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A footslave's testimonial to Foot worship


As the footslave of Madam M, or, more precisely, as one of Madam M’s footslaves, I, in a non-figurative sense, belong to, and live under the absolute control of, Madam M’s sacred, flawless feet, which are at once an extension and part of Her and a separate power and universe unto themselves. I can and do say this directly and matter-of-factly not for effect but simply because it is true; indeed, I could not say anything about myself that was truer.

The foot worship of Madam M’s feet is nothing less than a religious act of veneration, which, appropriately, takes the form of a highly structured and solemn ritual of Her characteristically methodical design. Her toes, Her feet, Her ankles, Her legs – all of these, like every aspect of Her, are simply beyond perfect, beyond praise, and every time I kneel before Her, as our rituals commence, my awareness of their countless perfections deepens in lockstep with their dominion and authority over my person. So that when I lovingly, but reverently and with trembling hands, remove one of Her stilettos at the end of Her day, the stockinged foot that I am confronted by – the dazzling, lustrous (usually) red pedicure catching the light, subtly muted by the mist of Her stocking, the impossibly graceful and feminine contours and shape of Her foot and toes – leaves me astonished and stupefied by the realization that, despite, the uncountable hours I have spent meditating upon and worshiping Her beautiful feet, I will always be wholly unprepared for the shock of being in their presence; there is simply no such thing as being familiar with and “used to” the perfection of Madam M’s feet.

And it is at this point in our rituals that I am required to look from Her foot into Madam M’s gorgeous, intelligent eyes – something I lack the strength to do even with a photograph of Madam M – as a means of reinforcing a fundamental point that can be, ironically, lost in the context of a footslave’s life, namely that Her flawless feet are not “fetish objects” and their worship is not an exercise for my self-indulgence and gratification, but rather Her feet are an extension of Her, inseparable from Her, and they communicate and express, in the perfect languages of Her prefect body and being, the limitless powers of Her perfection, and Her entitlement and intent to exercise those powers to their fullest. The acknowledgment and acceptance of these realities is one of the primary purposes of worshipping Her feet. And soon, my nose is moving in a measured way along the seam of Madam M’s damp stocking, perfectly aligned along the underside and soft pads of Her toes, taking controlled and rhythmic breaths, deeply inhaling the bewitching aroma of Her nyloned toes, which is the record and story of one day, this day, in the life of this extraordinary Woman to whom I belong, expressed with unrivaled eloquence in the unique language of Her body. And as it enters my bloodstream it acts exactly like software, overriding and erasing my will and identity and replacing them, irrevocably, with Her Feminine will and energy, and announces, calmly but firmly, that I am Hers forever. Though at this point I remain, by training and conditioning, outwardly functional and coherent, the extent of my disorientation and helplessness in consequence of what I am experiencing simply cannot be overstated, and the rituals have barely even begun.

It is usually about thirty minutes or so after the rituals begin that I find myself massaging Madam M’s feet, exerting all of my considerable talents in that discipline (talents which were honed and cultivated in two extensive reflexology classes I was required and happy to attend before ever being allowed to touch Madam M’s ethereal feet with my hands; one does not develop one’s massage skills on the feet of a Woman like Madam M, any more than one learns to play a violin on a Stradivarius) with the objective of easing the tensions from Her beautiful feet and toes, relaxing Her, giving relief and comfort to Her, which is, without question, my highest ambition and use in life. It is both thrilling and terrifying to massage Madam M’s stockinged feet – thrilling because Her feet are quite literally perfect and I love them with a passion that makes me swoon, and terrifying for the very same reason. It is difficult to describe the torrent of emotions evoked by being near, and touching and holding something that is at once sensitive, delicate, and aesthetically perfect and exquisite and, without contradiction, ruthless and omnipotent. Few people know what it is like to hold, literally hold, their higher power in their own hands. At times I feel certain I will burst into flames or evaporate in a puff of smoke, or simply collapse irretrievably into a catatonic state, so overwhelmed am I by Her, and by the power and perfection of Her flawless feet, and yet those very same influences and authorities compel me to internalize the upheaval, and to carry on, docilely and dutifully, in perfect service to Her and Her flawless feet – reeling in a state of erotic and emotional insanity on the inside, utterly composed and poised and compliant on the outside, because this – that is the impossible - is what She requires, and effortlessly imposes, and this is the minimum that She is entitled to.

There is no endpoint or conclusion to my story, any more than there is an end to the perfections and power of Madam M or Her unsurpassably gorgeous feet. I am, impossibly, always being taken to a state of greater awareness of the perfections of Her feet, and more profound submission to their power and authority in a never-ending progression and virtuous, inescapable circle. I am now, where I was not initially, in chastity, and my body below my neck is hairless and smooth, the result of regular waxings. These “dramatic” changes were ordained (when Madam M says She wants something to happen, it is as if it already has) and never explained, and, of course, unquestioningly accepted, though I’m not sure acceptance is the right word, for acceptance implies that there is an alternative, and, in this case, there isn’t. I expect other changes, perhaps more dramatic in character, will be imposed, according to the whim and will of Madam M as She exercises Her birthright as a superior, dominant Woman, and transforms me into a more complete symbol and expression of the power of Her astonishing feet, and makes my life, who I am and the way I live, an extended act of their worship as they become, increasingly, my entire world. And I await my fate as secure in the certainty that I am powerless to affect or change it as I am in the faith and knowledge that it will serve the higher purposes of glorifying, honoring and living for the breathtaking Woman under whose immaculate feet it will be spent.



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