I met Kyle* on a boat a few years back—a boat where I was performing murder mystery dinner theater, to be specific. His accounting firm bought a private show for their holiday party and Kyle approached me after the curtain call. He nervously muttered a pickup line about my “killer” looks (I’d played the murderer that night), then invited me to drinks, flashing his thousand-watt smile. I could barely resist. He was cute—hot, even—the L.A. type who has done some modeling but, like, still works at an accounting firm.
Instead of joining for drinks, however, I gave him my number and headed home to my then-boyfriend’s place because as charming as Kyle was, I was too horny for small talk. Before you judge, my partner and I were in an open relationship, so all of this was kosher. I took that flirty energy right back to my man and fucked him good. After a solid night’s post-sex sleep, I’d forgotten about Kyle completely…until a few weeks later when my phone pinged with a Venmo notification letting me know a few hundred dollars had just dropped into my account.
“Goddesses deserve pedicures and lots of attention,” the memo read. I had posted a Boomerang of my fresh lime green pedi to my Instagram Story the day before—maybe he saw that? I checked the little faces in the bottom left corner, and sure enough, Kyle had seen. Ding, ding, ding—he’s a foot guy! I screamed in my head. Jackpot!
I had heard, and joked, about the fabulous world of foot fetishes many a time before. But despite strongly considering a foray into foot stuff, I had never actually cashed in. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to—I was just busy showing off above the ankle on my OnlyFans and maintaining my trillion other side jobs to support my fledgling writing and acting careers. Needless to say, I was head over heels about the opportunity before me.
“Indeed they do!” I responded on the private Venmo thread, giving his payment a heart and giving myself permission to buy the 14-karat solid gold ring I’d had my eye on. Because Kyle had called me “Goddess,” I knew he was leaning submissive, and I was eager to see how I felt being dominant. Up until then, including with my boyfriend at the time, I’d always played the submissive—letting Daddy tell me what’s up, when to get down, and exactly how to give, give, give. Maybe I’ll like being the one in charge, I thought, the one receiving for a change.
For the next several months, I maintained a steady flow of boyfriend, Kyle, and hustling. I’d clean bathrooms at a yoga studio, play my parts in the ship show, and occasionally practice my newfound dominance, sending Kyle texts like, “Your Goddess needs a treat” and “Pedicure. Now.” To which my good boy would reply “🤤,” “🧎,” or, my personal favorite, “🥹,” followed by a few hundred bucks to my Venmo. And because training a submissive is just like training a dog, I would give him positive reinforcement, sending him pictures of my feet after every pedicure he’d treated me to. Eventually, I became Kyle’s safe space to confide. No one in the world knew of his foot fetish but me, and I was also the only person who knew how much he loved to be humiliated like the sissy-bitch-boy he was.
Flash-forward five years: I’m a professional, legal sex worker in a Nevada brothel with tons more domme experience and a much greater understanding of just how special what I was providing Kyle really was. I’ve now learned that subs, especially the ones who want to be humiliated and worship a Goddess, tend to live their day-to-day in hypermasculine roles. They are the bosses, the decision-makers, the ones holding up the weight of everyone around them at work and at home. In submission, they find relief. When I tell my subs how worthless and pathetic they are, they feel at ease. They don’t have to strive to maintain any “strong man” image—they are simply scum with no lower to go and, more importantly, no need to try to get any higher. A true treat.
A few years later, Kyle surprised me with a big change. Out of the blue, my Venmo notification pinged, but this time the memo looked quite different:
“Daddy deserves a nice meal out,” it read.
Huh? “Daddy”?! Did he mean to send this to me???
I immediately texted him. “Hey! You usually call me ‘Goddess’…why the change to ‘Daddy’?” I felt my stomach drop—some sort of icky weird feeling about my new designation.
“Daddy is the ultimate compliment, Goddess! You’re it! My top King/Queen!” he explained, going on to share that while he presented as straight, he dreamed of sucking cock and having me fully domme him as “Daddy.”
Within a few days, I had totally come around to the title, not only adopting my Daddydom but wholeheartedly embracing the role. I was having a full-fledged “Look at me, look at me, I’m the Daddy now” moment.
Sometimes we wouldn’t talk for weeks. But like a boomerang, boys always come back. The next time Kyle returned to me was on none other than (you guessed it) Father’s Day. You truly cannot make this shit up.
“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy 😈,” Kyle texted me. But it gets better: I was on yet another boat when he did—this time a yacht my friend’s parents had rented for her 30th birthday. While we’d never linked up IRL since meeting five years earlier, I knew I was close to where Kyle lived, so I threw out some bait:
“Thank you, baby. Daddy wants to see you today and celebrate!” I responded, totally over the bougie birthday bash and hoping to make some cold hard cash.
To my surprise, my spontaneous offer worked! Kyle asked what time he should pick me up, and as soon as the yacht docked, there he was, thousand-watt smile and all.
We caught up on the latest as he drove us back to my place, laughing about how full-circle the whole boat thing was, and settled on a dollar amount for some worship. Kyle was down for just five minutes of touching my feet and was willing to pay three times our usual rate.
As I freshened up in my bathroom, a nearly four-figure Venmo payment “For Dinner” came in. Lol, that’s an expensive “dinner”! I giggled, feeling my pussy get wet—my money kink in full swing.
“Come into the bedroom,” I ordered, stripping down to just my lace bra and panties while he watched. Even though I was turned on, I wasn’t interested in any intimacy with Kyle. I wanted to experience my full dominance and limit him to touching my feet only, deciding I’d wait and masturbate about the experience after he left. “Kneel down for Daddy,” I instructed.
He obeyed, dropping to his knees at my bedside with the happiest look on his face.
“You can get close, but don’t touch yet,” I commanded as I started swaying my hips, showing off my curves, and tempting him by putting my ass just inches from his face. (I knew from our prior convos that he was not only a foot man but an ass man to boot.) I turned around and bent over my mattress, his audible gasp at the sight of me upgrading my smile from large to supersize.
Slowly, I crawled atop my bedding, watching him drool as I did. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw how powerful I was: his gaze followed every micro-movement I made like there was an invisible string from my ass cheeks to his eyes.
“God, you’re so pathetic. What a good little loser, worshipping Daddy,” I laughed. “Now you may touch Daddy’s feet—and Daddy’s feet only.”
“Thank you, Daddy. May I touch myself too?” he asked like a good sub.
“Yes, and ask Daddy for permission before you cum, my little piggy.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He took out his stiff cock—such a nice one! In some other universe, maybe I’d actually date Kyle, but in this one, I’d stick to domming him.
Taking his time, weighted with years of dreaming (and paying) for this moment, Kyle reached forward and, finally, grabbed ahold of my foot. I swear I could feel his cock throbbing through his grasp, even though I was nowhere near it. I stayed on all fours, showing off my backside and humiliating him with my words, thoroughly enjoying the magnitude of my supremacy as he stroked his cock and squeezed my toes. Being a Goddess above him, looking down on him as he did all the “work,” felt incredibly rewarding—incredibly right. I’m surprised I didn’t blow any fuses with how electrified I felt in that moment—not naked but fully baring my sole(s). And a little less than 60 seconds later…
“Daddy, can I cum? Can I cum, please, Daddy?!”
“YES, GOOD BOY! COME ON DADDY’S ASS,” I screamed, completely drunk with power.
He showered me in the warmest, wettest, most gorgeous eruption of cum, covering my ass and lower back with beautiful splashes. How do I know it was so pretty? Because I immediately commanded him to fetch my Polaroid camera and capture the art we’d cocreated (a photo I subsequently sold on my OnlyFans, making even more bank).
After cleaning me up with a towel, Kyle respectfully excused himself, knowing that Daddy is a busy girl and needed to enjoy the rest of her Father’s Day in peace and quiet. No kisses goodbye—just a long, strong hug and, a few minutes after he left, another couple hundred to my Venmo as a tip. Ahh, finally, a man who can *truly* foot the bill. I ordered some delicious takeout and, while it was on the way, gave myself a delicious orgasm, totally lost in the thrill of my first-ever Father’s Day.
*Name has been changed.
GG Sauvage is a writer and all-around artist on a mission to f*ck shame away and empower people with self-love. She designed The Sexiest Deck Alive: Erotic Oracle Cards to Turn You On & Help You Turn the Corner, co-hosts the Basic Witches podcast, and wrote the audio drama Sex and the Synchronicity. See her work at Refinery29, Vogue Italia, Vulture, CollegeHumor, and WhoHaHa, and check out her website for more!
