You kneel on the grimy, sticky floor of the night club’s cramped back room, the relentless pounding of the bar’s cheap techno music reverberating through the flimsy walls. The air is thick and heavy, an oppressive mix of stale cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the musky scent of sweat. Looming over you is the Thai bar girl who so effortlessly lured you back here, away from your faithful wife waiting back at the hotel, away from your better judgment and morals.

She regards you with a wicked gleam in her dark eyes, a cruel smirk playing across her glossy lips as she slowly, deliberately raises one foot and props it up on the chair right in front of you. “Silly farang, you never stand a chance,” she says, her voice a honeyed whisper laced with mock sympathy, her words tinged with a heavy Thai accent. “From moment you see me, I already catch you. Hook you like stupid fish, even you act like you no want come to place like this. Too dirty, huh!? Look who dirty now!”

She extends her shapely leg towards you, the arch of her foot perfectly highlighted by the shiny sheen of her tight leather pants. Your eyes helplessly follow the movement, drinking in the sight of her soles’ smooth, flawless skin. “Even though you know it wrong to look. Even though you say you faithful husband. I pull you in so easy.”

You swallow hard, trying in vain to tear your gaze away from her foot, now mere inches from your face. The urge to lean forward and press your lips to her skin, to inhale its scent, is overwhelming, fighting with the last shreds of your willpower.

She notices your internal struggle and lets out a low, throaty chuckle. “Look at poor farang now. Already so desperate for taste of my foot. So eager to put mouth on my toes. What happen to farang who say ‘I’m not into feet’? I think maybe you change now. Change to be good boy” Her voice drips with cruel amusement as she flexes her foot, her perfectly pedicured toes wriggling enticingly close to your lips. “Just few minute with me and you turn from boring husband to begging foot slave.”

As if to punctuate her point, she slides her foot forward, brushing her smooth sole against your cheek in a mocking caress. Your breath catches in your throat, your heart hammering against your ribcage as your blood roars in your ears. “No…this isn’t…I don’t…” you stammer weakly, but your protest is cut short as she presses her foot more insistently against your face, the heat and scent of her skin filling your nostrils, drowning your senses.

Almost involuntarily, you part your trembling lips, your tongue sneaking out to steal a tentative taste of her sole. She rewards you with a dark, honeyed giggle, triumph flashing in her eyes. “Yes, that it. Give in. Cannot resist me. You belong to me now, farang. You my foot slave.”

As you surrender to your base desires and begin to lick and suck at her toes in earnest, slobbering over her foot like a man possessed, a distant part of your mind screams that this is wrong, that you need to stop, to go back to your wife. But it’s quickly drowned out by the overwhelming need to worship her, to debase yourself at her feet, to please her at any cost. Nothing else matters anymore.

Only her. Only her perfect, divine feet.

“You go back to wife and tell her it over,” she commands, her voice low and authoritative, allowing no argument. “You then go to bank and give me all money. Every last dollar. And then you come back here to spend rest of worthless life in my service, kissing my foot, massaging my legs, being my good little foot slave. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you hear yourself say, the words muffled by her toes stuffed in your mouth. “I yours. I belong under your feet. I will give you everything.”

She smiles triumphantly, grinding her foot harder against your face, making you gasp and sputter. “Of course you do. Because you just another pathetic farang, good for nothing now except worshipping superior Thai feet. You are just another slave to Asian feet, and I own you now.”