The only food for a foot bitch it’s my Feet

When the day winds down, a sharp click of My fingers brings My foot bitch to heel, leash in mouth, eager to obey. He kneels to remove My shoes, then buries his face in My pungent, well-worn feet. The only cleansing My sweaty soles receive is from his tongue as he takes My entire foot—every toe—deep into his mouth, choking on the taste. I coat My foot with spit, forcing him to savor the blend of sweat and saliva. Today, his sole sustenance is the flavor of My nylons: skin, spit, and sweat.