Blue Lights In The Bedroom.

When I first suggested blue lights in the bedroom he cocked up his eyebrow and looked at me like I had gone insane.

"But blue is surreal," I told him.

He didn't understand but it's only because he doesn't see the lights the way I do. I chase light. Red is for torture, yellow is for love, green is for beauty and blue is for surrealism. I know I make no sense but sit with me in blue lights and you'll understand.

He did.

The lights came on, and he stepped out of the bathroom to see me draping the edge of the bed. He looked different under blue lights; I wonder if I looked different. I was dressed in my idea of pretty which is exactly the same every single time: Long(er) black dresses (of slightly varying lengths and fabrics). If I could have a uniform, that would be it. I think about that often; of wearing the same thing every day. If I could, and ever did, it would be that. Long black dresses, eyeliner and bare feet. That is where I run when I want to be pretty and I'd like to feel pretty all the time. According to him, I always am. But under the lights in our bedroom he sees more than that. He saw more than pretty when he saw me in blue.

"A cheap whore in a cheap dress masquerading as finery," he said.

And he was right.

My dress was cheap. All my dresses are cheap. Thrift shopping with my friends is one of the greatest joys of my life and we live in the perfect country for it. I don't think I can ever stop doing it. All the dresses are pretty, and cheap. I *love* cheap in so many ways. I'm cheap; a cheap thrill, a cheap date, a cheap lay, a cheap trick, but I can make myself seem fancy. Like my clothes. They're cheap, but I can make them seem fancy.

But he saw through me.

Underneath my pretty dress and past the sweet smell of orange blossoms, he saw me like he always does.

"You think putting on eyeliner can hide who you truly are?" He asked as his foot made its way underneath my dress.

I don't presume eyeliner can hide it but I wonder if I do the pretty things in an attempt to seem less nasty; so it seems more beautiful than whorish when I spread my legs to let his foot inside me. So i'd seem less desperate when I thanked him so profusely for squeezing me between his toes. I can't help myself, I lose myself in feet.  In *his* feet.

I couldn't tell you when he pulled them out from between my legs and shoved them in my mouth. I just remember sniffing in between his toes and realizing if I didn't put them in my mouth I wouldn't be able to go on living. I remember tasting the dirt and sweat, and wondering why that was only making me open wider. The taste of his feet made me ravenous, and I remember trying so hard to shove the whole foot in my mouth. I wonder if that's what they mean when they say foot-worship. To be honest it didn't feel like worship. It felt like exactly what it was. It felt like leaning against the wall while being fucked in the throat with his foot.

And all it made me want was his feet on me. Covering me. Crushing me. Smothering me while I drowned in a sea of spit and feet. The harder his toes hit the back of my throat the more desperate I grew in my need to be underneath them until o couldn't help but beg. Asking for what you want is a sound principle, but begging for what you need it better. I learnt that from men like him and for once they were right. They delight so much in making you beg, you can't remember what it's like to not enjoy begging.

Yet as much as I may say I enjoyed it, there's some shame that's inextricable from begging because even as I begged in a desperatation far out of my own control, I averted my eyes and started into the blue lights.

"*Please smother me under your feet,*" I said to the lights.

But they didn't answer.

His answer was to drag me onto the floor getting dirt all over my pretty dress. I don't care about dirt; I am dirt. He hates dirt so much, especially for someone who loves me. He gets me dirty so often for someone so fixated on clean. He won't even touch my dirty feet with his feet but his feet rested themselves so comfortably over my face you'd think he was a different person. They slid so forcefully down my throat, I can still feel the scratch in my throat from the errant edge of his toenail.

Nothing feels quite like his feet on my face. His dick in my throat is not the same as his feet. His fingers choking me don't feel as real as his feet smothering me. Being slapped doesn't feel as threatening as his foot landing against the side of my face. Nothing feels like that. He thinks I'm a foot fetishist but it's not just that. It's facial abuse that's the fetish, feet just do it best.

*Or maybe it's him.*

And the way he does things.

The way he held my nose with his toes and dared me to try and breathe. The way he pressed his heels into my cheekbones and laughed when I struggled to get out. And the way he fucked my mouth with his dirty foot while I squealed and touched myself. The way he never misses anything. Like the squealing.

*Maybe it's him.*

And who he is.

The way he tells me he is going to hurt me and then delivers his promises. The way he degrades me to tears twelve minutes after telling me how much he loves and adores me. The way he waits patiently to strike at the right time.

*Maybe it's him.*

And how he makes me feel.

Like I'm always on display even if I'm completely clothed. Like he can always pry me open and do whatever he wants with my insides until I no longer remember how I function. Like he is always looking at me, studying me and waiting for me to just give him a reason.

*Maybe it's him.*

And how much he enjoys fucking my face with his foot.

*Maybe it's him.*

And how he looks in blue light.