The Ritual (shoes, feet)

I'd like you to meet my shoes. Remember when I said that to you?

Not exactly a typical introduction. But for you, appropriate. Because that's the first thing you knew about me. You had to develop a deep appreciation for my shoes. You now know every crease in the patent leather, every scratch in the four inch spiked heel.

I expected you to know these shoes better than you knew your first lover.

The feel of them on your tongue. Long, lavishing strokes. Hands and knees, ass in the air should I decide to use it. I sit, lounging, legs crossed, my bright red pump dangling off my foot awaiting your attention.

A tug on your leash brings you forward. I lounge, relax. You go to work.

The long day of walking, my tired soles. Your attention to my shoes first is important. You hold my ankle in one hand (I am gracious for not binding them behind your back, slave) and place your lips on the top of my shoes first, where my toes are hidden. You move your tongue along the side, to the heel.

Ahh, the heel. My cock, so to speak. I angle my foot to give you a better view, a better position to part those slutty lips of yours and take it in. Slowly. Lips pursed. Long, red patent leather sliding in and out. Glossing. Such a little slut. You keep on sucking, slutboy. My heel in your mouth will be all you know.

Both heels. Together. Two spiked heels sliding in and out of your mouth, and you take it. Like a whore sucking two cocks. You have been trained well. Remember the first time, when I had to strap you down, strap down your forehead and stand above you, glaring down, how you looked up my skirt when I brought my heel down to your lips? You resisted. Oh, did you ever. But you learned.

You learned that it is better to have a heel in your mouth than a heel crushing your balls. That it is better to suck it clean than to have it rammed into your mouth and tied into place with a pair of pantyhose. You learned that spiked heels dig into your skin when you are walked on. And you learned to appreciate them.

And now, my slave, you know how to worship them. You know that once the shoes are cleaned, shining, that they come off, and my feet are next. That my toes need individual attention. To take each one into your mouth delicately. That when I tug the leash, that means suck. Suck hard. I can leisurely watch television, talk on the phone, with that leash in my hand. So simple. Because you are well trained.

Of course, to fully appreciate them, you know how to walk in them. You know to take out your big pair of red pumps and put them on for me when I command it. Oh, how you wobbled the first time. How you complained that they hurt your feet (you realized quickly I could make them hurt a lot worse). How your ass moved when you wobbled across the room.

And now you know the walk, don't you? Yes, you put on your heels and stockings and I have to smile at the way you move with such grace. I taught you. My whore. You learned quickly.

But, back to my feet. As I read a magazine, you hold my ankle in your hand and move your tongue up the bottom of my foot, my other leg sliding down. The red spiked heel still on my other foot, it finds its way to your crotch. A reminder. I am humming innocently, but you know I am testing you. One wrong move with your tongue, my heels presses painfully into your tortured cock. The cock that belongs to me.

So your tongue presses on. Between the toes, down the side of my feet. To my ankles. Sucking. Taking little bits of flesh between your teeth and paying due attention. I sigh. Sitting back in my short leather skirt, my tight corset and long elbow high gloves. Watching you.

Our nightly ritual. 45 minutes. This time, you've earned it.