Oh, look who crawled back. Pathetic. You’re actually trembling already? Good. That’s exactly how a sl*ve should tremble in the presence of his Goddess. Look at these boots. Look at these perfect, expensive red soles. This is your entire universe now. This is your religion. You’re not even a man anymore—you’re just a wallet with a tongue attached.

You know the rules. You know you have to pay just to breathe the same air as these boots. Every single day. Morning, noon, and night. You work your miserable l*ttle job just to hand it all over to me, don’t you? Just for the privilege of being allowed to press your worthless face against my leather and inhale. Go ahead. Inhale now. That’s the smell of your purpose, loser. That’s the aroma you live for.

While I’m out living my life—walking through the city, stepping on whatever I please—these soles get dirty. They collect grime, dust, filth from the street. And do you know what happens when I come home? You clean them. With your tongue. Like the human doormat you are.

You pay me for the honor. You beg me. "Please, Goddess, let me l*ck the dirt from your red soles." And if you’ve been a good l*ttle paypig, maybe——I’ll let you. Your tongue exists to polish my leather. Your mouth is just a cleaning tool for my footwear. That’s it. That’s your s*x life. That’s your love life. You’re not even allowed to touch yourself unless I say so, are you?

Say it. Say you’re just a boot-cleaning b*tch. Say your d*ck is useless and your tongue belongs to my shoes. Louder. I want to hear you admit it.

Start stroking. Slowly. Match the rhythm of my foot

You’re not even f*cking your hand—you’re f*cking my boots. You’re humping air for a pair of shoes, you absolute degenerate. Keep going. Look at the stitching. Look at the heel. Imagine your tongue pressed flat against that red leather, cleaning every speck of dirt I walked through today.

"Oh, but Goddess, I love you so much, I’ll do anything for your boots!" Yeah, I know. That’s why you pay rent on my shoe closet, idiot. That’s why you send tributes while I rest. Because you know your place is on the floor, mouth open, waiting for command.

J*rk that useless meat. I want you right on the edge. Right there. Feel it building? That desperate need to c*m? Well, you don’t get to decide that. I do. You’re going to stroke and s*ffer, and you’re going to thank me for the denial.

Beg me. Beg to c*m. I want to hear it in your voice—how broken you are. "Please Goddess, please let me c*m for your boots." Louder! Pathetic. Again!

Fine. You have thirty seconds. And when I say one, you’re going to bl*w your load all over the floor like the f*cking loser you are. But here’s the catch, b*tch—you’re not leaving. You’re not cleaning up with a towel. You’re getting on your hands and knees, and you’re l*cking up every drop of your nasty filth. Every bit of your shame goes down your throat. And then? You’re cleaning my boots with your tongue until they shine. That’s your dinner, sl*ve. That’s your reward.

Start counting with me. Twenty-nine... twenty-eight... faster, j*rk it faster

ONE! C*M! DO IT! C*M FOR MY BOOTS!

Now. Look down at that mess. Look at it. That’s your life spilled out on the floor. Pathetic. Disgusting. Now get down there. Tongue out. Clean it up. Every drop. Swallow your own filth, you worthless boot-l*cking wh*re. Good boy. L*ck it all up. Now crawl over here and start on my soles. I walked through a parking lot today—you’ve got work to do.

Welcome to your forever, sl*ve. Same time tomorrow. Bring your credit card and your tongue. Now get to work.

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