Foot Worship
Foot worship is the only devotion I find acceptable from men like him. He arrived already nervous, eyes dropping to the floor the moment I opened the door in nothing but a silk robe and bare feet. I didn’t say a word at first. I simply walked past him, sat on the edge of the bed, and crossed one leg over the other so the arch of my foot was on full display. He swallowed. I watched the exact second the need hit him.
I pointed to the floor. He dropped to his knees so fast it almost made me laugh. “You may start,” I said, and that was all the permission he needed. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the top of my foot like he was afraid I would change my mind. I let him stay there for a long moment, then slowly extended my toes toward his mouth. He opened without being told. The first slow suck of my big toe made his eyes flutter shut. I felt the wet heat of his tongue and the soft desperation in the way he held my ankle.
I made him work for every inch. Heel, arch, the sensitive skin along the side of my sole — he licked and kissed and breathed me in like a man starving. When I finally allowed him to bury his face against the bottom of my foot and inhale, he moaned so loudly I had to press my other foot against his cheek to quiet him. “Greedy,” I murmured. “Keep going.” He did. He spent the next hour lost in pure foot worship, moving from one foot to the other only when I told him to, never rushing, never daring to touch himself.
By the time I stood and pressed the sole of my foot flat against his face, he was shaking. I held him there, letting him breathe only through the spaces between my toes, while I described exactly how pathetic and perfect he looked on his knees. He stayed hard the entire time, hands clenched at his sides, completely owned by the simple act of serving my feet. When I finally allowed him to finish with his tongue still working between my toes, the sound he made was almost grateful.
Some nights I keep men like him on the phone instead. Feet phone sex lets me stretch the same control across any distance. I describe the exact scent, the taste, the weight of my soles on their faces while they stay on their knees at home, aching and denied. Phone sex with me is never soft. It is the same slow, deliberate foot worship — only now my voice is the only thing guiding every lick and every desperate breath.
If you think you can handle being under my feet for as long as I decide, you already know where to find me. Come ready to worship. Leave marked by it.
— Raelyn