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Eyl 09

Footing the Bill

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This is a femdom story with the themes of foot worship, financial domination, hypnosis and mind control.

If that’s not your fetish, please don’t vote this story down, please hit the back button instead!

It’s a black comedy for feeble foot-fetishists, pathetic paypigs, mindless addicts, abject losers, weak-willed wankers, hopeless chastity slaves, hypno junkies and worthless worms — i.e. people like me. I reckon, based on my other stories’ view counts, that there’s about five of us on this site. It’s a grim tale of one man’s descent, in seven steps, from wealth to financial ruin, from foolish pride to utter humiliation, from happiness to abject despair, from sanity to madness at the hands of a merciless financial dominatrix. I hope you enjoy sharing his downward journey, imagining yourself in the miserable fucker’s shoes. And talking of shoes…

Step One: Stolly and Stilettos

Sam Moser had a thing for heels.

And so did Goddess Helena: She had over fifty pairs of shoes and boots, all prominently on display in neat rows, filling twenty yards of purpose-built shelves lining one wall of her bedroom, which doubled as a webcam studio. All the shoes were classy, and seriously expensive: Glitzy white diamante-studded Rossi high-heels; understated black Manolo Blahnik courts; outrageous Bolcheva knee-boots. And every pair of shoes in her collection had been a tribute from her humble foot-slaves, grateful gifts to their Goddess Helena. Yet none were as valuable as the high-arched, impeccably pedicured feet they adorned. Her slaves paid their Goddess, over and over again, for the privilege of worshipping her perfect feet, kneeling and wanking helplessly before cum-stained laptop screens while she wiggled her dainty toes arrogantly in their eager faces.

Helena cultivated her slaves well; she made each of them feel special, unique. She had profile notes which popped up on her screen whenever they entered her chatroom on camdates.com, the preferred site for financial dommes. The notes reminded her what kind of bespoke experience each slave was into: ‘CrushMe88’ liked his balls trodden on by the stainless steel Stiletto spikes of her wicked Sophia Webster Evangeline pumps, and to imagine the smell of his charred flesh as she mimed touching the tip of her cigarette to his exposed scrotum; ‘BigJimmy’ simply wished to masturbate silently and furiously, his gaze intent on the creases in the flesh of her bare soles as she flexed her arches; ‘Koda’ was a young kid, a sweaty-trainers sniffer, the smellier the better. He liked his Goddesses sporty and athletic, so she obliged, donning her blonde wig and shiny leotards to show off her well-toned body. Removing a Nike Airmax trainer from her bare foot she thrust it in his face and made him sniff the stink of her insoles.

As for Sam, her notes on him consisted of three words: ‘intox, dangle, edge’.

Sam’s cam sessions with her began in the same way each time: She would be perched demurely on the end of her bed, her cam on the floor angled upwards to remind him of her superiority. After an initial five or ten minutes during which she and Sam chatted politely, asking each other how their day went, Helena commanded Sam to fetch the vodka bottle he kept in his freezer and pour himself a generous tumblerful.

“Drink,” At her one-word command he would drain the glass. Then she would call him a “Good Boy”. All she needed to do was say those two words and his dick would jump to attention and his heart race.

“Keep staring, staring at my shiny shoe, slave Sam, and become weak.”

And then Sam, his brain awash with a mind-melting cocktail of ethanol, oxytocin, adrenaline and the various endorphins that flooded his synapses whenever he heard Helena’s soothing voice, lay on his mattress and stared, dazzled by the sheen of her sheer Wolford tights, transfixed by the red undersole of her Louboutin as it dangled and swayed like a metronome suspended from her big toe. In less than a minute his jaw would be slack, his eyelids heavy; after another minute, on her command, he’d start to stroke his dick lightly with his fingers. As soon as he was fully comatose, she could pretty much ignore him; she would light a cigarette, browse the web and check for messages on her phone. And then, thirty minutes later she made him jerk off on her ten-second countdown. At his moment of orgasm she’d finally let the shoe drop from her toes and land on the tiled floor with a gentle clunk.

During the session, she would seemingly relish the effect she had on him. It was impossible for Sam, who was very cynical by nature, to tell if she was faking her pleasure or not: Her occasional bursts of scornful, incredulous laughter as she witnessed his descent into stupor seemed genuine. At intervals throughout the session she would croon words of soothing encouragement, accelerating his helpless plummet into complete submission: “Each day of your life you will crave this more and more… You know this is your place, at my feet… There’s no escape…”

“No şehitkamil escort escape,” Sam would mouth silently and obediently. Yet all the while some part of him was aware that it was all mere play-acting on both their parts: He knew that as soon as he’d shot his load he’d snap out of his hypnotic state, and become suddenly conscious of the time (and money) he’d just been spending.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, at precisely nine PM, Sam replayed this session with Helena, enacting pretty much the same scenario each time. It was costing him $450 per week, a manageable chunk of change for him. On her birthday he might buy her a gift from her Amazon wish-list — a $40 pair of tights, or some body lotion.

He was pretty sure that Helena was content with this routine, draining his balls and wallet thrice weekly; she wouldn’t get greedy and pressure him into increasing his spending. Helena gave no hints to the contrary. She didn’t need to, because she knew that Sam’s attempt to keep up this nice, convenient three-day routine was doomed: Sam would inevitably become desensitised, and, like all addicts who need ever bigger fixes, begin to crave a more intense experience, and wish to fall deeper under her control. Her skill was in knowing when to apply the brakes or the accelerator to manage the speed of his descent: Too fast, and he’d bolt in fear; too slow, and he would be able to build up resistance to her conditioning.

Step Two: What Do You Say We Go Somewhere a Little More Private

One Thursday evening Sam entered her session at nine PM as usual, and she greeted him as always with a smile and blew him a kiss. But Sam detected a slight agitation in her demeanour today: When he asked her his habitual “how are you”, she shrugged before answering that she was okay. Sam’s delicate questioning revealed what was troubling her: There was some issue with the site, and she was pissed off about it. She couldn’t say more, she explained, it would get her banned.

And then Helena scribbled something on a pad and held it up to her cam: “heels_goddess_owns_u”. She mouthed the word “Skype”.

“Now?” typed Sam, his heart inexplicably racing. She nodded and lit a cigarette. She picked up her mobile phone, waiting for his contact request.

It felt strange for Sam to chat with her on Skype. He normally used it to chat to his friends and family in the US. It made him feel as though the mistress/slave relationship had dissolved, and that Elena and he were now equals — just two people chatting. Somehow it felt awkward to call her “Goddess” now; so he called her Helena. “It’s ‘Elena’,” she corrected him. So that was her real name.

“And you’re really ‘Sam’?” She asked him.

“Yes. Yes, really!’ He laughed, seeing she wasn’t convinced. “Sam Moser,” he added, providing his last name too as evidence of his sincerity.

On Skype Elena could talk freely: CamDates was now going to be taking a fifty percent share of the models’ earnings. She called the site owners ‘assholes’ and ‘gangsters’.

Sam laughed. “Wow, you really are pissed off.”

“Sorry. I just get so mad with those fuckers. I needed to vent.” Then Elena laughed too. “And I can’t show it to my slaves because I have to smile and be a Goddess all the fucking time.”

Sam felt honoured that she’d compared him favourably to her mere “slaves” — like he was closer in her confidence then they were. It didn’t occur to him that by transferring their communication to Skype their relationship was now more “real-life”, more intimate. And it was no longer limited to the times that Sam chose to visit her chatroom. But she was too smart to start pestering him “out of hours” yet. That would come later.

They chatted for almost an hour. Elena took him further into her confidence. She revealed, seemingly inadvertently, some details of her real life; which part of Bucharest she lived in, the fact that she still lived with her parents, what food she liked, and how she was desperate to move into her own place; she was doing cam modelling to earn enough money to buy a house, because it paid better than the advertising model gigs she used to get.

Sam at first revealed very little of himself beyond his name; he talked a little about his work but remained cautious, not being too specific about his earnings and financial situation, or about locations and names. But Elena knew that sooner or later he’d reciprocate the trust she’d shown in him.

Elena noticed that Sam made a slightly unhappy face.

“What is it, Sam? Ah, I know: We’re talking too much about real life, and you feel I’m not Your Goddess anymore. Does my Sammy miss this?” She pointed her phone’s cam at her smooth thighs, then panned it down to her shiny heels, taking Sam along for the ride. She placed the phone on the floor and hovered her heel over it, playfully threatening to crush him. Sam’s cock stirred, and he grinned. “Oh my God. Damn. It’s just that — I guess I’m not used to chatting with you on Skype. It feels different. Like we’re friends.”

She picked up the phone and held it before her face. “Well?” She said. “We are friends. Don’t you think it’s possible to become friends with your Goddess?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because I am still your Goddess.”

“I — Yes.”

“I will always be your Goddess.” Elena took a drag of her cigarette.

Sam remained silent, quickly falling under her spell, and getting very turned on.

“Understand, my foot-slave?”

“Yes.”

“Drink.”

Sam poured a triple-shot of vodka into his tumbler and swallowed.

“Good boy.”

Thirty minutes later Elena allowed Sam to cum on her countdown. She gave him five seconds, rather than the usual ten, judging that he wouldn’t be able to last the full ten today.

He returned to consciousness; a perfect climax to an incredible session.

And it hadn’t cost him a dime, he thought happily.

Step Three: We’re Just Good Friends

It had now been two weeks and six sessions after that first Skype chat, and Elena had not even hinted at any “tributes”. Sam still hadn’t figured out why Elena hadn’t yet demanded any money from him: Surely, he thought, her inviting him on Skype had been about bypassing CamDate’s fifty percent commission — he’d expected that Elena and he would “split the middle-man”, so he’d end up paying her around $3.75 per minute instead of $5, tributing straight into to her bank account. He asked her about this directly one evening. Which is what Elena had been patiently been waiting for him to do.

“You don’t need to pay me, my Sammy. You gave me enough already.” said Elena.

Sam made a shocked face. Before he could protest, Elena continued, “I have enough slaves. Maybe you don’t realise something about me: I enjoy our sessions. I like you, my Sammy, you’re different, you are smart, and treat me like a lady, not like a fantasy Goddess.”

Sam nodded, and exhaled. This stunningly beautiful young woman actually liked him!

“Sam. Understand: This is lifestyle for me, it’s not always about money. You know, I get turned on too, watching you get weak. I sometimes get really wet watching you, seeing how I affect you. It doesn’t happen to me with most of the wankers that come to me. They’re mostly stupid and rude. You’re polite and respectful to me. So maybe you can just buy me a gift at Christmas, if you feel so guilty about not paying me.” She laughed.

Sam’s cheeks were red with pleasure. “Wow. Thank you. I’m very flattered. Really.”

“Show me your dick, Sammy.”

Sam angled his cam down to show Elena his throbbing hard-on. She laughed and clapped her hands. “I knew it!”

She smiled at him. “You see, it’s a turn-on for you, to be friends with your Mistress, eh, my Sammy?”

Sam nodded.

“Drop deep for me, slave.”

Sam’s dick felt ready to burst. His eyelids grew heavy.

“Good boy. Fetch it for me. Fetch the Stolichnaya, my good boy.”

She placed her cam on the floor and perched her shoe on the end of her foot. With tiny jerks of her big toe, she started to swing the shoe up and down, up and down…

Thirty minutes later, after the shoe had dropped to the floor and Sam was now busying himself wiping cum from his belly, and still feeling the warm afterglow of his orgasm, Elena said, “Good boy. From now we use WhatsApp. It’s better, more secure. I sent you my number. Say ‘hi’ to me.”

Sam sent her WhatsApp message. Elena replied with ‘heart’ and ‘red-high-heeled shoe’ emojis.

Step Four: Three Little Words

One morning Sam woke in the night and recalled that he’d just been dreaming of Elena. He jotted the dream down on a notepad he kept by his bed; this was something he’d always done. This is what he wrote:

E lying on a towel on a sunny beach and I’m rubbing warm oil on her back + onto butt-cheeks. E ignores me, has my iPhone, flips through the pictures on it. “You don’t need these pictures,” she says, and suddenly runs to sea and throws my iPhone into sea. “Now there’s only me in your life,” she tells me. OMFG I’M FUCKED

He glanced at his phone to see the time: Four thirty AM. He guessed Elena was in bed too. A crazy urge came to him to message her, but he resisted. He lay back and stroked his dick, picturing her sleeping, lying on her side, naked on her bed, one perfect leg crooked. “Suck my foot, slave,” he imagined her murmuring sleepily. He pictured her from the viewpoint of the foot of her bed, her smooth cool toes wiggling in his mouth, distending his lips wide, pushing deeper, deeper, gagging him…

He found it difficult to concentrate at work. He kept glancing hopefully at his phone, working out the time difference between London and Bucharest, and imagining what Elena was doing. Then his phone buzzed. She’d sent him a WhatsApp message.

“I need your opinion, Sammy,” it said. It was shortly followed by two photos of leather coats. She was out shopping.

“Second one is sexier,” he replied, his dick uncurling with pleasure.

She replied, “Yep, and also three times the $$$. You have good taste,” followed by a devil emoji.

Five minutes later there was another message from her: “I bought it,” followed by a ‘bundle-of-dollar-bills-with-wings’ emoji.

And then nothing until nine PM, when she instigated a video chat.

“How was your day, my slave?”

“Terrible,” Sam laughed. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Just getting that message from you this morning made me so horny.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And I’m dreaming about you the whole time. I think I’m in love.”

“Of course you are. Did you think it was possible not to fall in love with your Goddess?”

“I assumed it was just lust. But it’s more.”

“Yes. More than lust. And more dangerous for you. Now you really can’t escape me. I’m always in your head.”

“Elena, I want to pay for your coat. How much was it?”

“Oh Sammy, it was too much. I’m a shopping addict.”

“How much? Five hundred Euros?”

Elena pointing to the ceiling.

“A thousand?”

Elena pointed higher.

“Fuck. Two thousand?”

“No. That would be even too much for me. It was twelve hundred Euros. On sale.”

“Okay. I want to buy it for you.”

“Sammy, it’s okay.”

“Really, I do. Please. It’s nearly Christmas. Call it a Christmas present.”

“Okay. Okay, but I want to send you a present too.”

“Deal. So how should I send the money?”

“Well,” said Elena, “Use Western Union. I’ll send you what you need to write on the transfer. You have to get it exactly right or it won’t transfer.” She sent him the details. It included her full name and address.

“Now give me your address where I can send you your Christmas present.”

Sam gave her his home address, and promised to send the money tomorrow morning., and let her know when he’d done so.”

“Good Sammy. You love your Goddess. Say it.”

“I love you.”

“Mmm. Again.”

“I love you.”

“Say it each night. Repeat it all the time. Say it again, now.”

Sam gasped, “I love you…”

“Yes. Tomorrow you will really show me, my love slave.”

Sam assumed she meant that he’d show his love by sending her the money for the coat, but she had something else in mind.

He sent the money at ten-thirty the next morning and messaged her immediately after.

Step Five: Sleep Deprivation

Elena decided to show her gratitude for his gift by allowing Sam to play a game with her she called ‘Twenty-Four’. He was to send her, every hour on the hour, for twenty-four hours, a picture of his dick, no matter where he was or what he was doing. If he missed any hourly deadline or sent the photo later than two minutes past the hour, he would incur a hundred Euro penalty. If he managed to send her every single cock-pic on time, she would reward him, but she wouldn’t say what the reward would be, only that it would be worth it. Sam was by now too deeply in her thrall to refuse her; in fact he was already hard before the game had even begun, at the mere prospect of playing it.

“You know I gave you the easy version,” Elena told him. “The hard version is that your dick must always be hard for me in each picture. And no cheating with Viagra. I’m enough Viagra for you. So maybe that’s not so hard for you, the hard version?” She laughed.

Sam, goaded, decided to go for the hard version of the game. The first picture was to be sent at noon, continuing every hour, on the hour, up to and including noon the next day. So the game really should have been called “Twenty-Five”.

Sam checked the time. Eleven AM. He called his assistant at his office and told him he would be incommunicado until tomorrow night, and to field any messages. He prepared himself for a sleepless night by buying fresh coffee, a big packet of the strongest espresso-ground blend that his Italian Deli stocked.

He was nervous and jittery just before noon. He’d only just arrived back home after buying the coffee and had barely had time to make himself a triple-shot. He threw off his clothes and jumped on his bed, still unmade since the morning, when he’d been in a rush to get to the Western Union office before work. He lay on his bed, glancing at his phone every few seconds to check the time. At eleven fifty-eight he shut his eyes and ran his fingers lightly up and down his dick. Nothing was happening. He grabbed his dick firmly and jacked it quickly. Still nothing. Damnit, he was getting an attack of anxiety!

But then, as soon as his phone showed exactly noon, he was amazed that his dick quickly and inexplicably grew hard — weird. But there was no time to analyse it: He hurriedly took a photo of his erection before it disappeared, and sent it to Elena.

A few seconds later he received a ‘hands-clapping’ emoji. One down, twenty-four to go.

Sam made himself an omelette and a cheese and tomato sandwich, watched the news on TV, and took a dump and a shower. He looked at his phone. Ten minutes to go. His balls churned, and his dick stirred. “Too soon, idiot” he said to it.

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