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- foot domination, foot worship, foot worship london, gym leggings, nike crew socks, nike trainers, post gym foot worship, socks, soles, sweaty feet
- Foot Domination | Foot Fetish | Foot Worship | London Foot Goddess | London Foot Worship Session | Soles Fetish
She Smirks At Me
She answers the door, still glistening as I know that she has just finished a hard workout, thats why I’ve booked this post gym foot worship session. If I wasn’t already panicking, I am now. She smirks at me in a way that suggests she knows exactly how nervous I am. Like she can hear my heart beating a hole through my chest and can sense my palms getting sweaty. My mind is racing, my eyes instinctively averting her amused gaze.
As I look down at her feet – partly out of curiousity, mostly out of shy embarrassment – I notice what she’s wearing. Her blue hair cascades over her shoulders, from which a black Nike sports bra hugs her perfect breasts, that contrasts with her tanned, bronze skin. Further down her body, she wears tight green the dye leggings that cling to her muscular thighs and down further still, she wears a pair of white Nike trainers. Tns. Slightly scuffed, like they’ve been worn often. Knowing that her feet are warm and sweaty inside makes me throb, as I had purposely booked a post gym foot worship session for this very reason
Lick Them Clean
She ushers me inside. I think. The particulars of exactly how I got there are a blur but I find myself on my knees, her trainers propped up mere inches from my face. “Lick them clean” she orders with a smile, as she lies back on the sofa and browses her phone. “Now” she adds, without looking up from whatever she’s doing. I can feel my face flush red as I begin to clean the dusty soles of her trainers with my tongue. I briefly wonder exactly what it is I’m licking – probably traces of the floor of the gym she’s just come home from – but such questions go unanswered as I feel myself drifting into subspace.
After what might have been a minute or an hour, she sits up and gives the bottom of each trainer a cursory glance. “Good boy” she says in a slightly condescending tone. Two words that are mental catnip to a submissive. Two words that send me even deeper into subspace. She pulls off one of her Nikes, pulls me in closer, and pushes her warm, fragrant gym shoe into my face, encouraging me to sniff. The first hit is intoxicating. The hot funk of her trainer, imbued with the lingering scent of a hundred sweaty workouts fills my lungs as I wonder if I’ll ever come down from this high.
Before I know what’s happening, her sweaty Nike Crew Socks, once white, now imprinted with a damp, impression of her toes and heels, are covering my face. Reduced to a mere footstool, and I couldn’t be happier. Each breath brings me further under the control of her feet. Feet I haven’t even seen yet. As if reading my mind, she has me remove her smelly socks, revealing those famous creamy dreamy soft soles. Glistening in post-gym sweat, sweetly scented, more perfect and more powerful than any picture or video posted to the internet could ever hope to convey. And there’s no longer a screen separating them and my face. This is footboy euphoria.