The moment I lifted my foot, your cock gave you away. You didn’t even have time to pretend—your body reacted before your brain could form a single thought. Just the sight of my red mule dangling at the tip of my toe was enough to trigger your obsession. The arch of my foot, the tension in my calf, the slow slide of leather against skin—everything about me reduces you to a pathetic, horny mess. And I know it. I see the way your eyes lock onto the bottom of my shoe, how your breath shortens every time it swings back and forth. You’re mesmerized. You don’t even exist outside of this moment. My foot is your religion now, and this mule, still warm from my day, is your altar. You imagine the smell, the sweat, the taste. You dream of burying your nose in the sole, licking the shape of my footprint, sniffing the dirt I walked on like it’s perfume made just for you. While you spiral into this beautiful humiliation, I take full control. I make you stroke for me. I make you repeat who you are. I condition you to worship and degrade yourself all at once. You won’t cum for your pleasure. You’ll cum for mine—for the power I hold with nothing more than a dangling mule and a cruel smile. And when I count you down, when I finally let you release, it won’t be freedom. It will be proof. Proof that you belong under my feet forever.