You are so weak for superior soles. Aching for them, yearning to be underneath them. To worship with your eyes, perhaps even with your mouth if you display obedience. Though don't get your hopes up. As I peel my feet from my leather boots the fragrant smell fills the air, having worn no socks and causing sweat to form on my wrinkles. In these boots, I have been toying with other weak men just like you; the thought making you grow hard between the legs as I point and wiggle my toes in your direction. Wafting the scent of vinegar your way. Day dreaming and fantasizing about what it would be like to be in their place, to serve these soles. You'd do anything for these feet wouldn't you? To feel them, to be so near. A foot stool, to smell, my nose pinching at your nose; underneath my wrinkles. I want you to stroke it, basking in your desperation to serve such perfect feet. Putting your longing clear on display as you watch my spreads and scrunches.
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