After an entire day in my towering Louboutins, my feet throb with exhaustion and sweat. Finally, I step inside my home, ready to take them off, but my eyes immediately fall on him: the rug. Frozen in place beneath my throne, yet he has the audacity to ask for the privilege of kissing my feet.How dare he? Has he already forgotten that he is still being punished? A playful smirk brushes my lips. I could grant him that pleasure, but he doesn’t deserve it. Not yet. I lift my foot just slightly, letting him catch a glimpse of what he desires—just to tease him. Then, with a deliberate gesture, I slip back into my ruthless Louboutins.Every step I take on him is a sentence. I press down with all my weight, mercilessly. My heel sinks into his fabric, leaving its mark. He cannot resist, he cannot escape. He is there to serve me, to be trampled, to endure the weight of my will.I will continue until he is worn out, punctured, useless. Until he is no longer worthy of lying beneath me. And when he is reduced to nothing more than a tattered remnant, I will throw him away without hesitation.
