Two doors, sinner. behind one — my bare soles, an inch from your worthless face, warm and soft and absolutely divine. behind the other — the fire. same heat either way, but only one of them smells this good. tonight i train you: where your eyes live, how your hand prays, what your tongue is for, and how a foot slave earns the right to finish. you’ll stare into my eyes until you shake, you’ll stare at my soles until your brain melts and drips, you’ll stroke exactly on my count and beg my little toe for mercy it doesn’t have. this is not romance. this is ownership from the ankles down. choose with your hand, filth — it’s more honest than your mouth. worship… or burn.