My Two Nights of Complete Foot Slavery

My Two Nights of Total Foot Domination

I still remember the night everything changed. The night I finally admitted to myself that I didn’t just want to be dominated — I needed it. I needed to be on my knees, helpless, breathing in the sour, intoxicating scent of a woman’s feet after she’d been walking in heels all day. That mix of warm leather, sweat, and skin that makes my cock throb before anyone even touches me. This is who I am. And the two women who broke me the hardest were Daisy and Mistress Lily.

The first one was Daisy.

She was twenty-six, long black hair, pale skin, and sharp green eyes that already mocked you before she even opened her mouth. Her profile picture was just her endless legs in sheer black stockings and red-soled Louboutins dangling off her perfect toes. The caption read: “I don’t do half measures. You’ll cry, you’ll beg, and you’ll thank me when I let you lick the floor clean.”

I messaged her the same night, hands shaking, telling her I’d do anything to be under those feet. Her reply was one line: “Thursday. 10 p.m. My place. Bring €500 tribute and good red wine. No underwear.”

When she opened the door, the smell hit me like a drug — warm leather mixed with that tangy, vinegary sweetness of feet trapped in designer heels for hours. She wore a short black silk robe and those same Louboutins. Toenails glossy black. No hello. Just a smirk and the words: “On your knees in the hallway, worm. Shoes off with your teeth.”

I dropped instantly. Cold marble against my knees. I crawled forward and started unbuckling her heels with my mouth like an obedient dog. The taste of leather flooded my tongue. She sipped wine and occasionally pressed the sole of her other heel into the back of my head, grinding my nose deeper into the arch. When both shoes finally came off, the smell exploded — rich, cheesy, perfect. She lifted one stockinged foot and planted it squarely on my face, wiggling her toes over my nose.

“Breathe it in, loser. That’s twelve hours of me ignoring men like you. That smell is your oxygen tonight.”

I inhaled until my lungs burned. My cock was already dripping. She laughed, peeled the damp stocking off slowly, and smeared her hot, slick bare foot across my face. Then the order: “Open your mouth.” She slid three toes in and fucked my mouth while telling me how disgusting I was for getting hard over something women wipe on mats. I sucked each toe clean, digging my tongue between them for every bit of lint and toejam she’d collected all day.

Then came the tickling.

She made me strip and lie on my back. The second her toes started dancing lightly across my ribs I lost it. I’m embarrassingly ticklish, and she knew within seconds. I giggled, begged, twisted on the floor while she laughed and kept those evil little toes scratching every sensitive spot. “Please, Daisy, I can’t—fuck!” I screamed with laughter until tears streamed down my face. My cock bounced painfully hard with every convulsion.

She’d tickle me until I was sobbing, then suddenly stop and shove both sweaty feet over my face again. “Smell. Calm down, bitch.” The cycle went on for hours — deep foot-smothering until I humped the air like an animal, then sudden merciless tickling the moment I got close, ruining every edge with hysterical laughter.

At 3 a.m. my face was crusted with her dried foot sweat, my ribs ached, and I was babbling about being her slave forever. She finally jerked me off with one stockinged foot while the other pressed on my balls, threatening to tickle them if I came without permission. When I exploded, she made me lick every drop off her sole, then clean between her toes one last time before kicking me out with her worn stockings shoved in my mouth.

I thought nothing could ever top that night.

Then I met Mistress Lily.

Lily was thirty-four, blonde, built like a goddess, and terrifying in the quietest way. One look from her ice-blue eyes and your soul left your body. She ran a private dungeon downtown, and getting a session with her took four months of waiting and begging.

The email finally came: “Saturday. 9 p.m. Do not be late. Do not speak unless spoken to.”

I arrived trembling. She opened the door in a black latex catsuit and knee-high patent boots. No smile. She turned and walked — I crawled behind her like the worm I was.

She led me to a low bench, ordered me to strip and lie face-up. Then she sat on her throne and slowly unzipped those boots. The sound alone made me leak. When the first boot came off, she simply placed her bare foot (pale, high-arched, blood-red toenails) over my nose and mouth and pressed down until I couldn’t breathe anything but her smoky, mature foot scent.

“You don’t speak. You don’t cum. You exist for my feet tonight. Nothing else.”

She smothered me for what felt like forever, occasionally lifting just enough for a gasp before sealing me back under her damp sole. Then the tickling started — precise, sadistic, unbearable. Her toes spidered across my ribs so lightly it felt like torture by electricity. I screamed into her foot, but everything came out as muffled whimpers. She tickled my soles with one sharp nail while the other foot gagged me. I broke completely.

At one point she straddled my chest facing my feet, locked my arms under her knees, and gave me the longest, slowest footjob of my life while her fingers danced over my sides. Every time I got close she dug in harder, forcing me to thrash and ruin the edge again and again. She whispered: “Look at you crying for my sweaty feet. You’re not a man tonight. You’re a toy.”

When I was barely conscious, she turned, sat on my face with her full weight, and ordered me to tongue her asshole while she stroked me with both feet. I came harder than I ever have in my life, screaming into her as I shot rope after rope. She scooped it up with her toes and fed it to me, making me lick her feet spotless while she scrolled her phone like I was nothing.

Two women. Two nights that rewired my brain forever.

Daisy was cruel laughter and playful sadism. Lily was cold, methodical ownership. Both knew exactly how to reduce me to a whimpering, foot-humping mess with nothing but their sweaty soles and perfectly placed tickles.

And the worst part? I’d crawl through fire if either of them snapped their fingers.

Once you’ve had your face used as a footrest while a goddess laughs at how hard you get from the smell of her toejam… there’s no going back.

You’re theirs. Forever.