Blurry shot. Middle finger. Sole.

These “cashmasters” are sooo creative. There were at least ten pictures of the same pose as I scrolled through my feed, and the number just keeps growing.

I hate it.

I hate that they think so lowly of us, that we’re nothing more than just easy money to fund whatever lifestyle they can’t afford. Some of them don’t deserve to have such beautiful feet. Not when they treat our community like trash.

Jason’s first mistake was showing off his feet for all the world to see.

His second mistake was agreeing to meet with me for a foot session.

His third and last mistake was bringing his “dom” persona in real life, uttering the f-slur ever so casually. Whatever second thoughts I had about what I was going to do was gone in an instant. He deserved whatever was coming his way.

Jason woke up with a throbbing pain near his right eye. He tried to look around but his right eye was swollen shut, severely limiting his field of view. He struggled in vain as he discovered he was bound to the kitchen counter. A couple of ropes ran across his chest, one ran on top of his knees. At the end of the kitchen counter, he saw his ankles bound in wooden stocks.

A stream of expletives flew from his mouth as soon as I entered his line of sight.

“What the hell is this <f-slur>. I’m supposed to be YOUR master. I’m supposed to be in charge.” His face contorted to his usual dom persona. The smugness and contempt in full display.

I watched as the smugness melted from his face when I brandished the knife, slowly teasing his soles with the tip. His toes curled tight as I ran the knife across the balls of his feet. He started spluttering.

“Please man, don’t do this. I’m sorry okay, whatever it is I’ve done to you, I’m sorry. Put that thing away and no one has to get hurt. Please.”

Jason started sweating bullets as I kept teasing the knife across his soles. He eased a little when he felt the warm, soft tongue dance across his soles, the familiar feeling of being worshiped washing over him.

“Yeah, that’s right man. No one has to get hurt. Just enjoy yourself over there, alright? No more of that dom stuff.”

I inhaled his musk and felt my cock twitch, but as soon as the tip of my tongue tasted the sweat and the natural flavor of his soles, I knew what I wanted. I continued licking up and down, and sucked on a handful of toes, eliciting a couple of ‘oh yeahs’ and groans from my hapless captive.

Once I was satisfied, I grabbed a bunch of thin ropes and tied each toe to hooks on top of the stocks. Once his toes were secured, I picked up the knife once more and held the tip on the ball of his right foot, just below the big toe. Jason looked at me nervously.

“Hey man, I thought we were done with the knife. Please put that aw-AAAAAAA”

Jason screamed as the knife plunged under his skin. His toes tried to curl in agony, to protect his sole from the knife, but the restraints prevented him from doing so. I moved my knife toward the pinkie toe, separating the ball from the sole. I traced along the outer edge as Jason squirmed and screamed. I ran the knife under the heel and traced up the arch. And just like that, I’ve got myself a nice Jason sole filet.

It was a bit tricky, the arch. Jason had high arches, and some home cooks don’t find it worth the effort to cut that close to the bone, preferring instead to cut off the arch separately, but I had plans for this sole filet. It was well worth it as I wrapped his sole around my cock, feeling all the wrinkles. I brought my nose to his intact foot, deep between the big and second toe where the musk was at the highest concentration and inhaled deeply.

“Why are you doing this?” Jason watched me with tear-stricken eyes and a look of abject horror and disgust on his face. “Please, just let me go. Bring me to the hospital and I won’t tell them what happened or what you did, just please help me.”

The combination of this unique footjob and the strong musky odor, coupled with Jason’s panicked begging brought me to orgasm quickly.

After a quick cleanup, I picked the knife up again and started on Jason’s other foot. His skin was starting to cool and turn pale as more and more of his blood pooled below his fileted foot. My captive was tiring fast, no longer struggling hard as I sliced off the sole of his remaining foot.

I took out a baking rack and tray and placed the sole filets skin-side up, sprinkled with some salt and pepper. Just enough to draw out his natural flavors. I placed the tray in the pre-heated oven and set the timer for 30 minutes.

At this point, Jason is breathing rapidly, and his skin was paler than before.

“Please, just please tell momma I love her,” he was muttering in between breaths.

I took out a pair of kitchen shears and snipped off his toes one by one and dropped directly to a beer batter. Each snip my captive winced, the pain displayed plainly on his face. Tears kept streaming as Jason begged for his momma. The once smug and condescending cashmaster reduced to a blubbering momma’s boy. It was pathetic.

I couldn’t handle Jason’s cries any longer. As soon as I dropped all ten toes in hot oil, I picked up a cleaver. The fear and flash of recognition appeared briefly in his eyes as it went down. I picked up his head by his sandy hair, his face contorted in pain, his lips mouthing one last call for his momma. And just like that, a momma’s boy is reduced to meat.

I dined on his feet that night. The sole filets were juicy and tender, and the skin crisped up really good. I made some nice Jason gravy from the drippings. The toes were good appetizers, the salt and crunch paired well with the tang from the sweet chili dipping sauce. All this as Jason’s dead eyes watched me from the center of the table.