The other day a Canadian slave booked a foot fetish and bondage session with me.
I arrived at his hotel room in Shanghai and said“You have chosen to serve this evening, but remember, submission is both a gift and a challenge.”
I prepared my tools—a collection of ropes that would bind him partially, allowing just the right amount of movement to maintain his desire without granting him true freedom. The ritual began as I secured his wrists, each knot tied with precision and his journey into submission.
“Tell me what you yearn for,” I commanded, my gaze piercing through him like a needle stitching his desires into reality.
“Your feet, Mistress,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “I wish to worship them.”
With those words, I smiled, a slow and deliberate curve of my lips that promised much but gave away little. “Very well,” I replied, reveling in the control I held over him.“But know this: reaching them will require all your strength.”
I positioned myself comfortably on sofa, my feet adorned with delicate anklets that shimmered like stars against the midnight sky. As I extended my legs before him, I relished the subtle power shift—the captive gaze locked onto my feet, sparkling with imagination.
“Begin,” I commanded softly yet firmly.
He strained against the bonds that held him, his muscles trembling as he attempted to inch closer. The ropes allowed him just enough mobility to advance but were cunningly restrictive, ensuring that every small progress was hard-won—a metaphor for submission itself. His determination only heightened my thrill; watching him struggle lighted a flame within me.
As he stretched out his tongue, longing etched on his face, it was still not enough. The gap between his eager desire and my alluring feet remained teasing—just out of reach. His resolve coiled into desperation as he attempted to bridge that gap, inch by painstaking inch.
“Is this what you truly want?” I teased, arching an eyebrow in mock innocence. “To worship at the altar of my feet? Your movements tell me your heart is willing—yet here you are, struggling.”
He breathed heavily, sweat glistening on his brow as he nodded fervently, the reality of submission dawning on him like the first light of dawn chasing away shadows. The challenge invigorated our dynamic; I was not just a mistress but an embodiment of every fantasy he had ever dared to dream.
“Push harder,” I urged, savoring my role as both guide and judge. "Let the ache be your reminder of your devotion."
With another surge of effort, he strained closer, desire mingled with frustration etching deeper lines across his brow. He was so close now; I could see him visualize the moment he would capture my foot with reverence. But then reality struck again like a cruel joke—the tempting distance remained prominent between us.
“What will you do for me now?” I asked playfully, indulging in my role as I relaxed back comfortably, relishing in the scene before me.
He moaned softly—a sound both delicious and pitiable—his tongue flicked out once more in an effort to close the remaining distance. Each small movement sent waves of anticipation through me; I reveled in my mastery of this game.
“Beg,” I commanded, speaking softly yet sternly.
His breath caught for a moment as he hesitated, vulnerability coursing through him like electricity. But then he let go of all pretense; dignity dissolved into humility as he pleaded in fervent words that flowed through clenched teeth.
“Please, owner Alessandra… allow me to worship your feet.”
In his submission lay an invitation; it beckoned to even greater depths of pleasure for us both. I could feel the power thrumming within the room like a heartbeat between us—this was not merely about bondage and fetishes; it was about exploration, trust, and unabashed intimacy.
“Then you must try harder,” I replied with a sultry smile that forged a connection deeper than any restraint could shackle. “Show me your devotion; make every ounce of effort count.”