Sole Submission: A Servitude Soak

The rain hammered against the windows of my small apartment, a relentless rhythm that mirrored the insistent throb in my veins. I’d spent the afternoon meticulously preparing, driven by a primal need that had taken root deep within my soul. The scent of lavender and chamomile, remnants of the bath and body works haul, still clung faintly to the air, a sweet, innocent counterpoint to the simmering heat that now consumed me. Tonight, I wasn’t just seeking pleasure; I was offering devotion, a complete surrender to the exquisite agony and ecstasy of touch.

She’d arrived hours ago, a vision in silk and lace, her dark eyes holding a mixture of apprehension and something dangerously alluring. She’d accepted my request with a hesitant grace, a subtle tremor in her hand as she offered her feet to me. It wasn’t just about washing her feet; it was about claiming her, about making her feel utterly vulnerable, completely consumed by my desire.

I’d chosen the right products, of course. The foot scrub, a potent blend of peppermint and eucalyptus, left a tingling, invigorating sensation as I worked, stripping away the day’s grime and revealing the delicate curve of her arches. The lotion, infused with shea butter and cocoa butter, melted into her skin, leaving it impossibly soft and yielding. Finally, the massage oil, a rich, nutty concoction of almond and jojoba, felt decadent against her bare soles.

The book from Barnes and Noble, dog-eared and well-worn, had provided the framework, the technique, but it couldn’t capture the essence of this moment, the raw, untamed emotion that pulsed between us. As I began my meticulous routine, my hands moved with deliberate precision, each stroke a silent testament to my intention. I started with the ankles, tracing the veins that snaked up her legs, feeling the subtle warmth radiating from her skin. Then, I moved to the soles, kneading the muscles, releasing the tension accumulated throughout the day.

My fingers danced over the arch, finding the pressure points that sent shivers down her spine. Each touch was deliberate, calculated to maximize sensation, to ignite her senses. I worked slowly, deliberately, savoring every inch of her skin, every flicker of her response. Her breath hitched, shallow and rapid, as my thumbs pressed into the ball of her foot. A low moan escaped her lips, a sound that both thrilled and terrified me.

I shifted my weight, bringing my full body to bear on her feet, my hips pressing against hers. The heat intensified, a palpable wave washing over us both. I could feel her muscles relax, her entire being surrendering to my control. The rain continued its relentless assault on the windows, a wild, chaotic soundtrack to our shared intimacy.

As I continued my massage, my movements became more frantic, more insistent. My fingers dug deeper into her flesh, exploring every crevice, every curve. Her sighs grew louder, more desperate, as she leaned further into my touch. I ran my palms up her legs, tracing the contours of her thighs, feeling the quickening pulse beneath her skin. Her nipples began to swell, sensitive and vulnerable, and I couldn’t resist the urge to cup them gently in my hands.

The scent of the massage oil intensified, mingling with the lingering fragrance of the foot scrub and lotion. It filled the air, a heady, intoxicating blend that further heightened my senses. My own body was responding to her arousal, my muscles tensing, my breathing becoming shallow. I felt a primal urge to consume her, to lose myself completely in her pleasure.

With a final, desperate plea for release, she arched her back, pulling me closer. My hands reached down, grasping her hips, pulling her body against mine. My lips brushed against her skin, tasting the salty moisture of her sweat. Then, I lowered myself onto her, my weight pressing down on her vulnerable form.

Her screams were muffled, choked by my weight, but they were filled with an undeniable pleasure. My fingers moved along her spine, tracing the knots of tension, releasing the knots one by one. The rhythm of my breathing matched her frantic pulse, a synchronized dance of lust and desperation.

I began to unbutton her dress, slowly, deliberately, my movements deliberate and sensual. The silk slid down her body, revealing the pale curve of her breasts. I hesitated for a moment, savoring the sight of her exposed flesh, before reaching out to gently caress her nipples. Her gasps were sharp, involuntary, as I found the perfect spot, the point where pleasure and pain intertwined.

With a final, decisive movement, I pulled her dress completely off, revealing her naked form in all its exquisite vulnerability. The rain continued its relentless assault on the windows, but inside, the world had narrowed down to just the two of us, locked in a passionate embrace.

I returned to her feet, my touch now even more demanding, more insistent. I worked my way up her legs, massaging her calves, her thighs, her glutes, each movement designed to stimulate her nerves and heighten her arousal. Her body arched and writhed beneath my hands, her cries for release echoing through the room.

Finally, I reached her pelvis, and there, I unleashed my full force. My fingers danced over her clitoris, teasing it, tantalizing it, pushing it to the brink of ecstasy. Her screams grew louder, more frenzied, as she lost all control, her body convulsing with pleasure. I continued my assault, relentless in my pursuit of her ultimate satisfaction.

As the last vestiges of her inhibitions dissolved, she collapsed against me, exhausted and spent. Her breathing was ragged, her skin slick with sweat, but her eyes were closed, lost in the blissful oblivion of pleasure. I held her close, savoring the warmth of her body, the scent of her skin, the knowledge that I had given her everything she desired.

The rain continued to fall, a constant reminder of the wild, untamed forces that both separated and united us. But in that small apartment, surrounded by the lingering scent of lavender and chamomile, we had found a sanctuary, a place where pleasure reigned supreme. And as I drifted off to sleep, cradled in the arms of my devoted servant, I knew that this act of love, this act of servitude, would forever be etched in my memory, a testament to the power of touch, the allure of desire, and the exquisite agony and ecstasy of being completely consumed. The rain eventually subsided, leaving behind a world washed clean, as if my own senses had been cleansed as well. The memory of her pleasure, her vulnerability, her surrender, would linger long after the scent of the oils had faded.

Sex stories

Sole Submission: A Servitude Soak

Did you like this story? Sole Submission: A Servitude Soak look, but like these, here Sex stories.