As Mistress Enola, I often find myself stating a simple truth: "Once a loser, always a loser." To those who are entranced by the allure of feet, who find themselves drawn to the potent scent of well-worn, damp socks, my words may resonate deeply. It's a peculiar fascination, one that my obedient servant knows all too well. His devotion to feet, particularly to the rich aroma of my socks, is something I both understand and cater to.

In my eyes, he's a perpetual loser, a title he wears with an odd sort of pride. His life revolves around the pleasure derived from my feet. And who am I...

As Mistress Enola, I often find myself stating a simple truth: "Once a loser, always a loser." To those who are entranced by the allure of feet, who find themselves drawn to the potent scent of well-worn, damp socks, my words may resonate deeply. It's a peculiar fascination, one that my obedient servant knows all too well. His devotion to feet, particularly to the rich aroma of my socks, is something I both understand and cater to.

In my eyes, he's a perpetual loser, a title he wears with an odd sort of pride. His life revolves around the pleasure derived from my feet. And who am I not to indulge such a unique craving? With a practiced ease, I administer an overwhelming dose of my foot scent, pressing my sweat-drenched socks against his face. This ensures he's constantly immersed in the essence he so craves.

As he inhales deeply, I can't help but remind him of his place - how utterly worthless and pathetic he is, how his existence is defined by his submission to my will and whims. It's a dynamic we both relish, each in our own twisted way.