Amina 15 min read

An erotic story about servitude of one slave to his mistress

written by L. S.
original source of the story was Unknown source

Amina, half Greek, half Spanish, had an astonishing pair of large, dark eyes, and the blackest hair that John had ever seen. She was very tall – even though she was seated, it was obvious – and from his vantage point at a nearby table in the bar, he could see her long, muscular legs. They were, perhaps, the most beautiful legs he had ever seen in his life. They were fully exposed beneath the hem of her short, black skirt, and accentuated by being encased in sheer black nylon. She was wearing high-heeled lace-up shoes, elegant and expensive-looking, and these, by raising her heels three inches from the ground, highlighted the firm muscles in her calves and thighs. In retrospect, John felt that it was probably her shoes, more than any other factor, which caused him to do what he did next.

Most probably those elegant shoes. Nonetheless, it was debatable. Maybe it was those deep, Mediterranean eyes – in which a man could sweetly drown. Maybe the outline of her firm breasts under her tight cotton tee-shirt. Maybe it was the way the light was reflected along the edge of her nyloned stockinged thigh. Or maybe it was just because, after three beers, he was slightly drunk, hence not quite so shy and inhibited as usual. Whatever the reason, John Preston rose from his seat, walked over to the beautiful woman whom he had never seen before in his life, knelt before her, and kissed her feet.

The bar was almost empty – it was past midnight. Even drunk, he would never have done such a thing before spectators. Even so, he was nervous and embarrassed as he rose from the dusty bar-room floor. It had felt good – had felt right – to pay homage to this darkly beautiful woman. He would never forget that first, exquisite touch of his lips against her shoes, the delicate, almost undetectable perfume of her foot.

Still, he knew what would surely come next, even though he had never done anything remotely like this before. At worst, he could expect a slap or a mouthful of angry abuse. At best – and this was perhaps more likely since the woman had an (erotically) cool, refined air about her – she would simply dismiss him as a drunken fool, and leave the bar. Why had he been such a fool? How could have allowed his self-control to lapse in such a bizarre and untypical way? Silently, head lowered, he waited for her to storm past him.
He was proved wrong in his expectations, however. For what she actually did was invite him, in educated but Spanish-accented English, to join her at her table. Somehow, this courteous and unexpected gesture made Preston feel more guilty and embarrassed than before. He would almost have preferred her to have thrown her drink in his face. He was ashamed to have intruded himself on this beautiful young woman, who had responded to his drunken groveling with such politeness. Still, it was too late to back out now, and he reluctantly sat down.

‘Tell me,’ she asked with a faint smile, a smile which was as beautiful as her eyes, ‘why did you do that? Don’t worry – I’m not offended. I’m merely curious.’

Preston thought for a moment and considered how he should answer. Blame it all on his slight drunkenness? Pass it off as a foolish joke? Something, however, compelled him to give a truthful answer. He instinctively felt that, maybe, just maybe, this woman would understand.
‘When I saw you come into the bar,’ he began, quietly, ‘I was struck by how incredibly beautiful you were. I think you must be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. When I kissed your feet, I was trying to – to show my respect for your beauty. I don’t know…’ He was embarrassed, but also excited, exhilarated.

‘All my life, I’ve had a certain feeling of inferiority towards beautiful women. Towards women in general, perhaps, since I’ve always believed that women are – are superior to men, better than men. I instinctively knew when I saw you, that you were my natural superior. I know that sounds strange since I don’t even know you. It was simply something that I felt. I wanted to show you that I acknowledged you as my superior. I wanted to put myself at your feet. I wanted to make a – it’s hard to express it well – a definite and real gesture of respect. I can’t say that I regret doing it. It felt right. It felt wonderful. But I’m ashamed that you must think that I’m a fool or something worse. I’m ashamed that I invaded your privacy like that. It’s not something I’ve ever done before. Please excuse me.’

Preston, having said this, felt nervous and self-conscious. How could he speak so frankly to a stranger about his most personal feelings and desires? At the same time, it couldn’t be denied; he felt a certain, strange relief as a result of his honesty. He could not bring himself to regret it.

‘My name is Amina,’ the young woman said, still smiling. ‘And shall I tell you something amusing, Mr. – ?’

‘Preston, John Preston.’

‘Shall I tell you something amusing, Preston? Very well. I liked it very much when you kissed my feet. It gave me a certain pleasure to see you kneel before me, and it gave me a greater pleasure still when I felt your mouth against my feet, through my shoes. You’re not quite the first man ever to have kissed my feet – you may find that surprising. You do it better than most, however. You have a certain natural finesse, which I appreciate. It also interests me very much that we have the same opinion about the relative merits of women and men. I also believe in the general superiority of women – their mental, physical and moral superiority over men. It’s an interesting subject for discussion, I think, but not in a public bar.’

She paused, and Preston felt a sudden, intense excitement. He felt a premonition (looking back, he was sure he had felt it) that his life was about to change, dramatically and irreversibly.

‘I live quite nearby,’ she continued coolly. She was no longer smiling, and her face had grown serious and thoughtful. There was still an unbearable beauty in that face, but a different, more intimidating beauty than before. ‘If you would like to escort me home, we can continue the conversation for a little while over coffee.’

Preston could hardly breathe. He did not, indeed, believe she was offering sex; something inside him instinctively knew that this was not so. Perhaps, however, she was offering something higher, something greater than sex. Perhaps she was offering what he had been looking for all his life, without knowing it. He answered, still quietly, that he would be delighted to see her home. And that was how it began.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Six months later, at five minutes to six on a weekday evening, Preston had almost finished his chores. The kitchen was bright and gleaming, the carpets were hoovered, the closets had been tidied, and Amina’s evening meal was ready in the stove. He caught sight of the clock and trembled. He had almost lost track of the time. Hurriedly, he went into the entrance hall and lay down on his back in front of the doorway. As usual, at this point in the day, he was naked.

Amina was punctual – she was highly efficient in most aspects of her life, one of the many things which Preston admired about her – and she returned home a few minutes after six. She was in her office clothes; the clothes she had worn that day to her job, as a rising executive with a computer company in the city. Over a white silk blouse, she was wearing a dark grey jacket with matching short skirt, together with sheer black tights, and black satin court shoes with three-inch heels. Preston heard her turn her key in the lock, and cautiously tensed his muscles. A moment later, she entered the house, shut the front door behind her, and stepped onto his torso to wipe her feet on him. He closed his eyes. Never, during his usual daily routine, did Preston feel more utterly enslaved than at these moments, and never was he more content, more at peace in his servile role. The feeling – cruel but seductive, hard but smooth – of her soles against his skin was unbearable but incomparably sensual. There was the pain, of course, from the heels; but this pain was itself a part of the distinct pleasure of serving as a beautiful woman’s foot-slave. It was a pleasure, Preston supposed, which most men could never understand. He felt sorry for most men. They had no idea of the happiness they were missing.

He waited for Amina to step down from him, knelt before her, and dutifully kissed her feet, just as he had done six months (six centuries) before.

‘Good evening, Mistress,’ he said, humbly. ‘I hope your day went well.’
‘It went very well,’ replied his owner, thoughtfully. Her voice was beautiful – as beautiful, even, as her long, muscular legs, scant inches from his face, as he knelt before her. ‘It may be – let’s say I have a gut feeling – that your Mistress may be receiving a promotion rather soon.’

‘That is wonderful, Mistress,’ answered Preston, genuinely pleased, genuinely proud of the success of the woman whom he loved, whose willing slave he had become. ‘May I have permission to serve dinner, or would you to prefer to change first?’

‘Serve dinner,’ she answered curtly, and walked into the dining-room, her heels clicking sharply on the hallway tiles as she did so.

Dinner was, by and large, successful. When Amina had finished eating, Preston approached her chair, knelt before her, and bowed his head to the ground. He took her right foot gently in his hand, raised it, and placed it on the crown of his hand, symbolizing his acknowledgment of her superiority. It was a submissive pose which Amina herself had initiated, but which Preston was happy to adopt.

‘May I serve you further, Mistress Amina?’ he asked.

She paused for a moment before replying.

‘Yes,’ she answered finally, ‘I think you may. Would you like to have me trample you again? Like I did the other day? I’m feeling a little cruel, and I’m in the mood to find it… stimulating.’

Not for the first time, Preston was struck – and pleased – by his owner’s frankness regarding her sexual moods. The more directly she expressed her desires to him, the more efficiently he was able to please her.

‘It doesn’t matter so much,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘whether you would enjoy it or not, of course. You are my slave, and it is my pleasure, not yours, which is important. I also plan to be a little rougher with you this time. I shall find it amusing to hurt you.’

Preston replied immediately that he was Amina’s property; he had no other function than to please her. A few minutes later, he lay on his back in the center of her bedroom floor, waiting for the familiar, exquisite pressure of her feet against his flesh.

When she entered the room, he saw that she had removed her courts in favor of a pair of equally pretty ankle-length boots, with needle-sharp, four-inch heels. The heels simultaneously attracted his gaze and frightened him. Wasting no time, she stepped onto his chest, and actually stamped on him, twice, making him gasp with pleasure and pain. She began to trample him.

She worked her way slowly from his chest towards his crotch, grinding her heels into him, and rubbing the flats of her shoes against his skin, relishing her superiority and dominance. She continued to stamp down at regular intervals, waiting for moments when his muscles momentarily relaxed, in order to cause more pain. She stepped off his abdomen onto his genitals, grinding them under her feet, symbolizing the triumph and superiority of her sex over his own. The defeat of the male.

She then stepped down from him, for a brief moment, in order to kick him hard in the sides of his abdomen and ribs. She stepped back onto his chest while he was still gasping and moaning from the pain. After trampling his torso for a few minutes more, and carefully grinding her heels onto his nipples, she wiped her feet on his chest once again – more brutally and contemptuously than before.

Moving towards her climax, she now stepped onto his face – her right foot on his forehead, her left across his mouth. She deliberately kept her feet still from this point on, in order to concentrate her weight on the same areas of his skin, and intensify his pain. Soon enough, he began to moan beneath her in his discomfort: the pain was excruciating, but he made no effort to free himself.

‘Let me hear you moan, slave,’ she ordered calmly. ‘Let me hear you suffer.’
The pain was now so great that he could not have disobeyed if he had wished to, and she rose, against the audible background of his pain, towards the summit of her pleasure.

When she had finished, she ordered him to prostrate himself before her and placed her foot on the back of his head. When she removed it, he seized it in his hands, and covered it in grateful kisses, conquered, and happy to be conquered; her inalienable slave.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Later that night, when he had prepared her evening coffee and served it to her in the living room, he reflected once more on the indescribable good fortune which had brought him together with this woman. This woman who felt the intense need to enslave, just as he himself needed to be enslaved. Who yearned to trample, punish and humiliate him, just as he himself yearned to be trampled and humiliated. How would he have survived without her?

She shifted her position in the armchair, and he moaned, involuntarily, with pleasure. After bringing in her coffee, he had positioned himself as usual on his back, beneath the seat of the chair, so that his face and upper torso were protruding. Just before doing so, he had knelt before Amina, and removed her ankle-boots, kissing her feet both before and after this operation was performed. As soon as he was beneath her chair, she had stepped onto his chest and sat down. She had then stretched out her endless, beautiful legs, allowing her stockinged feet to seek a comfortable resting-place on his body. For the moment, her right foot had come to rest on his throat, just above the breast-bone.

Her left foot was resting firmly on his face, which was turned slightly towards his left: her heel on the edge of his mouth, the arch of her foot on his cheek, the ball of her foot on his right eye, her toes just touching his lower forehead, above the eyebrow. He concentrated, trying to feel every contour of the exquisite feet which he was privileged to support. The pressure was simultaneously firm and cool: he could smell, through her nylons, the floral scent of the expensive soap which Amina had used in the shower that morning. Her stockinged feet.

He had kissed, licked and been trampled by her feet innumerable times; many times with her feet in high heels, many times with them bare. He loved to be beneath her feet in any case, since he knew that this was where he belonged. He had, so to speak, ‘found his niche’. He felt, nonetheless, that her feet, if it were possible, became even more exquisite, even more sensuously delicate, when encased in a sheath of sheer nylon. Maybe it was because nylons were such an intensely feminine garment: they symbolized femininity, and therefore implicitly they symbolized female superiority, female power, and feminine dominance. The true, the natural order of the world. He loved the soft, sensuous feel of nylon against his lips when he kissed her feet. He loved the feel of nylon, so deceptively smooth, on his crotch, torso, neck, and face when she trampled him. Still, he knew that this was not the main thing.

The main thing was not what she wore on her legs or feet, or what she wore on the rest of her body. Whether she wore high heels, whether she wore nylons, whether she went barefoot, whether she was in her business clothes, whether she was smartly casual, as she had been that first time when he had seen her in the bar. It did not matter whether she wore jewelry, whether her face was made-up or without make-up. (It was beautiful, in either case.)

What mattered was that she owned him; he was her slave, her property, that he would spend the rest of his life at her feet, beneath her feet, serving and obeying her, her doormat and her footstool. He lived his new life on his knees and on his belly and was content to do so. The years stretched before him. Year after year, unbroken, as the slave of a beautiful woman. Year after year, unendingly, as her eager lackey, her willing, grateful doormat.
For this what he was meant to be, and they both knew it.

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