Madison’s World Redux: Season Two: Episode Fifty Three

“Cindy? She’s still practicing painting nails. We’re struggling big time over here,” Madison said with a casual laugh, her voice loud and clear as she spoke to Krysi on the phone. “We’ve yet to get an even line, and it’s been like two, almost three hours. Yeah, still the first nail.”

Cindy felt a wave of humiliation wash over her as Madison’s words hit her. Hearing her daughter casually explain to Krysi Synder, of all people, that they had been at this for nearly three hours without completing even a single nail made her stomach twist. Krysi’s judgmental tone wasn’t hard to imagine, Cindy didn’t even need to hear it to feel the sting.

Her frustration only deepened as she looked at Madison’s nails, their blank surfaces mocking her. She had painted nails for years, this wasn’t supposed to be difficult. She had taught Madison how to do makeup when she was younger, showing her the basics, guiding her through the early stages. She had been a teacher, a mentor. And while she had to admit that with the rise of online tutorials and beauty influencers, Madison had eventually surpassed her, this wasn’t supposed to be complicated. This was just a simple task—a straight line of polish down the nail, even and clean. Yet it seemed beyond her now. She was, as Madison had put it, having to “relearn” everything, starting from square one.

The very idea of being Madison’s student was an embarrassment in itself. Cindy had been the one to teach her daughter, to pass down the skills she now struggled to replicate. But here she was, being trained by her own daughter—trained not just in something trivial, but in how to be a “proper” Little. It was a cruel inversion of the relationship she once had with Madison. The guardian skills, the discipline, the techniques she had once taught Madison were now being turned back on her, used to instruct her on how to function as a Little.

And Madison wasn’t even discreet about it. Her conversation with Krysi continued, every point another public dissection of Cindy’s failures. Each comment felt like a fresh wound, another blow to her pride. Listening to her shortcomings being discussed so casually was bad enough, but then Madison turned her phone around, pointing the camera directly at Cindy.

Suddenly, Krysi was watching her, evaluating her, as Cindy struggled to paint a single nail. The weight of Krysi’s unseen gaze bore down on her like a heavy shroud, adding another layer of shame to an already unbearable situation. Cindy’s hands trembled as she tried to maintain her composure, but the pressure was overwhelming. For two or three agonizing minutes, Madison held the phone toward her, showing Krysi every clumsy attempt Cindy made to correct the simple task.

“See what I mean, Krysi?” Madison said, her voice casual yet condescending. “Yeah, she has almost no natural Little skills. But she’s my Little, though. I still love her—it’s just going to be a longer road.”

Cindy’s heart sank further as Madison paused, glancing down at her with a mixture of pity and authority. “Don’t get discouraged, Mom. I know you’re trying.” Her voice softened slightly, but the words felt empty. “Why don’t you put the brush back in the bottle for now? Screw it on tightly and make sure my nail’s cleaned off. I don’t want this cheap stuff on my nails.”

Madison returned to her conversation with Krysi, her attention drifting back to her phone as if Cindy’s struggles were nothing more than a side note. Left behind, Cindy began to clean the smeared nail polish from Madison’s hand, each stroke a reminder of how far things had shifted between them. Once, she had been the guiding hand, the mother who taught her daughters how to handle the world. Now, she was being corrected like a clumsy student, her mistakes laid bare for judgment.

As she wiped away the cheap polish, her hands moving methodically over Madison’s nail, the humiliation festered inside her. This wasn’t just about failing to paint a nail—it was about what she had become. She wasn’t just Madison’s mother anymore. She was her Little, and every passing moment made that painfully clear.

Madison glanced down at her mother, her eyes scanning the freshly cleaned nails. Satisfied, she inspected Cindy with a methodical precision before finally speaking. “Make sure you’re completely clean of any polish. I don’t paint on my couch.” Her tone was firm, almost mechanical, a cadence Cindy knew all too well. It was the same voice she herself had used on Madison just a week ago, telling her daughter to make sure her hands were clean before sitting on her sofa.

But now, the sofa wasn’t hers anymore. It was Madison’s. The room wasn’t hers, the authority wasn’t hers—nothing was. The shift had been so absolute, so jarring, that even the smallest remnants of her former life felt like a distant memory. She was the one being admonished now. She was the one who had to check herself, to follow Madison’s rules.

“Y-yes, of course, Ms. Wessen. I’m all clean.” Cindy’s voice trembled slightly, the words unnatural and stiff as they left her lips. She couldn’t even say her own daughter’s name. It was above her now, an honor she no longer had the privilege to utter. Cindy felt the familiar sting of humiliation as she realized how deeply ingrained this new reality had become. It was her own doing—her own rules, her own theories, her own beliefs about how Littles should be treated. And now, she was living them. Madison’s name would never leave her lips again, and they both knew it.

“Good. Climb onto my foot, Little,” Madison instructed, her tone casual but commanding. Gone was the warmth of earlier; now Cindy was just Little again, stripped of even the smallest sense of personhood. Cindy recognized the shift, feeling the subtle frustration in Madison’s voice—three hours, and she hadn’t managed to paint a single nail properly. What was meant to be practice had instead become a humiliating failure.

Cindy swallowed her pride and did as she was told. She crawled toward Madison’s foot, starting at her daughter’s toes and carefully pulling herself up until she was perched atop her foot. Her body felt small and fragile, draped across the broad expanse of Madison’s foot, which had grown so much in her mind, both literally and figuratively.

“Hang on,” Madison said with little care as she continued her conversation with Krysi, barely acknowledging her mother’s efforts. Cindy gripped her daughter’s foot tightly, feeling the lurch as Madison lifted her leg. Cindy’s small frame smacked against the top of Madison’s foot, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around it, as though she were hugging it for dear life. The gesture, though practical, only amplified her humiliation.

Madison lifted her foot higher, carelessly plopping it down onto the couch as she stretched out, still engrossed in her show and her conversation with Krysi. Cindy remained there, her small body draped across Madison’s foot, trapped in a position that was both physically and emotionally degrading.

“You can, like, relax or whatever, Mom,” Madison said, her voice nonchalant as she continued chatting with Krysi. “I know you worked hard. I know how much pressure it must be for you to even attempt the smallest part of my makeup.” Madison’s tone dripped with a mixture of condescension and feigned encouragement. “We’ll keep at it, though. A few hours every night for the next few months, and eventually, you’ll get it right. Then we can move on to designs, and after that, we’ll work up to fingernails.”

Cindy felt a cold dread settle in her stomach at the thought of this endless cycle of training, of being forced to master skills that had once come so easily to her but now felt impossibly out of reach. The idea of practicing for months, hours each night, was almost unbearable. She could feel Madison’s words pressing down on her, the expectations, the disappointments, all intertwined with this relentless schedule.

“Oh, speaking of chores,” Madison added, her voice casual as if discussing something mundane, “I washed one of my sweatshirts with a sweater, and now it’s all linty. I’ll let you and Dad out of the habitat tomorrow to pick the lint balls off it. I can’t wear it to school on Monday in its current state.”

Cindy’s heart sank further. The task itself wasn’t the issue, it was the way Madison spoke about it, the way she handed out orders as if Cindy’s sole purpose now was to serve. The tasks were menial, the tone dismissive, as if she were asking nothing more than a simple favor. But the reality of it, the reality of being let out of the habitat just to pick lint off a sweatshirt, was a harsh reminder of her reduced status.

Madison didn’t even wait for a response before returning to her conversation with Krysi, the tone of her voice light and carefree once again. Cindy was left alone, lying on the couch, still clinging to Madison’s foot, feeling an overwhelming mixture of shame and resentment. This small bit of freedom, this opportunity to simply lie on the couch, felt like a reward—a reward she hated herself for appreciating.

As Madison continued talking, laughing, and enjoying her conversation, Cindy’s mind raced. The techniques she had once taught, the rules she had once enforced, were now being used against her. And the worst part was that they were working. Madison’s training was working. Cindy was following the rules, internalizing them, and feeling something resembling gratitude for the smallest scraps of freedom.

And she hated it. Hated that she was falling into the role so easily. Hated that she was beginning to respond the way a Little should. Hated that this world she had once controlled was now controlling her.

Cindy slid off Madison’s foot, landing softly on the cushion beneath her. The plush fabric, once familiar and comforting, now felt strange, alien. On either side of her, Madison’s long legs stretched out like barriers, subtly trapping her in place. The television blared in the background, some reality show or drama that Cindy didn’t recognize, but it was just background noise to Madison’s main focus: the phone firmly held in her hand, where she continued her video call with Krysi, her laughter and conversation filling the room.

Cindy glanced across the wide expanse of the couch, a gulf of space between her and Madison, littered with the remnants of her daughter’s snacks. Drink cans and bottles were scattered across the table, along with various crumpled wrappers and half-eaten packages of chips and candy. It was chaos, a stark contrast to the way Cindy used to keep her home, her home that now felt more like Madison’s domain. It was Madison who ruled here. Everything about the room, the mess, the noise, the casual disregard for order, was a testament to that fact.

As Cindy sat there, feeling small and out of place, she watched as Madison took the final bite of her burger, the one McKenzie had bought her hours ago. She had been eating it slowly, in between conversations, savoring it as though she had all the time in the world. When she was done, she casually balled up the wrapper and tossed it onto the growing pile of trash, as if it belonged there, as if everything in the room was hers to control and discard at will.

Cindy’s instinct was to say something. To gently remind Madison to clean up, to put the trash in the bin, to bring some semblance of order back to the room. But that instinct was smothered before it could even fully form. She knew better now. What could she say? She wasn’t Madison’s mother in any real sense anymore, not the way it mattered. She wasn’t an authority figure. She wasn’t in charge of anything. She was Madison’s Little. And as Madison’s Little, it wasn’t her place to correct her daughter or give her any sort of instruction.

Everything here belonged to Madison now. The sofa, the room, the trash, even Cindy herself. It was a hard truth to swallow, but it was the reality she lived in. Madison had full authority over her, and every inch of the space they shared was a reflection of that power imbalance. Cindy could feel it pressing down on her, the unspoken rule that she was no longer the decision-maker in her own life.

She sat there in silence, surrounded by the casual chaos Madison had created, knowing that any protest, any attempt to assert herself, would be pointless. There was nothing left to say, nothing left to do but wait for Madison’s next command.

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