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.