I'm wearing a smelly, sweaty pair of grey cotton thigh high socks and you're drooling at the mouth from the sight. You love the way the fabric clings to my soles, and you would give anything to feel them pressed against your face. To be underneath me. Being commanded to deeply inhale the fragrant aroma. You are so weak for my cotton thigh high socks. You are nearly begging for permission to be able to edge for them. To stroke. If you grovel like a good little foot slut, I will grant you what you wish for. But it will be on my terms. My lead. Always.
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