My foot fetish devotees always tremble when I whisper that foot worship is sacred beneath my goddess feet. With long, raven black hair cascading down my porcelain skin, I embody an ancient, dark allure that leaves them weak in the knees. Plump, crimson lips curl into a sinful smile as I command them to kneel before me, their eyes glazing over in awe and desperate adoration.
Each devout supplicant knows their place — at the altar of my exquisite, high-heeled footwear. I command them to untie the laces and peel off the satin, revealing my divine soles. They gasp at the sight, hands shaking as they trace the elegant arches, the delicate lines of the toes. My gentle guidance turns to sharp instruction as I order them to massage the balls, to lick and suck the salty dew that gathers on my skin.
And then the true humiliation begins. I order them to place my feet in their mouths, to breathe in the intoxicating scent of my feminine power. They choke and gag, tears streaming down their faces as I manipulate their heads, forcing them to worship my insteps with their tongues. All the while, I gaze down at them with a triumphant, dominant glare, my corseted curves a perfect frame for the raw, beastly hunger in my eyes.
Finally, I release them, my lips curling in disdain. “Kneel, sinner,” I command, pointing to the ground at my feet. “Kiss them again, until you understand that heaven starts at my feet.” And as they desperately press their lips to my soles, I know they’ll remain forever under my spell, enthralled by the dark, goddess-like power of my foot fetish.