“I slowly uncross my legs. My soles lift… drift off the floor… hover.”
You’ve been summoned.
And you know better than to walk in upright.
So you crawl—no, shimmy—on your back. Slow. Silent. Eyes low. Arms pinned to your sides in practiced helplessness. The way I trained you. The way you need to be.
I wait.
Seated high on my throne—a tall, commanding chair of red leather and polished mahogany. High-backed. Regal. Built not for comfort, but for authority. It towers in the center of the room like a monument to patience and power.
My legs are crossed. My boots planted. My silence absolute.
You worm forward across the stone floor, shoulders scraping, back grinding, mouth already parted in anticipation. You know the path. It’s been etched into your memory—each inch of tile a pilgrimage toward degradation.
Until—
Bump.
The crown of your head presses gently against the backs of my heels.
You pause.
Hold your breath.
Wait for permission that doesn’t come.
Because I don’t need to speak for you to know you’ve arrived.
I slowly uncross my legs. My soles lift… drift off the floor… hover.
And then descend—onto your face.
Your upturned mouth rests beneath my arch. Your nose nestled into the curve of my sole. My weight, casual but deliberate, settles across your cheeks like a verdict. I adjust until I feel no strain—only stillness.
Perfect.
The leather of my boots is worn. Not dirty. Not clean. Touched by days walked in command. The scent is deep—earthy, musky, rich with the perfume of control. You inhale like a man drowning. And I let you.
You shift—barely. Just enough to align your lips against the bottom of my heel.
You’re not kissing.
You're not licking.
You’re supporting. You’re a pedestal. And every breath you take becomes a silent hymn to your own replacement—because no man belongs above her feet.
I begin to scroll idly on my phone. Not because I’m distracted.
But because you’re not worth all of my attention right now.
My boots press firmer.
I feel the faint tremble of your throat beneath the leather.
Your pulse races. Your tongue twitches behind closed lips. And still, you stay still. You endure.
Because that’s what a good footstool does.
Because this is what your obedience has earned—not my praise, but my weight. Not my smile, but my soles.
And when I do finally speak—after minutes of you trembling beneath the casual elegance of my posture—I do so without looking at you.
“Don't move.”
Because movement would mean loss of balance.
And loss of balance would mean punishment.
So you freeze.
You submit.
You serve.
And all without ever being touched.