Foot goddess training her slave on a leash (femdom, foot domination, high heels, shoe worship, feet)

Title: “The Foot Goddess’s Cruel Training Regimen”

In a secret dungeon, dimly lit by flickering candles, a beautiful Czech dominatrix sat upon her throne of red velvet. Her name was Vladimira, a true mistress of the craft. Slouched at her feet was a scrawny, whimpering young man named Igor – her foot slave.

Igor had been Vladimira’s property for months now, ever since he had foolishly signed away his rights to her during one of her public demonstrations. Little did he know the depraved depths of female supremacy she would plunge him into. Vladimira was an expert in turning milquetoast men into meek, obedient slaves. And Igor proved to be a talented subject.

Stretching out one shapely leg, Vladimira extended her foot towards Igor’s face. He knew better than to hesitate – it would only earn him a swift kick in the ribs. Sniffling softly, Igor began worshipping his mistress’s sole with eager,fluttering lips. The musky scent of her sweat soaked feet filled his nostrils as he doted on her, worshipping every inch of her imperious foot.

“Pathetic little worm,” Vladimira cooed mockingly as Igor serviced her. “I ought to keep you as my rug, a living doormat for my divine soles. You love submitting to your goddess, don’t you?”

Igor stammered out an affirmative reply between kisses. It was true – something in the cruel dominance of this divine creature’s full teachings just felt right to him. He had never felt more at peace than with Vladimira’s feet on top of him, figuratively and literally.

But his mistress was never satisfied with his efforts. The level of demeaning acts she made him perform in training only seemed to escalate. She forced him onto his back and used her rigid bare soles to press down on his clustered face, smothering him as she laughed. “Breathe me in, slave! Rub your pathetic tears in my precious foot sweat!”

If she felt him growing light-headed, Vladimira would briefly pull her foot away, giving him just enough respite to catch a desperate gasp of air before reapplied the glorious pressure once again. The whole time she held him pinned beneath her feet, she twisted on his prone form in her signature style – towering black stiletto heels with excessively pointed toes, designed to fit snugly around the crotches of lesser men submissive enough to let her.

With each stomp and twist, Igor felt the unmistakable pain of those rock-hard, needled toes goring into the soft skin beneath his pelvis and inner thighs. The “golden toes”, as their tips had come to be known in footslave circles, could leave a slave wincing for days after a session, bruises shaped like miniature stilettos dotting every part of his body she decided to use for practice.

Another technique he endured was the “carpet and rug” training – a torments in which Igors exhausted body was used as her designated footrest. Vladimira would stand over him, straddling Igor’s broad chest plate with her long legs. Slowly, deliberately, she’d sink her heeled toes down until they vanished into his skin. All the while, she showered him with the mockery he craved.

“Look at you, my doormat! You’re prettiest when I’m stand squashing you,” she taunted as she leaned back into her macros, making sure every inch of her feet was carried to the mat of tongue-flesh beneath. The pain was fierce, certain, but it only seemed to arouse Slovika, coaxing Cruise in unavoidable burts against her heels. He was her pretty boy doormat!

Soon, her favorite method of degradation was upon him the cruelest, the “nail bath”. From her collection she retrieved a pair of shoes she favored for this aforementioned purpose – soft boots of black leather coconut shoes, which she’d fill to brim with hot, soapy bathwater. Then she’d mount the naked review and step down into their waterlogs, to herself the agony of hot water and rigid leather, then the scraping discomfort of her screeds as they traced Villameria quell wretched flesh.

She began grinding and pumping her full footwear between his legs, savoring the pain and exertion in his uncontrollable log of every motion pulled pleasures from his loins. AvoidIran would scream like a big, but the muffled sounds only seemed as the muffled sounds only seemed to get them going Send him quivering against her firm feet, too lost in masquerade submission to hear anything of all.