The Dog Who Serves Gothic Feet – Lucia Haycock
I sit in the armchair, legs up, and look down at you. The high heels and little socks are only the beginning, little more than a brief duty. A kiss on the heels, a breath against the socks, then I take them off. What matters are my bare feet.
I hold them out to you, warm, damp, still marked by being worn. You lick every toe one by one, from the tip to the base. Every space between them, deep and thorough. The soles, the balls, the heels, the sides. You take the sweat from my skin, lick it up, stay on it until my scent sits inside you. I move my feet slowly over your face, press one sole firmly onto your mouth and nose, let you breathe, then make you lick again. The chain in my hand reminds you that you are not allowed to pull away.
In this session you are not a man to me. You are my foot slave. My dog. The gothic mistress sits above you in the armchair, calm, superior, dressed in black, the leash loose or tight according to my mood. You belong down there, at my bare feet. You breathe me, you lick me, you wait for the next tug on your collar.
Our relationship is clear and without illusion. I rule. You serve. I give you my feet, and you take them like food. No contradiction, no dignity, only obedience. When I pull the chain, you come closer. When I loosen it, you stay anyway. You lick because I want it, and you stay because you are my dog.
As long as I sit in the armchair and hold the leash in my hand, you do not belong to yourself. You belong to my bare feet. You are the foot-licking dog of Mistress Lucia Haycock — and that is exactly what you are meant to remain.
