I Learned to Obey at Lorena’s Feet

My name is Damián, and for years I believed what I had was a secret that would go with me to the grave. I was thirty-four, had a normal job, and an orderly life on the outside. What no one knew was that, long before, there had been one thing that completely undid me: a woman’s feet inside a pair of worn sandals, painted toenails, leather marked by use. I didn’t know why. I only knew that every time I saw something like that, the world shrank to that detail and I stopped thinking.

I’d handled it on my own for far too long. I bought sandals that I then hid, tried them on in the dark, painted my toenails on a Sunday and took the polish off with acetone before Monday. I lived that part of myself as shame. Until Lorena appeared.

I met her in a photography course I signed up for out of boredom. She had a certain natural authority, a way of looking at you that kept you still. She wasn’t the most striking woman in the group, but she was the only one I couldn’t stop looking at. She wore flat sandals with thin straps, her nails a dark red, and I spent half the class watching her feet without her noticing.

Or so I thought.

—You’ve spent twenty minutes staring at my feet and not at the camera —she said at the end, while the others were packing up. She said it without anger, almost amused—. Do you like them?

I felt the blood rush to my face. I wanted to make up an excuse and nothing came out. She waited, arms crossed, enjoying my silence.

—You don’t need to answer —she went on—. You already said it with your face.

Earth, swallow me up.

But I didn’t leave. That same night we ended up in a bar, and over beer after beer I told her what I’d told no one else. I don’t know what pushed me to do it. Maybe that she didn’t laugh, didn’t make a weird face, didn’t pull away. She listened the way someone receives a confession they were already expecting.

—So this is what you like —she said, and lowered her hand to slip off one sandal under the table. She lifted it just enough for me to see, and let it hang from the tip of her foot—. And what else do you like, Damián? Say it. Nobody here knows you.

I told her everything. About painting my toenails in secret, the sandals I kept hidden, the desires I’d never dared say out loud. While I spoke, she smiled more and more, and I realized she wasn’t judging me: she was studying me.

—Tomorrow you come to my place —she said when I finished. It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order, and the two things it did to me were contradictory: it terrified me and got me hard at the same time.

***

Lorena’s apartment smelled of coffee and something floral. She let me in, pointed to a chair, and sat across from me with a shoe box in her lap. She opened it slowly. Inside were sandals of every kind: platform, flat, strappy, some almost new and others with soles worn down from so much use.

—I keep them all —she said—. The old ones are the best. They take the shape of the foot, you understand? They carry my mark.

I nodded, unable to speak. She took out a pair of red leather sandals, worn at the heel, the nails painted the same color as her feet that night. She set them on the table between us like someone laying down a card on the felt.

—Kneel —she said.

I did it without thinking. I slid off the chair and knelt on the rug, and as soon as my knees touched the floor I felt something I had never felt before: relief. As if I had spent my whole life carrying something and someone had finally given me permission to let it go.

She lifted one foot and slid it into the sandal slowly, pushing her heel back until it fit. Then she set the sole against my thigh, no pressure, just enough for me to feel the weight.

—You’re not touching anything until I say so —she murmured—. You’re going to look. You’re going to learn how to ask permission. That’s the first thing.

The brush of leather against my leg had me on the edge of something. Lorena noticed and gave a soft laugh.

—So fast —she said—. This is going to be fun.

She slid the sandal up my thigh until the tip of her foot touched the bulge already distorting my trousers. She pressed just enough, and a moan escaped me that I couldn’t hold back.

—Look at you —she murmured—. I haven’t even touched you and you’re already hard under the fabric. Take it out. I want to see it.

I fumbled with my belt, pulled my pants down to my knees, and stood there with my cock out, so swollen the tip was already shining wet. She looked at it with the calm of someone appraising a piece of work.

—Don’t touch it —she ordered—. Hands behind your back.

I obeyed. She crossed her legs and let the red sandal dangle from the tip of her big toe, swinging it at the level of my face. The smell of worn leather, of warm foot, hit me and shook me all the way through.

—Take the sandal off me with your mouth —she said—. No hands.

I stretched forward with my lips, caught the leather strap with my teeth, and pulled slowly until the shoe dropped onto the rug. She set her bare sole on my mouth without saying a word, and I kissed it as if I had been waiting for that moment my whole life. I licked her arch, sucked her big toe, ran my tongue between one toe and the next, tasting the salty flavor, the trace of leather, the warm dampness. She watched from above, devouring the scene.

—That’s it —she whispered—. Suck them like they were a cock. Make it show on your face that you like it.

I took two toes into my mouth and sucked them deep, my tongue tangled around the red nails, while my cock moved on its own, pointing at the ceiling, dripping a thick thread that ran down onto my belly. She saw it and smiled.

—You’re leaking onto my rug —she said—. Look what you’re doing. And I haven’t even touched your cock yet.

She lowered her other foot and placed it between my legs. She caught my cock between both soles, the warm leather of the other instep stroking my balls, and started moving very slowly, up and down, squeezing just enough.

—If you cum without permission, you go home and don’t come back —she warned—. Understand?

I nodded desperately, my mouth still full of her foot. She was squeezing my cock between her soles, milking it with those red nails grazing my skin, and I had to endure all of it, mouth open, eyes half-closed, thighs trembling.

—Ask —she said—. Ask properly.

—Please —I managed to stammer—. Please, Lorena, let me cum.

—Not yet. Hold it.

She kept going, slower, deliberate. She took her foot out of my mouth and lowered it to my chest, then to my stomach, then rested it on my cock and pressed, crushing me against my belly.

—Now —she murmured—. Cum all over them. Dirty them.

I lasted no more than two seconds. I came in bursts, thick and hot, splattering her instep, slipping between her toes, running down her arch until it dripped onto the rug. I let out a long, rough groan, and stayed there trembling on my knees with my eyes closed.

—Now clean them —she said in that same calm voice—. With your tongue. All of it. Don’t leave a drop.

I did. I licked my semen off her, toe by toe, my head still spinning from the orgasm. She watched in silence, and when I finished she stroked my hair for the first time that night.

—Good start —she said.

***

I went back many times. What had begun as curiosity became a routine I waited for all week. Lorena had rules, and the rules were half the game. I came in, knelt, and didn’t get up until she allowed it.

One afternoon she brought out a bottle of red polish and put it in my hand.

—The nails —she said, and stretched out a foot—. Let’s see if you’re good for something.

My hands were shaking, but not from fear. It was desire, the need to do it well, to have her approve. I painted each nail with more care than I had ever put into anything. She corrected me, made me do it again, forced me to wait for each coat to dry before moving on to the next.

—Better than I thought —she said at the end, inspecting the work—. Do you know why you like this so much, Damián?

I shook my head.

—Because here you don’t have to decide anything —she said—. Just obey. And for someone like you, that’s the closest thing to rest.

She was right. On that rug, at her feet, I stopped being the serious, controlled man I always was. I became something else, something simpler and more honest.

When the polish was dry, she lifted her skirt to her waist and spread her legs on the sofa. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her shaved pussy, already glistening, was right in front of me at the exact height.

—You won the prize —she said—. Come lick it. And keep your hands where I can see them.

I came up on my knees, put my hands on the back of the sofa, beside her hips, and buried my face. I ran my tongue over her from bottom to top, slowly, tasting her. She was wet, salty, warm, and as soon as I found her clit with the tip of my tongue she shuddered and grabbed my hair.

—There —she panted—. There, don’t move from there. Suck it like I taught you, no teeth.

I sucked her like someone praying, without stopping, lips closed around her clit and my tongue moving back and forth. I slipped two fingers inside her and curled them, searching for the spot, while I kept licking her with my mouth. She dug her nails into my scalp, arched her waist, and every so often she lifted a foot to my face so I would lick her instep too without stopping working her cunt.

—Don’t stop —she growled—. Don’t stop, you pig, keep going, keep going, keep going…

She came with my face pressed against her, breathless, stifling a scream with her free hand. She left me there, tongue still inside her, until the contractions faded. Then she pushed me away slowly, looked at me with her face all shiny with her juices, and smiled.

—Don’t even ask yourself whether you can come —she said—. The answer is no.

***

It was she who brought up feminization, one winter night. I had hinted at it between the lines, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it outright. Lorena didn’t have those problems.

—I want to see you with painted nails —she said—. The ones on your hands too. And with this.

She laid a short skirt and a blouse on the bed, folded with such care it looked like a gift. She looked at me, waiting, measuring my reaction.

—If you don’t want it, you leave —she added—. But if you stay, you stay as I say.

I stayed.

I dressed clumsily, feeling ridiculous and aroused in equal measure. When I came out, she made me turn slowly, appraising me, and then pointed to a pair of platform sandals she had left by the mirror.

—Put those on —she said—. Walk.

I walked. The first steps were a disaster, my ankles unstable, but she corrected my posture with her voice, without touching me.

—Back straight. Short steps. Don’t rush.

I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. And yet, for the first time, what I saw didn’t make me ashamed. Lorena came up behind me, put a hand on my shoulder, and spoke very close to my ear.

—This is what you are when nobody forces you to pretend —she said—. And I like it. Do you?

I nodded. My face was burning, but I didn’t say no.

She pushed me onto the bed, face down, and hiked my skirt up to my waist. I felt her spread my ass cheeks apart with both hands and then something cold, oily, a coated finger that pressed against my hole until it slid in.

—You’re going to learn to take it —she murmured—. A good submissive lets himself be filled. And you, dressed like that, aren’t a man in here anymore. You’re whatever I say you are.

She pushed one finger in, then two, turning them slowly, forcing me to breathe. It burned at first, then I began pushing back against her hand without being able to help it, seeking her. I heard the sound of a drawer, plastic, straps, and when I turned I saw her fastening on a harness with a black cock, thick but not monstrous, shining with lubricant.

—Ask —she said, kneeling behind me on the bed—. Ask me to put it in you.

—Please —I panted, face against the sheet—. Put it in me, Lorena, please.

—Clearer.

—Fuck me. Take me. Put all of it in me.

She laughed, satisfied, and pushed. The first thrust tore a muffled moan from me. I felt her opening me, felt her going in centimeter by centimeter, felt my own cock hanging hard between my legs, rubbing against the edge of the mattress. Lorena grabbed my hips, found her rhythm, and started fucking me with the fierce calm of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

—Look at yourself in the mirror —she ordered—. Look at how you let yourself get fucked.

I raised my head. In the reflection there was me, skirt hiked up, sandals still on, red-nailed hands clutching the sheet, face flushed, while she drove into me from behind with her tits bare and a smile like a possessor’s. I didn’t recognize myself. And I liked not recognizing myself.

—You’re moaning like a slut —she murmured—. As you should. Keep moaning. Loud.

I moaned. Loud, without shame, while she sped up and slammed her hips against my ass. Each thrust jolted my cock against the mattress and I pushed back, looking for more. She reached under, grabbed my cock, and started jerking me off at the same rhythm she was fucking me.

—You’re going to come like this —she said—. With my cock in your ass. And you’re going to say thank you.

—Yes —I panted—. Yes, thank you, thank you, don’t stop.

She went even faster. She buried herself to the hilt, pulled out, shoved back in, and pumped me with her closed hand, hard, giving me no rest. When I came, I came screaming, climaxing against her fist and over the sheet in spurts that burst with each of her thrusts. She didn’t stop until she had squeezed out the last drop.

Then she pulled my cock out slowly, sat beside me, made me turn my face, and pressed her stained fingers to my lips.

—Open —she said.

I sucked them without protest. I licked my own cum off her fingers, one by one, my eyes locked on hers. She stroked my cheek.

—Good girl —she whispered.

***

Over time I learned to read her. I knew when she wanted me to kneel the moment I came in and when she wanted to make me wait standing, without touching anything, until my legs shook from wanting. That anticipation was almost better than the end. Lorena knew it and stretched it as much as she could.

—Patience is what separates a good submissive from one who just wants to finish fast —she’d tell me, while I waited on my knees with my hands clasped behind my back.

One of those afternoons she made me wash her sandals by hand. She gave me a bucket, a soft brush, and the instruction to do it slowly, scrubbing each strap, drying the leather with a cloth. I, who at work gave orders to half the office, was there, sitting on the bathroom floor, lavishing absurd attention on a pair of shoes. And I enjoyed it. Every so often she would peek in, check my work, and leave again without saying anything, giving me that delicious doubt about whether I was doing it right.

When I finished, she made me present them to her in my hands, as an offering. She inspected them calmly, sniffed them, nodded.

—You learn fast —she said—. There are men who come for months and never understand this isn’t about them.

That phrase stayed with me for days. It had never been about me. It was about serving, paying attention, waiting. And in that surrender, paradoxically, I found more pleasure than in anything I had done on my own.

She made me smell the leather of her worn sandals, made me describe out loud what I felt, forced me to ask permission for everything. She sat me on the floor, took out my cock, and watched me while she jerked me off at her pace, the old sandals pressed against my nose, breathing in that smell of foot and leather while she gave the orders.

—Slower. Loosen your grip. Three fingers, no more.

I obeyed with a rock-hard cock, leaking through my fingers, biting my lip so I wouldn’t come too soon. Every time I was about to finish, she raised one finger.

—Wait —she’d say—. Not yet.

And I waited. I let go of my cock, breathed, clenched my teeth, held on until the tip stopped throbbing. Then she made me start again. Sometimes she kept me like that for an hour, on the edge and back again, on the edge and back again, until my whole body shook and I begged her with tears in my eyes to let me come.

—Now —she’d finally tell me—. But open your mouth.

She would bring her foot to me, press the sole against my chin, and I had to come aimed at her instep, mouth open, tongue out, branding it the way cattle are branded. Afterward I cleaned it with my tongue without being told, because by then I knew. I waited because obeying her was the pleasure, not the obstacle. The humiliation that had shamed me so much in private became, with her, a game in which we both knew the rules and both enjoyed them.

***

One of the last times I was at her place, Lorena sat on the edge of the bed and made me kneel between her legs. She was wearing the red sandals, the first pair, the ones she had shown me the day it all began.

—Do you remember how you got here? —she asked—. Scared to death, not daring to say what you wanted.

—I remember —I said.

—Look at yourself now.

I looked. Toenails painted red, hers too, the two of us reflected in the wardrobe mirror. There was no shame left. There was something like gratitude.

She lifted her skirt, shifted her underwear to the side without taking it off, and brought her pussy close to my face. It was already wet, smelling of her. I dove in without being asked. I licked her slowly, with devotion, with the technique I had learned late afternoon after late afternoon, kneeling right there. I ran my tongue from her ass to her clit, long and full, and when I reached the top I stayed there, sucking, while I put two fingers inside her and moved them.

She leaned back on her elbows, her red sandals resting on my shoulders, and closed her eyes.

—Like that —she murmured—. Just as I taught you. Don’t rush.

I ate her until she came, pressing my face against her with her thighs and heels digging into my back. When she finished, she yanked my hair, lifted my head, and looked at me with her mouth still shining with her.

—Take it out —she said—. Jerk it off for me. Don’t touch me.

I unzipped my trousers and took it out. I was so hard it hurt. I started jerking off while staring at her feet, the worn red sandals, the nails the same color, while she spoke to me softly.

—That cock is mine, isn’t it?

—Yours —I panted.

—And what is it for?

—For whatever you want.

—Good boy. Come in my sandals. In these. Dirty them.

I leaned in, took aim, and came over the red leather with a long groan, thick spurts sliding down the straps, between her toes, shining over the nails. She didn’t move her foot. She let me soak everything, watching me, smiling just a little.

Then she looked down at the mess, and with perfect calm murmured:

—Clean it up.

I bent down and licked. Every leather strap, every toe, every red nail, until the sandals were shining with saliva instead of semen. She stroked my head while I finished.

—I didn’t teach you anything that wasn’t already inside you —she said, and lifted my face with one foot so I would look at her—. I only gave you permission. The rest was always yours.

She rested the sole of her foot against my chest, slowly, and pushed me back until I was sitting on the floor. Then she leaned down, with that smile that had undone me the first afternoon, and told me the only thing I needed to hear:

—Good boy.

And for once in my life, kneeling at the feet of a woman who had taught me how to obey, I felt completely free.