At her footplate - Part 2

She continued sipping through the straw, eyes locked on mine, her lips curled into a wicked smile. That mischievous sparkle in her gaze made my stomach turn to liquid. Then, with a subtle tilt of her head, she directed my attention toward the man on the computer and the bartender—both clearly watching me, whispering, laughing.

My face burned with shame. But still, I whispered, “Thank you, Miss.”

I could feel my cock swelling even harder, precum beginning to seep, my perineum and anus pulsing with desperate, aching pleasure. My heart pounded. Everything around us faded. There was only her—my Goddess. Her voice was the only sound I could hear. Her eyes, the only thing I could see.

She finished her drink, rested her elbows on the table, and cradled her face in her hands—a gesture meant to draw my full attention.

Then, locking eyes with me, she said with that same authoritative playfulness, “Leave your drink. Go to the bartender. Ask for a small bowl. Tell him you need to take it to your room.”

She straightened up, and I followed suit, pushing back the chair slowly, carefully, savoring the moment. I placed a hand on one of her beautiful legs and—calculated to perfection—crossed it, making sure her floppy foot swung delicately with the motion.

It took everything I had to snap out of that trance. Her every movement mesmerized me more deeply, subjugating me further under her power. Only the irritated flick of her hand woke me up, and I headed toward the bar.

Reality came crashing back as I walked past the onlookers, my face burning with embarrassment. The bartender looked at me with a mocking smirk. I stammered out my request for a bowl, and with a knowing glance toward my Mistress, he handed it over.

“Not finishing your drink?” he asked, smirking.

He knew. He knew exactly what kind of pathetic creature I was, and exactly who she was. I was trembling—not with fear, but with uncontainable devotion. I was in a trance. A submissive, blissful fog. I didn’t even know what she was planning—I just needed to obey.

I returned with the bowl. She glanced at me, gave a pleased nod, and said simply, “Good.”

With a single graceful movement, she spun her chair toward the elevator and glided across the floor like a spirit. Her precision, her poise—it stole my breath. I followed, bowl in hand, until she paused in front of the elevator. I pressed the button, then instinctively dropped to all fours beside her wheel.

At this point, I didn’t care who saw. I didn’t even think about being seen. There was no one else. Just her. Her scent, her presence, the sound of my heart hammering in my skull.

The elevator doors opened. She entered, spun around, and faced the front. I crawled in behind her, the bowl clenched between my teeth. For a moment, I saw her in full—the Goddess incarnate—and my body shuddered, my perineum spasming uncontrollably.

I moved to her side, eyes locked on her feet. Then—suddenly—her hand touched my forehead. A simple caress. She didn’t even look down.

“Good dog,” she said.

My heart nearly burst. “Thank you, Miss,” I mumbled, bowl still in my mouth, soul ignited.

She reached into her bag, and just as the elevator reached our floor, she dropped her room key into the bowl I held between my teeth. The doors opened. With a push of her wheels, she glided out and positioned herself at her door.

I crawled ahead, rose, and opened it for her. She entered. I followed, then closed the door behind us and dropped back onto all fours, bowl in mouth.

She rolled toward the bed and placed her bag on a nearby dresser.

“Stay like that,” she commanded without even looking at me. Then she turned her chair and entered the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Through the crack, I watched her reflection in the mirror—a vision of untouchable power. She looked at herself with pride, almost smug in her beauty, and then swept her long, gorgeous hair up into a twist. Her stunning face, her sharp eyes—every part of her spoke of control. And when she looked at me through the mirror, a wicked smile curled her lips. She knew. She knew everything I was thinking. Everything I felt.

She returned, positioned herself by the bed, and said:

“Come here, loser.”

Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel. I crawled toward her, head low, until I was at her footrest.

“Put the bowl down. Look at me.”

I obeyed. The sheer position overwhelmed me. I was dizzy with submission, with devotion. Then she leaned forward, grabbed my chin, and tilted my head up.

“You’re having the best moment of your life. I know it. Make sure you deserve it.”

Tears blurred my eyes. “Yes, Miss,” I gasped.

Before I could finish, she spat on my face.

I moaned gratefully and tried to catch it with my tongue. “Thank you, Miss…”

She backed her chair up.

“Naked. Like a worm.”

I stripped quickly and neatly, under her amused, contemptuous gaze. Her mocking laugh let me know how much my humiliation pleased her.

I dropped to all fours again, and she wheeled forward, lifting the footrest toward my face. I began to kiss and lick the metal and the front wheels, in worship. Then she lowered her chair, and suddenly her foot—crossed elegantly—was right in front of me.

I froze. My anus spasmed, and I struggled to hold back an orgasm. My glans was wet, my balls boiling.

She touched the back of my foot, sliding her hand up my ankle, making the nylon whisper against her fingers. Then, she raised her atrophied leg and pressed the pointed heel of her stiletto against my lips.

“Suck it, dirty cocksucker.”

I opened wide and sucked, hungrily, eagerly. She held her leg, guiding the rhythm, fucking my mouth with her heel.

“You filthy cocksucking slut,” she growled, laughing, pushing deeper, harder.

Drool spilled from my lips. I tried to thank her, to show my gratitude, but all that came out were gurgling, broken sounds of worship.

She withdrew her heel, pulled her leg back, and spread her thighs slightly, revealing her panties through the sheer black nylon.

My body seized again, desperate not to climax. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

“Aww, what’s the matter? Is the slut gonna squirt already?” she teased.

Laughing, she pressed the sole of her floppy foot to my face.

“Clean it. You pathetic sole-licker.”

Mumbling “Yes Miss, thank you Miss,” I dragged my tongue across her sole, licking every inch, tasting every part of her.

“Take off my shoes, bitch.”

With trembling hands, I delicately removed her sandal, savoring every second. Her nylon-clad foot in my hands was sacred. I kissed it, worshipped it, lavished it with licks and kisses, my moans mingling with soft "thank you, Miss" over and over again.

“You better deserve this privilege, you pathetic loser toe-sucker.”

I moved up her ankle, over her leg—kissing, licking, adoring her as if she were divine.

Then her voice cut through my ecstasy like a whip:

“Stop. You’ve had too much, slut. Turn around.”

“Yes Miss!”

I spun around, staying on all fours, ass up. She laughed behind me.

“Pathetic faggot slut.”

Then she lifted her leg and began rubbing her floppy nylon foot along my cock and balls. I trembled, spasmed, whimpered.

“If you cum without permission,” she said, “you’ll never see me again. Understand, slut?”

“Yes Miss,” I whimpered, trying not to break.

The pain, the shame, the pleasure—it all swirled inside me like a storm. I was at the edge, drowning in devotion, willing to suffer forever just to please her.