The Secret That Made Me Carolina’s Slave

My name is Mateo, I’m twenty-four years old, and I’m going to tell you how I ended up being Carolina’s private slave. It’s not something I brag about out loud, but denying it would be lying, and at this point lying makes no sense.

First I need to talk about her. Caro is petite, barely five feet tall, dark-haired, with brown eyes and a small mouth that seems designed for a wicked smile. She’s not the kind of girl who provokes people by shouting. She speaks softly, almost shyly, and the unwary mistake her for someone harmless. I learned, at my own expense, how wrong they were.

I owe her feet a paragraph of their own. She wore a size 34, small feet, with caramel-colored skin, the soles pale and soft in a way I’d never seen in anyone else. She didn’t usually paint her nails, just a clear coat, and she always kept them short, almost square. The first time I really looked at them I felt something hard to explain: a mix of tenderness and a dark desire I was ashamed to admit.

Ever since I met her, Carolina had had a boyfriend. Bruno, a classmate, taller and better-looking than me. The three of us went to class together and shared notes. That was the geography of my life for months: the two of them hand in hand and me beside them, silent, pretending I didn’t care.

***

It was during summer break. A group of us had stayed in the university city for internships, so the student residence where I lived organized a small party, one of those gatherings where people drink just for the sake of it. Bruno was away in his hometown, and Carolina didn’t want to go back to her apartment alone in the middle of the night.

—Are you staying? —I offered, trying to sound casual—. Sleep in my room and I’ll crash on the sofa.

She accepted without overthinking it. She left her bag on my desk and got into the shower in the bathroom right next to my room.

When I went to get a pillow, I saw her sandals beside the bed. Blue flip-flops with thin straps, printed flowers, and little gold threads. Tiny. I stood there staring at them like an idiot, knowing I shouldn’t, that it was stupid and absurdly risky. But something in me had already decided.

I checked that she was still under the water and that the others were locked in their rooms. I went in, pulled the door nearly shut, and knelt beside the bed. I picked up one of the sandals with both hands, as if it were made of glass.

Just a second. Just to know what it feels like.

I started kissing it. I covered the entire surface where the sole of her foot rested with my lips, slowly, unhurriedly, as if every kiss had to earn its place there. It wasn’t enough. I brought my nose to the center, right under where the straps sank into the rubber, and breathed in. There it was: a warm trace, barely perceptible, of her skin. There was no bad smell, no dirt, just her.

I’d never felt anything so humiliating and so arousing at the same time. Kneeling on the floor, my face buried in my friend’s flip-flop, breathing deeply, I noticed my cock hardening until it hurt. I was so lost in it that I didn’t hear the bathroom door.

Behind me, a sound. I turned sharply. Carolina was standing in the doorway, wrapped in a towel, looking at me with a seriousness that froze my blood.

—I… smelled something weird —I stammered, getting to my feet in a stumble—. I thought it was your sandals, I was checking if…

Then she looked down at my shorts. And I remembered. I was hard as a rock, straining the fabric in an obvious way, and worse still, a wet stain was giving me away with no defense possible. That tiny trace of her skin had been enough to leave me in that state, caught in the act.

Her face shifted from confusion to something else. For a moment she looked almost scared, as if she no longer recognized me. I went red to the ears, trying to pretend I was calm when I wasn’t. And that was exactly when something changed in her gaze. A decision.

***

She shut the door all the way. She walked past me without saying a word, still serious, dragged my desk chair over, and sat down in front of me, crossing her legs. Then she extended her right leg, lifted her foot, and pointed her toe, moving her toes in small circles. Everything else ceased to exist. The entire world shrank to that image.

A lust I couldn’t control drove me toward her. I forgot the shame, the situation, everything. I only wanted to fall onto that foot, kiss it, lick it. I moved forward with my hands out, ready to grab it.

Carolina didn’t let me. With astonishing speed she pulled her leg back and kicked me with the top of her foot on the side of my chin. It wasn’t with all her strength, but my teeth clicked and I fell backward.

—What do you think you’re doing? —she said, and her low voice sounded colder than ever—. That we’re still friends, that you can touch me now? After what I just saw, you’re nothing to me anymore. Just a doormat. You’re going to do what I say, and you’re going to pay very dearly for messing with my things. From now on you exist to satisfy my whims, and you’re going to humiliate yourself knowing you have no right to anything.

I tried to apologize, to talk to her about what happened to me with feet, to explain the inexplicable. She didn’t let me.

—Go to the bathroom. My clothes are in a bag on the bidet. Bring them here.

There was something in her tone that stole any will I had to argue. I thought it was better to obey than risk her leaving that room and telling everyone what she’d seen. I went, found the bag with her folded pants, and came back.

—Not just that —she said when I handed her the bag—. My panties are in there too. Give them to me.

They were pink, plain, made of thin fabric, with a little floral print. She took them, turned them to expose the part that had been in contact with her body, and ordered me:

—On your knees. Stick out your tongue.

—Caro, I’m sorry, I was an idiot, I couldn’t help it —I tried one last time.

—Shut up. If you don’t do it right this second, I’ll go out and tell everyone.

With fear tightening my throat, I obeyed. I knelt in front of the chair, almost pressed against her legs, stuck out my tongue, and she rubbed the fabric against it, slowly, looking me in the eyes with terrible calm. When she was done, she folded the panties and held them out to me.

—Now put them on.

I hesitated. I started to protest, anger winning over shame for a moment. But the moment I made the move to stand, her foot shot up between my legs and I collapsed from the pain.

—You’re going to do what I say —she repeated, without raising her voice—. You can’t do anything. You can’t talk to anyone, you can’t lay a hand on me, because I’ll report you. All you can do is obey. It’s better to be my doormat than the laughingstock of the whole faculty.

With tears in my eyes, between pain and humiliation, I stripped off my clothes. And then we both saw it: I was still half-erect. I thought it was a reaction to the kick, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. The panties were small; they wouldn’t fit me, but I pulled them on with all my strength until I got them in, deforming them, squeezing myself in a way that hurt. Carolina took out her phone and took a picture of me.

—How pathetic you are —she said, and for the first time she smiled—. You’re a submissive, did you know that? A slave from birth. Your body doesn’t lie. You’re turned on by being ordered around, turned on by people laughing at you. You were born for nothing else but smelling feet, serving, cleaning with your mouth whatever a woman puts in front of you.

I should have felt utterly crushed. And part of me did. But another part, one I had never once let out, was beginning to boil with something like euphoria. The idea of being nothing more than her doormat, of existing only to serve her, mattered more to me than any pride. Without her asking, I knelt again and lowered myself until I was level with her feet, which barely touched the floor with the tips of her toes.

Carolina was laughing, amused by what she saw.

—Slave, I want you to kiss my foot. But lovingly. I want you to declare yourself to my feet, like a good boyfriend.

She didn’t lift them, didn’t move a muscle to bring them closer. I bent down until my face almost touched her left foot and began kissing it with the same tenderness as the sandal, holding it between my hands like something precious. After a few kisses I rubbed my cheek against the top of her foot, slowly. I could feel little tremors: she was holding back laughter while she aimed her phone at me.

—What a quiet lover —she mocked—. I want compliments. I want you to talk to it.

I didn’t know what to say, but I tried.

—From now on I live only for you —I murmured against her skin—. I want to wake up smelling you. I have no reason other than to worship you, kiss you, feel your scent. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and there’s nothing I want to look at more.

I was on all fours, in pink panties, my face sunk into her foot, delivering the most ridiculous declaration of my life. I was fully aware of how pathetic the scene was, and precisely because of that it turned me on even more. Carolina recorded everything, and she knew how to make it worse.

—The other foot is jealous —she said—. Sit a little straighter, that way I can reach your face better. Isn’t that what you want? For me to be comfortable when I kick you?

I straightened up on my knees, hands behind my back. She kicked me once, then again, not very hard but enough to make me lose my balance. Each time I returned to my place without complaint, and each time she made me kiss the foot that had hit me, as a sign of thanks.

***

I stayed like that for a long while, used, humiliated, worshipping her feet while the night went on outside the door. When she got tired, she gave me one last instruction, now in an almost affectionate tone, like someone talking to a pet.

—Guti —that would be my slave name, she’d given it to me between one kick and the next—, find a corner to sleep in. But don’t take off those panties until you get me new ones to replace the ones you ruined. That’s going to force you to get your act together, don’t you think?

I nodded. I didn’t say anything else. I left my own room in silence, still wearing her underwear under my pants, and settled on the sofa in the living room without getting a wink of sleep.

That night, while I listened to her calm breathing on the other side of the wall, I understood that something had broken forever and that something new had just begun. That the discreet, soft-spoken friend now knew the filthiest side of me, and that I, far from wanting to run from it, couldn’t wait to kneel again.

The rest —the days that followed, the new rules, what I learned to do without anyone asking me— is part of another story. But everything, absolutely everything, began that summer night, with a sandal in my hands and a woman who discovered, before I even did, what I had truly been born to be.