In a dimly lit chamber, Rapture, the self-proclaimed goddess, sits enthroned, her feet elevated on a velvet cushion. Her followers, a mix of eager men and women, approach, drawn to her like moths to a flame. They nuzzle her feet, their tongues tracing the lines of her arches, sucking her toes one by one, each action a prayer of devotion. Rapture, her eyes gleaming with power and pleasure, watches, her body trembling with the electric touch of her adoring flock.