BDSM

The first time she ordered me to paint my toenails, my hands shook. Not from fear: from wanting to obey her.

I’d kept that secret for years. It took one bottle of vodka and an old white flip-flop for her to take control and put me on my knees.

When she grabbed my arm on the way out, I understood she wasn’t looking for an apology. She was looking for a slave, and I was already on my knees before she asked.

I told her to bring the most outrageous outfits she had. I wanted to parade her through the city and, back at the hotel, lose myself between her feet for hours.

It was enough for her to look at my bare feet on the cold tiles to understand, before I did, what kind of man I could become if she ordered me to.

I went to the bathroom with a simple urgency and found her there, soaped up and smiling, already knowing the order I was about to give her.

Every time her sister turned away, she slipped off her sandals and left her feet on display, knowing exactly what she was doing to me and savoring every second of my torment.

She took off her shoe in the car, slid her foot to my crotch, and whispered: “Is your first time going to be by obeying me? Even better for both of us.”

I woke up tied to the leather bench, naked and gagged, and understood that the session wasn’t meant to cure me: it was meant for them to have their fun with me.

At one in the morning she slipped off her heels to provoke, as always. She had no idea that night someone would turn her whim into an order.

For weeks I’d been admiring her feet from the back row. The day she slipped off her sandals and pinned me with her gaze, I knew there was no turning back.

She came back from training still in uniform, looked down at me from above, and I understood that afternoon that something between us was going to change forever.

It took me three months of patience to get to Mariana’s sofa, slowly take off her sneakers, and find out whether she really minded that I couldn’t stop looking at her feet.

I told her I liked her feet and she laughed. She had no idea that that afternoon, while she was looking after her nieces, I’d be on my knees in front of her bed with her sneakers in my hands.

I learned to count the hours until she fell asleep. Only then, in the darkness of the bunk bed, were her sandals mine and no one could see what I did with them.

I went to her house for a school assignment and found her in flip-flops. From that moment on, I could never look at her without thinking of her feet.

I’d spent years pretending I didn’t stare at her feet. That night, barefoot on the bed, she ordered me to kneel—and there was no turning back.

I turned my back to the camera, moved my hips slowly, and waited. I only wanted a stranger to tell me what to do with my own body.

I don’t go to the cinema for the movie. I go to the back row and wait for unknown feet to rest on me and decide how much I can take.

It was midnight when I crossed the patio barefoot. Her pink flip-flops were still there, warm, with the mark of every one of her toes waiting for me in the dark.