Doormat

You are lying on the floor. She told you to lye down there, at her feet, like a doormat. That’s what you are, a doormat if you are told to be a doormat. She can step on you if chooses to. You are in her power. You are her little bitch that she can land to her friends to play with, they’d put you on a leash and take you out and then bring back to her, return you to her the way they’d return a purse, shoes, maybe, not even that, purses and shoes she likes and appreciates, she doesn’t like or appreciate you. You are just a tool. You are… A tool, that’s what you are. You can only hope that you happen to be a good, useful tool. You do your best. She isn’t always happy with you. She makes you suffer than. That’s her right since you are her property and if making you suffer makes her feel better, you are happy to oblige.

So there you are, lying on your back like a nice and proper door mat.

“take off my shoes”, she says. You don’t pull them right off. You know better. You’ve been trained well. You get on your hands and knees, bow down. She sits in the bed and lets you clean her shoes with your tongue. Maybe she’ll let you clean her feet too. You hope. You can only hope. You don’t know. Her feet might slightly smell of sweat and nylons. You like the smell of nylons and sweat, but her shoes first.

It rained. Her shoes are covered with dirt, especially the soles. She likes walking outside, in the rain, when there are few people. She likes her solitude. A few times she took you out for a walk, allowed you to walk behind her, far behind, nobody would even guess you were together. But you weren’t really together. You are never together with her. You wouldn’t dare to think, to assume. You are…a tool. You followed her like a dog on a leash, only that the leash was invisible, but it was as strong as an iron one, served all the same. Her order, her word is the leash around your neck.

You lick her shoes and think of that night when she took you and allowed you to follow her. Uh, how proud you were to have earned this kind of honor and privilege. You lick and lick tasting rain, dirt, soil, making her shoes sparkling clean all over again. You wouldn’t stop without her permission. If she fell asleep on that bed you’d be licking her shoes till morning.

“Enough”, she say.

You stop, bow down, wait for orders.

“Pull them off” she says.

Uh, your heart beats faster. She’s happy with your servitude. She might let you lick her feet after all. Very carefully, obediently, you unzip her shoes, pull gently, carefully, take them off…Uh, the nylons and a bit of sweat. The best damn perfume in the world.

She looks down at you smiling and says nothing. She can read your mind, of that you are sure. You know this from the way she’s looking at you now. She knows you want this, you are desperate for it, but you must be obedient. You must never hurry, must never disobey, must never do anything without her permission. So you wait.

“Good boy”, she say, “Now massage my feet”

Oh, how you waited for it. You bow down a little to smell her magnificent, divine feet, feet of your goddess.

“You can smell”, she says smiling.

You press your forehead to her feet in expression of gratitude and admiration.

“Thank you goddess”

Uh, those toes painted dark blue. You painted them just a few days ago. It was such and honour to sit in front of her on the floor while she was speaking over the phone, solving one of her endless issues, occupied with her goddess affairs. You are honoured, honoured that she trusts you enough to let you paint her toenails. It took time for you to learn how to do it properly. You had been punished a lot for your mistakes. But it is the only way to being good. Endless practice.

You press your face to her feet and inhale the smell, dark nylons. Stockings, she’s wearing stockings and no panties. It’s so hard, awfully hard for you not to look under her dress, at what’s between her shapely legs, her divine pussy. She seldom wears panties, especially with a skirt this long.