The High Heels Foot Slave Licking Marathon

You little, slobbering foot-bait eater, today you're going to be broken. I'm straddling you, legs spread wide, heels gleaming,  sheer black nylons clinging wetly to my feet—sweat, smell, pure lust. You're kneeling, hands behind your back.

The marathon begins: "Tongue out, you worthless pig—lick my soles clean. From toe to heel. Taste my whole day: sweat, dust, leather, my superiority."

You lick desperately, tongue flat against the filthy soles, gagging at the stench, while I laugh and shove my toes deep into your mouth—all the way to the back of your throat, until you gag and saliva spills over your lips. "Suck my toes like a little cock, you horny whore. Deeper, faster—fill yourself with it until your tears run down my nylons."

I switch between my feet—sometimes I rub my whole foot all over your face, over your nose and eyes, until you smell only of me. Other times I lightly step on your face, pressing down while you lick and moan. "Beg to lick my nylons clean—loudly and submissively, you loser. Say, 'Thank you, Mistress, for making me a foot whore.'"

Lick, suck, swallow, gag—until your tongue is numb, your face is sticky with my foot sweat, and you're trembling with lust. You almost come—without me even touching your cock—just from the stench, the taste, the shame. But come? Never without permission. "You're not allowed to come, you little foot slut. You're only allowed to suffer, lick, and beg—until I decide you're trained enough."

Finally, I pull off the nylons, stuff the damp stocking into your mouth: "Keep that in until tomorrow. So you smell like my feet all day and know: You are my foot slave whore. Forever."