A foot worshipper gets more than he bargained for...

Hi all,

No one has posted anything for a while, so I thought I would add the short piece below. It's part of a series that I'm writing; the other two pieces I've put up here are from the same series. I just finished this, so it may be a bit rough. But as always, I'd love feedback from you on how to make it better!

Best,
Antipater

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A week or so later, when I went downstairs to perform my daily foot worship ritual and receive my collar, I found my wife wearing her spike-heeled boots instead of her usual house slippers. By this time, I already recognized this as a signal that I would soon be suffering in order to slake her sadistic urges, but I prostrated myself before her without hesitation.

For the very first time as my dominant, Ellen was wearing what was unmistakably bondage gear (although when in the mood, my wife could look every bit the imperious dominatrix no matter what she wore). Her forearms were encased in supple black leather gloves, which buttoned above the elbow. The garters supporting her silk stockings were suspended from a mesh body suit with leather straps, and her perfect breasts and nipples pressed against the mesh. The regalia exposed more of her skin than I had seen in months, although her holy of holies remained concealed by a small triangle of thicker material.

In my opinion, many online dominatrices, whether in YouTube instructional videos or on private erotica channels, look a little silly. Usually, they’re overly made-up, or they’re trying to stuff too much flesh into not enough red neoprene body suit or black leather corset. And I’ve yet to see one convincingly pull off the popular pseudo-fascist look (the body-hugging black leather jacket and skirt, the SS-style officer’s hat, the occasional sunglasses).

But Ellen being Ellen, she had managed to select an ensemble that was at once highly sexual, and demonstrative of her exquisite taste and elegance. Combined with her natural shapeliness and the fact that I had not seen so much of her body exposed in such a long time, the effect was overpowering.

As I knelt at her feet, I needed all of my willpower to keep my eyes properly averted.

After I’d spent several minutes kissing and fondling the pungent black leather of her boots, licking the soles, and sucking on the stiletto heels, she decided to have little fun with me, before taking me to the dungeon for a more formal punishment. She stood up and wordlessly prodded me with her feet, until I was lying flat on my back with my limbs spread. Unsatisfied, she kicked at my thighs several times until my legs were far enough apart to expose my genitals completely.

Ellen looked down at me with a malicious smile. Then she very slowly and deliberately let a large gob of spit drip from her mouth. Her saliva was thick and viscous, and it remained attached to her lips by a long, sticky strand, which stretched downwards, closer and closer to my face, until it finally broke. I felt the splat just below my left eye.

She lifted her foot and planted it directly onto the gob. With a slow, cruel twisting motion, she ground her spit into my cheek, and I could almost feel her contempt flowing into me through the sole of her boot. She stepped up onto the side of my face, putting all of her weight there for a moment, until she jabbed the spiked heel of her other boot viciously into my right breast, nearly hard enough to break the skin. She took the foot off of my face and stood fully on my chest.

I gasped, as the weight of her body forced the breath from my lungs.

Ellen trampled me mercilessly, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and from her toes to her heels and back again. She was completely indifferent to my suffering. She kept her back turned to me, so that she couldn’t even see the anguish on my face, and she took no notice at all of my gasping and whimpering. Each time she pushed down on one of her stilettos and kept it in place for a few seconds, she left a horseshoe-shaped bruise, half an inch across, which lasted throughout the following week. Looking in the mirror later, I counted thirteen of these marks imprinted on my chest and stomach.

Finally, she stepped off my torso and, standing between my legs, turned around to face me. I gazed up at her, searching for some hint of tenderness in her expression, but I saw none.

Locking her pitiless eyes onto mine, she lifted her boot and slowly drove its heel into my scrotum. I cried out in pain. She lifted it and stepped down again, this time pushing the spike into my shaft, which was, thankfully, protected somewhat by its steel cage. Still without breaking eye contact, she turned her attention back to my scrotum, this time grinding my balls into the hardwood floor with the same slow, cruel twisting motion as before. She stepped on me again and again and again, each time jabbing a stiletto painfully into my thigh or pelvis or genitals.

As usual when she was in one of her more sadistic moods, she didn’t deign to speak to me at all, as she amused herself by abusing me.

Through my pain and humiliation, I felt my cock start to throb. The emotions which drove my desire are complicated and hard to explain. One factor was certainly that the woman standing over me was perfect – utterly beautiful, utterly powerful, utterly unattainable. I wallowed in her rejection of me. My stomach churned at the realization that Ellen would never again see me as a real man. That she would never again need me or want me sexually. Worst of all, that I didn’t deserve for her to do so.

I was her slave, nothing more.

But the more I convinced myself that I could never have her, could never deserve her, the more I wanted her. I felt that if I could only show her how eagerly I suffered for her, how completely I accepted my own insignificance, then she might take pity on me. She might allow me to feel the touch of her perfect body, to take some small measure of sexual pleasure, no matter how undeserved. Paradoxically, I felt that by sincerely demonstrating my complete unworthiness, I might somehow become worthy of her, if only briefly.

And so, as she again ground her foot into my scrotum, looking down at me with disdain, my pelvis began writhe, my pathetic cock pleading for her attention. I wanted this perfect woman more than words could express, and if the price of my desire was pain and humiliation, then I was glad to pay it.

My cock started to grow erect.

Ellen noticed the stirring in my cage, and a look of disgust came over her face. Before my erection caused me my shaft to strain against the steel bars, she shook her head dismissively and stepped out from between my legs. The trampling session was over.

She reached down and grabbed a fistful of my hair, then dragged me to her chair and sat down, holding my head up so that she could attach my collar. But my pathetic desire wouldn’t abate, and I tried to sniff and nuzzle the perfect breasts that were just inches from my face. I knew that this was forbidden, but I couldn’t help myself. I ached for even the slightest touch of my wife’s perfect body. When she’d buckled my collar, she threw me to the floor and kicked me away from her. She let me wallow in her rejection for a few minutes, then stood up.

The snap of her fingers ordering me to follow her downstairs to the basement was superfluous. At that moment, I would have followed her unbidden through all nine circles of Dante’s Inferno.