letting the back of the shoe slip off with a huff.
She held her foot suspended in the air, the shoe hanging precariously from her toes. She swung her foot gently, the red sole flashing like a metronome.
She pointed her toes, arching her foot high, showing off the deep curve and the sheer elegance of her size ten silhouette against the studio lights. The shoe dropped another inch, clinging only by the very tips of her toes. It was a tease. A dangerous game of gravity.
She extended her leg, placing her heel on the edge of the desk’s crossbar, and wiggled her toes, letting the shoe slap softly against her sole. She picked up the pen, twirled it in her fingers, and tapped it against her cheek, looking everywhere but at the paper. She hadn't written a single word.
Click... Click... Click.*
The sound came from the hallway. Sharp. Rhythmic. Approaching fast.
Anya froze. The boredom vanished, replaced by a jolt of genuine adrenaline. She scrambled to sit up straight.
She tried to jam her right foot back into the shoe, but in her haste, her toes fumbled against the tight leather. She shoved it in, wincing as the heel cup bit into her skin.
Click-Clack. The footsteps were right outside the door.
Panic flared. She grabbed the pen and dipped it frantically into the open pot of ink.
She scribbled the first line, her handwriting jagged and rushed. I must not be clumsy.
The doorknob began to turn.
She needed more ink. She lunged for the pot again, her eyes darting to the opening door.
She was too fast. Too reckless.
Her hand clipped the side of the heavy glass bottle.
"No!" she gasped.
It happened in slow motion. The pot tipped. It rolled. And then, with a sickening lurch, it fell off the edge of the desk.
It didn't shatter; it bounced off her knee with a dull thud, upending itself completely before crashing to the floor.
The sensation was immediate and shocking. Freezing cold liquid splashed over her shins, cascading down her ankles in a dark, viscous waterfall.
Anya looked down, horror washing over her. The pristine white of her skin was streaked with rivers of midnight blue. The ink pooled on the hardwood floor, a spreading oil slick.
But the shoes...
The glossy black patent leather was coated, the ink seeping into the interior, drowning the red soles in a dark tide. She could feel it squelching between her toes, slick and wet, soaking into the sensitive skin of her arches.
The door swung fully open.
Mistress Claire stood in the doorway. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just looked. Her eyes scanned the overturned pot, the stained floor, and finally, Anya’s ink-drenched feet.
"Good heavens," Claire breathed, the words dripping with posh disdain.
She stepped into the room, navigating around the puddle with exaggerated care. She loomed over the desk, looking down at Anya like a specimen in a jar that had gone off.
"I leave you unsupervised for precisely five minutes," Claire said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper, "and you manage to turn my study into a pigsty."
"I... I was trying to hurry," Anya stammered, looking from the camera to Claire. "I heard you coming and—"
"You were rushing because you were dawdling," Claire cut her off. She walked around the desk, peering closely at the disaster. "And in your haste, you have created a catastrophe."
She pointed a manicured finger at the shoes. "Look at those pumps. Ruined. Absolutely destroyed. Do you have any conception of the cost of such items? Or do you treat everything of value with such callous disregard?"
"I can clean it," Anya offered weakly, her voice trembling.
"Clean it?" Claire let out a short, sharp laugh. "You? You would likely rub it into the carpet and make matters worse, girl!"
Claire tutted loudly—tsk, tsk, tsk—shaking her head. She crouched down, though she kept a safe distance from the splash zone.
"Take them off," she commanded. "Immediately. Before you stain the leather of the chair as well."
Anya reached down, her fingers slipping on the ink-slicked heel of the left shoe. She pried it off with a wet squelch.
SHHH-HUCK.
Her foot emerged, and the sight was striking. The sole was no longer pink; it was a deep, stained indigo. The ink had seeped into every crease, every wrinkle of her arch, and settled heavily in the gaps between her toes.
She removed the second shoe, placing the dripping, ruined pair on the floor. She sat there, barefoot and blue, her toes curling instinctively against the cold air.
Claire stood up, smoothing her pencil skirt. She crossed her arms, the silk of her blouse rustling softly in the quiet room.
"Disgraceful," she declared. "Your feet are positively steeped in it. Look at the webbing between your toes. It’s practically dyed into the skin."
She turned to Stephen, who was silently filming from the side, then back to Anya, a dangerous glint entering her eyes.
"There is only one course of action," she announced. "We shall have to scrub you. And given the viscosity of that ink... I daresay I shall have to be extremely vigorous."
She pointed to the door with a sharp, imperious gesture. "To the basin. Now. And do try not to drip on the rug."
The "cleaning station" had been set up in the center of the room, bathed in the unforgiving glare of the studio lights. It was a simple, terrifying tableau: a low wooden stool for the "student," a higher stool for the "Headmistress," and between them, a large, porcelain basin filled with steaming, sudsy water.
Anya sat on the low stool. The ink had begun to dry, making her skin feel tight and itchy. Her feet, usually so pale and elegant, looked alien—stained a deep, bruised indigo that darkened in the creases of her arches.
"Present the left foot," Mistress Claire commanded, snapping a pair of latex gloves onto her hands with a sharp thwack.
Anya lifted her left leg. Claire gripped her ankle with a firmness that bordered on bruising, positioning the foot over the basin.
"Into the water. And do not splash."
Anya lowered her foot. The heat of the water was a shock against the cold, drying ink. As she submerged her sole, wisps of dark blue immediately began to swirl into the white foam, clouding the water like a storm front.
Claire tutted, picking up a large, rough sea sponge. "Look at that. The water is filthy already. We shall have to work quickly before it sets."
She didn't start gently. She plunged the sponge into the hot water and brought it down hard on the top of Anya’s foot, scrubbing the instep with brisk, no-nonsense strokes.
Anya squealed and tried to pull her foot back, but Claire's grip was like iron. "Hold... Still, girl," Mistress Claire barked, not relenting with the scrubbing.
"I... I can do it myself, Headmistress," Anya gasped, her voice wavering.
"Silence," Claire snapped, not breaking her rhythm. "You had your chance to handle ink responsibly, and you failed. Now you must endure the consequences."
Claire flipped the foot over, exposing the ink-stained sole. She lifted it closer to her face, inspecting the damage like a mechanic looking at a broken engine.
"Unsatisfactory," she declared. "The surface ink is lifting, but it has pooled in the arch. It’s embedded in the ridges."
She pressed the soapy sponge into the center of Anya’s arch and began to scrub in tight, circular motions. The sensation was confusing—the rough texture of the sponge, the heat of the water, and the underlying, electric spark of the tickle. Anya’s toes curled violently, scrunching down as if trying to hide the sole from the sponge.
"Ah! Mmph!" Anya bit her lip, her head falling back. She forced herself to look at the camera, her eyes watering.
"Stop curling," Claire ordered, slapping the top of Anya’s foot lightly. "You are making it difficult. Flatten the foot."
"I... I can't! It tickles!"
"Don't be ridiculous, girl, it's cleaning," Claire corrected sharply. "If it tickles, that is merely a symptom of your own lack of discipline."
She tossed the sponge back into the water with a wet splash. "The sponge is too soft. It’s not lifting the stain from the deeper wrinkles. We require something with more... bite."
Claire reached to the side table and picked up the toothbrush. It wasn't a soft, drugstore brush. It was an old-fashioned, stiff-bristled tool, the kind meant for scrubbing grime from grout.
Anya’s eyes widened. "Please, Miss. Not the brush."
"The stain is stubborn, Anya. Therefore, I must be stubborn."
Claire gripped Anya’s heel, locking the foot in place. She lathered the brush, the white foam turning blue instantly.
"I’m going to start at the heel," Claire announced. "And I am going to scrub until I see pink skin."
She brought the bristles down. Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch.
The sound was loud in the quiet room. The hard nylon bristles raked over the sensitive skin of Anya’s heel—skin that was already raw and tender from her morning exfoliation. It wasn't pain, but it was an intense, scratching overstimulation that sent a jolt straight up Anya’s spine.
"IIIII-YIH-YIH-YIH! KEEE-HEEE-HEEE! N-N-NO! MISS! AAAA-HAAA-HAAA-STOP!"
Anya tried to yank her leg back, but Claire’s grip was iron.
"Hold still!" Claire barked. She moved the brush up, tracing the outer edge of the foot, digging the bristles into the sensitive skin below the pinky toe.
"HA-HA-HA-HA! MISS! PLEASE! IT’S TOO MUCH! HA-HA-HA NO MORE!"
"It is still remarkably blue here," Claire observed clinically, ignoring the pleas. "I need to go deeper into the arch."
She drove the brush into the hollow of Anya’s foot, scrubbing with a vigorous, relentless speed. Scrub-scrub-scrub.
"NOOO! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! STOP! I’LL BE GOOD! I’LL BE GOOD!"
"You will be clean," Claire countered. She paused for a second to inspect her work. "Better. The arch is fading to a lighter bruise color. But the toes... the toes are a disgrace."
She dropped the toothbrush and reached for a crisp, white linen handkerchief. She dipped it into the hot water, then wrapped it taut around her index finger, positioning her sharp fingernail beneath the fabric.
"Spread them," Claire commanded.
Anya shook her head, tears flying. "No... please... not the toes, I can't take the toes..."
"I will not ask again, girl," Claire said coldly. She didn't wait for permission. She jammed her cloth-wrapped finger between Anya’s big toe and the second toe, forcing them apart.
"There," she pointed. "Dark blue. Right in the webbing. I’m going to have to scrape it out."
She began to work. She dug her fingernail into the sensitive valley, scraping back and forth through the linen.
"No—don't—AHHHHH-HA-HA-HA-HA! NO-HO-HOOT THERE"
"Still dirty," Claire muttered, scraping harder. "Some elbow grease should do the trick."
"HEADMISTRESS! PLEASE! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! I CAN’T—I CAN’T BREATHE! HAVE MERCYYYYY! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
Anya was thrashing on the stool now, her hands gripping the seat so hard her knuckles were white. She looked directly into the lens, her eyes wide and pleading.
"The webbing is clear," Claire announced finally. "But the sides of the smaller toes are still stained. We need friction."
She unwrapped the handkerchief, dipped it into the basin, and twisted the linen into a tight, rope-like shape.
"I’m going to floss them," she stated simply.
She slid the linen rope between the second and third toes. She grabbed both ends and began to saw back and forth. Zip-zip-zip-zip.
"NO! NOT THE TOES! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! ANYTHING BUT THE TOES! HA-HA-HA-HA!"
"Stop fussing," Claire scolded, increasing the speed, the cloth heating up against the tender skin. "It’s coming off. I can see the pink returning."
She moved to the final gap—the pinky toe. She sawed the cloth vigorously, the motion a blur. Anya let out a high, keening wail of laughter that bordered on sobbing.
Claire gave one final, merciless tug, then pulled the cloth free.
"There," Mistress Claire said, finally satisfied. She released the foot, letting it drop into the water with a splash. "One foot clean. Now... lift the right one. And do be quick about it. The water is cooling."
Anya, chest heaving and face streaked with tears, hesitated. Her left foot was throbbing, a confusing mix of raw sensitivity and relief, but her right foot was still coated in the drying, tacky ink.
"Please, Headmistress..." she whimpered, her voice small and broken. "Please... Miss... I need... hhh-huh... one minute...?"
"You may have a minute when you are spotless," Claire corrected sharply. She didn't wait. She reached into the water, grabbed Anya’s right ankle, and hauled it onto her lap.
"Goodness," Claire murmured, inspecting the sole with a critical eye. "This one is even worse. You truly mashed the ink into the skin when you tried to force your foot back into the shoe. It’s dried into a crust."
She reached for the sponge again, re-soaking it in the darkening water. "I shall have to rehydrate the stain."
She squeezed the hot water over the sole, then began to scrub the ball of the foot with heavy, dragging strokes.
"No... oh god, please..." Anya twisted her hands in her lap. "It’s too sensitive, Miss! Please, not again!"
"If you hadn't been so careless, we wouldn't be here," Claire lectured, scrubbing harder. "The ball of the foot is filthy. It looks like a bruise. I need to get this off."
She tossed the sponge aside and picked up the stiff-bristled brush immediately. "The sponge is ineffective against this level of incompetence. We need the bristles."
"No! No, I’m sorry! I’M SORRY! NOT AGAIN!" Anya begged, her feet kicking slightly, but Claire’s grip was absolute.
Claire lathered the brush and drove it into the center of the arch. Scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch.
"AHHH! MISS! HAVE MERCY! PLEASE! AAA-HA-HA-HAA-HAA!"
"I am showing mercy by cleaning you," Claire stated calmly. "Look at the heel. It’s still navy blue. I have to scour it."
She moved the brush to the heel, scrubbing in small, aggressive circles.
"I PROMISE I WON'T BE CLUMSY! I PROMISE! NAAA-HA-HA-HAA-HAA! I'LL BE GOOD!"
Anya wailed, tears streaming down her face again.
"PLEASE STOP SCRUBBING! IT’S TOO MUCH! HA-HA-HA PLEASE! STAAAAAHP!"
"It is lifting," Claire observed, ignoring the pleas. "But as I suspected, the toes are the real problem."
She set the brush down and reached for the linen handkerchief.
Anya saw the white cloth and the way Claire was wrapping it around her finger. Her eyes went wide with panic.
"Wh-no... Not the toes again, please Miss," Anya sobbed, shaking her head violently. "I'll be good! I'll do anything!"
"Anything?" Claire raised an eyebrow. "Then you will hold still and spread your toes."
Claire positioned her fingernail beneath the cloth and jammed it into the gap between the big toe and the second.
"EEEEEE! HIII-EEE! NO-HO-HO! IT’S SHARP! AAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA! NOT THE NAAAIIIIIL!"
"It’s caked in here," Claire muttered, scraping her nail against the sensitive skin of the webbing. "I have to dig it out."
"MISS! PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU! HA-HA-HA-HA! JUST STAAAHP!"
"Still dirty," Claire announced. She withdrew her finger and twisted the linen into a tight rope. "We need the friction method for the smaller toes. It’s the only way."
She slid the rope between the second and third toes.
"No, no, no! Not again! Please, miss! Wait!" Anya gasped.
Claire didn't wait. "Stop fussing," Claire scolded. She widened her stance and increased the speed, sawing the linen back and forth in a blur.
Zip-zip-zip-zip.
The friction was immediate. The cloth heated up against the tender skin, turning the tickle into a burning, electric fire.
"AAAA-HAAA-HAAA! IT’S HOT! IT’S HOT! HEEEE-YAAAA-HAAA-NOOOO!" Anya thrashed, her head thrown back, spit flying as she lost all control.
"It’s coming off," Claire muttered, watching the ink stain fade. "I can see the pink returning."
She moved to the final gap—the pinky toe. The most sensitive toe. She didn't hesitate. She looped the cloth and yanked it tight, scrubbing with merciless, rapid-fire strokes.
SKRR-SKRR-SKRR-SKRR.
"I CAN’T! I CAN’T! GUH-HAAAA-HAAAA! PLEASE! I’M GONNA PEE! I’M GONNA PEEE-HEEE-HEEE! STAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAA-P!"
Anya was convulsing on the stool, her legs kicking wildly against Claire’s iron grip, her pleas dissolving into ragged, wet, desperate laughter that echoed off the studio walls. She looked at the camera, her face a mask of beautiful, humiliated defeat.
"Almost... there..." Claire grunted, giving one final, punishing tug on the cloth.
She pulled the linen free. She inspected the foot, turning it this way and that. The ink was gone. The skin was red, raw, and pristine.
"There," Mistress Claire said. She released Anya’s ankle, letting the foot drop back to the floor.
Then she peeled off the wet, blue-stained gloves, dropping them into the basin with a wet plop.
"You are clean," Claire pronounced, standing up and smoothing her skirt. "Though I cannot say the same for my study floor."
She looked down at Anya, who was slumped on the stool, trembling and gasping, her head hanging low.
"Class dismissed," Claire said coolly. "Stephen, cut the feed."
"And... clear," Stephen called out, reaching up to kill the recording light on the main camera.
The effect on the room was instantaneous. The tension, which had been pulled as tight as a piano wire, snapped.
Claire, who a second ago had looked ready to flay Anya alive with a linen handkerchief, let out a long, soft exhale. Her shoulders dropped, the rigid posture of the Headmistress melting away to reveal a woman who just looked tired and slightly sympathetic.
She immediately grabbed a thick, fluffy towel from the side table and knelt down in front of Anya.
"You okay, darling?" she asked, her voice unrecognizable. Gone was the clipped, icy diction of the Headmistress. In its place was a warm, slightly husky London accent. "That was a hell of a session."
Anya blinked, her chest still hitching with the aftershocks of the laughter. She felt disoriented, floating in a haze of endorphins. "I... I think so. My feet are burning."
"I bet they are," Claire said gently. She lifted Anya’s right foot—handling it with the delicacy of a nurse dressing a wound—and wrapped it in the towel. She didn't scrub; she patted the skin dry with slow, comforting presses. "I had to go quite hard to get that ink out of the webbing. You were incredibly brave."
"Brave?" Anya let out a wet, shaky laugh. "I was screaming my head off."
"That’s the bravery," Claire smiled, looking up. Her eyes were kind now, crinkling at the corners. "Letting go like that? Letting the camera see you completely undone? Most people can't do it. They hold back. You didn't hold back an inch."
Stephen stepped out from behind the camera rig, a bottle of water in his hand. He looked like a man who had just won the lottery.
"She’s right, Anya," he said, handing her the bottle. "I’ve filmed a hundred disciplinary scenes, and I’ve never seen energy like that. The chemistry between you two was off the charts. It wasn't just 'A' getting tickled; it was a genuine power struggle. The Dean is going to lose his mind."
Anya took a long, desperate gulp of the water. The cool liquid grounded her. She looked at Claire, who was now drying her left foot, massaging the arch with a firm, soothing pressure to work out the cramps.
"You were terrifying," Anya told her honestly. "When you got the toothbrush... I actually thought I was gonna die."
Claire laughed, a rich, throaty sound. "Good. That means I did my job. But I promise, I’m actually quite nice when I’m not scrubbing people with nylon bristles."
She finished drying Anya’s feet and sat back on her heels. "Seriously, though. You have natural instincts for this. The way you fought the restraints, the way you begged... you made me look good. A Dom is only as scary as the sub makes her look."
Anya felt a warm flush of pride. It was a strange camaraderie, born in the trenches of sensation. She looked at this woman—this beautiful, intimidating creature who had just tortured her toes for twenty minutes—and felt a desire to know her, not just fear her.
"Thank you," Anya said softly. "For... bringing it out of me. And for cleaning me up."
"Part of the service," Claire winked. She stood up, smoothing her silk blouse, which miraculously hadn't caught a single drop of ink. "Stephen, I’m going to head out. I have a dinner reservation in Soho at eight."
"Of course," Stephen said. "I’ll wire your fee tonight."
Claire picked up her bag. She paused, looking back at Anya, who was slowly putting her heels—her clean, dry ones—back on.
"Hey," Claire said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small, sleek business card. She scribbled something on the back with a silver pen. "This is my personal mobile. Not the business one."
She handed it to Anya.
"This work... it takes a toll on the nervous system," Claire said, her voice lowering so it was just between the two women. "The 'drop' can hit you hard a few hours later. You might feel weepy or just exhausted. If you need to chat, or you just want to grab a drink with someone who understands what it's like to be on the receiving end... text me."
Anya took the card. It felt heavy, like an invitation to a secret club. "I will. Thank you, Claire."
"Anytime, Anya," Claire smiled. "Us girls have to stick together."
She nodded to Stephen and swept out of the room, the click-clack of her boots fading down the hallway.
Anya looked down at the card in her hand. Then she looked at her feet, snug in her socks. She felt drained, raw, and incredibly heavy. But as she listened to the front door close, she realized she wasn't just a cleaner anymore. She wasn't just a student. She had a colleague. She had a mentor.
Stephen began dismantling the lights. "You did well, Anya. Go home. Rest. You no doubt need it."
Anya stood up, her legs wobbling only slightly. She clutched the card in her pocket like a talisman. The ink was gone, washed down the drain, but the mark the afternoon had left on her wasn't going anywhere.
