Imagine yourself on the floor, bound and shackled, face down at the feet of your masters. Your entire existence revolves around their feet—the scent of sweat and dirt fills your nostrils, and you breathe it in deeply, your mouth watering at the thought of worship. You’re not just a foot worshiper; you’re a pathetic foot slave, desperate to serve and be beneath them. They tease you, dragging their feet just out of reach, making you beg like the sniveling little worm you are. You crawl closer, tongue out, eager to taste the grime and filth that clings to their soles. Each lick is a reminder of your place, every degrading taste sending shivers of twisted pleasure through you. You’re on your knees, licking between their toes, sucking on each one, savoring every bit of dirt and sweat. You crave the pressure of their feet on your face, your chest, your throat—anything to remind you that you’re nothing without them.