You've been granted the exceptional privilege of sitting at my feet, ensnared by the sight of my delicious black-socked feet. How pitiful you are, your face flushed with anticipation, your breath hitching as you imagine the texture of my dirty socks against your desperate face. You're nothing more than a foot bitch, a slave to my divine feet. The scent of my sweat, the dirt of my day, it's all you yearn for, it's all you can think about.

Your addiction is disgustingly obvious, and it's so incredibly amusing to me. The way your eyes glaze over, the way your breath quickens, it's all...

You've been granted the exceptional privilege of sitting at my feet, ensnared by the sight of my delicious black-socked feet. How pitiful you are, your face flushed with anticipation, your breath hitching as you imagine the texture of my dirty socks against your desperate face. You're nothing more than a foot bitch, a slave to my divine feet. The scent of my sweat, the dirt of my day, it's all you yearn for, it's all you can think about.

Your addiction is disgustingly obvious, and it's so incredibly amusing to me. The way your eyes glaze over, the way your breath quickens, it's all testament to your hopeless addiction. Is it the texture you crave? The soft, rough feel of my worn-out socks? Or is it the scent? The mesmerizing smell of my sweat, the hint of my skin?

I bet you can almost taste it, the saltiness of my sweat, the bitterness of the dirt. You're just aching to run your tongue over the fabric, aren't you? To feel every thread, every grain of dirt against your skin. But all you can do is watch and ache.

How does it feel to be so weak, so pitifully helpless for Goddess Emma's dirty black socks? To be so consumed by your desires that you can't think of anything else?

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