The Agonizing Worship of Ludovica Luxury
Italian speaking. Today, we decided to have some fun with our slave, turning him into our personal toy. We strapped him into a straitjacket, the restraints pulled tight to keep him completely helpless, and bound his ankles with leather cuffs, leaving him sprawled on the cold floor, vulnerable and powerless. We, regal and relaxed, lounged on the couch, lighting cigarettes and exchanging knowing smirks, ready to torment him.
I was barefoot, my red-painted toenails glinting in the light, while my friend wore sheer black stockings that clung to her skin like a second layer. I started first: I extended a foot towards his face, ordering him to lick. A devoted foot fetishist, he surrendered to the task with a mix of reverence and desperation, his tongue gliding over my toes as I watched him with a disdainful smirk. Meanwhile, my friend slowly peeled off her stockings, revealing perfect feet, and began teasing his cock with deliberate, featherlight touches, just enough to make him squirm but nowhere near enough to grant relief.
Then we switched. He moved to worship my friend's feet, his tongue tracing every curve with pathetic adoration, while I took over his cock, teasing it with my toes in a slow, cruel footjob. Every now and then, I sped up, bringing him to the edge of pleasure, only to stop abruptly. "No cumming today," I told him, my tone leaving no room for argument. His muffled groans of frustration were music to our ears, his body tense and trembling under our control.
In the end, we left him there, suffering and unfulfilled, still bound in the straitjacket, his ankles restrained by the cuffs, his denied desire burning like an open wound. "Don't move," we commanded, laughing, as we rose from the couch, leaving him to stew in his agony, the taste of our feet still lingering on his tongue.
