FOOT WORSHIP

It was an unspoken and unrecognised desire, unlocked with such ease and intensity there was no turning back.

The sight of a strong, proud man taking each sole in his hands and slowly kissing them in their entirety. Lips pressed to arch, ankles caressed by a softened masculine touch. Toes thrust into keen mouth, tongue desperate to please.

Nothing satisfies me more than a proud man humbled at my feet. The melting of ego as he takes his rightful place beneath me. A palpable eagerness to ascend higher - the feet a gateway to an expanse he is frustratingly denied access to explore.

My feet are undeniably beautiful. Pampered, painted, flexible, slender and soft. They may be dirtied, but they are never unclean - sweat only strengthening their pheromones and allure.

There is a physical pleasure to their attention, but this pales in comparison to the satisfaction gleaned from the power exchange their worship represents.

He is mine. Underfoot. Under thumb. Under complete control.

Lingering eye contact. Sole pressed to his face, a cruel smile breaking across mine. Words become unnecessary - each brush of thumb, each glance an eternity of dialogue. One foot above, another below. Teasing and taunting - strokes and blows - pain and pleasure in equal measure, driving us both insane.

Until finally - denial. Desperate eyes hurriedly cast down, glimpsing turned heels. Squirming discomfort eventually turning to gratitude.

A pervasive memory that will invade every quiet moment he has for the days that follow - the reinforcement of status extending far beyond the time shared skin to skin.