Previous Chapter || First Chapter
The journey home from Stephen’s house was a blur of tunnel lights and the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the train tracks, a hypnotic pulse that seemed to sync with the throbbing in Anya’s feet. She held her bag tight against her chest, the leather warm from her grip, staring at her reflection in the darkened window. She looked the same—same coat, same hair—but beneath the fabric of her socks, her skin felt raw, scrubbed clean of a sin she hadn't known she committed.
When she finally unlocked the door to her room, the silence of the house hit her like a physical blow. It wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. It pressed against her ears.
Anya didn't even turn on the lamp. She kicked off her shoes—the sensible sneakers she had worn home—and let her bag slide to the floor. She crawled onto her narrow bed, fully clothed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the discipline, the laughter, and the strange, electric camaraderie with Claire suddenly evaporated.
In its place, a crushing, leaden weight settled over her limbs. It felt as though gravity had doubled. She closed her eyes, and within seconds, she was pulled into a deep, dreamless black.
She slept for fourteen hours.
When she woke, the light in the room was a pale, watery grey. It was Sunday afternoon. For a moment, Anya didn't know where she was. She lay still, listening to the distant hum of traffic. Then, the memory of the stiff-bristled brush and the white linen handkerchief flooded back.
She expected to feel a thrill, or perhaps the lingering pride of the money in her account. Instead, she felt... hollow.
It was a terrifying sensation. She felt brittle, as if a loud noise might shatter her into a thousand pieces. A lump formed in her throat, hot and inexplicable. She rolled onto her side, curling her knees to her chest, and to her horror, a tear leaked from her eye and tracked a cold line across the bridge of her nose. Then another. Then she was weeping—soft, jagged sobs that shook her ribs.
She wasn't sad. She wasn't hurt. She was just empty. The endorphins had been borrowed from her future, and now the debt was due.
The Drop.
Claire’s voice echoed in her memory: "The drop can hit you hard a few hours later. You might feel weepy or just exhausted."
Anya sat up, wiping her face with her sleeve. Her hands were trembling slightly. She needed to hear a voice that knew the secret. She reached for her coat, digging into the pocket until her fingers brushed the sharp edge of the card.
Claire. The name was scrawled in silver ink, followed by a number.
Anya stared at the digits. It felt intrusive to use it. She was just a student; Claire was a queen in silk and leather. But the silence in the room was suffocating.
She typed the message, her thumbs hovering over the keys.
Hi Claire. It’s Anya. I think I’m feeling that drop you mentioned. Sorry to bother you.
She hit send before she could lose her nerve. She tossed the phone onto the duvet and hugged her knees, waiting.
The phone buzzed almost immediately. It wasn't a text. It was a call.
Anya scrambled to pick it up. "H-Hello?"
"Anya, darling," came the voice. It wasn't the clipped, imperious tone of the Headmistress. It was warm, textured with the background noise of a busy street and the clatter of cutlery. "I saw your message. Are you alright? Are you alone?"
"I'm at home," Anya said, her voice sounding thick and wet. "I just... I slept for ages, and now I can't stop crying. I don't know why."
"Standard procedure, I'm afraid," Claire said soothingly. "Your brain dumped a massive amount of happy chemicals yesterday to cope with the intensity. Today, the tank is empty. It’s a chemical hangover. Have you eaten at all?"
"No," Anya admitted.
"Right. You need salt, sugar, and water. In that order. Order a pizza, or something greasy. Do not try to study. Do not try to be productive. Just rot in bed, you have my permission," she added with a lilt of The Headmistress to her voice.
Anya let out a weak, watery laugh. "Okay. I can do that."
"Good woman," Claire said. "Listen, I’m running between appointments right now, but we should debrief properly. The first drop is always the hardest. Are you free on Tuesday? Around four?"
"Yes," Anya said quickly. "I have a lecture in the morning, but I'm free after."
"Perfect. Meet me at 'The Grind' in Covent Garden. It’s quiet, and they do excellent cake. We’ll get you sorted out."
"Thank you, Claire. Really."
"Don't mention it, darling. Get some food in you. The world will look less shit once your blood sugar is up."
The line clicked dead.
Anya lowered the phone. The hollowness was still there, but the panic had receded. She wasn't broken; she was just recovering. She ordered the pizza, as instructed.
But Tuesday was two days away. And between the sanctuary of her bed and the safety of the café lay Monday.
Monday meant the University. Monday meant walking back into the light.
---
Monday morning arrived with a grey, drizzling persistency that usually made Anya want to disappear into her oversized coat. But today, she dressed with a new, deliberate precision. She pulled on a pair of sheer black tights and slid her feet into the black patent pumps.
The click of the heel engaging with the pavement as she left the house felt like a weapon being cocked.
The University lecture hall was a cavernous, tiered amphitheater. Anya took a seat near the back, finding a spot on the end of a row. It was a strategic choice; it gave her leg room, and it gave her an exit.
As the Professor droned on about regression analysis, the room settled into a stupor of tapping laptops and scratching pens. Anya opened her notebook, but the equations on the whiteboard might as well have been hieroglyphics. Her mind was elsewhere.
Beneath the desk she crossed her legs. Her right foot began a slow, unconscious rhythm. She slipped her heel out of the shoe, letting the pump hang from her toes. She dipped it, catching it, then dipped it again.
Dangle. Catch. Dangle. Catch.
It was a nervous habit, but now, it felt charged. She noticed a guy two seats to her left—a rugby player type in a hoodie—glance down. He wasn't looking at her face. His eyes were fixed on the rhythmic flash of the red sole swinging in the shadow of the desk.
Anya didn't pull her foot back. She extended her leg slightly, pointing her toe. The guy swallowed, shifting in his seat, before forcing his eyes back to the whiteboard.
A few minutes later, a girl in the row ahead turned around to borrow a pen. Her gaze dropped to Anya’s shoes. "God, those are gorgeous," she whispered, her eyes widening at the tell-tale red sole. "Are they real?"
"Yes," Anya whispered back, a cool, secret smile playing on her lips. "They are."
The girl looked at her with a mix of envy and confusion—trying to reconcile the worn coat with the six-hundred-pound shoes—before turning back around.
Anya felt a surge of warmth in her chest. It was a heady, intoxicating rush. In this room of hundreds, she wasn't just another broke student. She was a woman who walked on red-lacquered secrets. She was 'A'.
Her gaze drifted down the tiered rows, scanning the backs of heads. Boredom was universal here. Students were doodling, sleeping, or surreptitiously checking their phones.
Her eyes landed on a student three rows directly below her. He was hunched over, his posture tense. A thick textbook was propped up on his desk, creating a small fortress. Behind the shield of the book, his phone was propped up, the screen glowing brightly in the dim hall.
He wasn't texting. He was watching a video.
Anya leaned forward slightly, squinting. The screen was small, but the image was crisp.
The background on the screen was dark, soundproofed foam. The lighting was clinical—a stark, high-contrast style that made the skin look like porcelain. In the center of the frame, a pair of feet were locked in heavy leather restraints, writhing against a merciless, vibrating tool.
Anya’s breath hitched in her throat.
She knew that lighting. She knew the angle of that camera. She knew the exact grain of that leather cuff.
It was Stephen’s studio.
It wasn't her video—the model on the screen had dark skin and pink nail polish, thrashing in a way Anya recognized all too well—but it was unmistakably a production from the site.
The student below her adjusted his headphones, one hand vanishing beneath the desk into his lap. He was watching tickling. He was watching Stephen's content. Here. In the middle of a Statistics lecture.
The rush of power Anya had felt moments ago curdled instantly into ice-cold dread.
Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, loud enough that she feared the rugby player next to her might hear it. The world suddenly felt terrifyingly small. She had thought the internet was a vast, anonymous ocean, safe and distant. But it wasn't. It was right here, three rows down.
The paranoia bloomed like a dark flower.
If he watches that site... has he seen the 'New Arrivals'?
Has he seen 'The Scholar’s Surrender'?
Anya stared at the back of the student’s neck. He was just a random guy in a grey sweater. But what if he turned around? What if he recognized the arch of her foot? The way she dangled her shoe?
Does he know?
The thought was irrational—her face had been hidden, her name was 'A'—but panic is rarely rational. She felt exposed, as if the clothes she was wearing had suddenly turned transparent. Every glance from a stranger now felt like an accusation. The admiration she had courted moments ago now felt like a threat.
He’s watching it right now. He’s listening to her scream while the Professor talks about variables.
The air in the lecture hall seemed to vanish. The walls felt like they were closing in, the tiered seating transforming into a cage. The shoe hanging from her toe felt heavy, a shackle binding her to a crime she hadn't realized she was committing.
She couldn't be here. She couldn't sit behind him, wondering if he was scrolling past her thumbnail image.
Anya shoved her foot back into the pump, wincing as she jammed it in too hard. She grabbed her bag, scraping her chair back with a loud screech that made several heads turn—including the student with the phone.
He looked back over his shoulder, annoyed at the noise. His eyes swept over her.
Anya didn't wait to see if recognition dawned. She kept her head down, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield, and bolted for the exit. She pushed through the double doors, stumbling out into the cool, empty corridor, gasping for air as if she had just surfaced from deep underwater.
The secret wasn't just hers anymore. It was out there, in the pockets of strangers, sitting in lecture halls, waiting to be found.
She leaned against the cold brick wall, her hands shaking, and pulled out her phone.
Covent Garden, she thought. I need to talk to Claire.
---
Tuesday afternoon at 'The Grind' was a hum of espresso machines and low, polite conversation. It was a world away from the sterile, fluorescent tension of the lecture hall. The air smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon, a warm embrace that should have been comforting.
Anya sat at a small corner table, her hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn't touched. She was vibrating with a restless, jagged energy. Every time the café door opened, her head snapped up, her eyes scanning for a grey sweater or a familiar face from the University.
Then, the bell chimed, and the air in the room seemed to shift.
Claire walked in.
She wasn't wearing the severe bun or the silk blouse of the Headmistress. She wore a camel-colored trench coat belted tightly at the waist, dark denim jeans, and a pair of oversized sunglasses that she slid onto her head as she scanned the room. She looked effortlessly expensive, like a woman who ran an art gallery or a boutique law firm.
She spotted Anya and smiled—a genuine, warm expression that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"There she is," Claire said, sliding into the chair opposite Anya. She placed a sleek leather handbag on the floor and signaled a waiter with a mere lift of her finger. "Cappuccino, bone dry. And a slice of the carrot cake. Two forks."
She turned her attention to Anya, her gaze sharpening. She didn't ask "How are you?" She simply leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.
"You look like a deer who’s just heard a twig snap," Claire observed quietly. "Spill it."
Anya didn't mean to blurt it out, but the pressure in her chest was too high. "I saw someone. In my lecture. He was watching a video. One of Stephen's videos."
Claire paused, her expression unreadable. "One of yours?"
"No," Anya said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I didn't recognise her, but it was definitely Stephen's studio. The student was watching it right there. Three rows down. He had his headphones in, pretending to study, but he was watching her get tickled."
Anya gripped her mug, her knuckles white. "He looked at me, Claire. Earlier, he looked at my shoes. The Louboutins. And then I saw him watching the site. What if he puts it together? What if he sees the 'New Arrivals' and recognizes my feet? What if he tells people?"
The waiter arrived, placing the coffee and the cake between them. Claire waited until he left before she picked up her fork. She didn't look alarmed. She looked thoughtful.
"Eat," Claire commanded gently, sliding the plate toward Anya. "Sugar. Now."
Anya took a reluctant bite of the cake. It was sweet and dense, but it tasted like sawdust in her dry mouth.
"You're terrified of the collision," Claire said, taking a sip of her foam-heavy cappuccino. "You have 'Anya the Scholar' in one box, and 'A the Star' in another. And you think if they touch, both boxes explode."
"I'm on a scholarship," Anya whispered. "If the faculty found out... if my housemates knew..."
"I know," Claire said. Her voice dropped, losing its casual lilt and becoming something heavier. "I know exactly what that panic tastes like. It tastes like copper."
She set her cup down and looked Anya dead in the eye.
"It was 2011," Claire began. "I was twenty-two. I was working as a junior paralegal at a firm in the City. Stiff suits, stiffer upper lips. I was doing shoots on weekends for a producer—let's call him Marcus."
Anya listened, the ambient noise of the café fading away.
"Marcus was... possessive," Claire continued, her lip curling slightly. "He didn't like sharing his toys. I got an offer to shoot with a bigger studio—better pay, better safety protocols. I took it. Marcus didn't take it well."
She took a forkful of cake, her hand perfectly steady.
"He found my LinkedIn. He found my firm’s directory. He sent an email to the partners, and to the general office inbox. No subject line. Just a link to a gallery. 'Junior Paralegal Soles,' I think he titled it."
Anya gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my god. Claire..."
"I walked into work that Monday morning not knowing," Claire said, her eyes distant. "I remember the receptionist looking at me. She didn't say hello. She just stared at my feet. Then I got to my desk, and my supervisor called me into his office."
"What did you do?" Anya asked, horrified.
"I wanted to die," Claire admitted frankly. "I wanted to dissolve into the carpet. I sat there while this sixty-year-old man stammered and blushed and tried to ask me if it was me without actually saying the words. I felt dirty. I felt small. I left the office, went home, and cried for three days straight. I thought my life was over."
"Did they fire you?"
"They didn't have grounds to, technically. It was a legal activity, done on my own time. But the atmosphere? It was poison. The whispers. The looks."
Claire leaned in, her voice intense.
"But then, on the fourth day, I woke up and I realized something. I realized that Marcus wanted me to be ashamed. He wanted me to hide. And the people at work? They weren't disgusted. They were fascinated. They were judging me, yes, but they were also obsessed."
She tapped her manicured nail on the table.
"So I went back. I wore my highest heels. I walked into that office with my head up, and I did my damn job. I didn't apologize. I didn't cry. I looked every single person who stared at me right in the eye until they looked away."
Claire smiled, a fierce, predatory thing.
"And you know what happened? The teasing stopped. Because you can't bully someone who owns it. Shame only works if you accept the premise that you've done something wrong. I hadn't. I was a star. They were just paralegals."
She reached across the table and covered Anya’s trembling hand with her own.
"You are not a victim, Anya. You are a commodity. You are the girl in the six-hundred-pound shoes. That boy in the lecture hall? He wasn't mocking that video. He was captivated by it."
Claire squeezed her hand.
"If he finds out? If he recognizes you...? So what? He’s the one watching fetish porn in a university lecture. You’re the one getting paid a fortune to be worshipped. You hold the cards. Always."
Anya looked at Claire. She saw the steel beneath the cashmere. She saw the way Claire occupied the space—unapologetic, regal, armored in her own history.
"You really went back?" Anya whispered.
"I went back," Claire nodded. "I stayed for another year. Then I quit and started my own consultancy. I also started working with some of the best fetish producers in the game; I became Mistress Claire."
She sat back, picking up her coffee. "The moral of the story is simple. Armor yourself in the identity. Don't shrink. Expand. If you act like it's a dirty secret, it destroys you. If you act like it's a privilege for them to even see your feet? You become untouchable."
Anya let out a long, slow breath. She looked down at the half-eaten cake. The fear that had been gripping her throat loosened its grip.
"Armor yourself," Anya repeated softly.
"Exactly," Claire winked. "Now, finish your cake. We can't have 'A' fainting from low blood sugar. Stephen tells me he has big plans for you."
---
Anya walked out of 'The Grind' and into the cool, blue-tinted evening of Covent Garden. The city felt different now. An hour ago, the crowds of tourists and commuters had felt like a swarm of potential witnesses, a thousand eyes waiting to catch her in a lie. Now, they just felt like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise.
Armor yourself.
She replayed Claire’s story in her mind. The image of the young paralegal walking into a hostile office, head held high, staring down her detractors until they looked away. It was a masterclass in psychological warfare. Armor yourself. That was the key. Shame relied on soft targets. If she hardened her resolve—if she turned the secret into a weapon—she became untouchable...
Anya stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light. Her mind drifted back to the lecture hall. To the boy watching the video.
She pictured him again. The way he hunched over his phone. The way he adjusted his headphones, shielding the screen with his textbook. He hadn't been judging the woman on the screen. He had been desperate for her. He had been risking public humiliation just to catch a glimpse of those thrashing, pink-soled feet.
Anya looked down at her own feet. The red soles of her Louboutins tapped impatiently against the curb.
He was watching Stephen’s content.
A slow, treacherous heat began to uncoil in her belly. It wasn't the cold spike of fear she had felt that morning. It was something darker, heavier.
What if he did know?
She imagined walking into the lecture hall next Monday. She imagined sitting directly in front of him. She imagined slipping her heel off, dangling the shoe, and turning around to catch his eye. She imagined the blood draining from his face as he realized the 'A' on his screen and the girl in the row above him were the same person.
He wouldn't tell anyone. He would be too busy worshipping her from the shadows.
The realization hit her like a shot of espresso. She wasn't the prey. She was the predator. The secret wasn't a bomb that would destroy her life; it was the source of her gravity.
She pulled out her phone. The screen glowed bright in the twilight. She opened her chat with Stephen.
Anya: I’m ready for the next step.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Stephen: I’m listening.
Anya: I don't want to hide in the background anymore. I want to do the Introduction Video. The real one. The "Casting Couch" format you mentioned before. I want to be seen, answer the questions, and show them exactly who 'A' is.
There was a pause. A long one. Then:
Stephen: That is a significant escalation, Anya. That format is intimate. It’s about personality as much as sensitivity. It requires you to be... present.
Anya: I know. I want them to see me. I want to own it.
Stephen: Then we film tomorrow. Bring a white t-shirt and skinny jeans. I’ll handle the rest. Also, have a think about what pseudonym you would like to be known as.
Anya pocketed the phone. The light turned green. She stepped out into the intersection, the click of her heels echoing off the asphalt. She didn't hurry. She walked with the easy, fluid grace of a woman who knew exactly where she was going.
---
The set was brighter today. The moodier, artistic shadows of the "Scholar" video were gone, replaced by a clean, commercial lighting setup that left nothing to the imagination.
In the center of the room sat the chair. It was a high-backed, executive leather seat, modified with heavy, padded armrests. Extending from the base was a rigid metal frame that terminated in a hinged, clamshell-style set of stocks upholstered in smooth white leather, featuring ankle cuffs lined with contrasting red leather and secured with a silver latch.
Anya sat in the chair, her arms resting casually on the pads, her wrists secured by soft, velvet-lined cuffs. Her legs were extended straight out in front of her, her ankles locked firmly into the leather padded holes of the stocks.
She was wearing the uniform of her new persona: the tight white t-shirt, the dark skinny jeans, and—crucially—the red-soled Louboutins. They gleamed under the studio lights, the black patent leather stark against the white leather of the stocks.
Stephen stood beside the camera, checking the audio levels.
"Comfortable?" he asked, though he was looking at the monitors.
"As comfortable as one can be," Anya replied, flexing her feet. The heels bobbed in the air, the red soles flashing. She felt a strange calmness. The paranoia of the lecture hall had burned off, leaving behind a clear, cold determination.
"Rolling," Stephen announced. He stepped into the frame, holding a clipboard. He wasn't the shadowy Director today; he was the Interviewer, dressed in a casual shirt, his face open and friendly.
He sat on a low stool beside her legs, positioning himself so he was looking up at her face, but his hands were level with her ankles.
"Welcome to the studio," Stephen said, his voice warm and conversational. "For the benefit of our subscribers, could you introduce yourself?"
Anya looked into the lens. She didn't shy away. She smiled—a bright, confident expression that reached her eyes.
"Hi. I’m Amethyst."
"Amethyst," Stephen repeated, testing the weight of the name. "A beautiful name for a beautiful guest. And tell us, what is your shoe size?"
"I'm a size ten," she said, giving her feet a little wiggle in the stocks. The leather creaked softly.
"Size ten," Stephen nodded appreciatively. "A rare and coveted number around here. Now, Amethyst, you're looking very elegant in those heels, but I think the audience wants to see what you're hiding. May I?"
"You may," she said, her voice dropping an octave.
Stephen reached out. He didn't rush. He cupped the heel of her left shoe, his thumb brushing the red lacquer. With a slow, deliberate friction, he eased the shoe off.
Pop.
The shoe came free, and the studio lights immediately caught the fresh gloss of her pedicure. She had gone to the salon just that morning, selecting a deep, shimmering plum color—dark purple, almost black, to match her new name. The dark polish made her pale skin look even more porcelain, the contrast striking and deliberate.
Stephen set the shoe down and removed the right one, revealing the matching set. He paused, admiring them.
"An exquisite choice of color," he noted, running a thumb lightly over her painted big toe. "Very on-brand."
He reached to the side table and picked up a long, dark eagle feather. The barbs were stiff and glossy.
"So," Stephen began, his tone light as he brought the feather toward her left foot. "How did you find yourself here? Have you always known you were ticklish?"
He began to tease her. He flicked the stiff tip of the feather against the sensitive wrinkled skin of her arch.
"I... hhh-uh!... I guess I suspected," Anya smiled, her toes curling reflexively away from the feather. She tried to jerk her foot back, but the movement was abruptly choked off.
The heavy denim of her skinny jeans bunched tightly behind her knees, refusing to stretch. The fabric dug into her skin, locking her legs in place just as effectively as the stocks. She realized with a jolt that she had trapped herself. By dressing to look the part, she had accidentally perfected her own bondage.
"But I’ve never really tested it properly," she managed, trying to ignore the claustrophobic squeeze of the jeans against her thighs.
"Never?" Stephen asked, moving the feather to the side of her foot, tracing the line where the skin changed texture. "No older brothers? No evil boyfriends pinning you down?"
"I mean..." Anya squirmed, her heels bumping uselessly against the wood. "My brothers used to attack my ribs. And my knees. But nobody really went for the feet. I think people were afraid I would kick them in the face."
She made a show of trying to kick out, a playful lunge, but again, the jeans betrayed her. The tight waist and stiff legs allowed her barely an inch of movement. She was completely anchored.
"It's a good thing I have you in the stocks then," Stephen said with a little grin, noticing her attempt to kick out. He swirled the feather in a tight, rapid circle right in the center of her sole.
"Ts-hiiii! Okay, that’s... khh-hah!... that’s sharp," she giggled, the sensation cutting through her composure like static electricity.
Stephen pulled the feather back, but didn't put it down. He moved to the right foot, dusting the stiff barbs lightly between her toes. "And what about this? Is the webbing sensitive?"
"Yes! Nuh-huuh! You know my toes are the worst!" Anya laughed, her head falling back against the headrest as a shiver ran up her restricted legs. "Yih-hihi-hiii! It sends a spark right up my spine."
Stephen chuckled, finally setting the feather down. "I think we’ve established a baseline. But feathers are gentle, Amethyst. Fingers... fingers are a different story."
He leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands hovering near her soles. "Be honest with me. When you first saw the studio... be real. What went through your mind?"
Anya bit her lip, grinning. "Honestly? I thought I’d made a huge mistake. I saw the table and the straps and I thought, 'Oh my god, he’s a total freak. I’ve walked into a serial killer’s lair.'"
Stephen raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. "A serial killer, am I?"
"A well-dressed one!" Anya added quickly, laughing. "But definitely a freak."
"Well," Stephen said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I guess I should play the part of the 'freak' then."
He lunged.
His fingers didn't stroke; they poked. He drove his index fingers sharply into the sensitive centres of her arches and vibrated them, digging deep into the plantar muscle.
"AH-HA! NO!" Anya jerked in the chair, instinctively trying to yank her knees up to her chest.
But the jeans held fast. The denim pulled taut across her thighs, arresting her movement instantly. She was left exposed, her soles locked in place for his attack.
"I WAS KIDDING! H-HAAA-HA! I WAS KIDDING!"
Stephen didn't let up. He began to spider his fingers rapidly up her arches towards her toes, using a light, skittering touch that felt like insects dancing on her skin. It was maddeningly itchy compared to the dull pressure of the poke.
"Only joking! Only joking!" she shrieked, thrashing against the unyielding fabric of her pants. "Yi-hiii-hiii! Stephen! Guh-hah! Get off!"
"You called the man sitting before your bare, vulnerable feet a freak," Stephen teased, moving his spider-fingers down to the wrinkled skin of her heels. He scratched his nails lightly against the grain. "That requires a penalty, Amethyst."
"I take it back! HAAA-HAA-HAA! You’re normal! This is totally normal behaviour! Eeee-nyahaha-ha!"
Stephen laughed, finally pulling his hands back.
Anya slumped in the chair, breathless. The waistband of her jeans was digging into her stomach, and her chest heaved against the white t-shirt. Her face was flushed a pretty pink.
"Okay, okay," Stephen soothed. "Point taken. I think you’ve earned a reprieve."
He reached for the bottle of baby oil. He popped the cap, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"You're tense," he observed, pouring a generous pool of clear liquid into his palm. "Your arches are cramping from all that curling. Let’s fix that."
He rubbed his hands together, warming the oil. He wrapped his hands around her feet, and the sensation was immediate bliss.
It wasn't a trick. It was a genuine, expert massage. Stephen used his thumbs to work deep into the balls of her feet, sliding effortlessly over the oiled skin. He found the knots of tension and melted them away with slow, deliberate pressure.
Anya let out a long, ragged sigh. Her head rolled to the side. "Oh my god... that feels amazing."
Stephen's thumbs moved down her arches for a deep massage, gliding through the wrinkles on Anya's feet with ease.
"Better?" Stephen asked softly, working his way down to the heels of her feet.
"So much better," she murmured, her eyes half-closing. The oil felt heavy and warm, a stark contrast to the sharp, dry tickle of the feather.
"So, Amethyst," Stephen said, his voice low and hypnotic. He lifted his hands, spread his fingers, and pushed them through Anya's toes, using the length of his digits to massage the sensitive webbing. "You mentioned you're a student. Is it hard balancing this secret life with your studies?"
"Sometimes," Anya admitted, her guard completely down as she melted into the seat and flexed her toes to give Stephen better access. The rhythmic motion of his fingers was lulling her into a trance. "I get paranoid people will find out. But then... moments like this? It feels worth it. It’s kind of empowering."
"It should be," Stephen agreed. He slid his hands down to her heels again, cupping them, his thumbs circling the bone. "You have incredible control. Most people would have tapped out during the feather test. You’re very brave."
"Mmm, I don't know about brave," she slurred slightly, drunk on the relaxation. "Just... sturdy."
"Sturdy," Stephen repeated. He smiled. "Let's see."
His grip tightened.
"Thirty seconds on the clock."
He didn't massage anymore. He clawed.
He raked his fingernails furiously up the length of her oiled soles, from heel to toe, using the lubrication to move with terrifying, lightning speed.
"AAAAH-HAAAA! STEPHEN! NO! YOU LI-HII-HII-HIAR!"
The scream ripped out of her, shattering the calm studio air. Anya thrashed in the chair, her hips bucking against the restrictive denim of her jeans, but the stocks held her ankles in a vice. The sensation was electric—too fast, too slick. The oil eliminated all friction, allowing his nails to glide from heel to toe in a single, devastating stroke.
"YOU SAID RELAX! GHK-HUH-HUH-HAAA! ST-HO-HO-HOP! I CAN'T—EEEE-HEEE-YIIIII!"
Stephen didn't stop. He moved to her toes, scritching his nails furiously against the oiled undersides, his fingers slipping and sliding into the webbing she had exposed moments ago. Anya’s laughter pitched up into a high, desperate squeal, the sound fraying at the edges as her lungs burned for air.
"Ten seconds!" Stephen announced, grinning as he dug his knuckles into her arches and vibrated them violently.
"I CAN'T! I CAN'T BREATHE! AMETHYST OUT! HA-HA-HA! AMETHYST OUUUUT!"
He stopped instantly.
Anya slumped in the chair, panting wildly, her chest heaving. Her feet were glistening with oil, twitching with aftershocks in the stocks. She looked like she had just run a marathon. She wiped a tear of mirth from her eye, looked at the camera, and gave a shaky, exhilarated thumbs up.
"I hate you," she wheezed, grinning.
Stephen chuckled, wiping his hands on a towel. He stepped closer to the lens, blocking Anya slightly as he addressed the audience directly.
"And there you have it," Stephen said, his voice smooth and professional. "A star is born. This was just the introduction. Trust me when I say... you are going to be seeing a lot more of Amethyst in the coming weeks. Stay tuned."
He reached out and covered the lens with his hand.
"Cut. And... clear."
Stephen hit the button on the camera, the red recording light winking out. The studio fell silent, save for the hum of the cooling lights and Anya’s ragged, slowing breath.
He didn't rush to the computer. He grabbed a fresh, warm towel from the warmer and moved immediately to Anya's feet. With a quick unlatching of the clasp, Stephen lifted the top half of the stocks.
"Feet out," he murmured gently.
Anya pulled her legs back, her ankles throbbing with a pleasant, dull ache. She rested her heels on the edge of the chair, watching as Stephen wrapped her oil-slicked feet in the towel. He didn't scrub; he pressed, absorbing the excess liquid with firm, grounding squeezes.
He unlocked her wrist cuffs next, the velvet peeling away from her skin.
"How is the heart rate?" he asked, looking her in the eyes.
"Coming down," Anya managed, rubbing her wrists. She felt light, floaty—a very different sensation from the heavy drop of the ink session. This felt like champagne bubbles. "That last thirty seconds... you really went for it."
"I had to," Stephen smiled, finishing the cleanup. "The 'Surprise Attack' is a staple of the genre. If you know it's coming, you brace. I needed the genuine panic."
He tossed the towel into the hamper and offered her a hand to help her down from the high chair. "Come. Sit at the desk. We need to have a talk before we do anything else."
Anya sat in the comfortable office chair next to his editing station. Stephen pulled up the file—a raw, high-definition thumbnail of Amethyst sitting in the stocks, looking cool and untouchable.
He didn't click play yet. He swiveled his chair to face her.
"Anya," he began, his voice serious. "This video is different. In the others, you were a pair of feet, or a silhouette. In this, you are a person. You are Amethyst. Once I upload this to the storefront, that persona exists in the world. It can be shared, downloaded, discussed. There are no take-backs on the internet."
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"Are you absolutely sure you want to cross this line?"
Anya looked at the screen. She thought of the library. She thought of the fear that had almost crushed her. Then she thought of Claire in the café, sipping cappuccino and staring down the world.
Armor yourself.
"I'm sure," Anya said. Her voice didn't waver. "I’m done hiding. Hit play."
Stephen nodded. He turned back to the screen and clicked the mouse.
The video sprang to life. Anya watched herself—or rather, this new version of herself. She looked radiant under the lights, the white t-shirt crisp, the red soles of her shoes looking like dangerous candy.
"Look at that," Stephen said, pointing at the screen with a pen. He shifted into Producer Mode. "Technically, it's flawless. The white backdrop pops the contrast of the denim and the skin. The audio is crisp—hear how clear your voice is? But look at the body language. You’re relaxed, leaning back. You own the space. That confidence is what sells the subscription. People don't just pay for the tickling; they pay for the charisma."
On screen, Stephen began the feather test. Anya watched her onscreen self giggle and squirm.
"And here," Stephen continued, his voice shifting. He sounded less like a technician and more like a Fan. "Look at the reaction. It’s the micro-movements. See how your toes flare out before the feather even touches you? That anticipation is hypnotic to a viewer. It shows that you aren't just acting; your body is betraying you. It’s incredibly attractive."
The video progressed to the banter. The "Freak" comment played.
Stephen laughed softly. "That line. That is the million-dollar moment. You humanized the scene. You made it feel like a real interaction. And then..."
He scrubbed forward to the oil massage. On screen, Anya’s eyes were half-closed, her guard completely down.
"This lulls them in," Stephen explained. "The viewer is relaxing with you. They’re admiring the arch, the gloss of that purple polish against the oil. It’s sensual. It appeals to the foot fetishists who aren't necessarily into the heavy torture. It widens your demographic."
Then came the attack. The thirty seconds of hell.
On screen, Amethyst disintegrated. The cool, confident girl vanished, replaced by a shrieking, thrashing mess of pure sensation.
"And the payoff," Stephen murmured, watching the chaos with a satisfied nod. "The contrast. You go from 'untouchable cool girl' to 'helpless victim' in two seconds. That creates a rush for the viewer. It validates their power fantasy. You were sturdy, you were brave, and you still broke. That is the perfect narrative arc."
The video ended with Amethyst’s breathless, hate-filled grin and the thumbs up.
Stephen paused the frame right there.
"You have the 'Girl Next Door' energy, but with a high-fashion edge," Stephen concluded. "You're relatable, but unattainable. It’s a very potent mix, Anya. The subscribers are going to lose their minds over you."
He leaned back, looking at her with genuine respect.
"You nailed every single beat. The banter, the vulnerability, the recovery. You're a natural."
Anya looked at the frozen image of Amethyst. She looked happy. She looked wild. She looked like someone who couldn't be hurt by a whisper in a lecture hall.
"Upload it," Anya said.
Stephen smiled. "I have some editing to do first; sound and colour balancing and other stuff before it's ready for the storefront. I will also be dropping a fifteen-second preview tonight to get the users hungry."
He closed the file and looked back at Anya. "Welcome to the world, Amethyst."
The journey home from Stephen’s house was a blur of tunnel lights and the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the train tracks, a hypnotic pulse that seemed to sync with the throbbing in Anya’s feet. She held her bag tight against her chest, the leather warm from her grip, staring at her reflection in the darkened window. She looked the same—same coat, same hair—but beneath the fabric of her socks, her skin felt raw, scrubbed clean of a sin she hadn't known she committed.
When she finally unlocked the door to her room, the silence of the house hit her like a physical blow. It wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. It pressed against her ears.
Anya didn't even turn on the lamp. She kicked off her shoes—the sensible sneakers she had worn home—and let her bag slide to the floor. She crawled onto her narrow bed, fully clothed, pulling the duvet up to her chin. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the discipline, the laughter, and the strange, electric camaraderie with Claire suddenly evaporated.
In its place, a crushing, leaden weight settled over her limbs. It felt as though gravity had doubled. She closed her eyes, and within seconds, she was pulled into a deep, dreamless black.
She slept for fourteen hours.
When she woke, the light in the room was a pale, watery grey. It was Sunday afternoon. For a moment, Anya didn't know where she was. She lay still, listening to the distant hum of traffic. Then, the memory of the stiff-bristled brush and the white linen handkerchief flooded back.
She expected to feel a thrill, or perhaps the lingering pride of the money in her account. Instead, she felt... hollow.
It was a terrifying sensation. She felt brittle, as if a loud noise might shatter her into a thousand pieces. A lump formed in her throat, hot and inexplicable. She rolled onto her side, curling her knees to her chest, and to her horror, a tear leaked from her eye and tracked a cold line across the bridge of her nose. Then another. Then she was weeping—soft, jagged sobs that shook her ribs.
She wasn't sad. She wasn't hurt. She was just empty. The endorphins had been borrowed from her future, and now the debt was due.
The Drop.
Claire’s voice echoed in her memory: "The drop can hit you hard a few hours later. You might feel weepy or just exhausted."
Anya sat up, wiping her face with her sleeve. Her hands were trembling slightly. She needed to hear a voice that knew the secret. She reached for her coat, digging into the pocket until her fingers brushed the sharp edge of the card.
Claire. The name was scrawled in silver ink, followed by a number.
Anya stared at the digits. It felt intrusive to use it. She was just a student; Claire was a queen in silk and leather. But the silence in the room was suffocating.
She typed the message, her thumbs hovering over the keys.
Hi Claire. It’s Anya. I think I’m feeling that drop you mentioned. Sorry to bother you.
She hit send before she could lose her nerve. She tossed the phone onto the duvet and hugged her knees, waiting.
The phone buzzed almost immediately. It wasn't a text. It was a call.
Anya scrambled to pick it up. "H-Hello?"
"Anya, darling," came the voice. It wasn't the clipped, imperious tone of the Headmistress. It was warm, textured with the background noise of a busy street and the clatter of cutlery. "I saw your message. Are you alright? Are you alone?"
"I'm at home," Anya said, her voice sounding thick and wet. "I just... I slept for ages, and now I can't stop crying. I don't know why."
"Standard procedure, I'm afraid," Claire said soothingly. "Your brain dumped a massive amount of happy chemicals yesterday to cope with the intensity. Today, the tank is empty. It’s a chemical hangover. Have you eaten at all?"
"No," Anya admitted.
"Right. You need salt, sugar, and water. In that order. Order a pizza, or something greasy. Do not try to study. Do not try to be productive. Just rot in bed, you have my permission," she added with a lilt of The Headmistress to her voice.
Anya let out a weak, watery laugh. "Okay. I can do that."
"Good woman," Claire said. "Listen, I’m running between appointments right now, but we should debrief properly. The first drop is always the hardest. Are you free on Tuesday? Around four?"
"Yes," Anya said quickly. "I have a lecture in the morning, but I'm free after."
"Perfect. Meet me at 'The Grind' in Covent Garden. It’s quiet, and they do excellent cake. We’ll get you sorted out."
"Thank you, Claire. Really."
"Don't mention it, darling. Get some food in you. The world will look less shit once your blood sugar is up."
The line clicked dead.
Anya lowered the phone. The hollowness was still there, but the panic had receded. She wasn't broken; she was just recovering. She ordered the pizza, as instructed.
But Tuesday was two days away. And between the sanctuary of her bed and the safety of the café lay Monday.
Monday meant the University. Monday meant walking back into the light.
---
Monday morning arrived with a grey, drizzling persistency that usually made Anya want to disappear into her oversized coat. But today, she dressed with a new, deliberate precision. She pulled on a pair of sheer black tights and slid her feet into the black patent pumps.
The click of the heel engaging with the pavement as she left the house felt like a weapon being cocked.
The University lecture hall was a cavernous, tiered amphitheater. Anya took a seat near the back, finding a spot on the end of a row. It was a strategic choice; it gave her leg room, and it gave her an exit.
As the Professor droned on about regression analysis, the room settled into a stupor of tapping laptops and scratching pens. Anya opened her notebook, but the equations on the whiteboard might as well have been hieroglyphics. Her mind was elsewhere.
Beneath the desk she crossed her legs. Her right foot began a slow, unconscious rhythm. She slipped her heel out of the shoe, letting the pump hang from her toes. She dipped it, catching it, then dipped it again.
Dangle. Catch. Dangle. Catch.
It was a nervous habit, but now, it felt charged. She noticed a guy two seats to her left—a rugby player type in a hoodie—glance down. He wasn't looking at her face. His eyes were fixed on the rhythmic flash of the red sole swinging in the shadow of the desk.
Anya didn't pull her foot back. She extended her leg slightly, pointing her toe. The guy swallowed, shifting in his seat, before forcing his eyes back to the whiteboard.
A few minutes later, a girl in the row ahead turned around to borrow a pen. Her gaze dropped to Anya’s shoes. "God, those are gorgeous," she whispered, her eyes widening at the tell-tale red sole. "Are they real?"
"Yes," Anya whispered back, a cool, secret smile playing on her lips. "They are."
The girl looked at her with a mix of envy and confusion—trying to reconcile the worn coat with the six-hundred-pound shoes—before turning back around.
Anya felt a surge of warmth in her chest. It was a heady, intoxicating rush. In this room of hundreds, she wasn't just another broke student. She was a woman who walked on red-lacquered secrets. She was 'A'.
Her gaze drifted down the tiered rows, scanning the backs of heads. Boredom was universal here. Students were doodling, sleeping, or surreptitiously checking their phones.
Her eyes landed on a student three rows directly below her. He was hunched over, his posture tense. A thick textbook was propped up on his desk, creating a small fortress. Behind the shield of the book, his phone was propped up, the screen glowing brightly in the dim hall.
He wasn't texting. He was watching a video.
Anya leaned forward slightly, squinting. The screen was small, but the image was crisp.
The background on the screen was dark, soundproofed foam. The lighting was clinical—a stark, high-contrast style that made the skin look like porcelain. In the center of the frame, a pair of feet were locked in heavy leather restraints, writhing against a merciless, vibrating tool.
Anya’s breath hitched in her throat.
She knew that lighting. She knew the angle of that camera. She knew the exact grain of that leather cuff.
It was Stephen’s studio.
It wasn't her video—the model on the screen had dark skin and pink nail polish, thrashing in a way Anya recognized all too well—but it was unmistakably a production from the site.
The student below her adjusted his headphones, one hand vanishing beneath the desk into his lap. He was watching tickling. He was watching Stephen's content. Here. In the middle of a Statistics lecture.
The rush of power Anya had felt moments ago curdled instantly into ice-cold dread.
Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, loud enough that she feared the rugby player next to her might hear it. The world suddenly felt terrifyingly small. She had thought the internet was a vast, anonymous ocean, safe and distant. But it wasn't. It was right here, three rows down.
The paranoia bloomed like a dark flower.
If he watches that site... has he seen the 'New Arrivals'?
Has he seen 'The Scholar’s Surrender'?
Anya stared at the back of the student’s neck. He was just a random guy in a grey sweater. But what if he turned around? What if he recognized the arch of her foot? The way she dangled her shoe?
Does he know?
The thought was irrational—her face had been hidden, her name was 'A'—but panic is rarely rational. She felt exposed, as if the clothes she was wearing had suddenly turned transparent. Every glance from a stranger now felt like an accusation. The admiration she had courted moments ago now felt like a threat.
He’s watching it right now. He’s listening to her scream while the Professor talks about variables.
The air in the lecture hall seemed to vanish. The walls felt like they were closing in, the tiered seating transforming into a cage. The shoe hanging from her toe felt heavy, a shackle binding her to a crime she hadn't realized she was committing.
She couldn't be here. She couldn't sit behind him, wondering if he was scrolling past her thumbnail image.
Anya shoved her foot back into the pump, wincing as she jammed it in too hard. She grabbed her bag, scraping her chair back with a loud screech that made several heads turn—including the student with the phone.
He looked back over his shoulder, annoyed at the noise. His eyes swept over her.
Anya didn't wait to see if recognition dawned. She kept her head down, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield, and bolted for the exit. She pushed through the double doors, stumbling out into the cool, empty corridor, gasping for air as if she had just surfaced from deep underwater.
The secret wasn't just hers anymore. It was out there, in the pockets of strangers, sitting in lecture halls, waiting to be found.
She leaned against the cold brick wall, her hands shaking, and pulled out her phone.
Covent Garden, she thought. I need to talk to Claire.
---
Tuesday afternoon at 'The Grind' was a hum of espresso machines and low, polite conversation. It was a world away from the sterile, fluorescent tension of the lecture hall. The air smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon, a warm embrace that should have been comforting.
Anya sat at a small corner table, her hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn't touched. She was vibrating with a restless, jagged energy. Every time the café door opened, her head snapped up, her eyes scanning for a grey sweater or a familiar face from the University.
Then, the bell chimed, and the air in the room seemed to shift.
Claire walked in.
She wasn't wearing the severe bun or the silk blouse of the Headmistress. She wore a camel-colored trench coat belted tightly at the waist, dark denim jeans, and a pair of oversized sunglasses that she slid onto her head as she scanned the room. She looked effortlessly expensive, like a woman who ran an art gallery or a boutique law firm.
She spotted Anya and smiled—a genuine, warm expression that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"There she is," Claire said, sliding into the chair opposite Anya. She placed a sleek leather handbag on the floor and signaled a waiter with a mere lift of her finger. "Cappuccino, bone dry. And a slice of the carrot cake. Two forks."
She turned her attention to Anya, her gaze sharpening. She didn't ask "How are you?" She simply leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.
"You look like a deer who’s just heard a twig snap," Claire observed quietly. "Spill it."
Anya didn't mean to blurt it out, but the pressure in her chest was too high. "I saw someone. In my lecture. He was watching a video. One of Stephen's videos."
Claire paused, her expression unreadable. "One of yours?"
"No," Anya said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I didn't recognise her, but it was definitely Stephen's studio. The student was watching it right there. Three rows down. He had his headphones in, pretending to study, but he was watching her get tickled."
Anya gripped her mug, her knuckles white. "He looked at me, Claire. Earlier, he looked at my shoes. The Louboutins. And then I saw him watching the site. What if he puts it together? What if he sees the 'New Arrivals' and recognizes my feet? What if he tells people?"
The waiter arrived, placing the coffee and the cake between them. Claire waited until he left before she picked up her fork. She didn't look alarmed. She looked thoughtful.
"Eat," Claire commanded gently, sliding the plate toward Anya. "Sugar. Now."
Anya took a reluctant bite of the cake. It was sweet and dense, but it tasted like sawdust in her dry mouth.
"You're terrified of the collision," Claire said, taking a sip of her foam-heavy cappuccino. "You have 'Anya the Scholar' in one box, and 'A the Star' in another. And you think if they touch, both boxes explode."
"I'm on a scholarship," Anya whispered. "If the faculty found out... if my housemates knew..."
"I know," Claire said. Her voice dropped, losing its casual lilt and becoming something heavier. "I know exactly what that panic tastes like. It tastes like copper."
She set her cup down and looked Anya dead in the eye.
"It was 2011," Claire began. "I was twenty-two. I was working as a junior paralegal at a firm in the City. Stiff suits, stiffer upper lips. I was doing shoots on weekends for a producer—let's call him Marcus."
Anya listened, the ambient noise of the café fading away.
"Marcus was... possessive," Claire continued, her lip curling slightly. "He didn't like sharing his toys. I got an offer to shoot with a bigger studio—better pay, better safety protocols. I took it. Marcus didn't take it well."
She took a forkful of cake, her hand perfectly steady.
"He found my LinkedIn. He found my firm’s directory. He sent an email to the partners, and to the general office inbox. No subject line. Just a link to a gallery. 'Junior Paralegal Soles,' I think he titled it."
Anya gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my god. Claire..."
"I walked into work that Monday morning not knowing," Claire said, her eyes distant. "I remember the receptionist looking at me. She didn't say hello. She just stared at my feet. Then I got to my desk, and my supervisor called me into his office."
"What did you do?" Anya asked, horrified.
"I wanted to die," Claire admitted frankly. "I wanted to dissolve into the carpet. I sat there while this sixty-year-old man stammered and blushed and tried to ask me if it was me without actually saying the words. I felt dirty. I felt small. I left the office, went home, and cried for three days straight. I thought my life was over."
"Did they fire you?"
"They didn't have grounds to, technically. It was a legal activity, done on my own time. But the atmosphere? It was poison. The whispers. The looks."
Claire leaned in, her voice intense.
"But then, on the fourth day, I woke up and I realized something. I realized that Marcus wanted me to be ashamed. He wanted me to hide. And the people at work? They weren't disgusted. They were fascinated. They were judging me, yes, but they were also obsessed."
She tapped her manicured nail on the table.
"So I went back. I wore my highest heels. I walked into that office with my head up, and I did my damn job. I didn't apologize. I didn't cry. I looked every single person who stared at me right in the eye until they looked away."
Claire smiled, a fierce, predatory thing.
"And you know what happened? The teasing stopped. Because you can't bully someone who owns it. Shame only works if you accept the premise that you've done something wrong. I hadn't. I was a star. They were just paralegals."
She reached across the table and covered Anya’s trembling hand with her own.
"You are not a victim, Anya. You are a commodity. You are the girl in the six-hundred-pound shoes. That boy in the lecture hall? He wasn't mocking that video. He was captivated by it."
Claire squeezed her hand.
"If he finds out? If he recognizes you...? So what? He’s the one watching fetish porn in a university lecture. You’re the one getting paid a fortune to be worshipped. You hold the cards. Always."
Anya looked at Claire. She saw the steel beneath the cashmere. She saw the way Claire occupied the space—unapologetic, regal, armored in her own history.
"You really went back?" Anya whispered.
"I went back," Claire nodded. "I stayed for another year. Then I quit and started my own consultancy. I also started working with some of the best fetish producers in the game; I became Mistress Claire."
She sat back, picking up her coffee. "The moral of the story is simple. Armor yourself in the identity. Don't shrink. Expand. If you act like it's a dirty secret, it destroys you. If you act like it's a privilege for them to even see your feet? You become untouchable."
Anya let out a long, slow breath. She looked down at the half-eaten cake. The fear that had been gripping her throat loosened its grip.
"Armor yourself," Anya repeated softly.
"Exactly," Claire winked. "Now, finish your cake. We can't have 'A' fainting from low blood sugar. Stephen tells me he has big plans for you."
---
Anya walked out of 'The Grind' and into the cool, blue-tinted evening of Covent Garden. The city felt different now. An hour ago, the crowds of tourists and commuters had felt like a swarm of potential witnesses, a thousand eyes waiting to catch her in a lie. Now, they just felt like an audience waiting for the curtain to rise.
Armor yourself.
She replayed Claire’s story in her mind. The image of the young paralegal walking into a hostile office, head held high, staring down her detractors until they looked away. It was a masterclass in psychological warfare. Armor yourself. That was the key. Shame relied on soft targets. If she hardened her resolve—if she turned the secret into a weapon—she became untouchable...
Anya stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light. Her mind drifted back to the lecture hall. To the boy watching the video.
She pictured him again. The way he hunched over his phone. The way he adjusted his headphones, shielding the screen with his textbook. He hadn't been judging the woman on the screen. He had been desperate for her. He had been risking public humiliation just to catch a glimpse of those thrashing, pink-soled feet.
Anya looked down at her own feet. The red soles of her Louboutins tapped impatiently against the curb.
He was watching Stephen’s content.
A slow, treacherous heat began to uncoil in her belly. It wasn't the cold spike of fear she had felt that morning. It was something darker, heavier.
What if he did know?
She imagined walking into the lecture hall next Monday. She imagined sitting directly in front of him. She imagined slipping her heel off, dangling the shoe, and turning around to catch his eye. She imagined the blood draining from his face as he realized the 'A' on his screen and the girl in the row above him were the same person.
He wouldn't tell anyone. He would be too busy worshipping her from the shadows.
The realization hit her like a shot of espresso. She wasn't the prey. She was the predator. The secret wasn't a bomb that would destroy her life; it was the source of her gravity.
She pulled out her phone. The screen glowed bright in the twilight. She opened her chat with Stephen.
Anya: I’m ready for the next step.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Stephen: I’m listening.
Anya: I don't want to hide in the background anymore. I want to do the Introduction Video. The real one. The "Casting Couch" format you mentioned before. I want to be seen, answer the questions, and show them exactly who 'A' is.
There was a pause. A long one. Then:
Stephen: That is a significant escalation, Anya. That format is intimate. It’s about personality as much as sensitivity. It requires you to be... present.
Anya: I know. I want them to see me. I want to own it.
Stephen: Then we film tomorrow. Bring a white t-shirt and skinny jeans. I’ll handle the rest. Also, have a think about what pseudonym you would like to be known as.
Anya pocketed the phone. The light turned green. She stepped out into the intersection, the click of her heels echoing off the asphalt. She didn't hurry. She walked with the easy, fluid grace of a woman who knew exactly where she was going.
---
The set was brighter today. The moodier, artistic shadows of the "Scholar" video were gone, replaced by a clean, commercial lighting setup that left nothing to the imagination.
In the center of the room sat the chair. It was a high-backed, executive leather seat, modified with heavy, padded armrests. Extending from the base was a rigid metal frame that terminated in a hinged, clamshell-style set of stocks upholstered in smooth white leather, featuring ankle cuffs lined with contrasting red leather and secured with a silver latch.
Anya sat in the chair, her arms resting casually on the pads, her wrists secured by soft, velvet-lined cuffs. Her legs were extended straight out in front of her, her ankles locked firmly into the leather padded holes of the stocks.
She was wearing the uniform of her new persona: the tight white t-shirt, the dark skinny jeans, and—crucially—the red-soled Louboutins. They gleamed under the studio lights, the black patent leather stark against the white leather of the stocks.
Stephen stood beside the camera, checking the audio levels.
"Comfortable?" he asked, though he was looking at the monitors.
"As comfortable as one can be," Anya replied, flexing her feet. The heels bobbed in the air, the red soles flashing. She felt a strange calmness. The paranoia of the lecture hall had burned off, leaving behind a clear, cold determination.
"Rolling," Stephen announced. He stepped into the frame, holding a clipboard. He wasn't the shadowy Director today; he was the Interviewer, dressed in a casual shirt, his face open and friendly.
He sat on a low stool beside her legs, positioning himself so he was looking up at her face, but his hands were level with her ankles.
"Welcome to the studio," Stephen said, his voice warm and conversational. "For the benefit of our subscribers, could you introduce yourself?"
Anya looked into the lens. She didn't shy away. She smiled—a bright, confident expression that reached her eyes.
"Hi. I’m Amethyst."
"Amethyst," Stephen repeated, testing the weight of the name. "A beautiful name for a beautiful guest. And tell us, what is your shoe size?"
"I'm a size ten," she said, giving her feet a little wiggle in the stocks. The leather creaked softly.
"Size ten," Stephen nodded appreciatively. "A rare and coveted number around here. Now, Amethyst, you're looking very elegant in those heels, but I think the audience wants to see what you're hiding. May I?"
"You may," she said, her voice dropping an octave.
Stephen reached out. He didn't rush. He cupped the heel of her left shoe, his thumb brushing the red lacquer. With a slow, deliberate friction, he eased the shoe off.
Pop.
The shoe came free, and the studio lights immediately caught the fresh gloss of her pedicure. She had gone to the salon just that morning, selecting a deep, shimmering plum color—dark purple, almost black, to match her new name. The dark polish made her pale skin look even more porcelain, the contrast striking and deliberate.
Stephen set the shoe down and removed the right one, revealing the matching set. He paused, admiring them.
"An exquisite choice of color," he noted, running a thumb lightly over her painted big toe. "Very on-brand."
He reached to the side table and picked up a long, dark eagle feather. The barbs were stiff and glossy.
"So," Stephen began, his tone light as he brought the feather toward her left foot. "How did you find yourself here? Have you always known you were ticklish?"
He began to tease her. He flicked the stiff tip of the feather against the sensitive wrinkled skin of her arch.
"I... hhh-uh!... I guess I suspected," Anya smiled, her toes curling reflexively away from the feather. She tried to jerk her foot back, but the movement was abruptly choked off.
The heavy denim of her skinny jeans bunched tightly behind her knees, refusing to stretch. The fabric dug into her skin, locking her legs in place just as effectively as the stocks. She realized with a jolt that she had trapped herself. By dressing to look the part, she had accidentally perfected her own bondage.
"But I’ve never really tested it properly," she managed, trying to ignore the claustrophobic squeeze of the jeans against her thighs.
"Never?" Stephen asked, moving the feather to the side of her foot, tracing the line where the skin changed texture. "No older brothers? No evil boyfriends pinning you down?"
"I mean..." Anya squirmed, her heels bumping uselessly against the wood. "My brothers used to attack my ribs. And my knees. But nobody really went for the feet. I think people were afraid I would kick them in the face."
She made a show of trying to kick out, a playful lunge, but again, the jeans betrayed her. The tight waist and stiff legs allowed her barely an inch of movement. She was completely anchored.
"It's a good thing I have you in the stocks then," Stephen said with a little grin, noticing her attempt to kick out. He swirled the feather in a tight, rapid circle right in the center of her sole.
"Ts-hiiii! Okay, that’s... khh-hah!... that’s sharp," she giggled, the sensation cutting through her composure like static electricity.
Stephen pulled the feather back, but didn't put it down. He moved to the right foot, dusting the stiff barbs lightly between her toes. "And what about this? Is the webbing sensitive?"
"Yes! Nuh-huuh! You know my toes are the worst!" Anya laughed, her head falling back against the headrest as a shiver ran up her restricted legs. "Yih-hihi-hiii! It sends a spark right up my spine."
Stephen chuckled, finally setting the feather down. "I think we’ve established a baseline. But feathers are gentle, Amethyst. Fingers... fingers are a different story."
He leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands hovering near her soles. "Be honest with me. When you first saw the studio... be real. What went through your mind?"
Anya bit her lip, grinning. "Honestly? I thought I’d made a huge mistake. I saw the table and the straps and I thought, 'Oh my god, he’s a total freak. I’ve walked into a serial killer’s lair.'"
Stephen raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. "A serial killer, am I?"
"A well-dressed one!" Anya added quickly, laughing. "But definitely a freak."
"Well," Stephen said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I guess I should play the part of the 'freak' then."
He lunged.
His fingers didn't stroke; they poked. He drove his index fingers sharply into the sensitive centres of her arches and vibrated them, digging deep into the plantar muscle.
"AH-HA! NO!" Anya jerked in the chair, instinctively trying to yank her knees up to her chest.
But the jeans held fast. The denim pulled taut across her thighs, arresting her movement instantly. She was left exposed, her soles locked in place for his attack.
"I WAS KIDDING! H-HAAA-HA! I WAS KIDDING!"
Stephen didn't let up. He began to spider his fingers rapidly up her arches towards her toes, using a light, skittering touch that felt like insects dancing on her skin. It was maddeningly itchy compared to the dull pressure of the poke.
"Only joking! Only joking!" she shrieked, thrashing against the unyielding fabric of her pants. "Yi-hiii-hiii! Stephen! Guh-hah! Get off!"
"You called the man sitting before your bare, vulnerable feet a freak," Stephen teased, moving his spider-fingers down to the wrinkled skin of her heels. He scratched his nails lightly against the grain. "That requires a penalty, Amethyst."
"I take it back! HAAA-HAA-HAA! You’re normal! This is totally normal behaviour! Eeee-nyahaha-ha!"
Stephen laughed, finally pulling his hands back.
Anya slumped in the chair, breathless. The waistband of her jeans was digging into her stomach, and her chest heaved against the white t-shirt. Her face was flushed a pretty pink.
"Okay, okay," Stephen soothed. "Point taken. I think you’ve earned a reprieve."
He reached for the bottle of baby oil. He popped the cap, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"You're tense," he observed, pouring a generous pool of clear liquid into his palm. "Your arches are cramping from all that curling. Let’s fix that."
He rubbed his hands together, warming the oil. He wrapped his hands around her feet, and the sensation was immediate bliss.
It wasn't a trick. It was a genuine, expert massage. Stephen used his thumbs to work deep into the balls of her feet, sliding effortlessly over the oiled skin. He found the knots of tension and melted them away with slow, deliberate pressure.
Anya let out a long, ragged sigh. Her head rolled to the side. "Oh my god... that feels amazing."
Stephen's thumbs moved down her arches for a deep massage, gliding through the wrinkles on Anya's feet with ease.
"Better?" Stephen asked softly, working his way down to the heels of her feet.
"So much better," she murmured, her eyes half-closing. The oil felt heavy and warm, a stark contrast to the sharp, dry tickle of the feather.
"So, Amethyst," Stephen said, his voice low and hypnotic. He lifted his hands, spread his fingers, and pushed them through Anya's toes, using the length of his digits to massage the sensitive webbing. "You mentioned you're a student. Is it hard balancing this secret life with your studies?"
"Sometimes," Anya admitted, her guard completely down as she melted into the seat and flexed her toes to give Stephen better access. The rhythmic motion of his fingers was lulling her into a trance. "I get paranoid people will find out. But then... moments like this? It feels worth it. It’s kind of empowering."
"It should be," Stephen agreed. He slid his hands down to her heels again, cupping them, his thumbs circling the bone. "You have incredible control. Most people would have tapped out during the feather test. You’re very brave."
"Mmm, I don't know about brave," she slurred slightly, drunk on the relaxation. "Just... sturdy."
"Sturdy," Stephen repeated. He smiled. "Let's see."
His grip tightened.
"Thirty seconds on the clock."
He didn't massage anymore. He clawed.
He raked his fingernails furiously up the length of her oiled soles, from heel to toe, using the lubrication to move with terrifying, lightning speed.
"AAAAH-HAAAA! STEPHEN! NO! YOU LI-HII-HII-HIAR!"
The scream ripped out of her, shattering the calm studio air. Anya thrashed in the chair, her hips bucking against the restrictive denim of her jeans, but the stocks held her ankles in a vice. The sensation was electric—too fast, too slick. The oil eliminated all friction, allowing his nails to glide from heel to toe in a single, devastating stroke.
"YOU SAID RELAX! GHK-HUH-HUH-HAAA! ST-HO-HO-HOP! I CAN'T—EEEE-HEEE-YIIIII!"
Stephen didn't stop. He moved to her toes, scritching his nails furiously against the oiled undersides, his fingers slipping and sliding into the webbing she had exposed moments ago. Anya’s laughter pitched up into a high, desperate squeal, the sound fraying at the edges as her lungs burned for air.
"Ten seconds!" Stephen announced, grinning as he dug his knuckles into her arches and vibrated them violently.
"I CAN'T! I CAN'T BREATHE! AMETHYST OUT! HA-HA-HA! AMETHYST OUUUUT!"
He stopped instantly.
Anya slumped in the chair, panting wildly, her chest heaving. Her feet were glistening with oil, twitching with aftershocks in the stocks. She looked like she had just run a marathon. She wiped a tear of mirth from her eye, looked at the camera, and gave a shaky, exhilarated thumbs up.
"I hate you," she wheezed, grinning.
Stephen chuckled, wiping his hands on a towel. He stepped closer to the lens, blocking Anya slightly as he addressed the audience directly.
"And there you have it," Stephen said, his voice smooth and professional. "A star is born. This was just the introduction. Trust me when I say... you are going to be seeing a lot more of Amethyst in the coming weeks. Stay tuned."
He reached out and covered the lens with his hand.
"Cut. And... clear."
Stephen hit the button on the camera, the red recording light winking out. The studio fell silent, save for the hum of the cooling lights and Anya’s ragged, slowing breath.
He didn't rush to the computer. He grabbed a fresh, warm towel from the warmer and moved immediately to Anya's feet. With a quick unlatching of the clasp, Stephen lifted the top half of the stocks.
"Feet out," he murmured gently.
Anya pulled her legs back, her ankles throbbing with a pleasant, dull ache. She rested her heels on the edge of the chair, watching as Stephen wrapped her oil-slicked feet in the towel. He didn't scrub; he pressed, absorbing the excess liquid with firm, grounding squeezes.
He unlocked her wrist cuffs next, the velvet peeling away from her skin.
"How is the heart rate?" he asked, looking her in the eyes.
"Coming down," Anya managed, rubbing her wrists. She felt light, floaty—a very different sensation from the heavy drop of the ink session. This felt like champagne bubbles. "That last thirty seconds... you really went for it."
"I had to," Stephen smiled, finishing the cleanup. "The 'Surprise Attack' is a staple of the genre. If you know it's coming, you brace. I needed the genuine panic."
He tossed the towel into the hamper and offered her a hand to help her down from the high chair. "Come. Sit at the desk. We need to have a talk before we do anything else."
Anya sat in the comfortable office chair next to his editing station. Stephen pulled up the file—a raw, high-definition thumbnail of Amethyst sitting in the stocks, looking cool and untouchable.
He didn't click play yet. He swiveled his chair to face her.
"Anya," he began, his voice serious. "This video is different. In the others, you were a pair of feet, or a silhouette. In this, you are a person. You are Amethyst. Once I upload this to the storefront, that persona exists in the world. It can be shared, downloaded, discussed. There are no take-backs on the internet."
He paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"Are you absolutely sure you want to cross this line?"
Anya looked at the screen. She thought of the library. She thought of the fear that had almost crushed her. Then she thought of Claire in the café, sipping cappuccino and staring down the world.
Armor yourself.
"I'm sure," Anya said. Her voice didn't waver. "I’m done hiding. Hit play."
Stephen nodded. He turned back to the screen and clicked the mouse.
The video sprang to life. Anya watched herself—or rather, this new version of herself. She looked radiant under the lights, the white t-shirt crisp, the red soles of her shoes looking like dangerous candy.
"Look at that," Stephen said, pointing at the screen with a pen. He shifted into Producer Mode. "Technically, it's flawless. The white backdrop pops the contrast of the denim and the skin. The audio is crisp—hear how clear your voice is? But look at the body language. You’re relaxed, leaning back. You own the space. That confidence is what sells the subscription. People don't just pay for the tickling; they pay for the charisma."
On screen, Stephen began the feather test. Anya watched her onscreen self giggle and squirm.
"And here," Stephen continued, his voice shifting. He sounded less like a technician and more like a Fan. "Look at the reaction. It’s the micro-movements. See how your toes flare out before the feather even touches you? That anticipation is hypnotic to a viewer. It shows that you aren't just acting; your body is betraying you. It’s incredibly attractive."
The video progressed to the banter. The "Freak" comment played.
Stephen laughed softly. "That line. That is the million-dollar moment. You humanized the scene. You made it feel like a real interaction. And then..."
He scrubbed forward to the oil massage. On screen, Anya’s eyes were half-closed, her guard completely down.
"This lulls them in," Stephen explained. "The viewer is relaxing with you. They’re admiring the arch, the gloss of that purple polish against the oil. It’s sensual. It appeals to the foot fetishists who aren't necessarily into the heavy torture. It widens your demographic."
Then came the attack. The thirty seconds of hell.
On screen, Amethyst disintegrated. The cool, confident girl vanished, replaced by a shrieking, thrashing mess of pure sensation.
"And the payoff," Stephen murmured, watching the chaos with a satisfied nod. "The contrast. You go from 'untouchable cool girl' to 'helpless victim' in two seconds. That creates a rush for the viewer. It validates their power fantasy. You were sturdy, you were brave, and you still broke. That is the perfect narrative arc."
The video ended with Amethyst’s breathless, hate-filled grin and the thumbs up.
Stephen paused the frame right there.
"You have the 'Girl Next Door' energy, but with a high-fashion edge," Stephen concluded. "You're relatable, but unattainable. It’s a very potent mix, Anya. The subscribers are going to lose their minds over you."
He leaned back, looking at her with genuine respect.
"You nailed every single beat. The banter, the vulnerability, the recovery. You're a natural."
Anya looked at the frozen image of Amethyst. She looked happy. She looked wild. She looked like someone who couldn't be hurt by a whisper in a lecture hall.
"Upload it," Anya said.
Stephen smiled. "I have some editing to do first; sound and colour balancing and other stuff before it's ready for the storefront. I will also be dropping a fifteen-second preview tonight to get the users hungry."
He closed the file and looked back at Anya. "Welcome to the world, Amethyst."
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