As the summer heat subsided, Becca and I found ourselves back on the tennis court. The whack of her racquet echoed through the air as she effortlessly volleyed the ball. I stood by her side, clad in my signature black outfit—a stark contrast to her crisp white dress. Her eyes glanced at my shoes, and she smirked. "Your shoes are dirty," she said fiercely. "You've been on your knees all summer long, haven't you?"
I said nothing, my face flushing with shame. She snorted and walked towards me, her flats in her hand. "Get down," she commanded. I kneeled obediently before her, my heart pounding in my chest. She thrust her foot forward, and I knew what was about to happen.
Without hesitation, I lowered my head and began to lick the soles of her flats, savoring the taste of leather and sweat. It wasn't long before my tongue began to ache from the effort. Nevertheless, I continued, determined to please my mistress. As I licked, I felt her foot slide between my legs, rubbing against my growing arousal.
Finally, she pulled her foot away and stood up. "You know what's funny?" she asked triumphantly. "Your tongue is all black. It's dirty like you!" She smiled, revealing a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. Before I could react, she snapped her fingers, and a camera came into view. "Show your tongue to the camera," she ordered, her voice cold and commanding.
With trembling hands, I did as I was told, sticking out my tongue for the camera to capture every filthy inch. Once they had their fill, Becca instructed me to get down on my hands and knees. I did as I was told, feeling a wave of nausea wash over me. This was it—the moment I had dreaded all summer long.
She stepped onto my back, her foot finding its way between my shoulders. As she did so, I felt a sharp sting of pain shoot through my body. But that wasn't all. She then lowered her other foot onto my face, using me as a footstool. I closed my eyes, willing the pain to go away.
But it didn't. Instead, she began to stomp on my face, over and over again. I felt her weight bearing down on my nose, my cheeks, my mouth. Every inch of my face was covered in the stench of sweat and grime as she used me as her personal cleaning tool.
And just when I thought I couldn't take any more, she lifted one foot off my face and brought it down hard on my throat. The pressure built up, and I gasped for air as she ground her heel into my windpipe. I tried to beg for mercy, but no words would come out.
Finally, she lifted her foot, and I collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath. My face was covered in sweat, my body trembling with fear. As I lay there, I couldn't help but wonder when—or if—this torment would ever end. Would I be her Shoe Boy forever?
Becca is exclusive to Masorotica Productions. To watch more videos like this one, check out [/t/foot].
