The city had left its mark on my sneakers—grime from the sidewalks, the faint chemical tang of spilled drinks, the dust of a thousand steps taken without a second thought. My socks were damp with sweat, clinging to my skin after a long day of walking over people who didn’t matter. People like him.

I didn’t wipe my shoes before I sat down. Why would I?

He was already in position before I even looked at him, face upturned, mouth slightly open like the worthless thing he was. I kept my jeans on—he didn’t deserve to see more than I allowed. With a slow, deliberate motion, I lifted my foot and pressed the dirty sole against his face, grinding it in just enough to make sure he felt every speck of filth he was beneath.

—Breathe,* I murmured, pulling out my phone to scroll through new shoes. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the stale, sour scent of my day—the pavement, the sweat, the utter indifference I had for anything but my own comfort. —You should be grateful I’m even letting you do this.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare. His eyes watered, but he knew better than to pull away.

I added a new pair of heels to my cart—thinner, sharper, perfect for leaving marks. He’d learn to love the way they felt digging into his skin. The click of the purchase button was the only sound in the room besides his ragged breathing.

Then I slipped my sneakers off, leaving the sweat-soaked socks on. His breath hitched as I pressed my foot—still wrapped in the day’s grime and heat—against his lips.

—There you go,* I cooed, watching his throat work as he swallowed the taste of my superiority. —That’s all you’re good for. My own personal footrest... and a reminder of where you belong.

I let him s*ffer there, inhaling the proof of his insignificance, while I imagined how the new heels would feel breaking in on his back.

—Don’t move,* I said, standing up and leaving him there, my socks still pressed against his face. —I’ll let you know when you’ve earned the privilege of cleaning them off.

(4K)

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