My Surrender to Vera’s Filthy Feet

The Night Vera’s Sweaty Flats Broke Me Forever

I never told anyone how it really started. They’d call me sick. They’d call me weak. Fuck them. I know what I am now, and I’ve never been harder in my life.

Her name was Vera. Nothing exotic, just Vera. Twenty-eight, boring office job downtown, always in cheap black flats because “heels kill my back.” That’s the lie she fed everyone else. The truth she whispered to me on our third date, voice low and filthy while her bare foot slid up my thigh under the table: she loved feeling the ground all day, loved knowing her feet were stewing in their own sweat inside worn-out leather while she pretended to listen to some middle-manager drone about quarterly reports.

The night I completely shattered was a Friday in October. Rain was smashing against her studio windows like it wanted in. She’d been out drinking with coworkers, came home soaked to the bone, white blouse plastered to her tits, nipples hard from the cold. She kicked the door shut and just stood there, dripping on the rug, staring at me on the couch like I was something she’d already decided to break.

“Take my shoes off.”

I dropped to my knees so fast my spine cracked. My hands were shaking when they touched the wet leather. Those flats were ancient—scuffed, cracked, the insoles black and molded perfectly to her feet. When I eased the first one off, the smell hit me like a slap: thick, sour, vinegary, mixed with that sweet-stale leather stench that goes straight to the animal part of your brain. Her foot was clammy, almost slimy from hours of trapped heat. Tiny pieces of lint and street grit clung to the damp skin.

She didn’t wait. She shoved that bare sole straight into my face, smearing rainwater and sweat across my cheeks, my nose, my lips. I opened my mouth on instinct and she slid her toes in—four at once—until I gagged on the taste of her day. Salty, cheesy at the edges, pure unwashed woman. I moaned like a whore.

“That’s it,” she laughed, low and cruel. “Sniff your new god.”

She ground her heel into my forehead, pinning my head back against the couch while she peeled off the second flat herself and slapped that foot over my nose too. Double the stink, double the humiliation. I was drowning in it and my cock was already leaking through my jeans.

Vera stepped back just long enough to strip. Blouse first—slow, deliberate—then the skirt, then the black lace panties she let fall on my face like a flag of surrender. She stood over me naked, rain still dripping from her hair, skin flushed from alcohol and power.

“Pants off. Now.”

I scrambled. Belt, zipper, everything gone. My cock slapped up against my stomach, angry red and dripping. She looked at it and smirked.

“Cute. Too bad it’s never touching me.”

She lifted one foot—still filthy, still reeking—and planted it square on my shaft. The sole was scorching hot, slick with sweat and city grime. She pressed down until I felt my balls flatten against the floor. Then she started sliding, slow, dragging that rough skin up and down my length. Every ridge of her arch, every callous on her heel, every piece of grit acted like sandpaper on my nerves. I was bucking within seconds, humping her foot like a dog.

“Look at you,” she sneered. “Already about to blow from my nasty work feet.”

She spat—a thick, deliberate glob—right onto her toes, then smeared it down my cock for lube. The sound was obscene, wet and sticky. She curled her toes around my head, squeezing until I saw stars, then went back to stroking. Faster. Harder. Her other foot found my mouth again and shoved in deep, heel against my chin, toes tickling the back of my throat.

I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. All that existed was the taste of her sweat, the smell choking me, the brutal friction on my cock. I was crying, drooling, begging into her sole—words I didn’t even understand anymore.

She edged me like that for what felt like hours. Every time my balls drew up she’d stop, lift her foot an inch, and watch me whimper and thrust at empty air. Then she’d slam it back down and start again. My cock was purple, veins throbbing, precum pouring out in strings.

Finally she crouched over me, both feet planted on my chest now, pinning me flat. Her pussy was right above my face—shaved, glistening, so close I could smell her arousal mixed with the rain—but she never lowered herself. She just stared down with those cold green eyes.

“This is foot domination, baby,” she whispered. “You don’t get my pussy. You get what I walk on. And you’re going to cum exactly when I say.”

She slid one foot back down to my cock, wrapped her toes around it like a fist, and started jerking me with short, vicious pumps. The other foot she pressed over my mouth and nose until I was suffocating on her. Darkness at the edges of my vision. My hips jerked helplessly.

“Cum. Now.”

I exploded harder than I’ve ever cum in my life. Rope after thick rope shot across her toes, splattered her arches, dripped between every crease. My whole body seized, back arching off the floor, a guttural scream muffled against her sole. She kept milking me, squeezing every last drop, smearing my mess all over both feet until they were glazed and shining.

When I finally collapsed, gasping, shaking, she lifted her feet to my face.

“Clean.”

I did. Fuck, I did. I licked every inch—tongue sliding between her toes, sucking them clean one by one, lapping my own cum mixed with her sweat and filth like it was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. She watched the whole time, occasionally grinding her heel into my tongue like she was putting out a cigarette.

When she was satisfied, she stood up, put one freshly cleaned foot on my spent cock, and pressed until I whimpered.

“From now on,” she said, voice calm, “these feet own you. You breathe when they let you. You cum when they let you. You live under them. Understand?”

I nodded, tears and drool running down my face, cock already twitching again under her sole.

That was six months ago. I still crawl the second she walks through the door. Some nights she hasn’t washed in days—on purpose. Some nights she comes home straight from the gym, sneakers soaked, socks black with sweat, and makes me beg to peel them off with my teeth. Some nights she invites her friends over, makes me kneel in the corner while they laugh and use my face as an ottoman.

I’ve never been happier.

This is foot domination. This is my life now. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.