Day 01
I always feel like morning wood is a different kind of hard on from arousal, although it so easily shades into the more amorous kind, albeit tensioned by the need to pee. When I awake, I roll sleepily towards you and nestle my prick between your butt cheeks, cupping your stomach with the palm of one hand and letting my face rest against the back of your neck. You wriggle against me, and I, almost reflexively grind against your backside.
"Mmmm. Someone's pleased to see me." You mumble sleepily. I can see you smiling, eyes still shut.
"Aren't you just making things harder on yourself though?"
"Ungh. Worth, ungh, it" I answer, breathing in your sleep-smell and kissing your neck. You chuckle, and press your backside into me.
"You want breakfast?" I ask, half hoping, if I'm honest, that you'll answer no- you want me inside you.
"Mmmm. Go make me toast."
I thrust against you a little more, then pull myself away with a sigh. As I walk to the kitchen, I see you enjoying my erection bouncing and tugging at my boxer shorts and feel.. sexy.
I make coffee, I warm pastries, I bring them to you in bed. You're sitting up by the time I return, reading the paper on your phone. I set down the breakfast things next to you and roll back under the duvet and up against you to read over your shoulder. You reach up a hand and stroke my head. Morning is not a time for rough play.
"I wonder how I should torture you today?" You muse, taking a sip of your coffee. Morning is a time for teasing.
"Well you know you don't have to torture me - I mean, it is the weekend. You could-"
"You don't want me to torture you?"
"I-"
"You don't want me to tease you, use you for my own amusement?"
"I mean I-"
"But this isn't about what you want. Is it? Hmmm?"
"No." I say, softly.
"What is it about?"
"What you want."
"Good boy. And besides.. you are longing to be tortured. Aren't you?"
"Mmhmm."
"No - say it."
"Ok, ok! I'm longing to be tortured by you!" I say laughing and burying my face in the pillow. Your hand slides down under the covers and traces the head of my cock. "Good." You say, smiling happily.
We get up, we shower, we dress, and I make more coffee. You refrain from further torture while we spin up for the day, assuredly content in the knowledge that my anticipation is doing that without any effort needed on your part.
"So, what d'you want to do today?" I ask, once we are sitting at the table with coffee.
"Well, we need some food shopping, and I want to do some gardening."
"Ok, shall I go get some stuff in for dinner? Anything you'd particularly like?"
"Mmmm.. I think you can make me steak frites, and get me a nice bottle of red to go with it. And we need milk."
"... do I get to have steak and wine as well?" I ask.
"Maybe" You answer nonchalantly "depends how I feel at dinner time."
"Of course, boss" I say, rolling my eyes - you like it sometimes when I am just the right amount of bratty. You give me a cool stare.
"Oh, and I want you to change before you go out. No underwear for you today, ok?" I nod, put back in my place. You stand up and ruffle my hair as you walk out of the room.
"Good boy."
I go and change. The exchange in the kitchen left me half hard, and I have to make an effort not to linger over removing my boxer shorts. You're already in the garden when I come to kiss you goodbye, standing barefoot on the grass holding a trowel.
"I didn't feel like wearing shoes today" You say, grinning. "Hope my feet don't get too dirty." Because you're going to me licking them clean, dirty little bitch, the unspoken codicil.
"Ok, have fun babe." I say, kissing you, sneaking my tongue between your lips.
"Always do! Oh, hang on-" You slip a cool hand into the top of my jeans and fondle my penis. "Just needed to check something." You say with a wink.
I roll my eyes at you and leave you to your gardening, the denim of my jeans rough against my erection.
Everywhere I go, I am aware that I have no underwear. Millions of people wear no pants and it isn't a big deal. I've worn none and it wasn't a big deal. It is only a big deal because you made me do it (isn't that always the way), as a subtle humiliation, and in the knowledge that I'll be hyper aware of my penis. I'm also hyper aware of a mental picture of your dirty soles descending onto my upturned face. These two things interact, as you knew they would, and I am tormented through the farmers market by an erect cock against rough fabric, and the feeling that everyone can see it. I keep pulling my t-shirt down, worried the swollen head will peek out when I bend over to scoop up potatoes.
I buy enough steak for both of us - onglet, well hung - because while I don't doubt that you might decide I should be denied it, that should be your decision not mine. My phone buzzes in my pocket - a message from you "Do your balls ache yet?"
I consider this, and decide to answer honestly.
"Not yet! :-*" this is not intended as a challenge, but at the same time it is an invitation to be challenged.
"Squeeze them until they do. Now."
I consider... cheating. I'm in public, and this is a ridiculous thing to demand. But then I'd have to tell you I didn't do as I was told, and you might not want to play any more. I walk until I find a quiet spot, and grab my balls through the pocket of my trousers. I squeeze until they hurt.
Bzzt bzzt "Good boy."
I didn't tell you I'd done it, you aren't stalking me - watching covertly from being a tree.. but you know I am your good boy, and have absolute confidence that I will obey. That makes me feel warm inside.
"Thank you mistress" I message back. I finish up the shopping - buying wine is not my forte, and I'm forced to ask advice from the young woman behind the counter. I struggle to hear what she is saying over my anxiety that she can somehow sense my quasi nudity, smell the servitude on me, but come away a bottle of Bordeaux and a friendly wave rather than abject humiliation.
By the time I get home, you've finished gardening and are lying on the grass on your belly. I take on the sight of your long pale legs stretched against the green, and watch your grimy toes playing with the grass. If you haven't made a deliberate effort to dirty your feet, you certainly haven't tried to keep them clean.
I call hello, and put the shopping away.
"Get you anything?" I shout from the kitchen.
"No thanks." You call back. "Come sit with me!"
I throw myself down on the grass beside you, feel your sun warmed bare thigh with my hand. We talk - normal talk, then you ask if I'm not a bit hot in jeans. Maybe we should go inside, and I should take them off. We go inside, you pulling me behind you - fingers loosely gripping my wrist rather than holding my hand. You don't take me to the bedroom, just inside the patio doors. Our garden is overlooked on both sides, but the front room is an island.
"Take them off then!" You say, sitting down on the sofa. I unbuckle, and let them drop to the floor.
"Oh man, have you been that hard the whole time?" You ask.
"No! It.. comes and goes?" I say, trying to explain, and feeling somehow judged.
"Oh really.. when does it come then?" You ask, settling back on the sofa, and crossing your ankles.
"Well.. when I think about you, I guess. Or think about what you're making me do." You nod.
"When else? Did you get hard when you squeezed your balls for me?"
I nod, frown. "I was already hard when I did that, because.. you'd asked if they felt sore."
"Good." You say grinning "any other times?"
Maybe you were following me? I tell you about the girl in the off-licence. It occurs to me that you might punish me for it, but if you punish me, then I deserved it. You laugh, which is embarrassing but a relief.
"Oh man, so you were worried that what, she'd know your prick was flapping around? Or that she could tell you're my bitch? My slave?"
"Yes, all of that."
"Aw my poor pet. Hey, maybe she could tell and was just being kind? Was she cute?"
"I dunno. I guess." I say uncomfortably. She was cute.
"Maybe we should go together next time, huh? Think she'd be able to tell?" I can't meet your gaze anymore and stand looking at the floor, at your feet, still crossed at the ankle.
"Maybe I'd make you show her how you submit to me." You continue thoughtfully "make you kneel down right there? In front of the pretty shop girl and kiss your mistress's feet? Have you tell her how you live to lick the sweat from between my toes? Would you like that?"
"No mistress" I whisper. You wouldn't let me do that. That sort of public play is past my limits, and you know it. This does not mean you don't take a degree of pleasure in threatening me with it, in the knowledge that you _could_ make me, if you wanted to. The inversions of this tableau strike me. I stand over you, phallic symbol of male power in full effect. Taller, stronger, but entirely subjugated. I could stand on a mountain looking down on you and still be below you. I want to correct the imbalance, to kneel, crawl to you, be where I belong - at your feet.
"Please mistress, may I kneel? I.." I grope for words to explain that I want, need even, to be in my place.
"You may not. Come here." My shoulders slump a little, and I pad towards you. You reach out and begin playing with my cock, running soft fingers over it, grasping it loosely and jerking with enough friction to make me moan softly. You take me into your mouth, and run your tongue down my length, then grab my buttocks with one hand, digging your nails into my flesh and suck deeply. My knees go weak and my eyes roll back, I slide a hand into your hair and against your skull and thrust and fuck your mouth, pushing myself deep into your throat until you gag. You side of the sofa and kneel in front of me.
You love my cock - you have told me this often. The feel of it, the taste, the smell, the pulse of it in your mouth.
I look down at you, push your hair off your face so we can meet each other's gaze. You love my cock, and - "I - hnnnuuugh - love - ahhhhh - watching you suck my cock - uhhhhng - down on your - ahhhhh - knees, mouth full of - uhhhh - me, while I" I tighten my hand in your hair, gripping it tightly so it tugs your head back and holds you firm, and brings you just a little pain "fuck" thrust "your" thrust "mouth". Your hand has slid into your shorts and you are rubbing your clitoris furiously. You slurp greedily and sloppily at my cock as you bring yourself to a rolling orgasm, releasing me from your mouth as you do to gasp in air. You kneel panting in front of me, looking down at your knees, my prick, dripping with precum and saliva. I can see your dirty toes peeking out from under your backside.
"Ungh" you say, leaning back on one hand and grinning up at me. "How was that for you babe?"
"Crazy hot" I answer, somewhat redundantly given my still throbbing erection. My hands are clenched into fists, so tightly that my fingernails might draw blood.
"Tell me what you want?" You ask.
"I want to cum all over your face" I answer honestly. If I unball my fists, I won't be able to stop myself stroking my cock to a furious release. I can see a mental image of my hot cum spattering across your upturned face, running through your eyelashes and down your cheeks, your tongue darting out to taste it.
"Oh I bet you would" You say, still grinning "but" you pull a comically sorrowful face "you're just going to have to keep on wanting. I'm going for a run!"
You hop up, kiss me deeply so that I can taste myself on your tongue, and walk off leaving me twanging like a bow string.
"Clean the kitchen while I'm out" You call over your shoulder as the door slams behind you. I pull my jeans up gingerly, and go to start work on the kitchen. Now my balls are aching.
The rest of the afternoon passes without major incident. You don't bother to inspect the kitchen on your return, but instead go and change into clean clothes, although I can't help noticing when you return you're still wearing your running shoes. The shoes stay on for the remainder of the day. I try to read my book, but it is difficult to concentrate over the knowledge of how hot and sweaty your feet must be.
"Can I get you anything?" I ask.
"You're very solicitous today, that's the third time you've asked me in the last hour! No thanks. When I want something, I'll tell you." You give me a reassuring pat on the butt as you say this. I feel too restless to sit any longer, so I go to clean the bathroom, wanting to be useful, pleasing, exist in your orbit.
You come in while I'm scrubbing the toilet. "Don't get up" You say, stepping around me and sitting down to pee, ignoring me while you do. I stay kneeling just in front of you, you stand and pull your underwear up slowly, my head just level with your vulva. I can smell your stale sweat, sex, a trace of piss. You pull up your trousers, ruffle my hair, and walk off again.
I flush the toilet, and return to scrubbing.
Once the bathroom is sparkling, I start prepping for dinner. I take the steak out of the fridge, to let it warm a little, and begin scrubbing potatoes. You come in, pour yourself a glass of wine without offering me one, and walk out again. You have not said whether I should make dinner for myself as well. I decide that it would be wiser to check.
"How much steak should I cook?" I call. Hearing no answer, I dry my hands and go to find you. You look up as I enter the front room and raise your eyebrows questioningly.
"How much steak should I cook? I got a couple."
"Oh just one I think."
"Oh.. Ok. Um.. should I make something else for myself?"
"Mmm. You may have the salad left over from yesterday. Make a fresh one for me."
"I didn't earn a proper dinner?" I ask, feeling an edge of irritation. You raise an eyebrow at my tone.
"Keep that pouting up and you'll lose the salad, _slave_." You say, emphasising the final word. "I just felt like denying you." You shrug, nonchalantly. "Is that.. a problem?"
"No mistress." I say, quickly.
"Good." You dismiss me with a wave of your hand, then as I'm stepping through the door "wait.. I've changed my mind." Thank goodness, I think. "You can have some crackers. Put the salad in the compost." My shoulders droop a little.
"Yes mistress." I say. I can feel your wicked smile through the skin of my back as I go to cook your steak.
I cut matchstick thin fries from potatoes, cook the steak in a scorching hot cast iron pan, adding butter and herbs at the last moment and leave it to rest while I fry (twice - three times is too much for frites this thin), and make you a fresh salad.
I plate up in the kitchen, your steak sliced to show the just-medium rare interior, the frites rustling and salted. I plate myself up a handful of dry crackers, arranged in a tower in the middle of the vast empty plate.
We eat at the table, make normal conversation. You tell me the steak is delicious. I eat my crackers and drink water, enjoy your enjoyment of the meal I have made for you. I don't finish my crackers - there is only so much blandness I can take.
When you have nearly finished the steak, you raise a forkful to your mouth, then, looking me dead in the eye and smiling, knock the chunk of steak deliberately onto the floor under the table.
"Whoops" You deadpan. "Get that for me, would you?"
"Of course" I say, clambering under the table. The steak has landed between your shoes. I reach to pick it up, but before I can you bring a foot down on top of it.
"Use your mouth." You tell me, looking down at me between your knees.
"Yes miss." I say, meekly. You move your shoe, and I bring my face to the floor and awkwardly mouth the bit of steak. It is indented with the tread of your trainer, and dusty-gritty in my mouth. Before I can move, your foot comes to rest on the back of my head, pushing me face down into the floor. We remain like this, until I hear the clatter of your knife and fork on the plate, and then a kick to my head as you brace against it to push back your chair. The rubber of your shoe sole tugs painfully at my hair, then the weight releases. I stay, face pressed into the floor, wanting to look at you, feeling your considering gaze on me, hearing you take another sip of wine. The heel of one shoe lands between my shoulders, digging in as you cross your legs.
"I've been wearing these shoes all day, slave."
"Yes mistress, I couldn't help noticing" I say into the floor, my pulse quickening.
"And I went running earlier." You lean forward, which makes the edge of your shoe dig harder.
"Yes mistress" I say, swallowing.
"It was hot today, wasn't it slave?" You say.
"Yes mistress."
"My feet got so sweaty while I was running. Can you imagine, how gross they are by now? After being trapped in my sweaty socks and these hot shoes all afternoon?" You purr.
"Yes mistress." I whisper into the ground.
"And you're going to lick and suck every inch of them until they're clean, aren't you a lucky little bitch."
"Yes mistress, thank you mistress"
"Did you see how filthy my feet were this morning after gardening?" You ask, moving your feet so they are both pressing down again on the back of my head.
"I did mistress"
"You thought about that all day, didn't you?"
"Yes mistress"
"Tell me what you thought, slave."
"I.. I imagined licking the dirt off your feet mistress. I thought about how it would taste, how low and humiliated I would feel to be used like that."
"Used as what?"
"As your foot cleaner."
"My my. What kind of person wants that? To lick the mud off someone's soles? To suck the grime off the ball of another person's foot?" Your feet move of my head, and you use the toe of one shoe to raise my head so that I'm looking up into your eyes.
"Answer, slave."
I clear my throat. "A dirty slut, mistress?"
"That's right. Is this turning you on slave?"
"Yes mistress. Very much mistress."
"Show me."
I craw out from under the table and strip hastily. I'm furiously hard, precum leaking steadily from my cock.
"Oh my!" You laugh "well now you've made it sound like you're doing something for me by licking my dirty, sweaty, smelly feet clean, but that's not true, is it slave?"
"No mistress, I want to do it." I bow my head. I want to do it because.. because I want to enact my worship of you, because I am a dirty slut and the taste of your sweat is something I crave desperately, because I want to elevate you, because I want to be below you, because I must.
"Then beg for it, slave. Back on your knees and beg me to grant you the boon of licking my feet clean."
I drop to my knees with a thud, it hurts but I'm past caring about that.
"Please mistress, please God please let me lick the sweat and dirt from your perfect feet. Please, I beg you. I want this so badly, I want to swallow down the filth from your soles, I'll do anything mistress." You chuckle, and put a foot on my thigh, twist it so the sole of your shoe pinches my flesh.
"You want it that badly slave?"
"Yes, Yes mistress. I want to taste your feet more than anything. Please let me. Please." I sound desperate. I am desperate. You drag the toe of of your shoe up my hard, hard cock and deliver a gentle kick to the swollen head, making me shudder and wince.
"Hmmm. I don't know slave.. that dick is pretty hard already, wouldn't you like to cum instead?"
I shake my head vigorously. "No, Please mistress I don't want to cum, please let me clean your feet with my slave tongue. I want your toes in my mouth more than I want to cum. A hundred times more. Please. Please I'll do anything you say."
"Slave, you will do anything I say whether I let you tongue bath my gross feet or not." I nod furiously, of course I will. I am yours, everything I am is yours, your want is my need, but I need this. You roll your eyes, then snap your fingers imperiously and point at the floor. I lie on my back. I almost want to cry, the relief is so intense. Your shoes come down on my upturned face, I can't help writhing in pleasure. You bend down and slip them off without bothering to undo the laces, bringing a hot, damp, socked foot down onto my face, then the other. You wiggle your toes, stretch your feet, grind them into my face and against my nose. I feel like I disappear, all I am aware for a moment is the sweet hot smell of you, the feel of your sweat on my lips.
"Easy slave, the neighbours will wonder what we're doing." You say, and I realise that I have been groaning in mindless animal joy, utterly overwhelmed beneath you.
"Smell." You instruct me. I snuffle at your toes craning my neck to push my nose deeply into the crease below your toes.
"Good boy" You coo, pressing me back into the ground, toes wrapped around my nose, tightening them until I can't breathe. I gaze up at you, you look down at me and I feel your love coursing through me. You hold me breathless under your foot, and I just look up into your eyes with total love and trust. You smile at me and mouth "I love you", I break trance, break character for a moment, and give your calf a reassuring squeeze. You loose your grip and I can breathe again, fetid, dank air filling my nose.
"Mmmmm." You purr. "I love feeling the air rushing between my toes when you smell my feet slave" This floods me with joy, elates me. I sniff hungrily, I shut my eyes to experience it better, I'm moaning with each breath out - this is beyond my control. You lift your feet off my face, I stretch to try to follow them, but it is only momentary as you tug your socks off and drop them carelessly onto my face. One flops over my eye, I watch as you inspect the sole of your foot and wrinkle your nose in distaste.
"Oh man" You chuckle "that's pretty gross slave. You'd have to be a real freak to want that in your mouth!"
You dangle your foot tantalisingly above me. Ground in dirt etches the curve of your arch, darkens the ball of your foot and the pads of your toes. You flex, spreading your toes so I can see the fluff and filth between them. I am a freak, I want the taste, the feel of your foot against my tongue, wriggling in my mouth, filling my senses with dirt and salt sweat and soft-coarse skin.
"Please let me mistress." I say plaintively, muffled slightly by the damp sock lying across my mouth. My mouth is watering in desperate anticipation.
You bring your foot down onto my face, kicking aside the socks. You rest the ball of your foot on my lips, so that my nose is nestled against your toes. I don't dare move in case you take it away.
"Sniff, slave." I obey, not that I could do anything else. Your feet never smell bad to me. Or they do, they stink right now - hot stale sweat, dirt, old running shoes. But I am wired to find that stink agonisingly pleasurable. Fuck roses, or fresh mown grass.
"Kiss." You say, squashing my nose as you tip your foot to relieve the weight on my lips. I lick my lips, taste the bitter-salt-sweatiness that coats them, and kiss the ball of your foot. And again, and again, I am losing the little control I have left over myself. You laugh. "Greedy little bitch!" You say, pushing me back into the floor. Did I just whimper?
"Tongue." You say, dangling a dirty foot over me and looking into my eyes. You have views on how your feet are licked, and I must do as you say or risk not being allowed to continue. I stick out my tongue, letting it flop over my bottom lip. You drag your foot down it from heel to the tip of your big toe, I notice the pleasant shudder it gives you, and relish the taste - bitter-salty-dust-dirt-brackish-acid-flesh, and the way your skin feels against my tongue, the shape of your foot sole, the coarse texture of your heel, the yielding crinkling of your arch, the softness of the pads of your big toe.
"Thank you mistress." I say, softly. You smile down at me. You are a beneficent goddess to me.
"Lick, slave." You say, leaning back. I lift your foot tenderly and begin to lap softly up and down the sole of your foot. I swallow the dry sweat, suck ground in dirt down greedily, the taste is adult and complex and fire and electricity in my brain. Wrapping around this sensory explosion is a feeling of utter peace and calm and contentment and safety. I am naked for you, naked before you, naked beneath you, my body and my inner soul loose and on show for you. My secret animal self fully revealed, and seen, and loved, and enjoyed.
You take your foot from my hands and slide your toes between my lips. I quell my instinct to suck, to swirl my tongue between them, as you force them deeper until I feel my mouth will split and my jaw will crack and I am near choking. You lean forward and regard me, mouth stuffed with your sweaty, dirty foot, muck-mixed saliva leaking down my cheek. How must I look to you? Grotesque? Disgusting? Ridiculous? Pathetic? All of them and worse, surely.
"What do you feel, slave? When you look up at me?" You ask, rhetorically. "How does it feel so be so completely below me? To be so utterly owned? Are you ashamed? You shouldn't be. This is where you belong, because you are mine. There is no shame in being used like this, being my slut and play thing." Your other foot rises and pinches my nose roughly shut again. "I own you, and you would do anything I asked, and allow me to do anything I wanted to you." You don't need me to answer, to agree - I would, of course - because these things are simply true, but hearing them said aloud is thrilling.
You release my nose and pull your foot back enough in my mouth to allow yourself room to explore it with your toes, wriggling them against my tongue, trying to catch the slippery muscle between them, tracing the inside of my cheek, sliding your slick sole against my lip. You rest the other foot carelessly on my bare chest - even this excites me, the clammy warmth of it on my bare skin. You must be able to feel my heart hammering through the sole of your foot, I think.
"Does it taste good slave?" You pull your foot back so that your toes just rest on my lips, I kiss softly and wetlly as I answer. "Yes mistress, so good."
The answer to this is, in truth, complex. It isn't a nice taste - it isn't cotton candy, or raspberries, my mouth is full of the taste of dirt and your sweat. They don't taste good, but it is good. The contradiction is difficult to explain, even to myself. Like a stretch which hurts the muscles but feels good, or the pleasure of the pain of spicy food. Dirt doesn't taste good, I wouldn't eat a handful of our garden, but the taste of the dirt and sweat from between your toes would be my choice over any merely 'good' thing in my mouth.
You smile, and wipe your saliva drenched foot across my face, smearing me in my own spittle, leaving grey tracks of dirt across my cheeks, then lifting your foot to inspect my progress in cleaning the muck.
"Hmm. Not a bad start slave." You say sounding pleasantly surprised. I glow inside at this mild praise.
"Thank you mistress!"
You look down at my face and laugh.
"Oh my god you sure are a picture!" You say affectionately. "Have you had enough slave? My other foot is just as filthy y'know." I'm already shaking my head before your warning, how could I ever have enough of this?
"No, please let me clean the other for mistress. I promise to do a good job. Please, may I?" My tone is keening, pleading - don't make me stop, let me feel this just a little longer.
You tap your lip, considering.
"Hmmm. Ok, I guess I'll allow you to worship me a little longer. But go clean yourself up - I don't want you making me dirtier."
I cleaner to my knees, then my feet. I feel unsteady, my body singing with adrenaline and hungry lust. My cock has been so hard, for so long that I almost can't feel it anymore beyond a relentless taut pressure between my legs. I take a deep breath, and walk to the bathroom to wash my face, rinse my mouth. My tongue is grey with dirt when I poke it out at the mirror me. He looks crazed, a feral creature. I reassemble myself to something human, allowing my erection to gradually lapse. I piss, although you haven't said I could, take another deep breath, and walk back to find you in the lounge.
"May I fetch you anything mistress?" I ask, dropping back to my knees as I approach you - you have moved to the sofa, and lounge comfortably.
"You may refill my glass." You say, handing it to me. I stand, walk to the table, refill it. "I love your butt" You say, evidently watching me bent over at the table. This, paradoxically, makes me blush, which makes you smile in a self-satisfied way as I kneel in front of you and present your drink.
"Kiss the tops of my feet for a while, slave." You say, your feet flat on the floor. I bend lower, and begin showering soft kisses on your insteps, a posture which, I am aware, allows you to further enjoy my backside. It makes me feel good to be enjoyed like this while I worship you. The skin of your instep is soft against my lips, softer than the soles of your feet, delicate. I kiss your toes, I kiss the tips of your toes, I kiss along the sides of each foot and across your delicate ankle bones.
"Good boy" You say, flexing your toes. I keep kissing, breathing only through my nose to revel in the scent. You ignore me now, and I kiss my devotion and submission to you for twenty minutes while you scroll on your phone. My knees and neck ache.
"Um." I say, once the discomfort becomes unbearable "may I change position please mistress?" I say, continuing to kiss.
"You may slave. On your back now, time to show me what a good little footlicker you are."
I roll onto my back in relief "thank you mistress", I say as a filthy foot sole descends on me, covering my mouth.
"Get to work, footlicker. Chop chop!" You say, clicking your fingers a few times. I hold your foot gently, you letting me take the full weight of your leg, and start lapping lovingly. As I lick, and suck, and swallow, your other foot moves to rest, almost carelessly on my cock. I crane my neck awkwardly, sliding my tongue between your toes to lick away the stick fluff and toe jam, and your other foot treads and kneads my cock. It is pleasurable agony. You are not gentle, and I feel raw from being swollen with arousal, I grunt in half pain half pleasure when you bounce your heel on the head of my prick. If you keep this up much longer I will cum, I am so close. I have to tell you, you have been clear that I mustn't, you want to ruin me when I reach the peak of need and I can be denied for longer for you.
"Mistress please I'm going to cum." I gasp. Your teasing foot moves away, and starts playing with my nipple, pinching it between your big and second toe.
"And you don't want to slave? You don't want to cum all over my foot? Down there beneath me with my dirty toes in your mouth?"
"I.. I do want to mistress, I want to badly, but.. I want to cum when you want me to more." You lean forward and beam down at me.
"Very good boy!" You pet my face with your toes, and I return your beam. Is it silly that being told I'm a very good boy makes me feel so very good? Perhaps, but what's wrong with being a little silly?
"Because" You say, parting my life lips with your toes and starting to gently fuck my mouth with your foot "I" thrust "think" thrust "you" thrusting harder, deeper "can" thrust "wait". You pull your foot out before I gag, and delicately wipe your toes on my cheek, then in my hair.
"I'm going to bed slave. Make sure you clean yourself up before you come, and I want the washing up done by hand."
You use the sole of your right foot to slap me briskly across the face, and whisk yourself off to bed. It takes me a little while to be able to get up, and go about my duties. Every so often, part of the day will come back to me, and reinvigorate my erection. My cock and balls both ache and throb. I am so lucky.
You are fast asleep by the time I crawl into bed. I lie and watch you, astounded by you as I so often am.
- As I walk through the farmers market, I can't help but notice the way my boxer shorts tug at my erection, a constant reminder of your foot fetish and my current state of orgasm denial.
- After our morning teasing session, you decide to put me to work in the garden, having me bend down to weed between your feet, enjoying the sight of your dirty soles and the thought of foot worship later.
- In the evening, as I prepare dinner following your instructions, I can't help but feel a sense of feminine dominance and my own submissive role, particularly as you command me to make steak frites and only allow me a slice if I have been 'good' throughout the day.
