Monday, July 18, 2011

through a looking glass darkly

through a looking glass darkly
By FootSponge

YOU might wonder why I do all this. If you were inclined to wonder about such things, of course- but let's indulge for a moment and just say that you do. Wonder. I do myself, I must admit, from time to time I'll still try to swim against the current and fight the great and unrefutable sucking of my mind's drainhole. But I always let go. In a way it's easier, to relent, than to fight what shapes up to be the inevitable. I guess what I'm trying to say is it's too late for me. You might still have a chance to escape, but if you do, don't look back. (I'm still playing along with the scenario that you find yourself in a similiar situation, of course. You never know, it could happen.) But don't do what I did. What I do, what you're wondering about. Because it's too late for me, my friend. I don't have a shot.

"Let's go, you little bitch."

That's Claudia. My Mistress. She's the one who showed me...me.
Who I really am. The person I can't resist anymore. I've got to go. If I
Hesitate she'll be gone. I've learned not to hesitate. I can marvel later. I just let it all go, hold my breath, and swirl down the bottomless cyclone of the drain.

"Grab your keys..."

We're in my apartment right now. She's been here for close to an hour, but I still have not received permission to lick her feet. Oh, that's what I do, by the way, I'm a footlicker. I adore women's feet. It's been my reason for living, and it's been my ball-and-chain. Claudia's mastery has been the melding of the two characteristics and making them one. Whole. Like I've said, she has shown me who I truly am. And her genius lay in the fact that this lesson never has a finish line. Bottomless drain. Remember?

Earlier, I had mentioned how dusty it is in the building's basement.
Grungy, really. It's where I do my laundry. It's where she wants to take me now. So that I may wallow in the filth of it all, transcribed fittingly on the soles of her bare feet. Feeding for the pig. In my world, this is what is known as a treat. And if that is what is making you wonder, well then forget it. We have but yet only begun to scratch the surface of my depravity. But it is an appropriate beginning, if you want to stick around and keep on wondering.

Claudia walks towards the door, and like a rodent I scurry quickly
behind. I'm already too excited to speak, though, if I did feel the
urge to
say anything, any opinion I may have of any developing situation is
of
no
real substance. Claudia guides through our time together, her finger
never
strays off the control button. I give input when asked, which is
rare.
She
knows what excites me the most, but unless it happens to be on her
agenda
(or of use to her in some way), what excites me the most is almost
incidental. It is only to my good fortune that my supplicant virtues
nearly
always tender to her demeanor.

We're in the elevator now. My eyes fall to her naked feet. My
entire
reason. And the talisman for the practical lack of using any. The
doors
close, and the elevator rumbles.

"Get down," Claudia states coolly, as if making the most mundane
of
requests. I know what she wants, even though this is new territory
for
us.
The thought of subjugating before her in a potentially publicly
unexplainable position has got me firing off on all cylinders though.
It's
the old thrill-of-being-caught rush, magnified ten-fold by the
humiliating
nature of the sex-play if discovered by the average joe. The average
joe
that lives in the same building as I do.

All of which is an afterthought of course, for as soon as the
words
leave her mouth I am on it, writhing on the floor beside her in full
thralldom. Her feet never looked and felt so commandingly
irresistible.

Before the elevator reaches our intended destination, it begins
to
slow
for an apparent pick-up on the ground floor. Part of me had been
rendered
blissfully unaware of this very real possibility by the intoxication
of
Claudia's feet, but now there's a five-alarm alerting my soggy head.
My
instinct is to jerk up, but you see, I can't. Presently, the foot I
am
not
sucking on is positioned atop my head, and as the elevator crawls to
a
stop
Claudia has kept it perched there. In fact, the pressure has
increased,
as
if she wants me to truly appreciate how little I control the
parameters
of
my own life. And I surrender again. I can only hope she takes pity on
this
pathetic wretch before I am unalterably disgraced before a fellow
tenant.
I'd have to move, no doubt.

With my heart in my throat, I nevertheless keep my lips on her
foot
where they belong.

As the door slides open, Claudia shoves my head away, releasing
me,
and
I bounce upright, even as the man enters. I look at him wide-eyed and
conspicuous, and the shame of what I am shoots up my spine like an
electric
jolt. Average joe glances at me before he takes in the beauty that is
Miss
Claudia. I don't know him, but chances are fairly even I know who he
has
come to visit.

Claudia and joe strike up a conversation, and in the few moments
it
takes to get down another level, the two are unabashedly flirting. I
stand
off in the far corner meekly with my head bowed. Finally, we arrive
at
the
basement.

I wait for Claudia to exit first. When it's clear that her
conversation
is not yet finished, I slowly make my way out of the elevator.

Claudia turns to me briefly before engaging with joe again. "Hold
the
door," she instructs.

Averting my glance so as not to intrude on her conversation, I
hold
the
elevator door. Several times it tries to close on me, but still she
is
not
done. From inside, the talk is barely above a whisper, and though I
strain I
cannot pick it all up. Finally, I risk a look at them just in time to
see
her passing him a note. He says something to her after, and
simultaneously
they turn their heads to look at me. Claudia is grinning most
deviously.

"Please..." she says, discouragingly, then erupts in a laugh that
sears
through my belly like molten lead. I want to curl up into a
tumbleweed
and
blow away. I know what she thinks of my qualities as a 'real man'.
Now
he
does too. Who knows who else may know by tomorrow. I can barely see
through
the vertigo of the drain.

"Gotcha," the man replies, surmising me as no threat whatsoever.
Which,
of course, I am not. I have been reduced to kitty litter by this
woman.
At
the moment, however, my face glows with shame as whatever remnants of
a
masculine front I have been clinging to is crumbled to dust. If
you're
still
around, a sliver more on my emasculation training later. You don't
want
to
miss out on that fun.

Claudia steps away from the man and out the elevator door. "C'mon,
bitch," she says to me, but its message is clearly two-pronged. She
wants
the man to hear her. And he does. As I follow her like the bitch she
has
deemed, I can hear him chuckle in mild disbelief as the elevator door
draws
to a close.

As Claudia walks the narrow hallway to the laundry room, I note
that the
soles of her feet have already begun to darken, accentuating the
customary
'footprint' look in a deeper grain. Oh, how I love that. All
ridiculous
becomes sublime when that is flaunted at me. When we arrive, she pads
purposefully amongst the machines, seemingly trying to absorb as much
filth
as she can. Finally, content that the bottom of her feet are now
lacquered
in enough grimy adhesive to make my unworthy mouth useful, she hops
up
onto
one of the washing machines and calls my sorry ass to service.

"Get to it, you piece of shit. And they better shine when you're
done."

Having just encountered a regular-guy type, I wonder what his
reaction
might be to such a demand. He would think this woman nuts to ask him
to
do
such a thing. He would find the act revolting. He might think of a
million
perfectly acceptable things, but none of his thoughts would even
graze
the
topic of the emotion that I myself feel at this moment. I am a worm.
I
am
despicable. I am beneath contempt. Which is why I can only feel one
way.

Grateful.

Unwaveringly, unfalteringly, and most pathologically grateful. My
mental
submission is near unconditional in this stage. If she had stepped in
dog
shit and thrust the smeared feces in my face, my only dilemma would
be
my
determination factor in managing to keep it all down so as not to
disappoint
her. Yes, it goes deep. Too deep to dwell on.

I am on my hands and knees now, crawling towards her dirty feet
like a
parched man to an oasis. In no time, I close the distance. There is
barely
enough room between her feet and the grungy floor, but I determinedly
wedge
my face in the allotted space nonetheless. I twist onto my back to
stare
upright into the tools of my demolished psyche, but it's not going to
be
this easy.

Claudia lifts her feet slightly so that they hover over my face.
As
she
does it, a piece of dirt flakes off her skin and falls onto my cheek
inadvertently. I see her peeking at me from above.

"Tell me why I should allow you to lick all the scum from the
bottoms of
my feet..." says she.

My breath is rapid and sharp, near hyper-ventilation. The need is
massive. Gazing into her soles I wander around my head aimlessly for
proper
tribute, for in reality, I really don't know why I deserve so great an
honor. Remember, before I told you that in my world, getting to lick
soiled
feet clean is a treat. And treats do not come without strings. On some
level, I already know that at some point I may have to sacrifice for
my
foot-lust being sated. Longer time in my chastity-device, withholding
of
masturbation privileges, etc. And if I don't show the proper
appreciation
for her generosity now, that sacrifice may crossover into more
physical
punishment. I control very little, but at this moment, I need to
convey
how
grateful I am to possibly cushion the inevitable blow later. No
matter
how
foolish I may sound to myself.

"Oh, Mistress, you know how worthless I am to
you...please...please
let
me perform the one duty I am truly suited for. I can lick your feet
clean
for you like a little dog. Like a little dog, Mistress. Please, let
me
be
your dog. Please let me eat the filth from your feet...please,
Mistress...I
exist for this purpose..." The stream of conciousness ends in moans
and
whimpering noises, the sincerest callings of the sexually decadent and
morally depraved. My mind is like churning butter, mixing the
anticipation
of the reward with the daunting fear of it being taken away. Claudia
continues to glare down at me from her throne.

"And you're going to clean them completely, right?" she says,
indignantly. "God help you if I see one speck of dirt defiling my
feet
when
you're done, you little pussy..."

I nearly swoon from her guidance. "Oh, yes,
Mistress...completely!
I
promise!"

Claudia snickers. "Alright wimpy filth-cleaner. Do your job."

I thank her before I crane my neck up to begin sucking on her
grubby
soles. The first layer of grit melts away in my hungry mouth quickly,
and
like a ravenous vulture I settle in to scour more judiciously at the
heartier stains. I'm saving her toes for the end, kind of like
putting
off
eating the creamy center of an oreo cookie. I want this to last
forever, but
I know quite well what happens to all good things. In due time,
Claudia
checks my progress.

"How's it coming down there, freak...does all that nasty foot-
grime
taste good?"

"Mmmmphhh," is all I can supply as I continue to chow down. I'm
about as
base as they make 'em. My tongue is completely coated now, and I can
feel
the dirt spreading past my lips as it mixes with my saliva and puts a
thin
sheen on the lower half of my face. I only hope I don't transfer it
back
onto her precious feet; hell, if it does I'll just lick it away again
like a
good dog. Eventually, it'll all find its way down my throat.

Claudia amuses herself while I slobber away from below. "Yep,
there'll
be no confusing you with a real man anytime soon," she ponders. "Too
bad
that guy from the elevator can't see what a pathetic spectacle you've
turned
yourself into. Hmmmm...maybe I'll tell him about it when we go out on
our
date..."

I don't skip a beat in my cleaning, but Claudia tilts forward to
look at
my wallowing form before continuing. "But, then again, I wouldn't
want
him
to know that I actually let your disgusting mouth clean dirt from my
feet...you and I both know that you're not even worthy to do that..."

She separates her feet to square me up in the eyes. "Are you, you
loathsome little creature?!?" As she stares down at me, I watch as she
begins to work her mouth from side to side. Suddenly, she purses her
lips,
and before I know it, a glob of spit is on its way down. It smacks my
face
wetly when it hits, dead center in my forehead.

"Hah!" She declares, triumphantly. "Bullseye!"

I lay immobilized, even as the spit oozes down my head and into
my
hair.

"Looks like we can add another function to your short list,"
Claudia
muses. "Spittoon-face! Open up wide and let's see if I can hit my mark
again!"

Accepting of my role as subhuman playtoy, I watch her mouth
muster
up
more saliva. Her feet dangle side-by-side out of reach, framing her
face
above in a rapture of poetic justice, and I've already opened my own
mouthhole to enable a good landing field. This is not the first time
tonight
that I have felt dehumanized, and it will not be the last.

After working it over a bit, Claudia lets the first strand hang
from her
lips. I watch it stretch to the breaking point, until finally the
gooey
strand snaps and plummets towards my target face. Half of it sinks
into
my
waiting mouth. The rest splats over my bottom lip and down my chin.

"Awwww...close," she observes. "But not quite. Don't worry
though,
I'm
in no hurry! And I never give up on something until it's done
right..."
She
summons up more spit and repeats the process. Unfortunately, the next
missile hits me square in my right eye, which I have to keep closed
through
the remainder of the ordeal. After that, a mercifully smaller dollop
lands
precariously on the bridge of my nose, but the smell of it is all
around me
now. Several more mucky gobs land in and around the surface of my
mouth, but
by this time Claudia is merely firing at will without the stretch of a
purpose, no doubt mentally inebriated by the absurdity of being able
to
do
this to another human being. But I speculate, I only really know what
it's
like at this end. Words can't express but a raging hard-on speaks in
volumes. It's as honest as it gets. Can you feel the paradox of my
being
now? Are you still wondering? Are you still with me?

Claudia halts the rain of slaverbombs to finely sprinkle my face
with a
spraying mist of spittle. After a time, though, this ceases as well.
"All
dried up...sorry, that's all you get, spittoon-face." She studies my
drenched mug intently as I look up at her in distress. "God...YOU ...
ARE...
DISGUSTING...look at your face, all dirt-smeared from my feet and
coated
with my slimy spit..." She pulls an arm up and rests her chin in her
hand.
"How do you live with yourself?"

What a perfectly fantastic question. "I don't know," I respond.
And
I
really don't. I never planned any of this. I never planned to learn
the
truth.

"I think we can get you fixed up..." Claudia utters,
forebodingly.
She
hops back off the washing machine, and steps over my encrusted head.
"Time
to go, you filthy whore..."

As I raise from my position to follow my entire-universe back to
my
apartment, I happen to glance up at the closest corner of the ceiling.
Instantly, my blood runs cold and my peripheral begins to swim, and I
wonder
why this never occured to me before. I think I even let out a groan.
Claudia
looks back at me curiously, then follows my glance with her own eyes.

Please say it isn't so.

A security camera whirs away in its cradled nook, scanning
everything in
the room.

Claudia lets out a bark of a laugh. She then sidles alongside of
me, and
with one arm wrapped around my neck, she peers up at the video camera
and
waves at it.

She makes me wave, too.



We've made it back to my apartment. I was not permitted to wipe my
face
off
before getting in the elevator, and it is only dumb luck that we
encountered
no one on the way. I can only imagine what my face must look like, or
how
someone might react to seeing me in this state. Claudia didn't want
me
to
curl up at her feet during the ride. I was too grossly stained even
for
that
lowly position.

Once inside, Claudia orders me to the tub. I strip, lay flat on
the
bottom, and wait. Soon, she enters the bathroom as well. She is now
naked,
too. I trace her voluptuous figure as she surveys her personal lackey.

Claudia clucks her tongue. "What a mess..." she says, equal parts
revulsion of the view and satisfaction at having been the designator
of
such
unsightliness. "You really are one foul little monkey, huh?"

I look back at her, shamefaced. "Yes, Mistress. I am."

Claudia squints her eyes at me, as if trying to decipher
something.
"Yep, I definitely have to go, lucky for you," she says.

Stepping over me in the tub and straddling my torso, Claudia
settles
into a hunch over my head. My face is mirrored by her pussy,
separated
only
by the thinnest whisper. I can smell the headiness of her ass.

"Now it's time for your cleaning!" she delights, and with that,
unleashes a steady stream of piss onto my face. "Make sure you wash
up
good
now, get it all around..."

As much as space will permit me, I maneuver in the tub so as to
enable
her flow to cascade over the entirety of my face. It's quite the
spicket,
soon I can even feel her warm urine pooling in the nestles of my ears.
Suddenly, without so much as a trickle, the torrent dams.

"That should take care of your face," Claudia interludes. "Now we
need
to address your filthy hole-of-a-mouth!"

My heart thumps away in my chest. I know what is required of me.
It's
the next logical step. I move in a bit closer, and open the lid on the
toilet.

"Good boy..." Claudia praises, sensing my proximity. "Now, I
wanna
hear
you gargle your mouthwash!"

I choke and I sputter. Some of it goes down. Some does not. I'm
drenched
in her waste, and that is the only point that matters. Must I go on? I
could, but you get the idea. This is what it's come to on a
semi-regular
basis. Sweat, dirt, spit and piss. And where it leads, only heaven
and
Miss
Claudia know for sure. Maybe not even them.

After washing herself off in a hot shower (using my flayed body
as
a
bathmat), Claudia takes pity on me and decides my mouth could use one
more
going-over. She soaps up a foot thoroughly and arches it down towards
my
face.

"Open," she dictates, and after I do, she spears the sudsy ped in
my
gaping orifice. Gliding it in and out steadily, the act makes me feel
more
like a foot-washing machine than pertaining to any cleaning efforts
on
my
mouth's behalf. My head bobs slightly off the porcelain with each
upward
thrust, then back down again as her foot fills my cavity to the
breach.
My
taste buds sting from the acidity, but the consideration is neither
here nor
there.

"Nice and clean..." Claudia purrs through the penetration.
Finally,
she
finishes, and draws the shower curtain back to exit. "I'll expect you
in the
bedroom in five minutes. And I'll have your things ready for you,
sissy-boy.
Wash up."

In five minutes I am there, naked and eager, and Claudia has
taken
the
time and effort to lay out my wardrobe for me. My black stockings lay
all
smooth and uniform on the bed, right next to my frilly red panties,
and
at
the foot sit my black mules in all their omnipotent allure. The
anticipation
of their feminine feel has got me spiralling again. I glance down at
the
painted toenails of my own feet, brushed thoughtfully in a sparkling
and
girly pink. This is another thing that I was helped to 'discover'
about
myself. The night holds much promise, indeed.

Claudia is not in the room. Before I have time to puzzle, I feel
the
cool touch of her fingers on my shoulder, followed by the soft hush
of
her
breath on my neck. I also feel something else, and I sense that she is
already fully attired for what fashions to be her prime event. Before
I
can
get properly dressed, Claudia whirls me around so that I may face her.
Instantly, my eyes drop to her lewd strap-on. God, it's big, and my
asshole
shudders in agreement. My Mistress is all smiles, though.

"Are you ready for me?" she coos.

*

Remember, dear reader, that I told you I love women's feet. I
adore
them. They've been my reason for living, and they've been my
ball-and-chain.
And they've opened it all up. I write you from the very depths of an
impossibly sucking drain, still not seeing any bottom in sight. Maybe
you've
got a thing for feet, too. Perhaps you need them in your life as much
as I
do. But beware.

Don't do what I did. What I do. 'Cause it's too late for me, my
friend.

I don't have a shot in hell of coming back.

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