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I just got home after a long day, my feet are tired and sweaty and sweaty and I almost forgot you existed. But you're still here. Exactly where I left you. Desperate to be useful. You're not a person to me. You're not even furniture. You're a towel. A sweat-rag. A living, breathing, absorbent surface that exists for one reason, to clean my feet. I'm going to wipe my sweaty soles all over your face. I'm going to grind the filth between my toes into your skin. I'm going to make you taste the salt, the stench, the concentrated essence of my hard work. You'll be branded by my sweat. Seasoned by my filth. Completely and utterly reduced to your function. And you'll thank me for it.