Public Worship

“You said you’d do anything.”

That’s what she whispered in my ear at the café. Her voice calm. Playful. Dangerous.

She was right, of course—I had said that. Dozens of times, when we were alone. When I was on my knees in her bedroom, kissing the soles of her feet like they were sacred. When she pressed her toes into my mouth and made me moan through them.

But this time, we weren’t in private.

We were in public.

Broad daylight. Sunday brunch. Outside seating. Dozens of people around us. And she was barefoot under the table.

The Setup

Her name is Rhea. Cool, confident, and effortlessly dominant. She never raises her voice, never demands attention—but when she wants something, you give it. Period.

We were out for brunch. She wore a loose sundress, sunglasses, and strappy sandals. Her feet looked immaculate. Light pink polish, delicate arches, toe ring on the right foot.

About halfway through our meal, she slipped one foot out of her sandal and placed it between my legs under the table.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

“You okay?” she asked, smirking behind her glass.

“Y-yeah,” I stammered.

She nudged me with her toes again. Then slid her foot up, pressing into my thigh.

“You’re hard already,” she whispered. “Poor thing. All this just from a little foot play?”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.

Then she said the words that made my stomach flip:

“Show me how much you want it. Right here. Under the table.”

The Challenge

My heart pounded. People were around us—talking, laughing, oblivious. But at any second, someone could look over and see what was happening.

I hesitated.

Rhea smiled and slipped off her other sandal.

“If you don’t,” she said, “I’ll just start rubbing myself with my feet until someone notices. And then I’ll tell them why.”

That was all it took.

Slowly, I ducked my head down—pretending to look for something in my bag. My hands found her feet under the table, gently lifting one to my lap.

I kissed the top first. Then the arch. Then each toe, my lips trembling.

Rhea’s voice was casual as she scrolled through her phone. “Good boy. Don’t stop.”

I licked softly. Discreetly. Every sense was heightened—the warmth of her skin, the risk, the taste of lotion and sweat.

“You missed a spot,” she said without looking up.

I didn’t ask where. I just licked deeper, trailing the tip of my tongue along the underside of her toes.

She let out the softest sigh. “Mmm. Maybe you really will do anything.”

The Edge

Then came the ultimate test.

Rhea gently placed both feet on my lap and whispered, “Now hold them there. Don’t move. Don’t flinch. Even if the waiter comes.”

A minute later, the waiter did come.

“Everything good here?” he asked.

My face burned.

“Perfect,” Rhea said sweetly. “We’re just enjoying the sunshine.”

I forced a smile, her toes digging into my thighs under the table.

After he left, she leaned forward.

“You’re such a good pet,” she whispered. “But next time? No tablecloth. Let’s see how brave you really are.”

The Aftermath

When we got home, I didn’t even make it to the bedroom. I dropped to my knees at the door, kissing her feet like I was starving.

Rhea laughed softly and pulled me closer with her toes.

“All that tension,” she murmured. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

I nodded, lips pressed to her sole.

“Then keep going,” she said. “I want them spotless before dinner.”