Master's Foot Slut (Self-Insert)

Chained. Bound. Constrained.

It was a mantra that was ever-present in your mind as you sat in the middle of the room. You were seated on a plain, wooden chair—one you'd gotten from the dining area from your shared apartment—and brought down here, to this storage unit.

The flashing red light of the video-camera made you feel somewhat anxious, but ultimately, you knew better than to ponder over it for too long.

You tamped down the feelings of intense embarrassment as you sat; legs splayed wide-opened, as you listened to the pre-recorded voice of Master—your Master—putting you into trance.

Slave. Slut. Obey.

Mhmm.

You fell deeper, feeling contented, placated, as you listened to Him.

You were always a slut for Master.

An obedient slut for Master.

Master's obedient slut.

The circumstances in which you became Master's slut were foggy. Whenever you tried to remember—tried to remember your life before Master—your brain would shut down. 

Turn off.

Become blank.

Eventually, you learned not to question it—it was a fruitless endeavour.

You were Master's slut.

That was the natural order of things.

You do whatever Master asks of you—without complaint. Without question.

He asked you to be here, said that special word—and so you were.

You obeyed.

You were poised on a chair, your hands resting limply on your knees—the cuffs of your wrist-restraints unnecessary as you remained stationary, awaiting His next command.

Master trained you well—well enough not to need restraints anymore—but you supposed he wanted to convey how far the extremes your subservience to him really extended.

You did as he asked, nodding your head dumbly as you followed His comands.

At 19:57 you'd propped the camera up on the tripod, preparing for the coming sequence of events. Master had sent you a list of tasks he'd required you to complete before your session, and you happily complied.

You were to arrive at the storage unit in your usual garb—t-shirt, jeans, socks, sneakers. You were to have your earpods fully charged and in your ears, awaiting to hear His voice—to obey His commands.

To the naked eye, your outfit was wholly inoffensive.

However, beneath the surface, what onlookers wouldn't was the collar clasped tightly around your neck. The thin, stainless-steel loop, unbreakable, wrapped around your neck.

If anyone were to see it—if they weren't already privy to your subservience to Master—they would assume it was jewellery.

They would be mistaken.

Your collar was now a permanent fixture of your being—signified Master's control over your very being.

After you became Master's—correction, you were always Master's—you were modified and moulded to His liking.

You were made to accomodate Him. To accomodate His tastes and preferences.

He preferred you clean-cut, your clothing modest, your hair simple, neat. You were to be clean-shaven—the markings of your enslavements visible, uninhibited by unsightly body-hair. Your piercings were to be proudly displayed in his presence—your septum piercing the most easily recognisable of many. You weren't allowed to wear underwear, ever, for this very reason. Through the cotton material of your shirt, your nipple piercings poked through—something which initially caused you immense discomfort whenever you were out in public. On one hand, being out in public and having your chest ogled at in disgust didn't appeal to you, but on the other, you were proud to show His markings, to show His body. The latter reason quickly over-powered whatever reservations you may have previously had.

You were Master's slut, your singular purpose in life was to serve Master.

Was to please Him.

To obey.

Over time, His marks—marks of ownership—had mounted. You were pierced and tattoed—you looked like His ideal slave-slut. 

But over time, that wasn't enough.

He took control of your life.

On his orders, you quit your job and began working in a place more befitting of one of Master's slave sluts—under his shoe. Literally.

You became a shoe-shiner.

Everyday when Master came home from work—from His real job—you greeted him at the door on your hands and knees, submissively knelt in front of Him. He would pat your head—give you that smile—and look down, down at His loafers, His expensive leather loafers and lift His heel.

Slowly, you'd cock your head up at Him, silently asking for His approval, and He'd give you His assent.

You'd thank Him and blink at Him appreciatively, your lips already pressing a delicate kiss on the underside of His shoe.

Greedily, hastily, you'd clean whatever debris had gathered on his shoe, your tongue slathering the leather in a fine coat of saliva before sucking it back into your mouth. You'd pepper it in kisses—make-out with it, the passion from the act itself not to be mistaken—and after a while, when it was finally clean enough to your standards, you'd give it a parting kiss and begin with the other.

When all was done, you'd carefully take off his shoes and place them on the rack. You'd bow before your Master and could hardly contain your elation when He'd finally press His sock-clad feet to your face. You'd inhale deeply—let His scent completely invade your senses—and bask in it. They were sweaty, and felt slightly damp resting against your cheek, but when you felt His toes enter your mouth, you were plunged into a state of euphoria. It was all-consuming—the smell was heady, and as you inhaled, took a sharp intake of breath, you felt light-headed, dizzy. You'd lick and suck—much like a baby with a bottle. You were contented, fulfilled at your Master's feet. It was pure bliss serving Him, serving under Him. Serving His feet. In those moments, you didn't care for much else, didn't think about anything but Him, His pleasure, His feet.

You continued your task, devoutly worshipping Master's feet, oblivious to the online audience you amassed during your worship.