The Uncrowned Empress
In the kitchen of Vixen’s private quarters, the air hums with the low murmur of hushed voices and clinking glasses. Vixen sits at the head of the sleek black marble counter, her presence as undeniable as the dark allure of her nightclubs. Her long, painted nails tap rhythmically against her glass as she gazes at her two closest allies, a spark of mischief and ambition lighting her dark eyes.
To her left sits Mistress Jacki, tall and poised, with a measured intensity that commands any room she enters. Jacki is Mistress to Lady Eleanor, a Lady with considerable influence over the Council. The intricate web of loyalty and power they share is something Jacki wields deftly, knowing just when to bow her head and when to subtly bend her Lady’s will to her advantage.
On Vixen’s right, Mistress Nikki leans back casually, exuding confidence with every movement. She serves under Lady Isobel, a more enigmatic but powerful figure in the realm of Cruella. Nikki is known for her charm and cunning; a dangerous combination that has earned her not only Isobel’s favour but the quiet envy of other Mistresses in training. She toys with a delicate crystal glass, swirling the amber liquid within as she listens, her sharp gaze drifting between Vixen and Jacki.
Vixen clears her throat, breaking the silence. “The Council has denied me again,” she says, her voice a mixture of irritation and amusement. “They’ll spend lavishly at my clubs, indulge in every luxury and secrecy I offer them, but they still refuse me a title.”
Jacki smirks, her eyes glinting with dark amusement. “They fear you, Vixen. You hold the keys to their secrets. They’d sooner drown themselves in hypocrisy than grant you entry into their ranks.”
Nikki raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at her lips. “You could pull the rug out from under them, you know. Half those ‘noble’ Ladies owe you for nights they’d rather forget. Yet, you don’t press them. Why not?”
Vixen laughs softly, a sound like velvet sliding over steel. “They think they can deny me legitimacy, as if I care for their silly titles. But what they don’t understand is that I already have power; more power than any piece of paper could grant me. Titles mean nothing if you’re already feared.”
She leans forward, her gaze steady, and the room falls into a reverent silence. “But I didn’t bring you here just to talk about the Council’s latest insult.” Her tone sharpens, and both Mistresses lean in. “I have a plan. One that will shake the very foundation of Cruella’s social order. And I need allies who know what’s at stake; ones who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”
Jacki’s smirk fades, replaced by an intrigued seriousness. Nikki’s playful expression morphs into a look of focused intensity. They know Vixen well enough to understand that when she speaks like this, she’s orchestrating something far more significant than a simple power play. Whatever it is, it promises to be a game-changer.
“Tell us,” Nikki murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “What’s the plan?”
Vixen smiles; a dangerous, knowing smile that promises both risk and reward. She lifts her glass, toasting to the shadows that will soon grow longer over Cruella’s pristine halls of power. “Ladies and Mistresses may sit at the top, but remember; it’s those who own the night who control the secrets. And I am ready to collect.”
Vixen’s words hang heavy in the air, charged with a quiet thrill. Jacki and Nikki exchange a glance, the spark of possibility igniting in both their eyes. They’ve each felt the limitations of their roles, the ceiling pressed down on them by titles and traditions, yet here Vixen is, standing apart from it all. Unbound by rank, free to shape her own path in a way neither of them can, she’s daring them to follow her into unknown territory.
Jacki is the first to speak, her voice low but steady. “You’re talking about a move that goes beyond power in the shadows, aren’t you? You want influence in broad daylight; something the Council can’t ignore, something the realm will have no choice but to respect.”
Vixen’s eyes flash with satisfaction. “Precisely. They see me as the woman who owns the night, someone to be tolerated and even secretly admired but never respected. What they don’t understand is that I am not content in their shadows. I want to shatter their illusion of control and show the realm that power doesn’t rest in titles. It rests in influence, and I have that in spades. Now I need to wield it openly, but carefully, so that they have no choice but to acknowledge it.”
Nikki leans forward, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, lost in thought. “You’ll need more than us to shake the foundations of this society, Vixen. You’ll need whispers in the right ears, alliances that reach beyond the walls of your clubs.”
Vixen nods. “And that’s why I need you two. Jacki, you have Lady Eleanor’s ear. She’s staunchly traditional, but she’s ambitious, and ambition is a flame that can be stoked. If she sees an opportunity to outmanoeuvre other Ladies, she’ll bite. Plant the idea subtly, let it simmer. Make her believe that aligning with a new kind of power could elevate her above her peers.”
Jacki’s lips curl into a knowing smile. “Lady Eleanor’s weakness has always been her appetite for influence. I can make her see what she wants to see. Consider it done.”
Vixen’s gaze shifts to Nikki. “Lady Isobel, on the other hand, is the most cunning of them all. She values loyalty but sees through deception in an instant. I don’t need her support, but I need her silence. Ensure she doesn’t stand in my way.”
Nikki tilts her head, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Isobel loves her secrets, and she knows mine well enough to understand the value of discretion. She’ll watch this unfold from the side-lines. And if she sees any chance to benefit, she won’t interfere.”
Vixen’s fingers drum rhythmically against the counter. She can feel the pulse of her plan coming to life, each piece falling into place. She’s been waiting, biding her time, letting the realm of Cruella continue its dance of hypocrisy and false righteousness. But now, with Jacki and Nikki at her side, she’s ready to pull the strings of this intricate puppet show.
“There’s one more element we need,” Vixen says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The hearts and minds of the women who come to my clubs; the ones who dream of a life like the Ladies but know they’ll never achieve it. They’re the ones who believe the system is fair, that they can climb their way to the top if they’re chosen. I want them to question everything.”
Jacki raises an eyebrow. “You’re thinking of using them to stir the pot?”
Vixen nods slowly. “If they see the cracks, if they start to realize the system is rigged, it’ll create pressure from the bottom up. Enough pressure, and even the Council won’t be able to ignore it. This will be a revolution, subtle and unspoken, but one that will change everything.”
Nikki smiles, a predatory glint in her eye. “This realm is overdue for a shake-up. And it’s deliciously ironic, isn’t it? The Ladies, sitting at the top, so sure of their power, will never see it coming. They’ll continue to play their games, oblivious that the very world they created is crumbling from beneath them.”
Vixen raises her glass, her eyes alight with fierce resolve. “To the beginning of the end,” she says, her voice a low, thrilling murmur. Jacki and Nikki raise their glasses, clinking them together in a silent vow.
As they drink, each of them envisions the road ahead; long, winding, and filled with peril. But they know one thing for certain: they’re ready to seize it. The realm of Cruella will be forever changed, and it will be by the hands of the women who dared to defy its rules.
Wine glasses empty and refill with every swirl of rich crimson, and their conversations blur between cunning plans and shared memories. The night stretches on, each glass loosening tongues and emboldening ambitions.
A servant; a nameless figure, a mere accessory in their world; kneels at their feet, mouth open, awaiting his sole purpose tonight. His eyes are cast downward, empty of any expression but resigned compliance, as if he has long ago accepted his role in the presence of women so clearly his superiors. To Vixen, Jacki, and Nikki, he is no more significant than the wine bottle on the table or the gleaming glasses they drink from.
Vixen leans back in her chair, her sleek black boots crossed, and takes a long drag from her cigarette. The red ember glows brighter as she inhales, her lips parting slightly as she savors the taste, letting the smoke swirl in her lungs before releasing it in a thin, lazy stream. She reaches down absentmindedly, barely glancing at the man kneeling beside her, and taps the end of her cigarette. The ash falls neatly into his waiting mouth. His discomfort is as irrelevant as the smoke that dissipates into the air around them.
“Imagine,” she says, exhaling smoke with a slow, satisfied smile, “the Council’s faces when they realize they’ve lost control. They’ll be scrambling, clinging to their titles as if they matter.”
Jacki chuckles, leaning over to flick her own ash into the servant’s mouth. Her eyes don’t even meet his; she looks instead to Nikki, sharing a wicked smile, as if the man beneath her is nothing more than a piece of furniture. He dutifully shifts to catch her ash, a silent, invisible presence that enables their indulgence but holds no more value than the leather chair she sits on.
Nikki lights her cigarette, inhaling deeply and leaning back, exuding a satisfied sigh. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she muses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she exhales, her smoke mingling with Vixen’s. “All these little cogs, spinning away to serve us without a thought. And yet they believe they’re part of something greater. How quaint.”
The servant’s mouth remains open, his face an unreadable mask, though his eyes flinch each time a new flick of ash lands on his tongue. None of the women notice or care; to them, he is no more sentient than the ash itself. His discomfort, any taste of bitterness or dryness, is entirely beneath their notice. They are the focal points of this world, and he is simply a tool within it.
Vixen leans down once more, the corner of her mouth quirking in amusement as she watches the ashes fall from her cigarette, each piece landing perfectly onto his tongue. “They’ll watch from the side-lines as we move the pieces, utterly oblivious,” she says, and then pauses, amused by her own metaphor. “Much like him,” she adds, gesturing to the servant with a slight tilt of her head, her eyes still never really meeting his.
Nikki laughs, a rich, throaty sound, and lifts her glass in a toast. “To power and to the tools that make it so easy for us to seize it.” She taps her cigarette, another sprinkle of ash tumbling into the servant’s mouth as if he were nothing more than a living, breathing ashtray. His discomfort; his presence itself; is invisible, eclipsed entirely by the elegance and authority of the women who sit above him.
Epilogue
The servant finds himself in the large garage belonging to Vixen. Here she has a huge collection of beautiful prestige cars. He finds himself, naked, beneath one of them. It is a blue sports car. low profile so he is firmly trapped beneath. He was placed here by Vixen’s personal security guards. Powerful women with tremendous fighting skills and of course armed. He has been left here overnight. He can only use this time to contemplate his fate. He was privy to the conversation the previous night between Vixen and her friends. Possibly the alcohol loosened their lips a little but in any case he is a witness and that will not do.
The morning sun filters weakly through the dusty windows of the sprawling garage, casting faint slants of light across rows of gleaming vehicles, each a testament to Vixen’s wealth and taste. Chrome and steel glint coldly in the half-light, sleek reflections flickering across the walls, almost as if the cars themselves are alive, each an extension of her power and prestige. The air is tinged with the scent of motor oil and metal; a sharp, sterile odour that feels brutally indifferent, much like the woman herself.
He lies beneath the low-slung blue sports car, pressed into the unforgiving concrete by the vehicle’s cold, greasy undercarriage. All night, the cruel metal has dug into his chest, the chill seeping into his bones, a stark contrast to the plush warmth of her life beyond these walls. Left here as punishment; or perhaps simply discarded as a thoughtless aftereffect of Vixen’s whims; he has had hours to contemplate his fate, his devotion, his utter insignificance in her eyes. His chest aches with the dull weight of metal, and his mind pulses with disbelief, a desperate kind of confusion. How could she believe he would betray her? He has done nothing but worship her, serve her, submit to her every whim with a devotion he once thought would be valued, perhaps even treasured.
But Vixen is not the type to treasure anything that isn’t herself. While he lay in the frigid grip of the garage, his body trapped beneath her car, she had luxuriated in a scented bath, the warm water lapping over her skin, her mind adrift in thoughts of self-indulgence and future conquests. She had lounged in silken robes, poured herself glasses of fine wine, her lips curved in a serene smile, entirely oblivious; or more likely, entirely indifferent; to the suffering she had orchestrated. The disparity is staggering; while he lies bruised, his body moulding itself to the cold ground beneath her car, she basks in warmth, surrounded by softness, ensconced in a world that caters only to her comfort.
Then, he hears it; the crisp, decisive sound of her heels, echoing through the vast silence of the garage. Sharp, metallic clicks that reverberate with purpose and power, each step reminding him of the absolute control she holds over his life. Those heels, tipped with polished steel, have a bite to them, a dangerous edge that mirrors her own personality. He can’t see her yet, but the sound of those cruel heels foretell an ordeal yet to come.
Vixen pauses by the door of the blue sports car, her gloved fingers tracing a slow, deliberate line over the polished surface, savouring its sleek beauty. She’s dressed immaculately, as always; thigh-high boots that hug her legs like a second skin, riding jodhpurs and a tailored white blouse cinched at the waist and leather gloves so perfectly fitted they might as well be her own flesh. With a smooth motion, she slides into the driver’s seat, adding her weight to the vehicle that already presses so mercilessly upon him. The car sinks down another fraction, the leather seats embracing her as she settles in, while his chest absorbs the increased weight, his ribs straining under the relentless pressure.
She lights a cigarette, a small indulgence to savour before setting her plans into motion. The flick of the lighter is soft but precise, her movements controlled and elegant. She takes a long drag, allowing the taste to fill her mouth, the smoke to settle in her lungs, before exhaling in a slow, satisfied stream. She feels at ease, every inch of her body comfortable, relaxed, cradled by the warmth of the luxury vehicle. The supple leather moulds to her form, insulating her from the world outside, cocooning her in comfort. In this moment, she is the embodiment of effortless power, enjoying the taste of tobacco and control in equal measure.
With a lazy twist of her wrist, she turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, the rumble reverberating through the metal, traveling down through his body as if the car itself were an extension of her will. The sound is deep, powerful, almost animalistic; a fitting contrast to his frail form pinned beneath it, a reminder of just how small and helpless he is in her world. She smirks, taking another drag from her cigarette, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction.
Without a glance downward, without a single thought to his well-being or survival, she shifts the car into reverse. Her gloved hand wraps around the gearstick with practiced ease, the leather creaking softly against her fingers as she slides it into position. Her booted foot presses lightly on the accelerator, sending the car rolling back, each inch adding unbearable pressure onto his chest. Because he is already trapped tightly beneath the car, the motion backwards causes his body to roll with it, ripping the skin away. His blood mixes with the grease and dirt on the chassis. His shoulders snap and bones in both arms are broken. How easily his body crumples beneath the combined weight of the car and it’s precious driver; yet how little she does to create untold agony. A tiny movement from her delicate feet is all that it takes. So easy that she can simply relax and smoke whilst he suffers beneath her; nothing more than a worthless insect in her world of privilege. She adjusts the steering wheel with precision, angling it so that her driver’s side tire will pass directly over his chest.
The wheel begins its cruel journey, rolling over his ribcage with deliberate slowness. She feels the bump as her car rises over him, a satisfying feeling as his chest begins to cave beneath the weight. To her, it is nothing more than a tactile sensation, a minor detail to be acknowledged and then dismissed. The slight resistance is just enough to amuse her, a reminder of her complete and utter dominance. The pressure increases, and the wheel presses down, unforgiving and merciless, every ounce of the car’s weight; and her indifference; driving into him.
Satisfied, she continues her reverse, pulling away from his body with the same casual ease. She shifts into first gear, inhaling another deep drag of her cigarette, allowing herself a moment to relish the taste of smoke and leather, of power and absolute control. With a firm press on the gas, she accelerates away, the roar of the engine filling the garage as she leaves him broken and gasping, a forgotten casualty of her morning routine.
She’ll spend her day in pampered luxury, her mind entirely free of him, indulging in salon treatments, massages, perhaps even a bit of shopping. Every detail of her day will be perfectly curated for her enjoyment, a seamless continuation of the pleasure and control she holds over every aspect of her life. She won’t spare a single thought for him, lying battered and broken on the cold garage floor.
And when she returns, it will be without ceremony or emotion. She’ll park her car in the exact same spot, aligning the driver’s side wheel precisely over his head this time, just to be certain. She’ll feel the satisfying crunch beneath her, something that will no doubt make her smile. A final, careless punctuation to his existence, the ultimate expression of her dominance. For her, it’s nothing more than a routine; a trivial detail in her day.
For him, it is the last, brutal confirmation of his worthlessness in her eyes, a fate sealed not by hate or malice, but by pure, unfeeling indifference.