But, as always, my slave proves to be an incapable foot-licker. His clumsy tongue cant even properly clean the dirt off my heels, let alone offer me any relief. Pathetic. Useless.So I decide he deserves worse. Its springtime, and with all the mucus and phlegm Ive been carrying around lately, I quickly find a new use for him: hell become my personal spittoon.I stare coldly into his eyes and begin. If he cant serve me with his tongue, then hell serve as a container for what my body rejects.
