The living room is quiet except for the sound of his ragged breathing—muffled by the blindfold—and the squelch of whipped cream being squeezed onto Mistress Ziva Fey’s hike-caked feet. The sl*ve lies helpless on the floor, his limbs spread wide by the twin spreader b*rs locked around his wrists and ankles. He can’t move. He can’t escape. He can only wait for her next command, his nose filled with the scent of her unwashed soles.

Mistress Ziva shifts her weight, settling herself straddling his chest, her bare thighs pressing into his ribs just enough to make every breath a struggle. She flexes her toes in his face, the dried mud and sweat from her earlier hike cr*cking as she moves. The earthy funk of her feet fills his nostrils, the reek of her socks—which he’d been made to l*ck clean—still lingering in the air.

“You haven’t eaten all day, have you, piggy?” she teases, her voice dripping with false concern. “Mistress is so nice. I’m gonna feed you.” She grabs the can of whipped cream, squirting a thick, sticky glob onto the b*ll of her left foot. The cold cream mixes with the dirt and skin, turning her sole into a grotesque, edible mess. Then, with deliberate slowness, she places a plump blueberry between each toe, pressing them deep into the gaps so the juice oozes out when he bites down.

“Mmm, special dessert,” she coos, dragging her foot across his lips, smearing the filth into his skin. “You should be thanking me for this.” She presses her sole flat against his mouth, grinding the whipped cream, blueberry pulp, and hike grime into his lips. “Open wide, b*tch.”

His gag reflex betrays him immediately, his throat convulsing as she pushes her foot inside, her toes scraping against his tongue. The taste is revolting—dirt, sweat, the cloying sweetness of the cream, the burst of tart blueberry juice—all of it churning in his mouth as she pumps her foot in and out, making him l*ck, suck, and swallow every drop.

“That’s it, clean every bit,” she commands, twisting her foot deeper, her heel pressing against his chin. Drool and whipped cream mix with the filth, dripping down his throat in thick, ch*king globs. He gags, his body j*rking against the restraints, but she only laughs, pressing harder. “Oh, are you struggling? Good. That means you’re doing it right.”

She pulls her foot back just long enough to spray another dollop of whipped cream onto her right sole, then cram it into his mouth alongside the first. His g*gging grows louder, his stomach heaving as she rocks her weight forward, her feet filling his throat. The open-mouth gag she’d placed between his teeth only makes it worse—his jaw locked open, his tongue useless as she f*cks his face with her soles.

“Hah! Puke it up,” she cackles, watching his throat bulge as he tries and fails to swallow. “Go on, ch*ke on it. You’re gonna deep-throat my feet before I’m done with you.” She leans forward, her *ss grinding into his sternum, and hawks a thick, bubbly loogie straight into his open mouth. The warm, salty spit slides down his throat, mixing with the whipped cream and foot filth already churning in his gut. “There. Something to wash it down with.”

His retching is music to her ears. She lifts her phone, snapping a selfie of her spread legs, her feet buried in his face, his blindfolded, g*gging form pinned beneath her. The flash lights up the room as she posts it online, the caption reading: “Training my new foot servant. He’s almost useful. ?” The likes and comments will pour in soon—other Dommes praising her cr*elty, subs begging to be in his place, bulls laughing at his humiliation.

She dials her boyfriend, putting the c*ll on speaker so the sl*ve can hear every word.

“Hey, b*by,” she purrs into the phone, grinding her foot deeper into the sl*ve’s throat as he gurgles and ch*kes. “You’ll never guess what I’m doing right now. I’ve got this pathetic l*ttle b*tch under me, and I’m feeding him my feet.” She giggles as the sl*ve heaves beneath her, his body convulsing as she twists her toes in his mouth. “Yeah, he loves it. Or, well, he hates it, but that’s even better.” She shifts her weight, her p*ssy pressing against his nose through the thin fabric of her leggings. “I think I’m gonna let him l*ck me clean next. What do you think, b*by? Should I ruin him a l*ttle more before I come over?”

The boyfriend’s laugh booms through the speaker, and the sl*ve can hear the amusement in his voice, the disgust, the pity.

Because to her, he isn’t a man anymore.

He is a footrest. A toilet. A toy.

And she isn’t done playing yet.

Foot Fetish High Heels Food & Object Crush Mistress Zivas Dirty Desert-Blueberries And Cream On Filthy Feet (HD 4K MP4) with C4s.com