Eight Meditations on Mistress Blunt’s Feet
Mistress Blunt’s feet are a gateway. As a submissive in the presence of Mistress Blunt, you are in one plane of reality while she is in another. Her power in this moment cannot be measured, any more than grains of sand on the beach can be counted. She bores into your deepest core and changes you from the inside out. This is something you want, and you want to find a way to make it as easy as possible for her.
Mistress Blunt’s feet are where you start. Even if you don’t consider yourself to have a “foot fetish,” where else could you start? Looking her directly in the eyes, like an equal? Salivating over her breasts, putting your own horniness first? No, be serious. You have to start at the bottom. You have to start with her feet because your service should start below her in every sense.
Mistress Blunt’s feet are a magnet. Mistress Blunt doesn’t have to walk anywhere and she doesn’t have to do anything… because you are there for her. You are serving her whims and her desires as her feet transport you to a realm of control and power unimaginable in your current position.
Mistress Blunt’s feet are a magnet. As she adjusted me into the proper position below her, my eyes gravitated towards her feet, clad in leather boots. It felt right to be below her, it felt comfortable, it felt like what I deserved. I took off her boots at her command, her toes wiggled with their newfound freedom. She smiled as she noticed how I seemed transfixed. She moved one of her feet from left to right, right to left, swaying it in front of me as she spoke softly. My eyes followed while my head remained locked in place. I imagined her toes wiggling in a lake, the water rippling outward. The ripples moved through my mind, disrupting my thoughts until there was nothing left but her red nail polish.
Mistress Blunt’s feet are coming towards me. Her foot suddenly dropped and so did my eyes, so did my head, so did my body. The next thing I knew, I was on all fours, my eyes covered with something smooth and silky. An old blues record started to play in the background, something timeless and worn-in. I started to feel the music, but not in the typical sense—I felt similarly timeless, similarly worn-in. Just as the music was coming from a physical object, a vinyl record, I felt myself becoming a physical object. Something sturdy and reliable for Mistress Blunt’s feet to enjoy. I heard Mistress Blunt gently walk across her floor and I knew I had to be as still as ever.
Mistress Blunt’s feet are on my back. Perched on their proper throne. Her heels rest on me, occasionally digging in, occasionally kicking, but I remain in my form. I remain a stool for her feet. I hear words, I hear voices, I hear her laugh. A conversation that she is having, but the words feel apart from me. They feel like they are in another plane. And Mistress Blunt’s feet allow me a connection to that plane. I am happy. Her feet move. The blindfold slips off. I see her all-encompassing eyes. I am asleep.
Mistress Blunt’s feet are right in front of me. I am aching to touch myself, but my arms are bound in rope. I am so close. Her feet are moving up and down, up and down. I can see her breasts bouncing slightly in the distance as she sits on a couch, barking commands. The immediate view of her feet and the distant view of her breasts are overwhelming. This is what I need: to touch myself because it’s the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen. Up and down, up and down. Her soles wrinkle, flex and take up my entire world. My arms strain, muscles pushing. She laughingly encourages me to go on, try harder, show her how much I need it. My fingertips touch my cock and I feel the heat, oh Christ I feel the heat. Suddenly the rope slackens and I am touching myself. I am stroking and stroking, and her feet wiggle and wiggle. I feel the fire, the rush. Up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down. It’s white hot and it’s her nail polish and she laughs and then I am asleep again.
Mistress Blunt’s feet are a gateway. I struggle to put my pants on over my raging erection, but I manage. Mistress Blunt smiles. She allows me to kiss her feet, slowly and with intention, before I leave. I kiss the dorsum up to the instep, all the way to the ankle. I am on the floor, I am practically humping the floor. I am humping the floor. But I breathe, in and out. I kiss slowly, a dear thank you with each kiss. Each kiss with intention, each movement with intention. It is a moment out of time. And then Mistress Blunt walks me to the door.