Bought For The Night – A Lesbian Foot Worship & Domination Erotica

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This event likely preceded our fortunate encounter at the mall, and really, that explains so much of her seemingly odd behaviour. A mockery of everything I believe in: honest work, earning your dues, taking control of your destiny.

I suck each toe individually - the sweaty taste is gone, thanks to the tongue bath I provided earlier, and any remaining toe jam has long since been scooped into my mouth - but this hardly matters to my devastated cuckquean brain, which is completely fried at this point. Our protagonist has been prophesied to die should Charybdis, the Living Whirlpool, remain chained to the ocean floor.

It’s like I can’t unsee the fact that they’re all around us, out here in the world, even though I don’t know who they are. If this really is her, finally delivering after being subjected to a full week of teasing… god, that’s going to fill so damn good.

First, as I said, there is a real philosophical questioning throughout, the nerdy type but still, about how would virtual reality and human enhancement and AI interact with "real life". If anyone had the opportunity to get free money off losers in exchange for photos of random body parts, she’d definitely be the one to take it, but why would people like her enough to actually pay? Vertigo Comics, an imprint of DC Comics, is being retired in 2020 after a 27 year run of groundbreaking comics. And a new opportunity is coming up: for the second weekend in a row, Frank will be away on a work event.

She’ll literally make a profit off her worn shoes, in the full knowledge that fetishists will pay extra, just because the shoes used to belong to solemonarch. Mere days ago I would have disregarded it as her gold-digging self manifesting, but the truth is, thrice now I have financially supported her in some ways: I’ve bought her pics, gifted her boots, and paid to worship her old sandals. No, Holly has laid the trap for me, weaved her design all around me, readied it to snare me at my first move. Cursing the curiosity and obsessions that have acted as mile markers on my road to damnation, I get down on one knee, and slip the ankle boot on Holly’s proffered foot. I grab the bag with her brand-new ankle boots, paid with my hard-earned money, and join her outside, handing her the bag.

All that set in a foot fetish story is simply astonishing, and it comes up without being forced, which is, simply, art: getting reflection through emotion. I don’t want Jenna to be just another orbiter, interchangeable with all the other simps that support my lifestyle. And on some level, I realise it’s training me to associate Holly, and Holly’s feet, with the ability to rule. But if there’s any at the mall right now, I bet they’d be hanging around the shoe racks I’m currently browsing myself. Her legs are crossed just so that the right boot will peek from behind the table, perfectly visible to anyone entering the room.

Namely, in the whole notion of a foot fetish so compelling that people are willing to pay just to look at photos. I might not understand foot fetish, but if there’s one thing that’s clear to me is the visual symbols it relies upon, and I find myself thrust at the very heart of one of them.

He won’t get hurt by what he doesn’t know, and he won’t act as an anchor to rescue me from my morbid curiosity, my newfound obsession.

Holly's words are cruel stabs to my heart and pride, but they set my arousal on fire in a way I didn't think possible. The Beat Generation was born out of WWII, and it still continues to exert considerable influence on today’s literary scene.