Anitta, the divine dominatrix, stands barefoot, her feet soles gleaming under the soft light. Her slave, a quivering mess of anticipation, is made to worship every inch of her feet. He starts with her toes, suckling each one gently, his tongue teasing the delicate skin. Anitta's soles, her most sacred offerings, are next, the slave's lips pressing soft kisses, his tongue tracing the arch. Anitta's feet, her power, are his universe now. His hands, his lips, his very being, are devoted to her pleasure, to her worship. As he progresses, Anitta's moans fill the room, her pleasure a symphony of his devotion.