Spring Cleaning

I first disposed of the piss, wrinkling my nose. I took a quick bath, and I barely managed not to fall asleep in the water. I washed my hair really thoroughly, and made sure to scrub my skin until it was red.

Back in the bedroom, my mistress snapped her fingers and told me to crawl to her feet. She was sitting on the sofa, with her biking shoes still on.

"You've done very well, pet," she said. "You missed a sock, but I won't hold that against you. It was a difficult task and you learned you are nothing but a receptacle for my foot filth. Now there's one thing left to find out if the lesson has stuck."

She removed her shoes and shoved her socked feet on my face. They reeked with the accumulate sweat of five hard days of biking, and they would have sent me into a fit before. Now they were simply another wonderful manifestation of my mistress' sublime essence, and I buried my face in them, fawning on her soles like a hungry dog. She slapped my face with her sweaty soles a few times, laughing at my complete surrender and willing degradation, and making me come for the first time in weeks, but far from the last time that day. She had been pleased, and I belonged to her like a comfortable broken in slipper belongs to its rightful wearer. I still had much to learn in my submission and adoration, but the most important lesson had been driven in by overwhelming sensual compulsion: I lived to serve.