I have the kind of body people worship—flawless, irresistible, untouchable. And you? You don’t get to touch it… not unless it’s to serve me. You’re not a man. You’re a foot-licking, dirt-eating, groveling little nothing. The only physical contact you’ll ever get is licking the grime off my filthy, sweaty feet. No dates, no kisses, no love—just you, on your knees, tongue out, like the desperate loser you are. This is the closest you’ll ever get to intimacy, and deep down, you know it. No one wants you. No one will want you. But I’ll let you worship my perfection—just enough to remind you of what you’ll never, ever have. You exist to crawl, to beg, to worship every inch of perfection I choose to give you. But today, you’re not even worthy of that. Today, you’re beneath my filthy, disgusting feet—caked in dirt, sweat, and everything I’ve stepped in. You’ll lick them clean, tongue to heel, like the desperate little loser you are. You don’t get perfume and pedicures—you get grime, stink, and shame. And you’ll love every second of it. Because serving me—even at my dirtiest—is still the closest you’ll ever get to heaven.