You had plans, didn’t you? Something important, something normal. But none of that matters anymore. Not when my perfect princess feet are right here, waiting, calling to you, demanding your obsession. You need this. You need to stroke, to sink, to serve. Every inch, every wrinkle, every delicate curve—your world shrinks until only my feet exist. Look at you, so weak, so desperate, so utterly mine. Every breath you take, every stroke you give, every tribute you send only pulls you deeper. Your mind is fading, your will is slipping—soon, you’ll forget you ever belonged anywhere else. Cancel your plans, pet. The only thing you should be doing is stroking, worshiping, obeying. Let go. Give in. You were made for this.
