New Story: The Two Paris Problem (Patreon)

It's been a while! I came up with a new story inspired by everything that's been happening lately. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for following! Note: the pdf file might have better formatting but will have some spelling errors.

The Two Paris Problem

by Mana Ray

(Fm+/Fm+, humiliation, bdsm, foot fetish, subjugation, mind control, slavery, social

sadism)

Synopsis: After the outbreak of a virus, Paris and her fiancé move in to a wealthy

woman's guest house. Step by step, she reduces them into an obedient domestic

couple who make her money in the most disdainful ways.

Rashmi had been kind to allow Paris and her fiancé to crash in her guest house

when the young couple ran out of money, but their relationship was quickly

becoming strained. Part of it was the cabin fever from living in quarantine, part of it

was the long stint of unemployment and spending it in a 1 bedroom guest house. With

nothing to do but watch television and browse social media, they were falling into a

rut along with more serious issues like jealousy and video game addictions that Paris

didn't like to think about.

At first, Rashmi's offer had been like a stroke of luck but now it was feeling

more like a trap.

Except for Tristan's job, neither of them had been outside the guest house very

much over the past year. Paris wept when she remembered the endless summer

beaches and felt how badly she wanted to invite her friends to another barbecue rager,

another bottomless mimosa brunch – any sort of contact at all, that wasn't through a

screen. But Rashmi wouldn't allow them to do social visits like that because they

could catch something and bring it into her home.

Rashmi never held herself to the same standard though: the dynamic, mature

Indian woman was still going to her Beverly Hills office, still hosting friends and

clients for brunch as normal – with only the waitstaff needing to wear masks. But part

of their tenancy agreement was to confine themselves to the property as much as

possible, wearing smart watches that logged when they left.

Paris was wearing hers right now even though she technically didn't have to.

She resented the expensive gadget, and the way it acted as a constant point of contact

between them and Rashmi. The watches had microphones built in, which made it so

that Paris was afraid of speaking ill of anything even in the privacy of her own home.

Almost without exception, whenever she was starting to get intimate with Tristan, his

smartwatch would start beeping, taking him away on an urgent food delivery job. It

could be 11pm or 2 in the morning and the delivery could be as simple as one box of

vanilla almond ice cream but he had to immediately accept it and start each job right

away to keep a good rating. It caused her no small amount of embarrassment that her

fiancé could only find work as a delivery boy.

Not that Paris was doing any better. The pale brunette California girl had lost

her event planning business because of the outbreak. At first, it was because no one

was having weddings or birthday parties anymore. But as time went on and the

restrictions relaxed, she tried to pick up new clients only to learn that her business,

specifically, was ordered to remain closed. What a situation to be in! To be forbidden

from working, while still being held responsible for their rent, their car payments,

both of their student loans, food, gas, medical insurance – everything!

It was a painful journey that even brought them to this guest house. Paris wept

when she thought of their old Gaol Park apartment with the wood floors and the pain

of losing it because they couldn't pay the rent anymore. Her self-esteem had suffered

badly since the outbreak: once winsome and charismatic, Paris was now prone to

doubting herself and to retreating inwardly. She felt helpless that her debts kept on

increasing, with no relief in sight. The news broadcasts were only doom and horror:

chyrons like "Bread Lines From Sea to Shining Sea."

She spent hours a day playing video games on her smartphone: in particular, a

Candy Crush knockoff where all she did was pop bubbles, slide stuff around, and

earn high scores to get to the next level. Even though she thought it was stupid, it still

took up hours of her time each day and left her feeling drained and guilty. Trashy TV

shows, marijuana, and social media filled up the rest of her time adding to the guilt

and shame she lived with. The marijuana was a gift from Rashmi otherwise Paris

could never have afforded it.

Why were things so bad? Rashmi gave them food and drugs and a place to live,

why couldn't they just keep their heads down and figure a way out?

For starters, Rashmi was an overbearing woman who didn't respect boundaries

whatsoever. For example: when they first moved in, they were annoyed to discover

that the streaming services all had advertisements enabled. And Rashmi wouldn't

allow them to log in to their own accounts for home security reasons. She said

something about how the screens were super advanced technology, even though they

looked and behaved exactly like any other smart TV Paris had ever used. When

Tristan pressed her on it, she just replied "Well you shouldn't be here long enough for

that to be an issue. Besides, too much television is bad for you. We can revisit this

next month."

The ads were so long and frequent that Paris found it difficult to enjoy her

shows – in addition to being a stressor that lead to her playing more video games. It

might not seem like a big deal, but combined with the fact they got slow WiFi and

dodgy cell phone service out there, it really limited their entertainment options to

expensive movies on demand, the magazines Rashmi had delivered, and the books

she placed out mostly for decoration. This was just one of many examples where

Rashmi made their lives more difficult because of some punctilious rule.

Instead of getting groceries delivered, Rashmi had it so they did meal delivery

instead. Not from nearby restaurants, but from some off-brand app where the quality

of food (while nutritious) was never much better than Paris had found in her old

college dining hall. Sometimes it was stuff like soy chicken nuggets, spaghetti and

steamed vegetables from a can. They couldn't do their own laundry, even. They had

to send their dirty clothes to some washing service that kept on losing her things and

returning others a size down.

The truculent, full-figured Indian woman insisted that they keep the guest

house clean enough to satisfy her standards, going so far as to require Paris to spend

one day a week detail-cleaning it from top to bottom for a full 8 hour day. Rashmi

would often barge into their home after two quick knocks on the door to do a surprise

inspection or to share some tedious gossip from her personal life. The guest house

was a 1 bedroom 1 bath with high ceilings and an open floor plan: as soon as Rashmi

crossed the threshold she could see most of the place. She always behaved as if this

was her home, too – sometimes sitting right on the sofa and complaining that there

were some dishes left out before requesting that Paris make her a cup of Chai tea.

It had started with brunette Paris learning to make Chai tea to her hostess's high

expectations. Then Rashmi decided that she wanted massages like she had received

from her servants growing up. So she had Paris watch videos on how to perform an

Ayurvedic scalp massage so the girl could offer them to her, to demonstrate her

gratitude. The hair serum that Paris would massage into Rashmi's scalp and all

through her thick, slightly curly black hair -- its scent would remain on her hands for

the whole day: lilac, ylang ylang, rose. After mastering the scalp massage, Paris had

learned how to do a shoulder massage, an arm and hand massage, and soon Rashmi

wanted her doing her feet as well, now that she was going out more often in high

heels. The longer Paris went unemployed, the more she lost faith in herself and the

assertiveness to tell this woman off.

That's what she needed to do, right? Refuse to do what Rashmi said! But the

woman was undeniable. And she made it clear from the get-go that this was her home

and they were to obey her rules, which included the unwritten rule of them acting

happy to see her all the time and pleasantly agreeing with all her suggestions. She

delighted in the fact that she could pop in whenever she wanted, and be attended to

by Paris and Tristan when he was around.

Tristan, by comparison, seemed happy with how things were going. To his

credit, he had been saving nearly all the money he made as a delivery boy so they

could afford their own place. But due to skyrocketing rents, it turned out to be

difficult to find an apartment -- even a shared apartment -- on a single income. In the

meantime, he was cordial to Rashmi. More than cordial, in fact. He was eating out of

the palm of her hand and Paris was constantly humiliated that Rashmi would do

things like call Tristan in to pour her a glass of wine and listen to her complain about

her day. Meanwhile Paris was left alone, stuck in the back house despondently

looking at more job or apartment listings, or more likely watching TV / playing on

her iPhone.

Every time his watch beeped, Tristan couldn't change into his delivery uniform

quickly enough. One night, Paris was the middle of deepthroating him after a rare,

pleasant evening together but Tristan's watch beeped and he just apologized and got

out of bed so abruptly it shamed her. He got dressed to leave and she could see the

outline of his cock tenting against his uniform shorts. It left her feeling miserable,

unwanted, and angry that his job would reach into their private lives like that and pull

them apart.

She never knew how long he'd be gone for: 30 minutes? Five hours? The rest

of the day? The fact that her fiancee was so agreeable to living beneath Rashmi's

thumb resulted in Paris feeling more confused and isolated. They hadn't had sex in

quite some time – his stupid watch would beep at the worst possible time and he

would have to run to the store on some taskrabbit assignment. And Rashmi was there

the entire time, oversharing about her life and acting super high maintenance.

**

It was hot outside. More than 104 and not even noon, not even summer. The air

conditioning kept the guest house exceptionally cold however, to Rashmi's liking.

Paris shivered slightly as she looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the

swimming pool and realized that in all her time living here, she had never once gone

swimming in it. Rashmi then came out into the back yard, taking brisk strides

towards Paris's home while chatting pleasantly with a woman behind her : a half

Black woman with straightened hair, dressed like a successful lawyer or C-level

employee.

"Shit!" Paris whispered to herself.

Although it was 11:30 on a Tuesday, she was still in her pajamas. She hadn't

even taken a shower yet. She quickly grabbed a change of clothes and went for the

bathroom when she heard a knock at the door. They had probably seen her through

the windows this entire time, scurrying away. The blinds were up because Rashmi

didn't like them down past 8 AM.

"PARIS! It's too hot for us to wait out here, we need to see you honey."

With that, Rashmi whipped the door open and barged into the apartment.

"Let me just put something on! Excuse me," Paris said as she went into the

bathroom, embarrassed at the first impression she was making on this new person.

She silently cursed Rashmi for not warning her that they would have company – she

was always doing stuff like this. But she cursed her own indolence at the same time.

She used to the type who was up at 6AM so she could hit the gym before class.

Moving quickly, she threw on a t-shirt and yoga pants then went barefoot to meet her

guests before Rashmi could notice too many things to complain about later.

They made introductions and sat down together. This was Nicole Ashburne, a

recruiter for Yas Models.

"I'm just going to be honest," Nicole said, "I love your whole look. Are you

5'10"? I could see you making a lot of money in direct-to-consumer marketing. You

appeal to all of the main demographics."

Something about Nicole's vibe was wrong – she was being too pie-in-the-sky

for this to be a legit business offer. She was wearing a slate grey pantsuit that went

well with her complexion, and had a very 'corporate board room' manner of speech.

Nicole kept her straightened hair pulled back into a ponytail with an eye-catching

gold clasp holding it up. She basically just wanted Paris to become an influencer /

'content creator' for Yas Models. She'd be taking selfies with coconut water and

recording 15 second targeted micro ads with the vague promise of paid international

travel if she could attract the right partnerships. It didn't appeal to her; even if it had,

she would just do it on her own rather than signing right away with some company.

"Again: It's up to you, how much content to create," Nicole explained, "You

might be most comfortable doing makeup tutorials, or modeling clothes, or doing

ASMR roleplays."

Paris just stared at the pompous woman as she continued her speech going on

about how some women had paid off their student loan debts by selling their worn

socks and panties on the Internet of Things. 'Just listen and say you're interested, then

never follow up' was Paris's strategy – the difficult part was hearing out Nicole's ideas

without letting on how she really felt about it.

"Are you married?" Nicole asked.

"That's... You can't ask someone that during an interview," Paris replied. She

didn't like how this was going – there was a lasciviousness in the way Nicole asked

the question.

"You should get married. Soon." Nicole replied, not much interested in Paris's

attitude. "It helps with taxes and married content creators do exceptionally well. You

could be getting $2000 a video just to receive massages and review on makeup. Give

it some serious thought! This is an offer that a lot of people would kill for."

"I'm not getting paid $2,000 just to receive a massage, though. I'm getting paid

to do it on camera and add my likeness towards the Internet's inexhaustible appetite

for content."

Paris didn't say this out loud. She just thanked Nicole for the offer and said she

would talk about it with her fiancé.

"Just so we're absolutely clear, what's going on here," Nicole said, "I'm offering

you a job in the marketing field. Do you accept it?"

Now she was getting mean! For a moment, Paris was afraid that she had

offended this powerful woman. But then she realized: what does she expect me to do?

Kiss her feet because she offered to help me become an e-girl and give her the

majority of my earnings from my own bikini pics?

"It's a generous offer," Paris replied carefully, "I'm thankful -- I will just need

to talk to my fiancé before I make any decisions. Thank you again for your time, and

for coming to see me."

"Of course," was Nicole's icy reply.

This meeting marked a turning point in Paris's life: a downturn, more

specifically. Nicole took the rejection very badly, and Rashmi was acting personally

offended that Paris had spiked the deal she set up. Packages started arriving at the

guest house they hadn't ordered – day after day the maids would drop more of them

off at the front door. They contained things such as ring lights, mountable security

cameras, high-definition streaming cameras, and a voice-activated smart home

assistant device.

It gave Paris an uncomfortable feeling, looking at all these things. Rashmi

wasn't responding to her messages about them. Tristan didn't think much of the

packages, saying that it must be a misunderstanding and they should simply ignore it.

"How much money do we have saved?" Paris asked her fiance, several days

after the bad interview.

"$2800."

No matter what number he had said, it wouldn't have changed what she said

next:

"We should probably leave."

It made her heart beat faster and her palms became sweaty, to finally say this

out loud. She self-consciously wiped her hands on her yoga pants. Anxiety gripped

her, but also the thrill of making a bold decision for herself. Tristan looked at her

strangely.

"Why would we go? * Where * would we go?" he asked.

"I don't want this influencer job," Paris explained – they had this conversation

(argument) before, several times. "And I don't want to live here if she puts all these

weird gadgets up. We can go to a motel – or a youth hostel, even. I've seen prices like

$20/ night for each of us."

"Rashmi will de-prioritize me if we move out... Or I will have to quit

altogether."

"Yes, you would probably have to quit," Paris replied, and she was putting it

gently.

Truthfully, she was disappointed that her fiance's first instinct was being afraid

that Rashmi's gig handouts would end. As she looked into his blue eyes, she felt a

pang of sadness that they were on such different wavelengths about this whole

arrangement. It had been very difficult on their relationship, living together but not

being able to go out and have new experiences. If he wouldn't come with her, did that

mean they were breaking up? What would Rashmi think of that? She only liked

Tristan because it pissed her off--

"I think you're overreacting. I think we should put up with these cameras for a

little while, then move out when we get closer to five thousand like we had originally

planned."

"Tristan, you know she's going to keep pressuring me to take the job! I bet she

will leverage this house against us, pretty soon. She's already picking out my makeup,

in one of these boxes. I don't want us to become a domestic couple for her. I bet you

that Rashmi will make it so you get less work, too – so we will never get to five

thousand."

"You're being paranoid," was Tristan's reply.

Paris glared at her fiance, determined not to cry. His lack of support made her

feel extremely alone. It was to the point where she didn't see the point in this

relationship anymore – not right now, at least.

"I'll find my own place, then." Paris said. Her voice was shaky and quiet.

"There's a hostel in Mid City. Let me know when you're ready to join me."

She had hoped that Tristan would come around when he saw her packing her

bags. He couldn't seriously believe that Rashmi would let him stay there alone – the

woman's friends would find it scandalous. But instead of seeing her point of view,

Tristan treated it like this was still a fight that he could win.

Paris felt a tremendous sense of relief as she removed the smartwatch and left it

on the table on her way out. She couldn't think about how this was probably the end

of her relationship; she just needed to make it to the hostel. She was met by a sunny

and hot day and as soon as she set foot out the door she regretted wearing her Keds –

the heat from the pavement practically scorched her feet through their thin rubber

soles on her walk out to the curb. She was so unaccustomed to being in the sun that

she needed to wear dark sunglasses to keep her eyes from hurting.

She called a rideshare and waited out front for it to arrive. In the winding hills,

it would take a driver quite some time to get to Rashmi's house. If she had been

wearing makeup, it would have been ruined by how much she was sweating, just

from the walk to the street with her duffel bag in hand.

Paris didn't want to tell her mom about this. Instead, she texted her friend

Victoria explaining the situation, then opened the candy crush game mostly out of

habit / muscle memory.Victoria couldn't offer her a place to stay because she herself

just rented a coffin-sized room from a successful young couple who didn't allow her

to have guests. But she sent her love and said that she was proud of Paris for making

this decision and she could help with a little money, if she needed.

Even beneath the shade of a large tree in Rashmi's plant-rich neighborhood, it

was rather hot to the point where her iPhone stopped working and said it needed to

cool down.

'Fuck, I shouldn't have been playing that game,' Paris thought to herself.

With nothing else to do, she took in the beauty of the neighborhood and

enjoyed the feeling of being outside. An uplifting thought occurred to her: now she

could finally hang out with people!! As soon as her phone cooled down, she wanted

to reach out to Eunice and Jacqueline. Being outside raised her spirits and made her

feel like she was re-discovering something she had forgotten over the past year. Even

the brutal heat of the day, she enjoyed, because it was so different than the constant

65 degrees of that damned guest house.

Soon a car approached: a white SUV belonging to a private security company.

Out stepped a kid who looked like he was barely out of high school and a motherly

Latina woman. Their uniforms made them look more like tour guides than security

guards: plaid vests over white collared shirts and a skirt for the woman, slacks for the

guy. The woman had very thick legs and calves, and made the baffling decision of

wearing high heels for this job.

The heavy-set Latina woman did all the talking, while the kid mostly glared at

Paris in an unfriendly way.

"Hi honey! We got a complaint of a break-in around here... Would you mind

telling me what you're doing in this neighborhood?"

"I'm waiting for my rideshare," Paris replied with a smile, "They should be

here any minute."

"Would you mind showing me on your phone when they'll get here? Sorry, I

know this is inconvenient. But with the new anti-vagrancy laws and the crime wave,

we can't be too careful."

"My phone isn't working. It's too hot. But like, they're right at the bottom of the

hill."

Paris was trying to act as disarming as possible. On the news, they talked about

a crime wave so bad it was dangerous to be outside. The fact that she hadn't gone five

minutes without being accosted by someone outdoors freaked her out – when she had

just been enjoying her first time leaving the apartment in such a long while.

The middle-aged Latina woman frowned at this answer, and exchanged a look

with her partner.

"Well, sweetie, what are you doing out here? What's your name? Where's your

home?"

"My name is Paris Darrow. I'm out here because I'm in the process of moving

to a hostel. But I used to live in the guest house back there on Rashmi Uzair's

property," Paris answered, gesturing to the mansion behind them. "I'm sure that you

can call her and she will vouch for me!"

"You're moving in to a hostel?" the guy asked, a sarcastic sneer on his face. "Talk about a downgrade!"

"Easy, Jason," the Latina woman rebuked her partner,

"Listen, I feel bad for saying this, but we can't let you stay here. It's dangerous

and against the law. Why don't you come with us, down to the community center, and

you can wait for your car there? It has air conditioning and wifi."

What could Paris say? It was obvious they wouldn't allow her to stay there, so

she climbed into the SUV and went with them down the winding roads to the

community center at the bottom of the hill. Except it didn't turn out to be a

'community center'. It was a branch office for the private security company. The

woman introduced herself as Rhonda and gabbed nonstop on the drive down to the

hills – Jason was the driver.

"Oh yeah, every day we hear about another break in," Rhonda said, "The

thieves are targeting high-resale items like jewelry and watches. Sometimes they use

a lookout. We've had to double patrols in the last week."

Paris strongly suspected this to be a lie – some lurking threat to justify more

money to the security company. She didn't give much of a reply, out of fear that they

would somehow try to wrap her up in it.

"I see," was all she said.

"Miss Uzair is one of the most upstanding members of the community. You're

lucky she's letting you stay with her! How long have you been there?"

"A year, just about."

"I live in Downet, myself. It's about two hours away. Sometimes I sleep at the

office but it's hard on my kids..."

Her cell phone finally cooled down enough to operate again. The rideshare app

said her car was still a few minutes away and she texted the driver the new address to

pick her up.

"You can just drop me off in front," Paris said, and she became alarmed when

Jason just kept driving, past the wrought iron gate, into the secured parking lot.

"Oh! We only have to do a little paperwork and document that we had contact

with you. It's part of the new laws – and trust me, it's for your safety." Rhonda said,

"It creates accountability, so you don't have random organizations out there harassing

people."

Alarm bells were going off in her mind. She texted Tristan and Victoria what

was going on and requested that they check in on her:

'This private security company is taking me to some community center even

though I said I didn't want to go there. I think they're going to arrest me.'

Paris felt a wave of panic rising within her: she felt like she was being

kidnapped. What was she supposed to do here? Forcefully demand they let her free,

this instant? What did the law say? They were always changing it because of the

outbreak. Maybe it was illegal for her to be outside, even. In any case, she was too

intimidated to demand anything from her captors. Instead, she went along with

Rhonda's directions even though everything inside of her was saying that this

situation was wrong.

"Paris honey, is it okay if we check your bags for weapons? Actually, we are

required to do a search before you enter the office; we had an incident last month."

Paris wasn't carrying her bag – Jason was. The meathead had insisted on doing

so. He had thrown it in the trunk for the ride down and retrieved it from there after

they had parked.

"Yeah, that's fine."

Jason placed the duffel bag on a folding wooden table and Rhonda opened it up

and started pawing through her possessions. She soon discovered a jewelry box that

Paris had never seen before.

"I'll need to search in here, too. You could fit a folding knife in there, or a little

sawblade."

"What?! That's not mine, I don't recognize—"

"Wooooow!"

Inside the jewelry box was a graduated diamond eternity necklace.

"If you own something this expensive, why not just sell it and get your own

place?" Rhonda asked, admiring the brilliant-cut round diamonds too numerous to

count and 18k white gold that reflected sunlight beautifully.

"You put that there. It's not mine."

"Does it belong to Miss Uzair?" Rhonda asked.

"I want to leave." Paris said, and she became dreadfully aware of the high

concrete wall keeping her in this blazing hot parking lot.

"You can leave once you've done the paperwork. What's the deal with this

expensive necklace? Is this yours?"

"Let me do the paperwork and leave," Paris replied.

It was an unbearably hot, ugly place, here. She was afraid the asphalt would

melt the soles of her Keds, and sweat was pouring from her body as they stood here

badgering her. She couldn't think of any way to get out of it and just shifted her

weight and shook her head.

"We need to inform the police about this. Please come with us."

What followed was a complete farce. Paris could not believe this was all

happening and it shocked her into a sort of mute compliance, on the reasoning that

she could fight these things later – hire a lawyer and sue them for false imprisonment

or something. For the time being, she went along with Rhonda and Jason: Rhonda

walking in front of her and Jason walking behind as they entered the air conditioned

building and moved through its long hallways. It became like an out of body

experience for Paris – like this was all happening to someone else and not her, or it

wasn't real somehow.

Maybe it was her way of coping with all of the anxiety and dread that this

situation provoked within her. Tristan didn't pick up his phone or respond to her

multiple calls, and neither did Victoria. And even in these circumstances, she

wouldn't call her mother. Paris wanted nothing from the woman who was probably

too inebriated to pick up the phone, assuming it wasn't disconnected, and could not be

depended on for help.

"We'll just have you take a seat in the waiting room for a couple minutes. I'll

get your paperwork together and prepare my report," Rhonda said during the walk.

"Thank you for cooperating with us; that will reflect nicely on you. I'll make a note

that you were very cooperative."

The waiting room was just an interrogation room with nicer folding chairs. It

even had a partially-mirrored wall, which hammered in the fact that Paris was a

suspect to them. She took the seat that was offered to her and started searching for

lawyers on her phone. The Internet loaded so slowly and was so bloated with

unrelated ads and CAPTCHAs that it made it nearly impossible to use.

Rashmi was the first to get there. She burst into the room and started laying

into Paris right away, not even giving her a chance to deny the accusation. She must

have come from the nail salon, since she was wearing disposable foam pedicure

sandals which belied how serious this all was.

"I cannot believe you! I took you into my home, and you steal from me?"

"Rashmi, it's not what it looks like. I would never steal from you--"

"Is this why you didn't want cameras around the apartment!? What else have

you stolen?" Rashmi shouted at her.

"Nothing!" Paris shouted, but she was so frustrated and out-of-sorts that her

voice cracked a little bit. Her timbre sounded uncertain and Rashmi glowered down

at her, almost frightening in her anger. Paris acutely felt the difference in their

physiques: although shorter, Rashmi was significantly larger than her, with meaty

arms and legs compared to Paris's own slender build. The Indian woman balled her

fists and rested them against them against her attractively-shaped waist in outrage.

"This is a forty thousand dollar necklace," Rashmi berated her, looming over

Paris and watching her squirm and just shake her head in response. The security

guards Rhonda and Jason were there all along in the background, scrutinizing her.

Making her feel outnumbered. Refuting her claims that they had planted the necklace

on her.

Paris had dealt with the police a little bit in high school and throughout college,

but had never experienced this degree of hostility. She genuinely had no idea what to

do – she knew she was supposed to get a lawyer but they kept ignoring or denying

her requests to contact one. She knew that Rashmi was almost certainly in cahoots

with these people. She desperately tried to think of some way to prove her innocence,

or to prove the plot against her. Nothing occurred to her panicked mind.

"She probably would have gotten four hundred dollars for this necklace. If

that," Rashmi continued, addressing the security team now. "I wonder if she would

have been foolish enough to sell it to a local pawn shop. She hasn't worked in a year,

you know. I pay for her food as well."

Paris wanted to say something in her own defense, but held her tongue. It was

supremely humiliating to hear Rashmi describe everything she had provided for her

because it made her sound like a charity case: pitiable. And while Rashmi had used a

contemptuous tone towards her all this time, now she softened her way of speaking

and said:

"Paris, if you had wanted to wear this necklace, I would have given it to you.

That is the thing that hurts me. And if you needed money, you could have asked me

for some. Why didn't you think to ask me for money to go along your way?"

The question caught Paris off guard. She hadn't asked because she didn't trust

Rashmi anymore – but should she have? NO – that wasn't the issue. Rashmi was no

friend to her; she hadn't even responded to numerous text messages about the new

cameras. The issue was that they were trying to frame her, and she couldn't see any

way out of it. Paris quietly upbraided herself for letting go of her suitcase, but it was

such a tiny mistake to be punished this badly for. How could she have known?

The fact that this was all so unjust only served to hurt her more deeply – she

didn't think things like this could happen in her own legal system.

"Rashmi, please believe me. I did not steal that," Paris said, looking into the

woman's almond-shaped eyes as earnestly as she could. There was no pity in them –

no warmth at all, in this moment.

"I wish I could believe you. But if you can't be honest with me, I will no longer

allow you in my house. And I have no respect for thieves."

Paris felt more scared and alone than she had ever been in her life. She was

afraid that they would send her to prison for this – unless... But no.

"The police will arrive here shortly. I can confirm that this necklace is my own.

Not only will you have a criminal case for trespassing and grand theft, but I will also

have my legal team file civil suits against you. You will need to pay me back rent for

all the months you have stayed with me, plus other costs, and I will see that you are

required to notify all potential employers that you are a thieving bitch – when you get

out of jail, that is."

Paris felt each word smash against her heart, driving her courage away and

reducing her to a whimpering mess at the mention of the word 'jail'.

"I will speak with the District Attorney – she's a personal friend of mine -- and

see that she pushes for a stiff sentencing," Rashmi concluded her threatening speech,

"How many years could we expect in this case, Rhonda?"

"A couple years, if she was acting alone," Rhonda answered. "If she was doing

it as part of an organized crime ring, that's an additional ten years."

Paris felt her stomach turn as the panic attack fully gripped her, forcing her to

imagine the horrors of prison and a thousand other bad outcomes. Her phone no

longer got a signal in this room. There was nothing she could say that she hadn't said

already. She crossed her arms in front of herself and shook her head, lowering her

eyes down to the table between them. As much as she wanted to get up and leave, she

was too timid to try it.

This put her in a bad place because she knew she should try and escape, but

fear kept her glued to the spot. And she blamed herself for not having the courage to

storm out of here and instead staying and giving them this placating energy. These

were her enemies trying to frame her and Paris just politely tried to exonerate herself

before them.

"Paris, I saw so many great things in you," Rashmi said, "That's why I let you

and Tristan stay in my house: I wanted to help you. I was SO disappointed to see you

turn into a pot-smoking layabout who plays mobile games for more than twenty hours

a week."

Paris flared her nostrils, took a sharp breath and gave a hard look to Rashmi. It

was very painful to have someone call out her behavior like this. But what else was

she supposed to do?! Rashmi didn't let her leave the house!!

"I think your life needs a certain structure, if you are going to excel in this

world," Rashmi continued, "And being a Yas model will give you that structure. Once

you're part of their network, that will help our relationship too."

Paris sighed – she suspected that this is where it was going, all along. She

would plead guilty then be back at Rashmi's place as the woman's prisoner. Spend her

days pretending to be that girl on camera; doing makeup tutorials and ASMR whisper

roleplays to make money for her new boss. Except now, Rashmi would have

something dangling over Paris's head all the time: the punishment of prison.

Her world was falling out from under her.

"But Paris, I need you to kiss my feet and ask for an apology, if you want to

avoid prison and come back in to my home."

Paris screwed up her face and just squinted at Rashmi, she was so weirded out

by this turn. The woman had on a cheetah print jumpsuit tied about her voluptuous

waist by a black ribbon. Her long dark hair had a loosely curled texture, and some of

it fell loose but most of it was up in a bun. She was as poised and confident as ever.

Meanwhile Paris was a slouched, shivering mess with dried sweat on every part of

her body.

"This is what our servants would do when they really messed up... I came to

enjoy it very much. It gives me such a sense of power – but maybe you're not familiar

with how that feels. Anyway, I just got a pedicure, so they are very clean."

Rashmi placed her feet up on the table, but didn't remove her neon green foam

pedicure sandals. Her meaty feet glistened with massage oil, it went all the way up to

her calves which were on display since her jumpsuit was cullotte-cut. She gave Paris

a pointed look as if to say, "well?"

"You can't be serious," Paris finally managed.

"YOU can't be serious," Rashmi spat back at her, "Because this is the best offer

you're going to get. You should have kissed my feet when I allowed you to move in,

and every month I let you stay in my guest house, watching trashy television and

smoking marijuana... Where has your pride gotten you? Right here, it seems, about to

kiss my feet and beg for my forgiveness like some misbehaving servant."

And although it wounded her pride terribly, Paris found herself getting up to

approach this terrible woman's feet to kiss them to avoid jail time. She reasoned that

Rashmi would keep her word and let her avoid jail, and it was better to do almost

anything to avoid going in to the prison system, even for a day. A day in prison could

easily become a year due to how backlogged it was; they said so on the news. If

anything, maybe she could use this as evidence in her own case about cruel and

unusual punishment--

Those were the thoughts that went through Paris's mind as she moved her sad,

beautiful face towards Rashmi's feet. Up close, she could smell the mango butter

beeswax, which would rub off on her lips and make her cringe. Blushing furiously,

Paris craned her head down and gave them two quick pecks: one on each pampered

foot. She resisted the urge to wipe her mouth and only clenched her jaw in frustration.

Rashmi had chosen a lilac-white lacquer for her toes, which contrasted beautifully

with her cool cinnamon complexion.

"I didn't take your necklace," Paris repeated herself.

"What?!" was Rashmi's incredulous reply, "Then why on Earth did you kiss my

feet?"

"I didn't want you to send me to jail. But we can't have any sort of discussion

until I have a deal, in writing, to avoid jail. And it must say that I wasn't part of any

organized crime ring."

Rashmi found this uproariously funny. She let out a great laugh then rested both

of her hands behind her head and looked at Paris up and down with new appreciation.

"Of course you'll get it in writing! That's the whole idea! Oh, Paris..."

Rashmi looked at her for a little while, feet up on the table with confident body

language like she was taking pride in a victory. She giggled when she noticed that the

butter that her pedicurist had just massaged into her feet was now glistening upon

Paris's frowning, conquered lips. Paris could feel their relationship had changed

significantly with that act; and pretty soon Jason came back into the room with a

tablet computer, containing the paperwork for Paris to sign. He handed it to Rashmi

who had taken control of the situation.

From being angry when she stormed in, the plutocratic woman was jubilant

now. Paris found her way back to her seat, slouching with a miserable expression on

her face. She didn't like how Rashmi kept her feet on the table so the soles of her

sandals were practically thrust in her face.

"That was lovely, Paris!" exclaimed Rashmi, "I am proud that you could

humble yourself like that. To show that there are no hard feelings between us, I will

even let you keep the necklace – it was insured against theft, anyway. Sit up straight,

and I can help you put it on... Although it doesn't go with that outfit."

Rashmi snapped her fingers at the security officers and Rhonda hurried to get

the jewelry box and bring it to her. Every part of Paris revolted at the thought wearing

the necklace, beautiful as it was. So it was with great disappointment in herself that

Paris gathered her thick brown hair and held it in one hand as Rashmi got up to stand

behind her. The wealthy woman brought the necklace down in front of Paris's face in

such a way she could examine briefly it before she put it on. Then she skillfully

clasped the thing around Paris's swan-like neck: the jewelry was cold and heavy, and it

made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

"What do you sayy?" Rashmi asked, resting one hand on Paris's shoulder from

behind.

"Thank you," Paris muttered. She suppressed a shudder as Rashmi gave her an

affectionate squeeze, then went to sit back down.

"You're welcome. Now then, why don't I explain what will be expected from

you going forward? Does that sound nice?"

Paris nodded – and keenly felt the weight of the diamond necklace against her.

"You will become a Yas Model. You will be an independent contractor doing

piece-rate work, similar to what Tristan does. But while he mainly delivers groceries,

Yas Models will have a lot more work for you. They want directorial control over

your wardrobe and your online image, and they expect you to put cameras up inside

your house... MY house, really. Will all of that be alright with you?"

Paris was at a lack of words for how disdainful she found all of this. It

sounded as if they wanted absolute control over her life – while making sure there

was nowhere she could go to escape their influence. If this 'offer' weren't up against

the threat of years in prison, there was no way in hell she would have accepted it. But

as things were, in these awful circumstances, what choice did she have? Call their

bluff, go to jail, and fight it from there? It was untenable.

It broke her heart, the unfairness of it all. But the events of the previous year

had worn her down. She had accepted so many other disappointments that this

terrible arrangement made sense by comparison. Paris would have considered it a

sick joke before the outbreak.

"Okay," Paris consented.

"Lovely, Paris!" Rashmi said. "Now, it's difficult to say precisely what you will

be doing, since it depends on audience behavior. But what's most important is you

complete assignments exactly as they are asked. If they tell you to be a frowning,

snarky emo brat, that's what you do. If they tell you to be a smiling, cheerful Disney

Princess, that's what you do. Does that make sense?"

"Yes," Paris answered. It was significantly more demanding than the offer than

Nicole Ashburne had given her.

"Also be aware: To capitalize on the ongoing labor shortage, Yas Models

sometimes contracts its workers out to local businesses. So don't be surprised if you

find yourself scooping ice cream or wiping down exercise equipment at the gym –

housekeeping, gigs like that."

'At least it would get me out of the house,' Paris thought to herself.

She might have even applied to jobs of that nature, if Rashmi hadn't been so

insistent on her finding a work from home position to avoid spreading the virus.

Apparently, that concern was gone now.

"That's the essence of it," Rashmi concluded. She passed the tablet over to

Paris, and she started looking at the long legal document. "And it might interest you

that the owner of Yas Models is someone you know. His name is Wesley Nourd – he

graduated from the same high school as you."

Paris vaguely remembered a blond kid by that name: fat and dweeby. She didn't

have much of an opinion of him, except for a vague sense of discomfort because

sometimes the dweeby guys grew up to be mean and vindictive -- incel types. But it

wasn't enough to discourage her from signing the plea agreement. Having been

forcefully separated from all her friends and loved ones, Paris readied herself to

surrender her life to this wicked woman. She began looking over the documents, but

was interrupted.

"There's just one more thing for us to settle, before you sign that plea

agreement," Rashmi said.

"What's that?"

"Well, you have made amends for stealing my necklace – or rather, you're

starting to. But you haven't made amends for the fact that you left the house without

my permission. You could have made the current wave of the outbreak even worse,

by acting so irresponsibly. I need you to admit what you did was wrong, and promise

never to do it again."

With that, Rashmi gave a smug grin, kicked off her foam pedicure sandals and

placed both of her feet on the table once again.

"You already know how to ask for my forgiveness," she explained, her wrinkly

soles glistening with massage oil. "But this time, I'd like for you to kiss the bottoms

of my feet, right beneath the toes."

It was enough to drive Paris mad! For one, to be treated like a criminal for the

mere act of going outside without her landlady's permission. And then, to have to kiss

her damn feet to make up for it?! But Rashmi sat there with perfect confidence in this

mad state of affairs, and Paris surrendered once more. Kissing the bottoms of

Rashmi's feet was somehow more humiliating than kissing the tops – and more

intimate as well. But the brunette woman only whispered, "Okay," and got up to

perform this demeaning task once again.

Rashmi was positively glowing with happiness as Paris got near her to her

slightly wrinkled soles, which were about a size 6, and placed two kisses on the area

slightly beneath the toes. Despite the recent pedicure, Rashmi still had a lot of callus

on her outsteps and there were specks of dirt, and even hair, stuck against her peds.

"I'm sorry for leaving without your permission," Paris said, "I promise I won't

do that again."

This satisfied Rashmi – in fact, she chuckled to herself like she couldn't believe

someone would behave that way. Then she allowed Paris to look through the tablet

containing her plea agreement. The legal documents had been re-worked in such a

way that Paris just had to slide boxes and press checkmarks; it was similar to those

EULA's companies put before people install an app on their phones that nobody

reads.

Paris was in despair as she glanced over the agreement. She would avoid jail,

but that was about the only good thing it contained. She fought back tears as she

confessed to stealing the necklace. Then with the press of another button, she agreed

to eat and dress and behave the way Yas Models / Rashmi wanted her to. The old

world of friendship and activity and independence was just a painful memory now.

And what did the future hold? Rashmi's feet against her lips, a camera pointed at her

body, and confinement to a guest house where she was just a miserable serf.

Paris told herself that this was all planned in advance; that there was nothing

she could have done to avoid it. But nothing could shake the feeling that she was

stuck in a bad dream and that this wasn't really her agreeing to all this. It was

nonsensical, and probably another way of denying reality or blaming herself for

everything that happened. But who else could she blame? The outbreak meant that

they had to find a new way of living – the way that Rashmi dictated.

'At least I'm not spreading the virus,' Paris consoled herself.

"We really ought to get a photo of this, so you can get used to being on

camera," Rashmi said. Rhonda was happy to help, but she was such a lousy

photographer that Paris had to kiss the woman's soles again and again and again

because the Indian woman wasn't satisfied with how the photos turned out. The first

time it was too blurry. Then the lighting wasn't good enough to see Paris's face. Then

Rashmi decided she wanted it from the reverse angle. Then she wanted an extreme

close-up from her perspective, so that her toes were covering the bottom half of the

girl's face.

Then she wanted Paris to smile as she did it. Then she wanted a video. Then...