“Swallow slowly. I want you to taste the difference between what you deserve and what you’ll never have.”
I went barefoot this morning.
Not for pleasure. Not for grounding. And not for whimsy. I went barefoot because he would be hungry by the time I returned—and I wanted him to taste the world I walked through. Not the clean, sterilized version he imagines when he kneels. No. I wanted him to swallow reality. Dirt. Dust. Heat. And the miles I walked with another man.
I took my time in the garden. Paused deliberately in the mud near the hose. Let the spray dampen the tiles, just enough to collect into the fine cracks of my soles. Walked through the gravel path, slow enough to let the pebbles cling to the arch. Crushed a half-wilted bloom under my heel. Stepped across the mulch. Dragged the tips of my toes through the moss that grows near the gate.
Then I slipped off into the city. He doesn’t know that part. Not yet.
He doesn't know I was with someone else. A real man. The kind that grips your hips like they mean it. The kind who doesn't need training, correction, or rules. He ordered for me without asking. Paid in cash. Smelled like whiskey and something untraceable.
We walked for hours. Laughed once. I let him press me up against a doorframe in the alley. And I made sure I never changed shoes. I wanted every step from that moment to be carried back to the pathetic little mouth waiting on my floor.
When I returned, the first thing I saw was his posture.
Kneeling. Perfect. Chin tucked. Naked except for that humiliating collar he wears without question now. The one I said wasn’t for obedience, but for failure.
I sat in the straight-backed chair—the one with the hard wood arms and the red velvet cushion—and crossed one leg over the other. Slowly.
Then I uncrossed them, just as slow, and let one sole hover in front of his face.
I didn’t speak.
I didn’t need to.
He leaned forward and inhaled. Not out of arousal. Out of ritual. The first breath always belongs to scent. The second to shame.
My foot lowered until it brushed the tip of his nose. He flinched—not from disgust, but from awareness. There was something sticky near the ball of my foot. A dark smear of something I stepped in near the alley. He didn’t ask what it was. He wouldn’t dare.
He just opened his mouth.
Good boy.
His tongue met my heel like it was sacred. His lips spread, wide and reverent, as I pressed down—not violently, just firmly enough to feel his jaw give way. I tilted my foot slowly, letting the grit find his taste buds. A sliver of bark clung to the base of my arch. I watched him pull it into his mouth and chew. Not because he was told, but because he didn’t want to disappoint me.
He swallows my filth like wine.
The other foot came next. I placed it against his cheek and dragged downward. From cheekbone to jaw, over his lips, across his chin. The smear it left was visible. Moist. Textured. My scent lingered. My weight left a shadow there.
There was a crushed leaf stuck just above my instep.
So I peeled it free and held it above him between two fingers.
“Eat it.”
He didn’t hesitate.
It wasn’t obedience. It was instinct.
That’s what makes him mine.
I leaned back in the chair and lifted both feet now, resting them flat across his shoulders, one over the other. I felt him tremble beneath the weight. Not because it hurt, but because the position meant he couldn’t lick unless I allowed it. And I didn’t allow it. Not yet.
Instead, I scrolled through my phone. Looked through photos from the night before. Him. The man. The way he looked at me—like a woman. Not a goddess. Not a deity. Just a woman. Worth claiming.
And this poor thing beneath my soles? He wasn’t even a man. He was a surface. A place to rest what had already been ruined.
And what remained of him—a limp, caged thing between his thighs—wasn’t struggling from pleasure. It was the ache of denial. The kind that builds when I let the weeks stretch long and empty.
When I don’t edge him.
Don’t tease him.
Don’t even acknowledge what he’s carrying inside that tiny trap.
He hasn’t been allowed to cum in nearly a month. And now, swollen and straining against the cold, polished bars of my choosing, he twitches beneath me like some pathetic worm trying to mimic life.
The worst part? He leaks. I don’t even have to touch him. I don’t have to mock or tease or say a word. He leaks from absence. From proximity. From knowing that the only time he feels anything anymore is when I’m using him as flooring.
And if a single drop lands on my tile—he knows it won’t be wasted. He’ll lick it clean like the rest. No part of him escapes me. Not even that.
After a minute or two, I extended one foot toward his mouth again. The pads of my toes were damp with heat. Tacky with street. I pressed the big toe against his lips.
He didn’t kiss it.
He opened.
And I fed him the tip, then the next toe, then the next. His breath deepened as they slid across his tongue, leaving behind the faint salt of sweat, the invisible trace of last night’s path.
He gagged once.
I didn’t stop.
I pressed my toes deeper until I felt the roof of his mouth clench. Then I withdrew and placed the ball of my foot flat across his face.
He breathed through it.
Nose fast on toes.
And then—he realized.
That scent wasn’t just sweat. Not just skin.
It was deeper.
Sour. Intimate. Familiar.
She had dipped her sweaty feet in her lover’s cum last night. Let it soak in. Let it dry, allowing her feet to ferment inside her heels for hours. Let the heat of her body awaken the staleness. Let the leather trap it. Seal it. Until now—when it opened like a memory across his face.
He knew. He knew. That warmth pressing into his tongue wasn’t just Solenne. It was what she let another man give her. And now he was licking the aftertaste from her arch like it was holy.
And what did he feel being held cuckold by a man who didn't know he existed?
Not rage. Not sorrow. Just... worthlessness. The kind that blooms in your gut when you know she saves her real pleasure for someone else. That you’re not her man—you’re her aftermath. Her clean-up boy.
And even in that shame—even knowing what it was—his caged cock twitched. Strained. Hardened.
Because that’s what he is now.
He gets hard for filth.
He leaks for leftovers.
He aches to be nothing but the thing that finishes what another man started.
I tilted my foot slightly and whispered:
“Swallow slowly. I want you to taste the difference between what you deserve and what you’ll never have.”
He moaned. I didn’t tell him to.
So I lifted the other foot and brought it down harder. Right on the center of his chest. His moan cut off mid-breath. I held it there. Felt his ribs compress beneath the arch.
Then I said:
“There’s more on the floor. Clean it. Tongue only. You don’t get hands today.”
And he did.
Bent forward, hands behind his back, tongue dragging across tile, collecting whatever dropped from me—bits of soil, skin, dust, and the things that can't be named but still carry weight.
I watched. Not with interest. With certainty.
This is who he is now.
A man who doesn’t ask what she walked through.
He just swallows it.