You have reached end of the list
Your purpose was decided long before you knelt—your tongue exists to serve her boots. Every inch of leather, every smear of dirt, every scuff tells the story of her power over you. She stands tall, grinding the soles into your face, smirking as you lick with desperate devotion. You’re not just cleaning—you’re proving that your entire existence is for her pleasure. Born to serve. Born to worship. Born to lick her boots.
