Yla

One.

The bottom of Kyla's foot tastes salty. It's just slightly warm, usually, and very slightly moist, but doesn't really smell bad. Her arch is high, which can make it kind of hard to get my lips against the deepest part of it, especially when she flexes it, but there's a way, if I turn my head just right. The bottoms of her toes have a slightly different taste than the rest of her foot.

The most embarrassing thing about kissing Kyla's foot isn't the fact that I'm only allowed to kiss the bottom, the only part of her I've ever been allowed to touch. It's not that I have to be naked, or that I have to lie perfectly flat on the ground, on my front, arms limp at my side. It's not that I'm only allowed to kiss her left foot - the bottom of her left foot, that is, or that she doesn't even bother to take off her right shoe or sock. Just the left one. It's not even the fact that, on occasion, she's invited her best friend over to watch me kissing her foot for awhile.

No, the most embarrassing thing about it is her laugh. Kyla's laugh isn't exactly cruel. It's not a cackle, and it's not mocking. The embarrassing thing about Kyla's laugh is how genuine it is, how casual. There's absolutely no artifice. It couldn't possibly be more perfectly calibrated to say "I can't believe you're actually doing this." When I'm lying naked on the floor before Kyla, kissing the bottom of her left foot, and she's laughing at me, I fall deep into my submissive feelings for her, then continuously get yanked back to the world of the mundane by the sound of her laugh, which is a pitch-perfect reminder of how ridiculous my desires are. After an hour or two, the emotional whiplash is painful.

Two.

The first time, that very first time, it was after I'd spent the entire morning working for her - vacuuming, doing dishes, doing laundry, ironing clothes, and she finally decided that I'd done enough to deserve it. When she told me, I was more nervous than I expected, considering that it was something I'd dreamed of doing for so long. But once I was on the floor, naked, kissing her bare sole, well, it wasn't what I'd expected. It was awful. Horrible. The embarrassment, it just wasn't something anyone could prepare for. I'd expected Kyla to be sort of serious, maybe even solemn - after all, that was the mood I was in when I fantasized about this. In my dreams, it was all very reverent, very ceremonial. I certainly didn't expect her scorn-filled groans, her laugh, her little quips. Once, she actually said out loud, "Oh my GOD I can't believe you're really kissing it!" It was a sort of humiliation I didn't realize was possible, and not the good kind. I wanted to crawl away into a hole somewhere. I never realized it was possible to feel quite that naked, quite that ridiculous. I felt hot, then cold, then hot again. My skin felt like it was crawling. I tightened every muscle involuntarily. It was three hours that felt like it would never end, and I never really got used to it. Kyla texted her friends, watched TV, and occasionally walked away then came back. And as I had to keep pressing my lips to the bottom of her bare foot, over and over, over and over, forever, all afternoon, even as it became more and more obvious how much she disdained me, I felt the kind of shame I never imagined was possible.

As soon as I was home, I'd taken a quick, hot shower, then dressed in thick sweat pants and a sweat shirt, and climbed under the covers, burying my head under the pillow. The entire walk home, I'd involuntarily wiped my lips over and over with my hand. I did so again. Despite scrubbing them with a rough washcloth, I could still feel the bottom of Kyla's arch against my lips, the way each little wrinkle of her sole had appeared each time she flexed her foot. I could still taste the salty, sweaty flavor from her foot that had built up on my lips as I'd kissed, and kissed, and kissed, that taste that I'd wanted so badly to wipe away while I was down there kissing, but hadn't been allowed to move my arms to do so; I could still taste it now. Despite scrubbing in the shower, I could still feel the carpet of Kyla's bedroom pressed against my naked front, almost soft at first, quite irritating by the end of the third hour.

I could never undo this. I pressed the pillow hard against the top of my head, Kyla's little laugh still in my ears, her amusement at what I was willing to do, where my submissive desires had led me, her delight in her genuine power over me. And her power was certainly real. For as much as I'd hated every minute of that ordeal, I'd endured it. But why? Because I'd been told to. I wasn't allowed to get up and leave. I wasn't allowed because Kyla had said so.

I buried my head, awake for hours, agonizing over what had happened, telling myself "never again." Never again never again never again. At some point, I fell asleep.

Three.

The horrible thing is that I have to ask her in person. She insists. It's the only way I'm allowed. Usually I send her a text, just so she knows I want to ask. Something like "Can I come ask you a question, Kyla?" Once in a while she just texts back "No". But other times she'll say something like "ok im studying in library find me." Of course, it could take an hour to find her, so I need to leave immediately, to make sure I can find her before she goes somewhere else - which isn't always the case, as I've been sent on wild goose chases before. But if I find her, I'm usually allowed to sit down. Eventually, if she's alone, I need to work up my courage to ask her, fast. As often as I've done this, it's always degrading, actually asking her in person.

"Kyla, may I please have permission to kiss your foot?"

Typically, I'm met with a growing smile, followed by a burst of laughter, Kyla burying her face in her hands or looking down holding her forehead and shaking her head, sort of unable to believe I'd actually ask her this, even after this many times, before finally pulling herself together. I usually force myself to sit still, bite my lip, feel my face turning red. Eventually she stops laughing, and gives me instructions.

"Alright, Chris. Lemme see. Come over to my apartment around 6. I'll find some chores for you to do so you can start earning the privilege. It'll be several days worth of work this time, I'm warning you. Are you up for it, just to kiss my foot?"

I'll usually tighten my face. "Yes, Kyla."

"Good boy. Now go!"

The exchange usually goes something like this. She'll smile, or she'll laugh, or it will be obvious she's trying to hold back a laugh. And as many times as I've tried to convince myself Kyla's acting here, putting on just to add to the humiliation of the experience for me, when I actually go through the trouble of asking her it's completely obvious, every time, that her reactions are totally genuine. I walk away red-faced, head down, eyes tightened, almost crying. There's no doubt what she actually thinks of me.

Four.

The night after that first time had been awful. The next day had been worse - an avalanche of self-hatred that I'd been completely unprepared for. I walked through crowds on campus, feeling apart, as if I were a member of some separate sub-species. It was as if everyone could see right through me, see me for what I was, what I'd done, the things I'd allowed myself to be subjected to.

The next night, and the next, I kept having flashbacks. I felt as if I were still lying naked on that carpet, pressing my lips against Kyla's sole, over and over, as she laughed at me for it. The trauma of the humiliation kept replaying in my psyche. I tried to get it out of my mind, but I just couldn't do it.

The fourth night, I desperately needed sleep. I hoped sheer exhaustion would let me escape the thoughts quickly, and drift off, but it didn't happen. Instead, the same memories repeated themselves, over and over. This time, through a fog of exhaustion, something seemed different. Nausea, for one. An erection, for another. Yes, I still felt overwhelmed with shame, but something felt different. There was something almost exciting about my shame, about what I'd allowed myself to be subjected to. I was almost proud of it, in a perverse way. Which made me feel worse, but somehow, more excited. I stood up, and stripped myself naked. Slowly, I lay down on the floor, imagining I was again at Kyla's feet. My stomach quivered and shook. I puckered my lips, pretended to kiss. Oh, god, even the sense-memory of this was excruciating.

The whole experience, flooding back.

A person, a normally kind and decent person, a funny person, someone I admire, someone from my normal group of friends, and let's face it, an attractive - if not super hot then at least very cute - person, this person sitting over me, looking down at me, looking down ON me. This person dressed perfectly normally, except for the removal of one shoe and sock, looking down on me, lying face down naked on the floor. Not just looking down on me, but looking DOWN on me. Laughing at me, at what I'm willing to do, at what I WANT to do. Laughing, let's face it, at who I am.

Lying naked on my own floor, I remembered it all.

More than humiliation. Shame that I was completely unprepared for. Absolute resentment at the way she apparently saw me, saw this fantasy of mine, was making a mockery of it. Resentment and then being forced, in the middle of this shame and resentment, to kiss the bottom of the bare foot of the person it was directed at. Over and over and over, for hours.

Why had her attitude bothered me so much?

I'd felt so vulnerable, lying there naked, and more embarrassed than I'd expected to, but it had more to do with the way she laughed, and the way she acted like my desires were so ridiculous. Were they ridiculous? I'd spent the last several days ashamed of them, hadn't I? Was it so wrong for Kyla to laugh at them? For her to laugh at me?

Maybe it was the way it felt like she was laughing at me. I mean, she WAS laughing at me, right? Didn't she have the right to? I'd been the one serving her, she was the one in charge. It's just that, in my fantasies, domination and submission had always been so solemn, serious, almost sacred. But I was the submissive here. Wasn't I supposed to let Kyla do to me what she wanted to do? And if she wanted to laugh at me, well?

Would this always be so difficult?

I'd never expected it to actually hurt so much, really hurt, when it felt like she was laughing at me, and really, honestly, looking down on me. But I mean, part of what drove my desire to submit was a feeling of inferiority, that I wanted to serve someone who was better than me. Did I really feel that Kyla was my superior? Or was the superior/inferior thing just a mental game I was playing to make myself go through the motions of my fantasies? Was Kyla really, actually superior to me? And was it blatantly obvious to her?

Kyla wasn't the one lying on the floor, naked, kissing another person's foot.

Maybe superior people just recognize inferior people by the "I'd never do that" test. As in, "No, I'd never lie on the floor and kiss another person's bare-ass foot." Of course Kyla is superior to me. Of course she is. My resentment a few nights before must have come from a "truth hurts" sort of feeling. Kyla put me in my place. God, it hurt right now. But strangely, I sort of wished I was there, right now, with the opportunity to kiss the bottom of Kyla's foot again, this time with the right attitude. Would I? Could I?

I was ashamed that I wanted to.

My erection and my desire were growing too strong. I lie on the floor, and for a few minutes I imagined just kissing the bottom of Kyla's foot, just as I'd done earlier in the week. I imagined her laugh, her mocking comments. I replayed the humiliation. And I pretended to kiss. I told myself that it would be an honor to kiss her foot while she laughed at me, that it would be an honor to even be in her presence. I tried to embrace the humiliation.

Kyla is better than me, I reminded myself.

She's allowed to make fun of me, to laugh at me. She's supposed to. It's only right. I pretended to kiss the bottom of her foot. I knew I needed to release soon, and told myself that I would only do so while imagining kissing Kyla's foot. I had no right to dream up any other fantasies about her. I reached beneath myself, started stroking gently while I continued to pretend kiss Kyla's sole. Within a minute, I felt an overwhelming surge of pleasure, then a sticky puddle on the hardwood beneath me.

Dear God, if I'd felt low before, now I was in a black hole. I could hardly move, and nearly cried. It took everything I had to pick myself up off the floor, clean everything up, and get back into bed. What in the hell was wrong with me? I couldn't figure it out.

At least I slept.

Five.

The worst part usually starts about a half hour in. At least I'm guessing it's about that far in. I never know exactly how long I've been down there on the floor, but it always seems about that long when it happens. The blackness. There's a sort of hopelessness that overtakes me, and lasts anywhere from ten minutes to, I don't know, a half hour, forty five minutes. It can vary a lot. As much as I can hate the whole thing, there's a drive to do it, so it's somewhat exciting at first, as humiliating as it is. But at some point, that urge, that need, wears off, but I still know I have a long way to go. Hours, in fact. Hours that feel like days. Any excitement-induced erection that I'd had at the start is long gone. Indescribable boredom begins to set in. The carpet begins to irritate my naked front in a way that's impossible to ignore, even as Kyla is basically ignoring me. The taste of her foot on my lips, at this point, seems to be especially pungent. Sometimes during the blackness, I've noticed that her sole isn't just salty. It has an unusual hint of soapy dirtiness that builds up on my lips, and overwhelms my sense of taste anytime my tongue touches my lips. A sort of scummy sensation. It's a period of extremely low, almost helpless despondence that grips me for awhile, before resolving into a more resigned humiliation.

Six.

It's strange to think about sometimes, but I know the bottom of Kyla's left foot better than I know any part of my own body. Its color, the way each ridge forms when she flexes her toes, the smoothness of her sole, the exact curvature of the ball of her foot, the two little freckles on the slope of it, the fleshy texture of the part just beneath her toes, and of course the bottom pads of her toes, the bony spaces in between, the smell, the taste, the coarseness of the underside of her heel, the freckle on the outside of that heel. I've spent so much time down there, kissing for hours, adoring Kyla. The physical reality of the bottom of a foot, the way you can become so acquainted with it, it's a part of the experience I hadn't spent much time imagining.

Seven.

After she'd been there to watch a couple of times, I started to get used to Avery's presence. But that first time was hell. I'd never imagined Kyla would let anyone else be there to watch. I don't know why; it just didn't seem right. That Tuesday night, however, she was there, from the moment I walked in, and as Kyla began giving me my orders to strip, the horrible truth began to dawn on me that she wasn't about to leave. Cute as she was, the curious goofy smile on her face was a look of pure intimidation. I could barely breathe as I descended to the floor before Kyla, face at her shoes, already mortified. Avery, whose name I didn't yet know, sat cross-legged on a chair right beside Kyla, watching me like a hawk. I'd thought I knew what it was like to feel naked before. Now, however, I felt seriously exposed. What in the hell was this girl doing here, just watching me perform the most embarrassing thing in the world for Kyla? I thought I was about to hyperventilate.

Kyla pulled her left foot up to her chair, removing her shoe and sock just like she always does, setting it back on the floor next to my head before stretching out her leg, pushing her bare sole into my face. Oh God. I had to force myself, just like that first time. Every kiss felt so very weird. Above me, a gasp. "Oh my God, he's really kissing it! Like so. weird." Kyla's foot felt firmer on my lips, the carpet felt harder on my front side, and the air felt colder and crisper on my exposed back side, despite the fact that I was sweating. They talked about me for awhile, which was strange, then random other things for the rest of the time, which may have been stranger. Three hours felt like three days. Afterward, Avery didn't follow Kyla's lead in pointedly ignoring me while I dressed and let myself out. I don't think her eyes ever left my body as I put my clothes back on. I just made it past the door, closing it behind me, before everything let loose, and I started to cry.

Eight.

Sometimes I enjoy serving Kyla. Doing her chores can be relaxing. Depending on the task, it can be peaceful, and if she leaves me alone and lets me finish it, I can zone out and think about nothing. Other times, though, Kyla constantly inspects my work, or interrupts to make me do other things. And of course, if she's in the same room, and if she's barefoot, or wearing flip-flops, it's a reminder of why I'm there, why I've been working so hard at her apartment for so long, doing these tasks for her. That foot - her left foot - is the reason I'm here. It's hard not to think about it, and be embarrassed by it. It can also be embarrassing if a friend comes by and wonders why I'm there doing the dishes or dusting, or folding Kyla's laundry. These days, I'm sort of over it. The usual visitors all know about it, and seem to have accepted it. There's also an inflation factor at work that's impossible not to notice. When this all started, the cost to kiss Kyla's foot for three hours was essentially a morning's worth of work for her. That quickly escalated to two or three afternoons' worth. Now I can't remember when it's been anything less than a week's worth of afternoons or evenings. As Kyla told me once, "If you're going to kiss my foot, you're going to have to really WANT to kiss my foot." Right. The problem is I want it more than anything and at the same time hate it more than anything.

Nine.

Sitting at the Student Center, eating lunch one day recently, I overheard a group of girls talking about making out. They were guessing who did it the most, who did it the best, which guys were the best to do it with. There was lots of talk about lips. Lips. Four or five girls, about my age, discussing the kinds of things normal people do, and suddenly, I felt alone and left out. An entire school year gone by, and I'd kissed nothing except the bottom of a bare foot. I felt the humiliation returning, then took a deep breath. I was beginning to get used to this. Then I listened a bit more, pretending to eat, and heard a stray comment.

"Oh I totally manipulate Tyler all the time. He doesn't even know it."

So is it better, I wondered, to be knowingly manipulated, or unknowingly manipulated? I wasn't sure. What I was sure of, more than ever, was that Kyla was my superior. She was better than me. Kyla and me, and our friends, we had another month or so of study at this university, then most of us had one more year. One year. After that, we would scatter. Would it be so easy to have these sorts of pure experiences? I didn't know. I did know that I was more certain than ever that I was thankful for the time I'd spent this year working for Kyla, and on the floor before her, kissing her foot. I took another deep breath, then took out my phone.

I was smiling. For the first time, my hand wasn't shaking as I texted her.

"Can I come ask you a question, Kyla?"