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You wanted to worship my perfect pedicured feet… but I decided you needed a stricter meal plan. Watch as I sit back and casually work my Pedi Egg over my soft, freshly pampered soles. Slow strokes. Smooth heels. Fine flakes collecting with every deliberate scrape. You are down there, microscopic and devoted, waiting for your portion like the obedient little speck you are. Each gentle pass of the Pedi Egg sends a soft shower of foot dust drifting down. That is your diet now. No crumbs from the table. No real food. Just the delicate remnants of my flawless feet. I tease you with my toes, flexing and spreading them, reminding you exactly where your sustenance comes from. I tap the Pedi Egg and let the fine powder fall… and you scramble to consume every last flake. A strict regimen. A humiliating cleanse. Nothing but what I choose to shed. Soft dominance. Casual cruelty. Pedicured perfection. Welcome to your new nutrition plan.