Kneel

“I might have known you wouldn’t resist,” she says, “but how could you resist this.”

You look at her buxom body, the tight bodystocking she’s wearing leaving little to your imagination, and know that Martha’s worth kneeling for,

“I didn’t mean my body, worm, at least not all of it. Here’s the part you can’t resist.” She slowly lifts her right leg up, and holds her foot up in front of your face. You can smell the smell of nylon mixed with her sweat, and watch it flexing, her toes pointing at you.

“Kiss my foot,” she orders, as it circles before you.