The tongue remembers what pride forgets...
Part 4: The Table as Altar
His lips hovered just above the woman's arch—breath warming the skin he could not see. The air between them pulsed with expectation, thick with lotion, perfume, and something deeper: power that had marinated in comfort.
The first contact wasn’t a lick. It was a tremble. His tongue twitched, uncertain, hovering just close enough to feel the warmth of her sole.
She let him linger.
Then, with no warning, she pressed her foot against his mouth.
“Start,” she whispered. “Before I change my mind.”
And he obeyed.
His tongue extended and met the pad of her foot—a soft, yielding surface slick with the trace oils of sweat and scented cream. The taste was immediate: salt and sugar, citrus and ownership. His mouth flooded with it.
A giggle above. Her toes flexed against his jaw.
“Good boy,” she cooed. “You’re not entirely useless.”
Her partner leaned in. “Tell me,” he asked her, “do you miss having a real man under your table?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she sipped her wine, then tilted her foot just slightly, letting her heel slide over the gimp’s lips like the edge of a knife.
“No,” she said at last. “Real men don’t ask how they’re doing while they lick.”
Laughter.
The gimp’s tongue now moved in slow, practiced circles—dragging along the curve of her arch, pausing to dart between toes, pressing reverently into the creases where day-old sweat pooled like secrets.
He licked, swallowed, repeated.
Each flavor told a story. Each pass of his tongue reminded him what he was and what he’d never be again.
“Don’t forget the heel,” she said lazily. “That’s where all the dirt from the patio collects.”
Her man snorted. “So poetic. He’s basically a Roomba with a humiliation kink.”
The gimp moved lower, tracing the ridge of her heel with the tip of his tongue. The grime there was thicker—flavored with the pavers out back, a touch of ash, and the ghost of someone else’s spilled drink. It lodged in his throat, but he didn’t gag.
He swallowed.
The mask clung tighter with each breath, the collar tugged slightly as he shifted. Every movement reminded him of his constraints. The plug. The cage. The shackles.
The silence.
When he finished, he waited.
“Next,” someone called. A different woman.
“Come on, little pig. There are more feet waiting.”
And so he crawled forward again—still blind, still bound, guided only by the scent of what would ruin him next.
Lick long enough and you’ll forget you once spoke.