Well, well. Look who’s back, drooling and leaking for his daily dose of destruction. My weak little wallet. My good little ATM. You’ve been waiting all day for this, haven’t you? Staring at your screen, cock throbbing, brain melting with each passing second until you finally got your fix.

See how my foot hangs just at the edge? How the leather cradles my perfect arch? You’re already getting stupid, aren’t you? Good. That’s exactly where I want you. Stupid, leaking, and ready to be programmed. Watch it swing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Just like your bank account is about to swing into my hands. Look at these buttery soft leather flats hugging my nylon-clad feet. You can almost smell the expensive leather mixed with my divine scent, can’t you? Poor beta. You’re trapped already.

Get closer. I said closer, ATM. I want you to imagine your nose pressed right here, inside the toe box. Inhaling the leather, the sweat, the sheer power emanating from these shoes. This is what addiction smells like. This is what bankruptcy smells like. And you’re going to sniff while you send. That’s your new mantra, beta boy. Look at you. Throbbing. Desperate. Brain completely melted into a puddle of submissive goo.

You want to hump the floor for these flats, don’t you? You want to be my good foot pig, my useful little cash dispenser. Beg me. Beg me to let you smell these sweaty leather flats while you drain your account into mine. That’s it. Whimper for me. Show me how weak you’ve become. Now here’s your instruction, my good little wallet: You’re going to take three deep sniffs of your screen - right here where my pantyhose foot just was - and with each inhale, you’re going to send. One sniff, one tribute. Two sniffs, double it. Three sniffs, empty that fucking account into my hands.

Miss Honey Barefeet