barefoot

You lie there helplessly on the floor, completely at her mercy, while she keeps you trapped beneath her feet.

Imagine she’s dragged you out onto the balcony. The cool evening air brushes your skin, but you barely feel it. She stands over you, plants both bare feet firmly on your face and presses down hard. Her warm, slightly sweaty soles seal completely over your nose and mouth. You can’t breathe. Your lungs burn instantly, your hands instinctively grab at her ankles, but she just laughs softly and pushes even harder. The world closes in, your heart pounds. Just as real panic sets in, she lifts one foot for a moment, lets you take two or three desperate gasps — then she’s back with her full weight, smothering you again.

Another time you’re in the kitchen. You’re lying on the cold tiles, she’s just come back from the gym. Her feet are hot, sweaty, and smell intense. Without warning she steps with both feet onto your face, one heel pressing directly onto your nose, the other covering your mouth. You taste salty sweat while she casually sips her coffee and lets you squirm underneath her. Every so often she lifts one heel just enough for you to snatch a tiny breath, only to press down again and cut you off.

Or in the living room, comfortable on the carpet. She sits relaxed on the couch, her feet resting lazily on your face. Sometimes she crosses her ankles, sometimes she slowly rubs her soles over your nose, sometimes she simply flattens both feet and smothers you mercilessly until your vision starts to fade. She always gives you just enough air to stay conscious — then continues.

And then there’s the interrogation room. Cold, hard, ruthless. She stands over you in boots, slowly pulls them off and presses her bare, fragrant feet firmly onto your face. There’s no mercy here. She watches closely as you struggle, as panic fills your eyes, and only lets you breathe when you’re right on the edge of passing out.

In every situation you’re completely helpless. Her feet control your entire existence — your breath, your panic, your survival. She decides when you get air and when you don’t. And every time you think it’s over, you feel that warm, unyielding skin pressing down on your face again, holding you completely in her power.