We meet again at your place. I have come by to see your boyfriend but he's not home just yet so we're on the couch together. You must be so excited to be alone with me finally. You smile, pretending innocence in removing your slippers and teasing me with your socked feet, wrinkling them up and spreading them in front of me. "What do you think I mean?" You then begin peeling them off, slowly, luring me into arousal. You act at first as if it's a sweet sort of compliment that I should be bedazzled by your feet, you want to disarm me and put me at my ease. You smirk at how little it takes before I'm utterly manipulated. I want you to play on the state of my manic arousal and hunger. Are you jealous of my boyfriend, who doesn't have a foot fetish at all, does it make you angry how he takes my feet completely for granted and still gets to be closer to them than you’ll ever be? I would like you to continue to play on my obsession for your wrinkled soles, how you really don't see the big deal in a bunch of wrinkles at all. Touch them to show me their texture. Maybe roll onto your stomach and start pointing and flexing and spreading your toes in the pose, asking me how are you going to cope during our social gatherings from now on, wouldn't you rather just stick to porn? Of course, porn is useless now you have all these mental photos, you smile: "If we don't see you for a while, I'll understand," alluding to my reclusive masturbatory tendencies. I would like you to treat me in that somewhat crooning, all-knowing, "oh, poor little thing" way that foot brats do. Ultimately you intend to flaunt your perfect soles, to render me dumb by them, to magnetize me to them just for your amusement. For me, nothing could be more earth-shattering than having all these wriggling, moisture-sodden, succulent folds thrust into my vision. You have drawn me in, and now you know my secret can make me your little bitch with absolute impunity. The girl you’ll never have and the toes you’ll never suck.