To the Victor the Spoils

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I originally wrote a first version of this story in early 2024. Chapter one has been massively edited and revamped, and here's a second installment. Enjoy the read!

As always, all characters featured in the story are adults.

CHAPTER 2 - THE LESSER SISTER

"Get up! I want breakfast!"

I blink groggily, the remnants of sleep still clinging to my mind. For a moment, I wonder if I'm still dreaming. After all, my sleep is filled with dreams of Slava, lately...

But no, it's actually her.

I roll over, seeking a few more moments of sleep, but ultimately obey. I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes.

Need to hurry.

I scramble out of bed, hastily throwing on some clothes. I can't keep Slava waiting. Not anymore. As I briskly make for the kitchen, I reflect on how much has changed in such a short time. Just a few months ago, I was the elder sister. Now...

"Took you long enough," Slava says. She's already seated at the table, scrolling through her phone. She doesn't even look up as I approach, just gestures vaguely towards the stove. "I want eggs and toast. And coffee. Make it quick."

"Yes, big sister," I say demurely, my cheeks flushing at the subservient tone in my voice. It's become second nature now, to defer to her in all things.

I bustle around the kitchen, cracking eggs into a pan, popping bread into the toaster. As I work, I can feel Slava's eyes on me, watching me like a hawk. It makes me shiver, knowing that she's evaluating my every move, judging my worth as her personal maid.

She's careful to look back down at her phone every time I turn around, as a power move. But I can feel her watching.

When the food is ready, I carefully arrange it on a plate and bring it over to the table, setting it down in front of Slava with a slight bow of my head. "Your breakfast, big sister," I say softly.

She finally looks up at me, a smirk playing across her lips. "Not bad, little sis. You're learning." She takes a bite of the eggs, chewing thoughtfully. "But next time, I don't want to have to ask. You have to anticipate it. I know you're not the sharpest crayon in the box, but surely you can figure out that much, at least?"

I nod quickly, turning bright red from the humiliation... and from the little thrill that jolts through my body. "Of course, Slava. I'm sorry, I'll do better."

She waves a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah. Just don't let it happen again." She points to the floor beside her chair. "Now, assume your position while I eat."

My heart skips a beat, but my body is well ahead of my brain already. No wonder, I suppose. My body is what she conquered first, defeating it, subduing it, whipping it into shape. It accepts her authority even more readily than my mind.

I sink to my knees beside her, folding my hands in my lap and bowing my head submissively.

Could there ever be a better reminder that I am lesser than her in every way? Patiently waiting on the floor like a dog, not allowed to eat, speak, or stand, while she finishes her breakfast?

It's an iconography as old as human power itself. Maybe even older. They don't call it pecking order for no reason...

Of course, this morning ritual is about more than just waiting.

I take her right foot in my hands and bring it to my lips.

I reverently kiss Slava's foot, my lips caressing the smooth skin. This has become our morning ritual - me on my knees worshipping her feet while she enjoys the breakfast I prepared. It's humiliating and demeaning, but I can't deny the thrill it sends through my body, the aching need building between my legs.

You kiss the feet of those who best you. Her legs subdued me, so it only makes sense for me to pay respects to the lowest part of them, the lowest part of her.

I trail kisses all over her foot, from heel to toes, lavishing it with attention. When I reach her toes, I draw them into my mouth one by one, suckling gently, swirling my tongue around the digits.

Above me, I hear Slava's breath hitch. Whether from discomfort or arousal (or both) I'm not sure, but she withdraws the foot from my lips, pressing it forcefully against my forehead.

Message received. No sucking.

Chastened, I return to kissing, my lips moving reverently over Slava's foot as she eats. I explore every inch of skin, from the delicate curve of her ankle to the silky smoothness of her instep.

Slava sighs contentedly above me, and I feel a surge of pride. I'm pleasing her. Serving her.

It certainly comes easier than studying...

I lose myself in the act of worship, forgetting even my hungry stomach, the world narrowing down to just the feel of Slava's skin beneath my lips.

I can hear the clink of silverware above me as Slava eats, the occasional hum of satisfaction. She pays me no more mind than she would a footstool, and the thought makes me ache with need. I am furniture to her, an object. She's literally beaten me into this status.

Her body, coiling around mine like a snake's, immobilizing me...

Slava must react to my shudder, because she pushes me away with her foot.

"You've gotten quite good at that," Slava says, and the sound of cutlery tells me she's done eating. "Almost like you enjoy it."

I don't respond. What could I say? That she's right? That I'm terrified of how much I enjoy it

"You can eat now," she says, standing. "I'm going to shower."

I nod obediently and rise, my knees aching slightly from kneeling on the hard floor. As Slava saunters off to the bathroom, I clear away the breakfast dishes and quickly make myself a meager meal - just some plain yogurt and a banana. In the weeks since becoming Slava's "lesser sister", she's made it clear that I'm to prioritize her needs over my own in all things, including food.

That's painfully apparent when I actually start to eat. The taste of my sister's feet lingers in my mouth, which I know is exactly the point. She wants me to spend my breakfast thinking about what I've just done, the symbolism of it. She wants to taint and corrupt a perfectly pedestrian occurrence of mundane life with our new... perversion.

And she's succeeding.

I finish my paltry breakfast and quickly wash up, careful not to use too much hot water. Slava will expect plenty of it for her shower. Just as I'm drying my hands, I hear the bathroom door open. Slava emerges in a billow of steam, wrapped only in a towel. She smirks when she sees me waiting attentively.

"Bathroom's yours, footrest," she says breezily. "Don't take too long primping. I expect you ready to leave when I am."

"Yes, Slava," I reply, scurrying past her into the still-humid room. I turn the shower on, but have to suppress a yelp when I step under the spray. Slava used up almost all the hot water, leaving me to shiver under a tepid drizzle. But I don't dare complain. Discomfort is the lot of servants, after all.

Not long after, we're dressed and ready to leave for campus. Slava checks herself in the hallway mirror, adjusting her hair and wrapping a scarf around her neck. It's hard not to stare. She looks gorgeous.

She's wearing a fitted black turtleneck, dark wash jeans that hug her curves just so, and black gloves. Her hair falls in soft, glossy waves over her shoulders. Next to her, I feel drab and unremarkable in my plain hoodie and worn jeans.

Outside, a steady rain patters against the windows, and the sky is a flat, dreary grey. Slava sits on the bench by the door to pull on a pair of sleek, flat-heeled, black leather boots. They look brand new, the leather still stiff and shiny. She tugs them on and methodically zips them up over her calves.

Just as I'm reaching for my own scuffed sneakers, Slava calls out to me.

"Anastasia. Come here." Her voice is silky but commanding.

I pad over to her obediently, awaiting further instruction. She regards me with a calculating expression, one boot-clad foot tapping the floor thoughtfully. Then a slow, wicked smile spreads across her face, sending a tingle down my spine. I know that look. It never bodes well for what remains of my dignity.

"Kneel," she orders, pointing to the floor in front of her feet.

I immediately sink to my knees, hands folded submissively in my lap, head bowed. The hardwood is unforgiving against my kneecaps but I barely register the discomfort.

She extends one foot towards me, the tip of her boot nearly touching my knee.

"I just had a wonderful idea. A little addition to our morning routine. From now on, every time I leave or re-enter the apartment, you will kneel and kiss my shoes. A little reminder of your place at the threshold of home. Doesn't that sound nice?"

My mouth goes dry and I have to swallow hard before responding. "Y-yes, Slava. That sounds... very appropriate."

"I think so too," she agrees, sounding enormously pleased with herself. "So go ahead. Kiss my boots and thank me for allowing it."

Cheeks burning, I lean forward and press my trembling lips to the smooth, glossy black leather of Slava's right boot. My tips brush against the toe, and the smell of new leather fills my nostrils. I kiss it reverently, showering the shiny surface with soft pecks. Then, I plant firmer, sloppier kisses...

Sexier kisses. Not the kind of kiss I'd expect to display for my younger sister...

I rain these kisses all along the boot's sleek surface, from toe to ankle and then up her calf, as if in supplication to a dark goddess. A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the chill of the floor beneath my knees. There's something so deeply symbolic about this act, so profoundly submissive, that it takes my breath away.

There's a weird glint in Anastasia's eye as my lips hover at the hem where her boot meets her dark jeans. I wonder what she'd do if I just... kept going up... but after the little exchange at breakfast today, I don't feel like pushing my luck. I rein myself back in, kissing downward once more.

But there's only so much self-control I can actually exert. The more I kiss, the sluttier I get. As I descend back down to the heel, my smooches are so sloppy that the leather is glistening. I can't help myself. The sight of my own spit polishing my younger sister's boots is making me feel like I'm spiking a fever.

Slava shifts above me, and I freeze, suddenly terrified that I've overstepped. But she merely extends her other boot, silently demanding the same treatment. I smile gratefully and lean in to repeat my ministrations, covering every inch of the left boot in worshipful kisses.

I'm acutely aware of the portrait I must paint right now - on my knees, head bowed, feverishly making out with my sister's gleaming boots while she towers regally above me.

I've never felt so low. So powerless. So thoroughly mastered. And, to my utter shame and horror, I wish I could spend the rest of the day lapping at her boots like a dog.

I keep my eyes meekly downcast, but I can feel Slava's gaze heavy upon me, drinking in the spectacle of my degradation. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me like this, what she thinks. Is she disgusted by my wantonness? Thrilled by her total control over me? Both?

When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with some unreadable emotion. "That's enough, Anastasia."

I sit back on my haunches like a well-trained puppy, looking up at her.

"Thank you, big sister," I say humbly. "Thank you for letting me kiss your beautiful boots. I'm so grateful to be your lesser sister."

As I let my words of gratitude hang in the air, Slava watches me with a smirk, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn't say anything, but her expression speaks volumes. Look at you, it seems to say. So eager. So weak. So pathetic.

"You're welcome, little sis. Now, get up. We don't want to be late."

I rise to my feet, my knees protesting slightly from their time on the hard floor. Once I'm ready, we gather our bags and head down the stairs, her first, and me in her wake, walking one step behind her, as is only fitting.

Like this - bigger sister and lesser sister - we step out of the flat, into the rain.

***

Slava and I are in different years at uni, but we tend to hang out with the same group of friends and acquaintances in between lectures. We used to do this even before our recent, err... change in dynamics.

Even back then, the fact that she was obviously better at being a social butterfly than me made me feel so insecure. Now, though, I feel well and truly in her shadow.

That's never more apparent than during lunch break.

By the time we walk into the cafeteria, our usual group is already assembled at a corner table - Julia, Max, and Andrew. They wave us over with friendly smiles, but I can't help feeling like an outsider, an imposter. Like they can all see right through me to the submissive wretch I've become.

Slava, of course, doesn't share my trepidation. She strides over to the table with easy confidence, her posture straight and proud. I trail behind her like a shadow, sliding into the seat next to her with my eyes downcast.

"Hey guys," Slava greets them breezily. "How's everyone's day going?"

A chorus of responses follows - complaints about tough assignments, jokes about eccentric professors, excited chatter about weekend plans. I listen quietly, my hands folded in my lap under the table. Slava, meanwhile, holds court, and why not? She's never been beaten by her sister. She's never been demoted in her own home. She's never had to kiss a girl's feet and beg for mercy.

She has the self-confidence to be a part of this conversation like a full, free human being. I've... simply lost that privilege.

It's not long before the conversation turns, as it often does, to recent accomplishments and accolades. Julia mentions acing a difficult exam, Max talks about a prestigious internship he's landed for the summer. Slava chimes in with a humble brag about her latest top marks.

Then, to my horror, she turns to me with a sly smile. "What about you, Anastasia? Any big wins to share with the class?"

I feel my face flush hot as everyone's eyes land on me expectantly. My mind goes blank, any meager achievements I might claim suddenly seeming paltry and pathetic next to my friends' successes.

"Oh, um. Not really," I mumble, staring down at my fidgeting hands. "I mean, I'm doing alright, but nothing special..."

Slava clicks her tongue, shaking her head in mock disappointment. "Come on, sis. Don't look so mortified. Not everyone can be a genius!"

Slava's words hit me like a punch to the gut, even as she delivers them with a teasing lilt. I can feel my cheeks burning, my insides twisting with shame and humiliation. She's right, of course. I'm not a genius. I'm not even close. Compared to her, I'm just a dull, unimpressive nobody, barely fit to be her personal maid.

But having her point it out so casually in front of our friends, in front of everyone... it's almost too much to bear. I want to crawl under the table and disappear. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

The others laugh along with Slava, clearly thinking it's just standard sibling rivalry. The kind of good-natured ribbing that brothers and sisters always engage in. If only they knew the truth. If only they could see how much her words cut me to the core, underscoring my inferiority in every way.

I try to force a weak smile, to play along like it doesn't bother me. But I can feel myself trembling, my breath coming fast and shallow. Slava knows exactly what she's doing. She's toying with me, getting a thrill from subtly putting me in my place in public. Reminding me that no matter where we are or who we're with, she's the one in control. The one with all the power.

Under the table, hidden from view, I feel Slava's right foot land gently but firmly rests atop my left foot, the sole of her boot pressing harshly against the sneaker.

I bite my lip to stifle a gasp, my body going rigid. It's a small gesture, imperceptible to anyone else, but the message is clear. She's putting me in my place, reminding me of my new role as her inferior. Her lesser.

I risk a glance at her face and immediately wish I hadn't. She's not even looking at me, still engaged in animated conversation with our friends. But there's a smug little half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She knows exactly what she's doing to me, how much it affects me. And she's reveling in it.

Slava's foot starts to move, slowly dragging up the side of my calf. My breath hitches in my throat. Higher and higher it climbs, until her toe is nudging at the inside of my knee. I'm trembling now, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists in my lap.

She wouldn't dare... Not here, not now...

In-between sentences, Slava throws me a look over her shoulder, one eyebrow arched in a silent challenge. A promise of more to come.

God, what is happening to me? What has she turned me into?

But then, just as I'm sure I'm about to combust from the tension, Slava pulls her foot away, focused on something Andrew is saying. It takes me a moment to grasp that he's talking to me.

"Hey, you know what Anastasia? I feel like I haven't seen you out and about in ages," he says. "There's a big party happening this Friday night at my place. You should totally come!"

I blink at him, momentarily taken aback. I open my mouth to answer... and, humiliatingly, I find myself reflexively looking towards Slava. For approval.

She notices, because of course she would. "She's been reeeeally busy with her studies," she says. "But maybe she can make an appearance. I'll definitely be there, though!"

Andrew grins at Slava's response, his excitement palpable. "Awesome, can't wait to see you there! And Anastasia, I understand, we all need to knuckle down and get our grades sorted sometimes. But, if you can make it, it would be really awesome!"

He's completely oblivious to the power play happening right under his nose. Slava smirks into her coffee cup, clearly enjoying watching me squirm. I want to glare at her, to silently plead with her to stop toying with me in public like this. But I don't dare. I keep my eyes meekly lowered, the picture of a humble, submissive lesser sister.

I can't just casually accept the invitation like a normal person. Like the old Anastasia would have done. No, I need to check with my little sister first. I need her permission to have any sort of social life outside of serving her.

No one else has any idea of the depths to which I've sunk, the complete control Slava exerts over every aspect of my life. It's so humiliating, so demeaning, to have her pulling my strings like this in front of our friends. To feel her influence wrapped around me even in the most mundane of social interactions.

The same way her legs were wrapped around my neck...

"Yeah, maybe," I say noncommittally. "I'll see if I can make it. Thanks for the invite."

Andrew grins and nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer. The conversation moves on to other topics, but I barely register what's being said. I'm too focused on the insane, addictive, wrong state of my mess of a life. So this is where my ass is at, I guess. I really am Slava's bitch. Nothing more, nothing less.

Eventually, mercifully, it's time for everyone to head to their next classes. We say our goodbyes and go our separate ways. As soon as we're out of earshot of the others, Slava turns to me with a smirk.

"You know you're not going to that party, right?" she says, her tone making it clear it's not a question.

I swallow hard, my heart sinking at her words even as a twisted thrill runs through me. Then, I nod meekly, my gaze fixed on the ground. "Yes, Slava. I didn't think I was allowed."

"Good girl," she says, reaching out to pat my cheek condescendingly. "You're learning your place so well. And your place this Friday night will be at home, cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. I want it absolutely spotless by the time I return from the party. Understood?"