“Now,” Anya said, uncrossing her legs and planting both feet flat on the floor. She leaned forward, her powerful frame eclipsing the light. “You will be under my feet. Not metaphorically. Physically.”
“Both,” she commanded.
He bent lower, pressing his forehead to the cool, polished wood of the floor. Then, he took her right foot in his trembling hands. He began with his lips, a whisper of a kiss on her instep. He could feel the latent strength in the tendons beneath the skin. He kissed again, firmer this time, trailing his mouth along the ridge of her arch, breathing in the clean, human scent of her—soap, a trace of the leather from her boots, and the faint, unique pheromone that was simply Anya . Femdom Foot Worship Russian Under Feet Added
He fumbled with the silk knot, his fingers clumsy with reverence and arousal. He folded the deep crimson tie into a precise square and placed it on the floor.
He swallowed. “Yes, Anya. I was wrong.” “Now,” Anya said, uncrossing her legs and planting
The world narrowed to the feel of her sole against his lips, the pressure on his brow, the rhythmic sound of her breathing above him. He felt a lifetime of stress—the boardroom betrayals, the endless logistical nightmares, the weight of being “Ivan Volkov”—drain out of him, absorbed into the floor, replaced by a singular, focused reality: Anya’s foot.
Then she moved one foot up, planting it gently but firmly over his mouth. The other foot came to rest on his forehead, her toes curling slightly into his hair. He was pinned. He was silenced. He was hers . Not metaphorically
“Take it off. Fold it neatly.”