The night in the club drags on. In the VIP area, a little away from the dancing crowd, the party bitches sit. Tired, tipsy, their heels kicked off. Their legs are stretched out, feet heavy and warm. And you lie in front of them. On the floor. Still clothed, but that doesn’t matter. You’re nothing more than a footrest now.
One of them has pulled you over — by the leash or just with a look. Her foot slides onto your face, the sole settling over your cheek, your nose, your mouth. She leans back into the cushions, stretches her legs out and uses you like a quiet, convenient pillow. The others laugh softly, poke your face with their toes or simply plant both feet on you. Heavy. Ruthless. Without any consideration.
You breathe in their scent — warm foot sweat, expensive perfume, the smell of the long night and the alcohol. Your face is only a resting place now. Sometimes for a single foot, sometimes for both, sometimes for the bare soles of several girls at once. They shift, press, wipe, and you stay silent and still. Exactly the way they want it.
While the bass still pounds around you and the others keep dancing or making out, you’re here. A living footrest in the VIP area. For the party bitches. Until they’ve had enough — or until the next one comes and simply drops her foot on your face.
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