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I sit back like the Goddess I am, and look down at you with that knowing smirk you crave. My feet are filthy, covered in mud and dirt, and your pathetic little purpose is to get on the floor and clean every inch of them with your tongue. I tell you how desperate you look, how you are only useful when you are beneath me, licking the mess off my soles while I remind you that real men are out living actual lives and talking to real women. Meanwhile you are here, already trembling for the chance to worship the dirt on my feet, because serving me is the closest thing you will ever have to meaning. As you stare at my dirty feet, I light my cigarette and take slow drags, letting the smoke curl around me while I talk down to you. I tell you that since you want to be owned by me so badly, you can start by opening your mouth like the pathetic little ashtray you are. Every time I tap the cigarette, I tell you to imagine the ash falling into your mouth, imagine how tiny you feel being used for something so degrading, imagine how good it feels to finally get what you deserve. I rub my muddy foot over your tongue and command you to lick it clean because that is all you are good for. I humiliate you while making you taste the dirt, the weight of my foot, the warmth of my smoke, and the feeling of being nothing more than my filthy little foot toy who exists to be used and laughed at. By the end I have your mouth covered in mud, ash, and shame, knowing that this is exactly where you belong.