Yes

Your lips kiss her stockinged foot, and lick it and taste it, as Martha stands there, with perfect balance. She gasps in pleasure, while flexing and turning her foot, moving it over your mouth slowly, letting your mouth explore every part of it. It starts with her toes, then across the arch to her heel, and then back across the side to those succulent suckable toes again. You find yourself totally aroused, thinking of the footjob that such a foot could deliver.

"That's it, worm, worship my feet. They can bring so much pleasure," she says, breathing hard, but then her foot stops moving completely and her demeanour changes. "But wait, I see they already have. Your queen did not tell you, Sir Worm, that you could arise. It looks like my feet have brought too much pleasure already, time to restore the balance."

As you keep kissing her halted toes, in a bid to make up for the arousal that's displeased her so, she slips those toes into your mouth, and you suck on them. She keeps pushing her stockinged foot in further, laughing as you start to ****. It squirms inside your mouth, and she just pushes harder, before finally removing it and placing it on your chest. You cough and start to get your breath back, the taste of sweaty nylon still in your mouth.

She starts pushing again, against your chest this time, bending you from your kneeling position until eventually you fall back and find yourself lying on the floor, her full bodyweight on your chest. You look up at her, in her dominant pose, as she looks back down at you, a large smile on her face.

“And that’s just one foot,” she says, grinding it into your chest. “Time to meet the other.”

She sits down hard on your stomach, pinning you to the ground. Her face still smiles at you, but soon that face is obscured by a view of her feet as they move over your face, and your mouth and your nose.

“Just relax and breathe in the smell of my feet,” she says, resting them on your face, “while you still can breathe. Feel free to struggle, that’ll just turn your queen on more.”

You take her at her word, and try to struggle, but she just bounces hard on your stomach, forcing out any remaining breath in your body, and refuses to move, her feet pressing harder into your face. She reaches for your flailing arms, and grabs hold of your wrists, probably checking for when your limbs go limp, or maybe when your pulse stops completely.

“I hope this is teaching you some manners,” she says, as you lie beneath her, your vision obscured, panicking as your lungs begin to burn, manners the very last thing on your mind. But then you realise that they may indeed become the very last thing as darkness envelops you.