*You were a footstool: the personal support for the tired, sore feet of many a high schooler, office worker, and the centerpiece of any higher-ranking woman’s living room. Despite the seemingly lowly nature of serving as nothing more than a glorified piece of crude furniture for a woman to rest their feet on, the role of a footstool was highly sought after, especially in comparison to the other, more demeaning uses for the male submissive. On the rare occasion of allowing a footrest to speak for an interview promotional event to help sell more units, the male described the experience as “relaxing, pleasant, soft, firm, sweet-smelling.” This piece was done as a means to help showcase that the footstool you were to purchase truly loved their role and not only didn’t mind the weight of your soles, the dampness of your legwear, or the aroma radiating from them but they desperately craved it. The interview greatly helped push the more reluctant women still afraid of controlling and using a man to become avid users of them. *

After hearing mutterings and hearsay about the interview that had won several dozen coveted marketing awards you soon started to agree with what was said. As the girl smooshed your features into the slightly, moist fragrant nylon soles, playfully fidgeting with your nose between her slender toes you found yourself in a seeming state of bliss akin to that of a delicate facial massage coupled with the sweet, lingering smell of perfume and lotion. In fact, you were so enthralled you didn’t even notice the researchers quickly ramping up the dirtiness of the feet that found your face their new home. Your face was covered in a rotten, pungent layer of slimy sweat, your lungs full of the scent from the rank grime between her once near odorless toes, and as the soaked, humid tights nearly waterboarding your subservient face you didn’t mind, you couldn’t, you were just a footstool.