Denial and Submission

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you just wanted to lick my feet again. Is that what you want? It’s okay.”

He lures me closer with a wave of his foot. He looks at me commandingly, I understand his body language. I take his big toe in first, then stretch my mouth over the rest of his toes. He puts a hand on the back of my head and pushes me deeper. It starts to hurt, I can feel myself about to gag.

“This what you wanted?”

He pushes harder. Nearly a third of his massive foot is shoved into my skull. Tears well in my eyes. I try to retract but his hand applies more force. I moan in agony, looking up and seeing his stern expression. I gag heavily, his face stays stoic. A sharp moan comes out involuntarily. I feel my face turning red, my under eyes are wet.

He removes his hand from the back of my head. I dry heave and throw myself to the floor, bowing towards him. A heavy foot slams my head to the floor. He pushes harder until I feel like my brain is going to explode.

You were proud when the department asked you to be a TA. It was proof that your professors trusted you, that your brains and work ethic actually mattered. You thought the students would respect you for it.

Then they showed up.

Two frat boys, cocky and unbothered, the kind who coasted through every class on charm, looks, and sheer confidence. The first time you saw them in the gym, they laughed, pointing right at you.

“Yo, that’s our TA. Look at him — doesn’t even know how to load a bar.”

The other smirked. “Nah, not here. Here, he’s our student. Welcome to class, nerd.”

You thought it was banter. But it became real fast. They weren’t asking — they told you what weights to lift, how many times, and when you failed, they made you do it again. You were wrecked after every session. And still, at the end, they’d shake their heads and mutter, “Pathetic. You’re not even passing this class.”

It only got worse when the semester picked up. In lectures, they’d lean back in their seats, arms folded, and wink at you while you collected assignments. Blank pages. Then later:

“You’ll fill those out for us, right TA? You wouldn’t want us to fail. We’ve got more important things to do than sit around writing essays.”

And you did. Their essays, their homework, even group projects for classes you weren’t enrolled in. Hours of your life poured into their grades — while you secretly hoped they’d reward you at the gym. Maybe a pat on the back, maybe some respect. Instead, all you got was that same smirk.

“You think good grades mean you passed our course?” one of them laughed after forcing you through a brutal set of deadlifts. He slapped your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. “Wrong. You’re still failing here, buddy.”

Private tutoring was the final humiliation. They’d show up late, hungover, spreading out across the couch with their laptops open but untouched.

“Explain this chapter, TA,” one would say, shoving his book toward you without looking.

The other would just kick his feet up in your lap — socks damp with sweat from practice — and grin. “And while you’re at it, rub those. My dogs are barking.”

So you sat there, voice trembling as you broke down theories and formulas, your fingers kneading the soles of his feet. They’d nudge each other, laugh, then ask you to repeat yourself because they “weren’t paying attention.”

Everywhere else, you were the smart one. The responsible one. The guy professors relied on. But with them? You were the student who could never pass, the tutor who got laughed at, the TA who did all the work and got none of the credit.

And the worst part? You never quit.

Daily chores, acts of submission - pour him a drink when he gets home, giving each of his feet one kiss to show respect - painful spankings, corner time, chastity sentences etc.

Have a couple phrases at the ready (“Oh, I’m so glad you asked, sir. I’ve been needing to confess a few things…” or “I’m always so grateful that you encourage me to improve like this…”). That’ll buy you time to think.

You’ll still end up in the stocks (obviously lol), but it won’t be because you stammered like an idiot over a simple question. That’s an embarrassing reason to get tickled. Silly, even.

I come home from work and instantly I’m naked (apart from my cage), and searching for him to kiss his feet in silent greeting. Then it’s straight to cooking and serving him his dinner. Then it’s time for him to use me. Sucking his dick for as long as he likes, being fucked as long and hard as he likes. Straining against my cage the entire time.

When he blows his load, he slaps my ass and I fetch him a beer as he heads back to the couch to watch some TV.

As I hand him the beer he might grab my cage and slap my balls a bit. Just a reminder that I’m not cumming and it’s because it amuses him.

When he’s lounging there, so relaxed, so content, and I know I’m about to start doing my chores… that’s the closest I come to breaking and telling him I don’t want to do this anymore.

I see it, the way your body tenses whenever I enter a room. The way you hang on to every word, desperately hoping I’ll tell you it’s time to go to the bedroom. Your heart fluttering anytime I look at you.

Desperate for my touch. Desperate for it not to be over when I blow my load all over your face.

Desperate to please me. To make me cum harder and more intensely. Desperate for me to make you do things you’d never thought you’d be brought so low to even consider.

Desperate for me to let you cum, but desperate for me to make you wait longer. Desperate for my feet, but desperate for me to take them away.

Hating feeling like this, desperate for me to keep it going.

Desperate to suffer for my amusement.

So… no. The socks are staying on and your balls are staying swollen.

"Not now babe I'm reading. Here you can have my feet instead."

"I can't say no to that, oh they're so soft and warm."

"Well you always take good care of them... they're really sore by the way, I'll really enjoy a foot rub right now."

You didn't waste a second. You moved his feet close to your face so you can take some whiffs as you massaged them. You carefully rubed his feet as he let out little moans every now and then.

"Yeah right there honey. Ohh you're so good at this baby!"

His response made you feel so proud. He slightly teased your cage with his feet, and you could hear his subtle smirk.

"Hey stop that!"

"Shhh boy, here suck my big toe and let me have some fun."

He forced his toe into your mouth as he rubbed his foot on your cage. You started leaking and muffled to tell him to stop, he became more aggressive and then suddenly stopped as you were close to cumming in your cage.

The gag goes in and gets padlocked, then he starts stroking. He’ll have a long luxurious jerk off session while I stare at the socks I can’t touch, imagine the feet I can’t see, and hear him moaning in orgasmic pleasure I can’t have on account of the cage he’s locked on my dick.

My roommate was a chill dude. Straight, but a freak like me. We’d chat for ages about kinky hookups we’d had.

One night, we were chatting and the conversation turned to things we would like to try out but hadn’t and I admitted I wanted to worship a guys feet. It clearly peaked his interest, because he kept asking more and more questions. He wanted to know why, he wanted to know how it connected with my other kinks, he wanted to know how I felt about his feet.

Eventually, I’d admitted that my real fetish was for teasing, denial and control and my foot fetish is just a weapon to be used against me. We discussed chastity, too and my deep natural submissive nature. I wanted to serve.

That conversation changed everything. Now i serve Him. He’s never going to let me near His feet and i have no idea when He’ll unlock my chastity cage. But i serve Him, in any way He wants, and stare at His beautiful feet whenever He lets me.