19 – Exposed

The movement of his toes was intentional. He was playing with my senses, and he knew what I wanted. He moved his toes for too long and too conspicuously. I knelt before him, my hand still on the cat, my gaze fixed on him.

I tried to appear as controlled as possible, but the sight of his toes, foot veins, ankle, and thick, strong calves had already taken control of me. I was completely at his mercy in my seat. I couldn't resist. Everything I looked at made me horny.

I didn't know how to behave. I needed direction.

Did he know I'd written the letter? Why had I ever lied to him? My lie had very short legs. And was looking straight at his large, muscular ones.

Then he suddenly lifted his foot.

Slowly. Almost playfully.

And there she was – the sole of his foot.

Big. Wide. Dusty. Right in front of my face.

He laughed.

A quiet, mischievous laugh ran through my body.

"Do you think he would lick them too?"

His voice sounded like a game.

I stared at the sole of his foot.

My breath caught in my throat.

I swallowed.

Something happened inside me.

Something I didn't understand.

A pull, a pressure, a kind of magnetic heat –

not physical, not violent,

but inevitable.

As if the sole of his foot had some kind of power.

Something that flowed directly into me through my gaze.

A spell that was gentle –

and yet held on.

I wanted to look away.

But I couldn't.

And suddenly I knew:

I couldn't lie now.

Not as long as I looked at her.

“Yes… he would,” I replied.

Not because I wanted to.

Not because I planned it.

But because I had no other choice .

The truth just came.

Clear. Unbridled.

The sole of his foot forced them out of my mouth.

It was a strange feeling.

A mixture of hunger, lust, shame –

and fulfillment.

I was trapped.

And at the same time… free.

I forced myself to look away.

Then whispered, barely audibly:

"…probably."

I was shaking.

My heart was racing.

And the sole of his foot remained where it was – unmoving.

As if she were waiting .

Then he said:

“Look at the sole of my foot, boy.”

His voice was calm.

But she allowed no contradiction.

I looked up. I looked.

Direct.

Honest.

And in that moment I knew he knew.

And he said it.

Without a smile.

Without hesitation.

"We both know you wrote the letter. Don't we?"

I nodded. I couldn't help it.

“Say it,” he commanded.

And I... I was powerless. That look. Those toes. They forced the truth upon me. The words came, as if through an open gate:

"Yes, it was me. I'm the faggot who wants your feet. I'm the one who would lick them if you wish. I want to serve you. I want to be yours. I'm yours. It was me. I apologize for lying to you. I'll never do it again. Punish me if you want—but let me stay here. In my place..."