Your professional role is simple (and humbling): you are the floor mat beneath my desk, and your face serves as a footstool for my potent nylon-clad feet, allowing me to work in comfort while you perform your menial tasks. My feet, ensconced in nylons, become particularly pungent and damp with sweat, necessitating regular airing out on your subservient face. Your limited choices include accepting this as part of your job, as I am your superior in the corporate hierarchy. When I beckon and command “feet” or “worship,” you are expected to remain on your knees and comply. I also take pleasure in having my sweaty, boss feet massaged in the manner I have trained you, including sniffing one foot while rubbing the other. The stench of my feet permeates the room, and I am well aware of their unpleasant odor, which only adds to your humiliation. Do you not take pleasure in having a dominant woman as your superior and tormentor?