It was all a mystery. I, a fanatic of feet and submission before them, had been contacting him for several weeks until we finally managed to arrange a meet-up.
Everything I read sounded very good to me. Wonderful. I started looking at his Telegram profiles and especially Twitter, and began falling in love with those beautiful, sensual feet. But always with the doubt: Would it go well? He was a real bastard and didn’t hide it at any point. “You’re going to fall in love with the soles of my feet and you’re going to end up doing whatever I tell you, loser.”
In all the videos and audios he sent me, he made clear his superiority, his bastard and dominant side, and the pleasure he felt from dominating with his feet. That Canary Islands accent, so sensual, made him even more interesting.
Of course, paying tribute to him and compensating him financially was my obligation, and it made him happy. I’ve never been into cash, and I’ve disliked people who follow this practice, because there are many fake masters who are shameless freeloaders and never meet up. Reluctantly, I ended up accepting his conditions; besides, he has great negotiating power.
And finally the day arrived. I had to rent a car because I wasn’t going to stay at his house. This condition would ultimately make my stay harder (and more humiliating), but in the end I accepted. I arrived on the island, and as I saw the signs directing me toward his place, I could only think of his feet and the audio: “I have a gift for you when you arrive.”
I had to run an errand for him, and each time I was getting closer, my nerves began to show anxiety. Would he be a good master? Would it be worth the effort? It wouldn’t be the first time I ended up disappointed.
I would have the answer a few minutes later: Then I arrived at his house. A wonderful tanned man, handsome, with an attractive, smiling face, shirtless, with a suggestive beard and an attractive, masculine hairy chest welcomed me; on the table, his wonderful feet in socks. I left the shopping he had demanded, which I had gladly paid for, handed over the agreed tribute, and he asked me to remove his wonderful socks to discover my gift.
At last I could see those wonderful feet. They were perfect, better than in the photos: symmetrical toes, attractive tan, very stylized and masculine shape. He had gone to the beach; they had sand on them, and the first order made me completely horny: “Clean them, and don’t leave a single grain of sand.”
Once I had swallowed all the sand from his feet, while he, the Canary god (whom I recommend following on his Twitter
@canaryfeetdom or contacting here), repeated, “You’re a complete idiot and loser,” he told me: “You’ve already had dinner, and now it’s my turn to have dinner; we’re going to order a pizza.”
There I was, before some damn perfect...