Before starting this story, the one writing this is a true fanatic of men's feet. Someone capable of giving everything for men's feet. Since I was young, I've felt pleasure when seeing them. In the summer, I would go crazy with every beautiful foot in sandals I saw on the street. I would do the impossible so that on a train ride, I could change seats to spend 200 kilometers looking at the barefoot, playful, or sandaled feet of a real man. I would do everything possible to fix my gaze on them for as long as possible. Wishing and longing for him to notice and respond with "Bitch, now you're going to suck them until they shine." Although shy and unable to demonstrate in public to those men the state of excitement I suffered when I saw their tanned, symmetrical, and perfect feet. It's as if my will was annulled, as if nothing else mattered in the world more than those precious limbs, with veins and fine skin of men.

Throughout my life, my dream has been to find a true foot master. Tired of searching, bumping into idiots, with people who only wanted to fuck. Going so far as to pay symbolic tributes seeking that paradise, that place that for me is the most beautiful in this world, which are the two extremities of a male that combines, in addition, lack of pity, superiority, desire to command, and a sense of doing what's right.

All of this seemed impossible until I contacted Javier once. His message, terse, did not augur what was to come. "Willing to give you my feet and be as bastardly as I can." A curious one, I thought.

Like every time I contacted a male, I pulled the thread to know and understand his limits. "So, if you bring the sandals, I'll have to do something to them." Suck them, he said. What part? I asked. "What do you mean what part, idiot? You're going to suck them whole while I cum on your face." He was shaping up to be the master I was looking for, the one I had been searching for years. The master who would make my life a real downhill ride driven by his will and his balls.

We kept meeting, once, and another, and another. Each meeting, the suffering intensified, the humiliation grew. Javi was heterosexual - a man with two balls and a real man - who combined his slave with his girlfriend, whom he treated like a queen. Like a queen with the tribute of 40 euros that he took from each meeting. And from each meeting, I got to lick his feet, adore his soles, lick his shoes, his sandals, that he would step on and kick my head, authentic roller coasters of pain where each blow with the soles increased my feeling of being nothing, of being shit, of being for him, of submission to his balls.

Until one day, in one of the meetings, he told me: Would you do anything for your master?

- Of course, Don Javier.

- Anything?

- Yes

- Your master is going to get married in two months. That means I need money and I need to lose you from sight for a while. But I don't tolerate the...