Who knew an Instagram friend request could be the harbinger of my destruction?
And yet, that is exactly the scenario I find myself contemplating, as I sit alone in my empty apartment. Frank’s away for the whole weekend, and part of me thinks I should feel guilty: I’m basically cheating on him, with his ex wife’s feet no less!
But that’s not how my emotional self responds. The fact that Frank is absent is making things easier, not harder. He won’t get hurt by what he doesn’t know, and he won’t act as an anchor to rescue me from my morbid curiosity, my newfound obsession.
The road that’s led me here began so innocently. If I’d never caught sight of Frank’s Instagram feed, with Holly’s foot account smack dab in the middle of it… if I’d never started to obsess unhealthily over what a foot fetish even is… maybe I wouldn’t have spent my hard-earned cash to buy Holly a new set of ankle boots.
But what’s done is done. I could tell her I’ve changed my mind, to forget about the whole incident and cancel our plans to meet during the weekend, but I don’t have it in me to pull away from the abyss.
So I stare at my phone again. Holly has sent me a friend request on Instagram… through her foot fetish account. Solemonarch. A brilliant pun, really, but also a concept that makes me shiver. I feel like a deer, stalked by a puma in the woods.
Once I accept her friend request, I’ll know what she has in store for me this weekend. I’ll know what the next step on this mad downward spiral is going to be. I’ll know what she’s going to do to me.
I’m not sure I’ll like it… but I’m sure I want to find out what it is.
With a sense of anticipation, I close my eyes, and tap the “accept” button.
Moments later, my phone buzzes to a new notification – Holly’s already sent me a DM. I don’t know what’s happening to me, where all my confidence has gone, but I need to take a moment to breathe deep and literally stop my hands from trembling. Then, I open the message.
“Sorry Jenna, rain check! Smth came up, will let u know when I’m free”.
A horrible feeling of despondency and disappointment crashes over me like a tidal wave. No! So anticlimactic! I’ve been psyching myself up thinking about it for most of the day, why do I have to be so cruelly denied?
Frank will be back on Monday, too! I won’t have the house to myself next weekend. Maybe that’s a good thing…? Maybe having him around will let me keep a cooler head. Maybe he’ll unknowingly save me, shame me into reneging on this mad fetish thing.
But do I really want to be saved?
I pace my room, considering what to respond, indeed whether to answer at all. I should just let it go, I know I should! This is the universe, granting me an opportunity to back out of my folly. Maybe my last opportunity. I really should seize it. But I haven’t been able to stop myself so far, so why would I acquire such a skill now?
That’s how I rationalise it, anyway. On some level, I know the truth is I have lost all self-control. Before I know it, I’m sitting on the bed, my fingers flying as I tap away at the screen.
“What’s up, Holly?”
I’ll give her this, at least she doesn’t leave me hanging: the reply comes moments later.
“I’d really like to hang out, but a guy’s paying 200 dollars to lick the bottoms of my shoes. U know the drill, work before pleasure!”
The words shock me to my core. The specifics really shouldn’t surprise me at this point, not after the many sleepless nights spent researching foot fetishists, but the idea of a person being actually willing to pay 200 dollars just to lick the bottoms of someone’s shoes is absolutely insane to me.
Insane, and… alluring.
I banish the thought, annoyed at the way my mind seems intent on betraying me. This isn’t just about fetish anymore, this is about Holly, my partner’s ex-wife, playing power games with me. I might be drunk with weakness and subservience, but I’m not stupid – I recognise the words for what they are. A mockery of everything I believe in: honest work, earning your dues, taking control of your destiny.
But on another level… isn’t Holly just better at this sort of grind than I ever will be? She’s making more than I do in a full day at the office, by just having some guy lick her shoes like a dog. Like back at the mall, I once again squirm under the crushing perception of Holly’s complete superiority over me. She has me beat in every department, brains, looks, money… even this.
I stare at nothing for a while as I go over these thoughts in my mind, again and again. It’s just like with the foot fetish, I get a sniff at the idea and never let go. I basically programmed myself with seeing Holly’s feet as an object of worship, and now I’m doing the same with the idea that she’s my better, the alpha girl who deserves to get her shoes licked by losers… losers like me.
Oh God is the idea arousing me? But of course it is, because I’m a loser, meant to be a handmaid to the stronger girl… that’s why she patted me on the head as I paid for her boots, it was a mutual recognition of my new standing beneath her…
My right hand sneaks into my pants, and as I start rubbing, my breath quickens. With every stroke, the poisonous thoughts sink deeper into my subconscious. Holly is better, smarter, prettier, wealthier. I am worthless, a doormat, a foot rag, a pay slut, a bootlicker, a lesser being, the kind of girl that can climax from merely fantasising about being bullied, let alone by her man’s ex-wife, and oh God I’m getting close –
But eventually my phone buzzes again, snapping me out of my reverie. Holly has sent another message my way, and I cringe in humiliation as I realise how quickly I’ve interrupted my masturbatory session just to read what she has to say to me.
“Don’t give me the cold shoulder now, girl. I’ll happily cancel on the guy if u wanna pay me ”
I writhe on the bed at being called a girl by Frank’s ex-wife, but it’s the second half of the message that really grabs my attention. A part of me is so drawn to the idea that it actually scares me. Not only would I be living out my obsession, I would be paying Holly my tributes. Like an inferior person, a humble peasant, would do to her sovereign… perhaps more appropriately, to her sole monarch.
Besides, is it really that different from buying her ankle boots at the store? For that matter, I also directly paid her to purchase a photo set from her.
And yet, I hesitate. Holly doesn’t know I paid for the photos, but she obviously would know if I paid to meet her. And the boots can be explained away as a gift, which shoe-licking for money definitely can’t. This is too much, even for obsessive old me, at least for the time being. I’m going to draw a line in the sand, right here, right now.
“Sorry, was making tea,” I say, making up a completely honest explanation for leaving her on read for a while. “Not interested in paying tbh. Just let me know when you’re free again!”
“Could have fooled me, after you bought the boots for me, but alright!” Holly replies. “Try not to think abt me too hard… if you can help it :P”
Her parting jab irks me. She’s right, of course, I did pay for her shoes. In a way, that was my very first act of submission and impropriety towards her, so why was I acting all high and mighty now? I guess a primitive part of my brain still feels like it would be crossing a line, though. If I buy her shoes, then that is a gift. If I pay to lick her shoes (such a delightfully wrong idea), then it’s basically… I don’t know, sex work, I guess? It’s a bit weird to consider. This fetish world is still very much new to me.
I’m tempted to finish my pleasure session, but… in truth, I’m scared of what I might do once close to the edge. What if I grab my phone one-handed and tell Holly I’ll pay? The daze of arousal does wonders, and terrors, to the human mind.
No, best not. When Frank is here, I can get relief in a more conventional way, or so I tell myself as I start working through a few house chores. I feel really proud of myself for having enforced this boundary with Holly. I’ll need to figure things out from here, of course. It looks like the meeting with her is still on, but the logistics will need some consideration once Frank returns.
But still, I beam in some measure of self-confidence, for maybe the first time since I discovered Holly’s secret Insta account. It’s good that I’ve done this, that I’ve said no.
I try to ignore and suppress the feeling of disappointment about the empty weekend ahead of me. But once all the chores are done, all the food is cooked, and all the tasks for the upcoming work week have been listed and organised, the dreaded emptiness becomes an experience of pure agony.
I keep myself distracted as best I can. I listen to some music, go for a run, try to read – and fail, try to watch some Netflix – and fail. My mind is elsewhere. Just when I think I’m finally getting immersed in something else, getting the distraction I so obviously crave, I find my hand fishing out my phone and tapping on Insta, looking for my sole monarch. Ugh, it’s like a damn reflex at this point.
Has Holly already gotten her shoes licked, or is that still to come, perhaps later tonight? Is it happening right now? Has she posted any new pics? I refresh my feed obsessively, and eventually navigate to her fetish profile, browsing the gallery I’ve gained such an intimate familiarity with at this point.
I can kinda see why Frank thought she was beautiful. After staring at them long enough – and programming myself to that effect - Holly’s foot pics are starting to make sense to me. To be more accurate, I think the beauty is literally in the mind of the beholder, but then again that is true of every human body part, right? Even our more conventionally attractive anatomy is so only because we find it attractive in the first place.
The same is true for feet. Our brain over-interprets patterns all the time. It bestows meaning, symmetry, and parallels on the world around it, even when they’re absent. Where first I saw just a pair of feet, I now see glory.
The delicate pose of Holly’s foot as the toes press down on a slave’s throat, and the naked heel rising defiantly into the air, begging to be sucked, speak of raw primal power, dressed in the fineries of queendom.
The matter-of-fact, arrogant way in which her flat sole fully adheres to another submissive’s face, on the other hand, communicates contempt and degradation. Walking all over someone, merely because she can.
Every photo in this gallery speaks to my pattern-seeking brain. It evokes imagery from nature, history, and art, in one grand tapestry of inequality, hierarchy, and subjugation. And on some level, I realise it’s training me to associate Holly, and Holly’s feet, with the ability to rule. To enslave. To destroy.
As I try to snap out of my reverie, a new batch of photos comes in – but not of Holly’s feet, as I was expecting. No, I suddenly find myself staring at a gallery of old shoes, Holly’s, I presume. Sandals, worn birkenstocks, and flip-flops being put for sale, at a price much higher than the retail pricepoint when they were new. Holly’s greed is truly boundless! She’ll literally make a profit off her worn shoes, in the full knowledge that fetishists will pay extra, just because the shoes used to belong to solemonarch.
Fetishists like me, I realise, and blood rushes to my cheeks in embarassment.
The photos make it quite clear that the shoes are being resold exclusively for their kinky value. No pair I see is in remotely good condition. The worst of the lot is a pair of old, worn sandals. Even from Holly’s rudimentary and shoddy pics, it is clear they are stained with countless hours of her foot sweat. The way my face should be.
I should buy the sandals.
I don’t know why I get these intrusive thought, but they cut through my mind like a knife through butter. My face should be stained with Holly’s sweat. I should buy her used sandals.
Why on Earth would I ever do something like that, though? I literally just said no to paying her. But I did buy her boots. But this is different! I can concoct an excuse to make it acceptable in public – and perhaps even to Frank – that I felt like getting Holly a gift, but buying a pair of worn, frankly worse for wear, sweat-stained sandals from her secret fetish identity is literally impossible to explain away.
Even so, I want to buy them. Because I was so hyped for the weekend, and nothing happened, and anything’s better than being swallowed by the maw of Sunday boredom and disappointment. Besides, she won’t know it was me, just like she didn’t know I purchased a set of premium foot pics from her, back when I still believed this was all a matter of curiosity, rather than attraction.
Ultimately, I should buy the sandals because I clearly want to. Because the idea of shoving my face against the insole and breathing Holly’s sweat in – while literally paying for the privilege – arouses me to no end.
Before I know it, one hand slides back inside my pants, the other tapping away through Holly’s links until my finger is hovering over the “buy” button.
I know I’m caught in the spires of my own arousal, but I don’t care. Hell, I’ve already bought her ankle boots, this is no different, really. And it’s not like paying her to cancel on the shoe-licking guy. She won’t know I’m paying her. The boundary is maintained, but I still get to indulge my new obsession, and play with her sandals. Win win!
I throw my hesitations out the window. Millions of people in the world indulge these fetishes on a daily basis. I’ll be one of them! I’ll throw my hard-earned money, and my humiliated worship, at Holly, my new owner, my sole monarch. I finally tick the box, agreeing to pay extra for swift delivery, and purchase Holly’s worn sandals. And simultaneously, I orgasm.
Pleasure washes over me in waves, so hard that my eyes roll back into my skull. I moan and whimper as the muscles in my thighs go taut and my toes curl and stretch. A striking realisation pierces the hazy fog and hits me – I’ve never orgasmed so hard, not in my entire life. Throwing money at Holly for just being herself is the single most arousing thing I’ve ever done.
Unfortunately, with the pleasure receding, the crash comes soon after. My heart twists with guilt at how I’m betraying Frank’s trust in me. I feel terrible shame and regret at my abasement before Holly, and the arousal it brings me. I tell myself I’ll stop. I’ll get the sandals, play with them when I’m alone, but that will be it.
But as Saturday turns to Sunday, I find myself browsing Holly’s foot pics once again. I’m too aroused to properly appreciate the shame I feel at my failure, my pathetically weak will.
Frank calls me upon getting to the airport on Sunday evening. He’s headed for his apartment tonight – has to unpack his bags and get an early start at work tomorrow – so we chat for a while, as he tells me about his weekend. I only half-listen, going through the motions of the conversation. My thoughts are with the package that will soon be heading towards me. The sandals I ordered. The tangible proof of my licentious impulses.
I can’t exactly give them back, but I could throw them away, I suppose. I tell myself I’ll at least consider doing that, but I know I’m lying to myself. I’m fully into the orbit of my obsession now, and I don’t have it in me to pull away.
When the sandals do get home, on Wednesday, it’s like Christmas has come again. I don’t even change for work, don’t even call Frank to ask about his day – both things can wait. Right now, I have a fetish to indulge.
I take the box to my room, sit cross-legged before it, and ever so gently begin to peel it open. I feel there have been last-gen consoles, precious jewellery and sundry other luxury gifts unboxened with far less anticipation and care than I’m reserving this battered pair of sandals.
But as I finally pull them from the packaging, I know for a fact that it was all worth it.
They’re rough to the touch, somewhat misshapen in places, worn out in others, and even at arm’s length, they reek of foot sweat. I bring them closer to my face, losing myself in the tactile sensationsl. My mind revels in the idea that Holly has walked hundreds of hours in these shoes, breaking them in, like she does with people. Rubbing her foot scent, her sweat, and her weight into them, also as she does with people.
I never thought about shoes with any particular interest, but these sandals are different. They are a vessel of Holly’s victory over me, and the psychological effect they have on me is devastating. Before I know it, I’m rubbing my face against every inch of them like a cat, except I’m not marking them with my scent – they’re marking me with Holly’s. I slowly massage as much sweat as I can glean off them into my skin. Absurdly, it feels like a badge of pride.
Before I know it, the rubbing becomes kissing, licking, sucking. My original question – the one that set me along this path – has now been answered. As my tongue reverently laps at the sweaty insole, I understand foot fetishists completely. I am one of them, after all, and making out with an old pair of sandals with more passion than I ever mustered for my conventional lovers.
I lie flat on the ground, pretending Holly is standing above me and pressing her sandals into my face. I give myself to the sandals, worshipping every inch of them, as my right hand inevitably finds its way down my body and towards my arousal.
The evening goes by in a frenzy, the world forgotten.
If I really ever thought getting the sandals was going to be the end of my problems, the next few days prove I was sadly mistaken. I’m distracted at work, daydreaming about Holly’s feet. I’m distracted with Frank, to the point that I’m forced to tell him work is taking a toll on me – which he believes, the sweetheart that he is. Perhaps my biggest problem is that the sandals alone are not enough.
I want more.
And a new opportunity is coming up: for the second weekend in a row, Frank will be away on a work event. He’s super apologetic as he tells me, but internally, I’m overjoyed, and I make sure to tell Holly right away. Hopefully I won’t have to compete with paying shoe-lickers this time around.
“My, my, aren’t you eager,” Holly texts me in response.
“Cmon,” I type, so fast that it makes me feel dizzy. “I know you had fun too.”
“Hey, you’re the newb here, Jen. Me, I’ve been having fun with feet for years. You’re nothing special :P”
Before I can come up with a reply, she’s typing again. “That said, I do have to admit: I never expected I’d be patting Frank’s new girl on the head like she’s a pet ”
I gulp, loins afire, humiliation coursing through my veins. But Holly isn’t done with me.
“You even bought me shoes. What kinda loser does that? :P”
If only she knew to what lows I’ve fallen over the past week… I’d never live that down. Still, I try to shift the conversation away from the teasing, and back to what actually matters. I’ve only gotten the one opportunity to act out my submissiveness with her, back at the mall, and I know so much more about myself now. I’m dead-set, I want to meet her.
“So are you free this WE or what?”
I count my rapidly accelerating heartbeats in anticipation of the coming response. I fully expect it, and yet when my phone does buzz, it startles me so much I nearly drop it.
“Ehh, I don’t know. If you hope to compete with all the guys who pay me for my time, you’re going to have to step up to the plate, missy.”
This last message catches me particularly off-guard. Mere days ago I would have disregarded it as her gold-digging self manifesting, but the truth is, thrice now I have financially supported her in some ways: I’ve bought her pics, gifted her boots, and paid to worship her old sandals. If I do want more – and that is clearly the case – then there is only one logical way this road can continue.
One further step to surrender my honestly earned cash to this tyrannical, entitled woman’s arbitrary control, merely because she demands it of me.
The idea is almost corrosive. I can sense that my resistance is eroding.
“What do you mean? How can I compete?”
“Mmmmhh. Let’s say I’d like to show you another aspect of worship.”
“Send me $100. That’s $50 for my pedicure, and $50 just because you want to make me happy. And then maybe we can meet this weekend.”
Holly’s PayPal information follows. Of course, she doesn’t know I already have her PayPal, and things should continue that way, just in case.
Still, there it is, laid bare before me. Holly wants me to pay in order to have the privilege to even be in the same room as her, let alone live out my fantasies with her. I groan in frustration, pumping a fist against my thigh. She’s asking for half of what the guy had to pay to lick her shoes last week, how is that fair?
But I suppose that’s the point: it isn’t. Submission is in taking this unfairness like a loser bitch… and when my brain phrases it like that, there’s no mistaking the shiver of arousal that ripples across my body. Whatever I decide, this is a defining moment in my relationship with Holly, and in a way, my relationship with my fledging kinks. It is time for me to put up or shut up about this fetish, once and for all.
I need to think, so of course I do what any sane, logical person would do: I fish Holly’s worn sandals out of the secure hiding spot in the boxes under my bed, and I cradle the sandals like they’re some kind of relic. I rub the toe imprints with my fingers like they’re a genie lamp, looking for inspiration. I bring them to my face, softly and demurely inhaling their queenly humours. I can almost picture the stench slithering upward into my nostrils and then into my brain, subduing me, taming me.
Look, I’ve come this far. Well beyond anything I would have even fathomed, let alone considered, only a month ago. The lust now consuming me is undeniable, and if that means I’m once again losing the internal struggle with my own obsession, well… it does seem like I love losing.
My fingers literally shaking with a mixture of arousal, shame, anxiety, and fear, I finally grab my phone, open PayPal, and send Holly a grand sum of $125: fifty for her pedicure, and the rest because she is my sole monarch. The message I send along with the money is as clear as I can make it, more paper trail and documentation of my complete destruction.
“Teach me. Take me. Use me.”
This done, while awaiting Holly’s reply, I dive back into the sandals, rubbing myself towards another, cataclysmic orgasm.
I lie on the sofa, enjoying the warm sunlight streaming in from the window, when my phone buzzes to the familiar sound of a PayPal notification. It never fails to make me smile. I don’t even need to check the phone to know that one of my simps, my orbiters, has sent me the tribute I so manifestly deserve. Which one? Doesn’t really matter. I have enough at this point that they’re basically interchangeable. A smirk tugs at my lips at the thought. A growing legion of servants, ready to do whatever I ask – especially, ready to pay me. It’s good to be me right now.
Suddenly, I sit up, remembering. This might not be just any orbiter! Could this be Jenna?
I rush to my phone, which I’d left charging on the opposite side of the living room, and quickly move to find out. I’ve slowly been working her over, and my tummy flutters with the anticipation of the conquest. If this really is her, finally delivering after being subjected to a full week of teasing… god, that’s going to fill so damn good. Frank’s newest little toy, brought low, to a more appropriate station in life underneath me? Yes please.
My smile morphs into an ear-to-ear grin when I open PayPal. Jenna has indeed sent me the money, and more than I requested, at that! Such a good bitch, doesn’t even need breaking in. I can’t believe that actually worked! I have to physically fight down the temptation to inform Frank that his girlfriend is now my cash cow.
A distracted swipe of the thumb sends the app scrolling, and I frown. Wait. What am I seeing, exactly?
My eyes widen in shock as I realise there have been other transactions between my account and Holly’s. I definitely don’t remember any, how is this possible? I take a closer look, squinting suspiciously… until it clicks, at last.
Oh, my god.
Jenna’s the mystery buyer of my worn sandals! I can’t believe it! Could this be a mistake on PayPal’s part? I almost want to test it, ask her how she likes my old, smelly sandals… but no, I shouldn’t waste this opportunity to utterly and completely destroy her. First, I need to check something.
To be sure, there’s another transaction between our profiles, an even older one. The price point is unmistakable – she bought a set of pics from me! This event likely preceded our fortunate encounter at the mall, and really, that explains so much of her seemingly odd behaviour.
Oh, I really have the bitch now. She thinks this is submission? I’ll show her what the real meaning of the word is when I see her.
But first, let’s get things in motion.
“You know,” I type as I ready a message for her. “I always thought Frank traded down, and now I know I was right. You’re paying for my boots, and now you’re paying for my visits to the salon. But at least there’ll be something in it for you too. Give me your address. I’ll be there on Saturday at 7pm. Dinner is your responsibility. Do not disappoint me.”
The bitch answers at basically the speed of light.
“Yes, Miss Holly,” she says, which makes me cackle out loud – what an obnoxiously pathetic loser. The addres then follows.
I smile to myself, picturing my beautiful plan unfolding before me. I don’t want Jenna to be just another orbiter, interchangeable with all the other simps that support my lifestyle. Oh no. I want her to be… something more.
And I always get what I want. One way or another.
Who knew an Instagram friend request could be the harbinger of my destruction?