Teacher's foot slave

I was born into a poor family and lived a life of hardship from a young age. To escape this life, I studied hard and finally got into a prestigious high school in the city. I left that impoverished place and came to this bustling metropolis. The vibrancy of this place made me very uncomfortable because I knew nothing, everything felt unfamiliar, and I was constantly looked down upon. So I rarely went out, spending my days in the school dormitory studying, studying, studying. My classmates, seeing this, stopped paying attention to me, and gradually this indifference turned into dislike, and they often bullied me. All of this made me feel increasingly inferior. I could only console myself by studying hard, so I did quite well in one subject—computers. I knew nothing about this modern technology. In class, while other students were busy doing this and that on their computers, I could only look around, unsure where to begin. Often, without realizing it, my attention would drift to our teacher. Our teacher was a beautiful woman in her twenties, supposedly studying at a prestigious university, and teaching us was just a part-time job. She was not only beautiful but also had a stunning figure and dressed fashionably. For me, a child who grew up in a poor area, she was absolutely stunning. I never dared to look her in the eye, always stealing glances at her back. Even the way she walked was captivating, so elegant. Every time she passed by me in class, I would pretend to look at the computer while glancing down at her legs and feet. Her legs were long and straight, her feet delicate and slender, and every time I saw them, I felt a strange urge. I don't know when it started, but I began to pay special attention to women's feet, thinking they were the most beautiful part of a woman's body. My teacher's feet were the most alluring to me. Because shoes weren't allowed in the computer lab at our school, I could always see her feet encased in sheer stockings, and that hazy beauty almost made me lose control. The same thing happened during computer class that day. I pretended to look at the computer while secretly glancing at the teacher's feet. Just as I was lost in thought, those feet suddenly stopped in front of me. "What are you doing?!" a cold voice called out. I was startled and looked up to see the teacher standing in front of me with wide eyes. Looking at the computer again, I saw that because I had randomly pressed keys and deleted many programs, the computer was now broken. I was terrified and didn't know what to do, speechless. "I'm asking you a question!" The teacher was even angrier at my reaction. "Stand up!" Her voice was even colder. I trembled and stood up, my head hanging even lower. "Speak!" the teacher asked again. "I, I..." I stammered, unable to speak. Seeing that I didn't answer her and felt embarrassed in front of the whole class, the teacher was furious. "Stay after class!" she snapped, ignoring me completely. I was terrified by then. Normally, seeing her haughty expression made me feel inferior, and this inferiority complex gave rise to a deep-seated fear of her. Making her angry was something I never dared to even consider, and now that I had angered her, I didn't know how to make amends. After class, the other students left one by one, leaving me alone in the classroom. The teacher sat behind the computer desk at the front, ignoring me. I slowly walked over, stood beside her, head bowed, and whispered, "Teacher, I'm sorry!" She ignored me and continued playing on her computer. I said it again, but she still ignored me. When I said it a third time, she casually said, "You're quite something! You've embarrassed me!" I didn't know what to say. She added, "Prepare to drop out. I'll tell the principal about your disrespect for elders." I knew she had that power; the principal would believe her, not a poor student like me. Dropping out meant the end of my life, and I didn't want to spend my whole life in my poor hometown. I couldn't help but tense up: "Teacher, I didn't mean to offend you! Please forgive me for this moment!" I began to plead with her, but she remained unmoved and continued with her own business. "Teacher, I beg you, please forgive me!" I almost cried, and finally couldn't hold back any longer, slowly kneeling down. She was initially surprised, not expecting that a few words had made me kneel down. She tried to get up, but quickly calmed down, turned her chair around to face me, and looked down at me. My mind was blank, a complete mess, and I kept pleading with her. Hearing my pleas, she seemed to remember something and asked me, "Do you really want me to forgive you?" Her voice was still cold, but there was a hint of excitement in it. I quickly said, "Yes, yes, please forgive me, I'll do anything you want!" "Really?" she asked. I quickly agreed, "Yes!" "Okay. Then I'll test you." She said with a smile. That smile was so beautiful it was almost unbearable to look at. I could hardly believe she was smiling at me. For a moment, I felt I would gladly die for her. I felt like a prisoner granted an extra pardon by a judge, overflowing with gratitude, because I knew that her smile was an act of forgiveness. I couldn't help but lean down, wanting to kiss her feet. But when I saw them, I was stunned. It was the first time I'd seen her feet so closely—delicate toes in flesh-colored stockings. Though her toenails were unpainted, they possessed a noble and elegant style. I stared at them, bewildered. Then, the teacher slowly lifted one foot, and my heart skipped a beat. Watching it slowly fall back down, landing on my head, I didn't resist or flinch. I didn't want to resist, and I dared not resist. Everything was so natural. "Give me a footrest," the teacher said, stomping down hard. My head was pressed to the ground, one side of my face against the earth, the other side crushed by the teacher's soft foot. The moment her foot touched my face, my last shred of male pride shattered instantly. My emotions calmed down in that instant, as if I had suddenly found myself again. Seeing that I didn't resist, the teacher seemed satisfied. She lifted her other foot, setting both legs up so that all her weight was on the foot pressing down on me, my face pressed firmly to the ground, unable to move. The teacher ignored me, comfortably leaning back in her leather chair, opening her powder compact, and carefully applying makeup. This went on for over half an hour. I felt half my face was numb from being stepped on, but it seemed normal, even a little angry with myself: I couldn't even stand being a foothold for the teacher, how useless! Fortunately, the teacher didn't blame me. After finishing her makeup, she looked down at me coldly and said, "How are you? Tired?" "Not tired, it's an honor to be a foothold for the teacher," I quickly replied. After saying that, I was surprised myself: how could I say that? "Really? Then you can be my stepmother forever, you won't object!" The teacher's words left no room for me to say no, and I didn't want to say no either. Actually, in my heart, I already thought that being her stepmother and serving her was my duty. "I am willing to serve you forever!" I blurted out what I was thinking. The teacher was clearly satisfied with my words. "In that case, from today onwards, you are my servant. You are never allowed to disobey my orders, understand?" The teacher asked sternly, her voice already that of a master speaking to a servant. I answered humbly and fearfully, "Yes." "Get up! Kneel before me and say that you are my servant." The teacher said, lifting her foot and releasing me. I pulled my head back from under her feet, knelt before her again, and said respectfully, "From today onwards, I am your servant, teacher, and will obey your orders in everything I do, and will never disobey." After saying this, I kowtowed. The teacher lifted my chin with her foot, looked at me, and said, "From now on, at school, you'll call me teacher; outside, you'll call me Miss Liping; and when we're alone, you'll call me Master, understand?!" I answered that I understood, and then kowtowed to Miss Liping again, saying, "I hope Master will give me the opportunity to stay by your side and serve you forever. As long as you're happy, you can beat me and scold me every day, I'm willing to accept it." I couldn't control myself anymore and said excitedly. Only then did I realize how willing I was to be a woman's slave, to be forever trampled under a woman's feet, only then could I find my true self. After hearing my pledge of allegiance, Miss Liping said, "Alright, my foot slave, stop nagging and come massage my feet! My feet are sore from stepping on you just now." As she spoke, she lifted her foot slightly, and I understood. I rolled over, changing from a kneeling position to a lying position, lying on my back where her feet were, letting her place her feet on me. I gently picked up one of her feet and began to massage it. She closed her eyes, enjoying my service. I massaged her feet intently, afraid of accidentally upsetting her again. Miss Liping seemed quite satisfied with my foot-massaging technique, and gradually became excited. Her other foot began to rub my face incessantly, as if my face were a foot massager. She kept stomping, pressing, and rubbing, mercilessly trampling on my features. Gradually, I felt as if my face was being rubbed raw, and I slowly lost consciousness, my head rolling back and forth under her feet. My hand massaging her other foot had long been kicked away by her, and her foot rubbed against my lower abdomen, making my internal organs feel extremely uncomfortable. I had long since stopped all movement, letting her torment my body at will. I don't know how much time passed, but her stockings were now soaked with sweat.She stopped then. She placed her foot on my chest, smiling, and said, "You're a really good massager, especially your face, it feels so good to step on." As she spoke, she stretched out her foot and rubbed it against my face, as if she were stepping on a soccer ball. I had been dazed from the massage, but hearing this, I felt as if my whole body had been revitalized. Hearing Miss Liping praise my face, I was so moved I almost cried, sobbing, "Thank you, Master. Only you don't mind, I massage your feet every day." Miss Liping smiled and casually wiped the sweat from her stockings onto my face. The sweat mixed with perfume made me feel dizzy. I couldn't help but say, "Please, Master, let me lick the sweat off your feet, okay?" "Lick my feet! Do you deserve it?" Miss Liping smiled contemptuously at me. "Your mouth is so dirty, aren't you afraid of soiling my feet! A foot slave dares to ask his master for favors, do you want to die?" With that, she angrily stomped her foot hard on my stomach. I couldn't help but scream. "Stop screaming!" Miss Liping angrily stomped on my stomach again. I dared not scream again, pleading for mercy, but seeing my pained expression only excited Miss Liping more. She kicked my body repeatedly, alternating between her feet. After kicking me once, she would stop, laughing and enjoying my pained expression, waiting for the pain to subside before kicking me again. This went on for a long time until Miss Liping got tired and stopped. I stopped screaming because I knew Miss Liping was unhappy with my screams. By this time, her cruelty had completely subjugated me under her tyranny. I felt that I was born to be abused by her; she was my master, and my only value in this world was to be enslaved by her and to please her. Everything I had belonged to her, including my life and death. Now that she was taking pleasure in kicking me, I should gladly accept it. Miss Liping, exhausted, lowered her head and said to me, "Do you understand? Slaves have no rights." I respectfully replied, "Yes, this foot slave knows he was wrong. Thank you for your guidance, Master. I deserve to die for your trouble in teaching me." I felt I had truly done something wrong. "Hmm, good that you understand!" Just then, a bell rang, signaling the end of school. I realized then that more than two hours had passed since I knelt down. "School's out. From today onwards, you will move out of the school dormitory. I will arrange accommodation for you," Miss Liping instructed. "Thank you, Master." My body had been stepped on the whole time, preventing me from kneeling to express my gratitude. "Alright. Go get my shoes and come back with me!" Miss Liping said, kicking me away. I got up, ran to the shoe cabinet, took out Miss Liping's pair of shiny black high heels, held them in both hands, and knelt down beside her. Miss Liping was packing her bag when she casually ordered, "Put these on for me!" I bent down, gently lifting Miss Liping's foot with one hand and slipping her shoes on with the other. Then I did the second one. As I was about to pull my hand back, I suddenly felt a sharp pain; Miss Liping had firmly stepped on my hand. She had just stood up, clearly only noticing my hand was still under her foot after she had stepped on it. But she didn't retract her foot, slowly straightening her clothes, completely ignoring the fact that I was curled up beside her feet in pain, silently groaning. Miss Liping glanced down at her shoes, seemingly dissatisfied with the tiny speck of dust on them—though it would have been invisible unless someone like me had their eyes pressed against the shoes. "Lick them!" Miss Liping commanded. I immediately began carefully licking her high heels, stealing a glance at Miss Liping once more. She stood there haughtily like a queen, staring straight ahead, completely ignoring my presence. I dared not look again and continued licking her shoes. Miss Liping only told me to stop when she felt she had licked me sufficiently. "Come with me, foot slave!" she said, before removing her foot from my hand. By then, my hand was raw and bleeding. I got up and followed Miss Liping out.

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