A Small Reminder of the Rules   (written by Bridget's BFF, Valkyrie)

It’s a heady aphrodisiac, being in this dark little dungeon. These cagey outings are my secret weapon in the boardroom. When I stare at all of those bloated men in their expensive suits, droning on and on about benign facts and figures, imagining them here, kneeling in the dark, whimpering like the fat little pigs that they are, is the only thing that keeps the pleasant smile on my face. The boys around me hardly get my attention, though they beg for it, too short, too pleading, too hairy, too old. Too picky, Bridget might call me. I call it discerning.


Face fucking is a wonderful workout, one I think everyone ought to try at least once. I never understood why men got so tired when they had sex with me until I strapped on a cock and face fucked that exhausted son of a bitch right off the damn mattress. Nothing makes you feel better about that piece of cake or bottle of wine quite like the butt and lower-abs workout of driving an eight-inch cock down some guy’s throat. I’m tired, far too tired to give my attention to these slobs. Luckily, Fae is putting on quite the show of finger flogging a boy on the Saint Andrew’s cross for smudging her nail polish. I eye the nearest houseboy, and the dumb fucker blushes when I look at him.


“Remind me of your name,” I say.


“Greg, ma’am,” the houseboy mutters, smiling dumbly.


What a stupid name.


“Don’t call me ma’am,” I retort, sneering.


“What should I call you?” he asks.


I think for a moment.


“My Queen,” I declare with a smirk.


Yes . . . my Queen,” Greg answers uncertainly. “What can I do for you?”


“I came here for a pedicure.” I tap my heel insistently. “I expect a pedicure.”


Greg looks confused for a moment. He’s old, soft, with a long gray ponytail, and I absolutely despise him right away. I’ve seen him at events before. Bridget likes the fucker for some reason. He’s a holdover from the last Headmistress. A hand-me-down of sorts, from Mistress Ares, who once ran this little circle, to Bridget. A poor parting gift, if you ask me. I give him a critical glare.


“Now,” I insist.


“Yes, my Queen,” he mutters, following me on his hands and knees to the nearest chair. I sit as he fumbles about with the pedicure kit for a bit before scurrying away to refill the tub with hot water.


I watch Fae work over the faulty houseboy, with an impish grin, blood-red lips pulled back to show her teeth. She’s an honest-to-God sadist, deriving an amount of glee from inflicting pain that one hardly sees outside of Christmas mornings. She’s small, and she’s quick, and she’s one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen. Brian, I think the boy on the cross is called, whimpers like a child, and I roll my eyes. He’s a pathetic thing who would never even get close to a woman like Fae out in the “real world.” His only hope of even breathing the same air as her is letting her inflict her little torments on him. He doesn’t deserve it, I think, none of them truly do.


Speaking of, Greg comes crawling back on his quivering little legs, dragging the tub with him, sloshing water everywhere. I debate correcting him, but I have to weigh my desire for a goddam pedicure against the effort it would take for me to bother with this pathetic man.


Across the room, Bridget is laughing her damn head off as she uses a crop to flick the clothespins off a slave’s inner thigh while he squirms on the floor and cries out in pain. The slave is young, thin, and hairless, exactly Bridget’s type. She always goes for the pretty ones, the ones she can dress in her lingerie and loan to her friends. Impressionable, so Bridget can more easily mold them to her will. I have no idea where she finds these boys, but they come here en masse to kneel at her feet and beg to be transformed.


Greg makes a halted, coughing noise, and I again have to give my attention to him. I pray that the water isn’t too hot, because I’ll definitely have to punish him then. He kneels in front of me, reaching for my feet. I let him begin to loosen my left shoe.


“Oh, wow,” he chuckles nervously. “You sure have big feet.”


I furrow my brow.


“What?” I ask.


“What size do you wear?” he continues idiotically.


“Excuse you,” I retort, voice tight.


“I think I’ll call you Queen Big Foot.”


I yank my foot from his grasp.


“What did you say?” I snap, fists clenching.


Realization draws on Greg’s dumb face.


“Oh, no, it’s not an insult,” he says quickly. “I like big feet. I was just saying that I’d call you Big Foot because it’s—"


I’m on my big feet before he can finish.


“Get in the fucking corner, you fat fucking pig,” I hiss.


“No, ma’am, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you, I-I—”


Shut the fuck up and get in the corner.


His big fucking mouth snaps shut, and he falls onto his hands. I’m angry at being forced to spend my time on this pathetic slob. I’ve known men like this one my whole life. Quiet things, ineffective, trying to slip through life unnoticed. They make themselves as harmless as possible in hopes that a woman will take pity on them and take them in like some sort of fleshy, old lost puppy. In their attempts to become harmless, they also become immensely aloof. I’m angry that I have to teach this man-child thirty years my senior a damn lesson about one of the rules currently written in bold letters on the wall.


House slaves will always use proper titles when addressing the Ladies.


All I wanted was a damn pedicure. Instead, I’m having to teach this idiot how to read.


Greg waddles over there, blubbering like a nervous moron until I shove his face into the brick wall and tell him again to shut up.


“You stupid fuck, are you dumb, or do you just have a shit memory?” I ask.


“W-what?” he whimpers.


“There are rules here. One in particular . . . about using proper titles . . .” That finally jogs the fucker’s memory. He starts sputtering again, but I’m tired of hearing it, so I grab his stupid ponytail and yank his head back hard.


“You know what you are?” I don’t wait to hear whatever reply he might cook up. “You’re a worthless pig.”


“Yes, Q-Queen.”


“Say it,” I direct.


“I’m a worthless pig,” he whispers.


“I know that, you idiot. You need to tell all of them!” I wave behind me vaguely, and Greg’s eyes shift nervously about. “Louder!”


“I’m a worthless pig,” he says in a loud voice.


“Again! Louder!”


I’m a worthless pig!


I tug hard on that dumb ponytail.


“Louder!” I demand.




People are starting to take notice. I sneer down at the little man.


“Now snort, piggy!”


Greg starts making stuttered, snorting sounds, getting louder and louder as I yank his hair back harder.


Squeal, worthless pig!”


He does as I direct, face burning red, whimpering like the man-child he is. When he opens his mouth to squeal, I spit into it. He chokes, sputters, and continues to squeal as he coughs, and I laugh. Then I pull on his ponytail so hard that I’m sure I’m about to pull it straight off.  


“You fucking disgust me, and if you ever break another rule, you will never see any of us again,” I snarl. He nods his head pathetically, eyes screwed shut, squealing weakly between whimpering the words my Queen again and again. “Do you understand?”


“Yes, my Queen, yes!” he cries.


I release him and straighten.


“Good, now go put that disgusting ponytail to use and mop up that mess you made on the way over here.”


“Yes, my Queen, Valkyrie.”


He scurries away, toward the puddle of cold water he left behind.  He glances back at me, watching him with my hands on my hips, and then he bends forward and, grabbing his gray pony tail, begins to sop up the mess. I roll my eyes and look at the group of houseboys sitting in the opposite corner staring at me.


“Can any of you give me a goddam pedicure or not?”


The next time I see Greg, a few weeks later, scrubbing Bridget’s kitchen floor, not allowed to speak for a month if he can’t speak right, he’s cut off his ponytail. I smirk at him, and Greg avoids eye contact, instead staring hard at the tiles with a blush running up his neck. Guess the fucker can learn something after all.



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