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You dare clean my feet with a dry tongue? Pathetic. I sit in my throne and inspect your useless effort, only to find you’ve disrespected my soles. My rage builds — I order you to open your mouth, then spit straight into it over and over. You’ll learn how to keep that tongue wet and obedient. No excuses. I want warm, sloppy worship on every inch of my feet. You’ll hear every loud spit, feel every drop, and beg to please me properly. This is your punishment… and your lesson.