It started subtly.
Little things.
The second time I came over, she didn’t even open the door herself—just buzzed me in, texting “it’s open” from the couch. When I walked in, she was half-watching a show, legs stretched out, foot dangling over the edge of the sofa like bait. She didn’t say hello. Just pointed down at her feet without even looking at me.
I dropped to my knees without hesitation.
And that’s how it went, for a while. I’d come over. She’d let me kiss, massage, suck, worship—sometimes with a small smile, sometimes without even acknowledging it. Once, I spent almost twenty minutes at her feet while she scrolled through her phone, barely glancing down.
I should’ve felt embarrassed. Ashamed, even.
But all I felt was addicted. To the salty taste of her feet.
The more indifferent she became, the more I gave. I brought lotion. I offered to rub her calves, her thighs. She told me not to get carried away. “Feet only,” she said once, eyes not leaving the TV. “That’s your place.”
Each visit chipped away at the illusion that this was still something mutual. She never kissed me. Never touched me. Never asked how I was. She only gave me access to what I’d proven I couldn’t resist. Her feet. Her scent. Her power.
One afternoon, I showed up and she was already lying on the couch, talking on the phone. She waved lazily for me to kneel at the end of the sofa. I waited. She didn’t even pause the conversation—just shoved one foot into my face mid-sentence and kept chatting.
I kissed her heel. Her sole. Her toes. She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t react when I moaned softly against her arch. Just laughed at whatever someone else said on the phone.
Like I wasn’t even there.
And still—I kept coming back. Every time. Devoted. Desperate. Starving for the scraps of attention she no longer felt the need to give.
One night, I texted her:
“Want me to come over?”
She took two hours to reply.
“You can. But I’m tired. So just be useful and don’t talk.”
And I went.
Of course I went.
When I arrived, she was already under a blanket, feet sticking out, unwashed from the day. I dropped to the floor without a word. She didn’t look at me once.
“You did good,” she muttered as she drifted off to sleep, her heel pressing lazily into my chest.
The words hit different now.
Not warmth. Not praise.
Just ownership.
And I craved it more than ever.