A bad girl

By Le Marquis

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing where I am. Mostly it isn't completely dark because of the moon. But that can't comfort me.

Encased in a shiny ground as hard as linoleum floor covering I can't move much. Only the face is free. The whole body hurts like having muscle soreness. And at my pelvis the about seven foot wide floor is bend. It goes up almost vertical and ends 45° aslope in front of a dimly lit wall lined with coarse gray texture. All walls around are the same, absorbing every sound I make.

When my eyes at last become adjusted to the darkness I can read a label on a rectangular patch above my feet. And that's the moment when the memories of my last years come back...

*

It was 9:30 PM, time to get ready for work. I jumped into the shower, brushed my teeth and nervously watched the clog, relieved not having to shave too. Since my wife sold me to the nightclub nearly two years ago, my face and head stayed completely hairless because of a potion I got there.

Well, it may sound implausible, but outside the club I was a common husband, happily married with Heather for 15 years. And selling me was the best way to end my unemployment – she said.

Half an hour later I hit the street, entered the stuff entrance and unclothed myself as always, butting on an black catsuit made of latex. My frame was good enough to act as a Chippendale, but my duties were much less pleasant; even to me. So I walked into a dark chamber, laid myself on one of eight beds made of wooden laths assembled like a shutter and was fixed by a young associate called Laura.

She put leather straps around my neck, chest, waist, legs and feet. When finished she turned a big crank handle and let me vanish in a hole behind. I became 45° bend, drifted downwards and touched a sheet of thick rubber. Then my neck was bend another 45°. So the face slipped upside down in a mask covered with small holes for the eyes and nostrils and a slit over the mouth.

With the eyes at ground level I now saw the opposite of the wall, being absolutely invisible or rather unrecognisable for the all-female guests. In one hour the first arrived, and that was the begin of my usual shift without break until the club closed at four a clock in the morning. The payment was small, and so at home my wife was wearing the trousers.

Often I watched the entrance hall from this point of view, but only one time like them. It was when she brought me in. I saw the eight rubber faces protruding from the wall, each one in front of a white leather chair. Six men were fixed head first and two with the chin facing the floor.

The last named was my first workplace where I basically cleaned dirty shoe soles. And one time I was forced to shove my tongue in sandals, right under the massive naked toes of a mature member. I suspect it was the senior boss testing the loyalty of freshmen.

My next position brought the tongue atop the toe-caps. Wiping it shiny without chemicals was the best for expensive leather. And I did it very deferent since shoes are the women's sanctuaries. When the job was done, they usually used my upper teeth to scrap off the dirt of the soles. Then I had to swallow it to offer the next guest a clean mouth.

Meanwhile I knew the frequenters very well. Most of them were women of my age, during the day working at offices and in the evening acting like dominatrices. When hitting the floor of the nightclub even charwomen turned into mistresses. And I really can't say which facet was the true one!

The guests always showed up well dressed, wearing expensive suits combined with high heeled pumps, or classy evening gowns and strappy sandals. The hard working business ladies usually came directly from the office. And seeing one, possibly wearing those stinky fawn stockings my mother always bought, I understandably hoped, cleaning their shoes may be all I have to do.

Mostly I got away lucky because of other comrades doing the sniffing-job much better. Some of them were placed under the glass-panels of the dance floor and forced to breathe through small holes, since especially the office-chicks preferred to dance without shoes.

Unfortunately I worked in the town where I grew up. So the toe-caps forced into my mouth sometimes belonged to known girls and women, mostly former classmates. Also my mother and her sister owned a club-card. And that's the main reason why the slaves in the wall had to be unrecognisable and quiet alike inanimate tools.

Not even my wife used me consciously, because nobody was allowed to tell anyone which rubber mask contained whose face. So when she came over, she only could pretend its me. And this wasn't easy for everyone, because Heather is one of those feared business ladies. Her pumps contain two of the cruellest cheesy feet on god's earth.

I cant tell how debasing it was to become abused by the same person who sold me. And the money I got she spend down at the bar during one evening. But my sweetheart was fair enough never to use a shoe-cleaner after stepping on dog-shit. Of course, in this milieu that's not self-evident!

Worshipping elegant women altogether was inoffensive and the sexiest experience of my life. I felt save, because officially youths weren't allowed due to the alcohol and the half naked Chippendales acting as dinner trays. But some girls are riper than others. And some girls have parents like the local mayor and higher. They're mighty, used to get all they want and insufferable arrogant.

Well, those bitches didn't become full members, but they could use all facilities. And one facility contained me, a 35 years old man! It was all but easy to worship a 16 years old pupil acting like a lady. But whoever the bouncer let in was a femme fatale without any restrictions.

The most debasing of all was, that these kids didn't show up with jeans and flats. No, they wore high heels, nylon stockings and shiny red nails. Of course, it wasn't easy to fight shameful dirty thoughts!

*

The next evening, after sucking on the shoes and toes of the same malicious secretary who was responsible for my dismissal, the most arrogant girl I ever met walked strait in my direction, sat down on the Chair and let me clean her dusty black pumps. At last she couldn't see, that she actually had her stepfather in use, the more so as she didn't even know I was here. Heather always told her, I would work for the government on a top-secret project.

The 17 years old grammar school pupil was the worst nightmare for her classmates. And right now she became the hottest hell I ever had to endure. Rebecca looked like a double of her mother – tall, white skinned, freckles around the nose and wearing long copper-blond curls. If I would have been much younger and single, she would have been my dream-girl. But during the last 15 years she became my own daughter!

After a while she stood up and made my predicament thousand times worse, because now she turned and did the only right thing to make me as docile as possible. She slipped out of her right shoe and banished my rubber covered nose in the damp cavern of her naked toes. The sight was like heaven, but the smell was worse than hell. Her odour even overtrumped her mother's most deadly weapon!

I had less time to regenerate myself since she wasn't the only guest. Next came the red boots of her friend and then a sweet strange girl with curly blond hair, wearing golden sandals. Usually I even couldn't see a knee, but this angel stood far enough to show me all her glory. And sucking on her cute toes was by far the day's most pleasant experience!

A lot of the women I only knew from seeing. They were distant neighbours, employees of supermarkets or officials I once had to meet. But sometimes I had to deal with old friends, their grown daughters and even my family doctor Mrs Dr. Maier. But nothing was as humiliating as becoming abused by the 30 years old woman I called sister. Of course, it was a small town!

More and more I longed for the promised change, getting one of the comfortable places inside the bar, right under the tables of separated seating areas. There my face would protrude uncovered from the floor, acting as a warm footstool.

The main reason why I longed for this job was my 42 years old boss. Sometimes in the morning, when the front door was closed, she sat there, smoked a last cigarette and aired out her tired feet.

Well, I'm surely not the guy preferring riper vegetables, but she was the combination of all I associated with strong femininity. In a certain way she embodied the adult giantess of my prepubertal visionarinesses.

I often dreamt about her. And in these dreams she was what I saw on the marble floor of the entrance hall. I saw nothing but heavy feet on high heels, sometimes wearing sandals and showing strong mature toes with red nails bend like drags. And when she walked away, I watched the chewing motion of massive heels framed by horseshoe shaped calluses.

In some of my dreams I was a piece of food for her hungry right foot. Then the hard skin was a row of white teeth, the flat red heel the palate, the long sole the esophagus and the ball of her foot the entrance to an always wet stomach you couldn't escape.

One night I imagined to be installed in a wall of leather instead of stone. I was lying on my back and my head, covered with texture, was sewn into the tip of a suffocating warm lined over-knee boot. So I looked straight rearwards along my body, saw her naked toes rubbing down the vertical sole and opened the mouth to welcome the long second toenail. After the zipper was closed I had to push my tongue under the nail and lick the spicy gab as long as she wore her piercing loud stiletto boots.

33 years of my live, less the timespan up to puberty, I was a secret admirer of female feet. However I lived a normal live.

Now my whole world was reduced to what women simply called their shoes. It changed my whole point of view and my thinking too. And that's why I had nothing better in mind than a promotion to footstool.

Seen from a global perspective it was a debasing job. But it was much better than acting as a human toilet, drinking the guest's pee and swallowing turds or juicy tampons.

Two days after my 36. birthday I became nervous, because now the other job was within reach. I just finished cleaning the boots of judge Landknecht, an awesome tall redhead, as black sandals emerged in front of my face. With the pupils at ground level my focus directly hit the gaps between the shoe sole and her tiptoes, this time covered with white silk.

I expected the long desired promotion, but her words weren't addressed to me. She talked to other woman and I couldn't make out what it was about. The only I could do without limitation was watching. And I saw two black high heeled pumps with thumb-wide windows, inhabited by petite toes wearing fawn stockings. I instantly fell in love!

Suddenly, after about two minutes talking, the stiletto heels turned and walked away, making painful shrill stepping sounds.

Seconds later the laths I was fixed to rolled up to the chamber where all workdays began and ended. Laura gave me and another foot servant an injection, not saying a word. And once we weren't able to move our extremities, she unfastened the straps and waited until we stopped shrinking at a size of exactly three inches. I heard about it but never ever saw a tiny man!

We were placed atop a table, now able to move again. Then the boss entered the room and placed fearing big footwear in front of us. It was the same I saw minutes ago, size 5 ½, shiny black and perversely steep. Well, four inches aren't much, but combined with this shoe size it was nearly borderline!

Nosy inspecting the beloved small peep-toes a familiar strong stench of cheese and sweaty nylon hit my face. And suddenly I knew whose cute toes I dared to ogle lecherously!

Puzzled I asked the blond chief: “How is it possible? I thought, the folks must not know who we are.” And lifting one eyebrow she answered: “Oh, you know her?”

Then she said: “Well, this young guest definitely has no clue who you are. You remember her rubbing her toes on your nose? She did it with all slaves, but only you two endured the odour without shaking the head. And that's why she selected you to become first-class smell suckers for these new pumps she'll need at the office.

Right now the irreversible transformation is already done. You withstand with ease all pressures, shocks and temperatures the insoles of a woman weighting 130 pounds must endure. Your need nothing more but toe-jam and a little oxygen. And the burden to pee and shit is completely put off of your shoulders. So she can use you the next 30 years alike inanimate items and dispose you together with the shoes when worn out. Well, that at least is the usual death of human insole parts!

As you can see, the horizontal area of the foot-bed is slightly angular. So the open tip of the shoe is not much higher than the leather sole around. But under the ball of her foot is enough material to contain a human fitting.

The only visible part will be the face, embossed enough to slip between the toe-flanks. So the nose can sniff directly at the slimy rear face of the toe crevice. To be honest, it will be much harder than your experience down in the hall, because to warrant an efficient smell absorption ten or more hours a day it was pressingly necessary to push up the sensitivity of your mucous membranes.

Now some important rules: You're not allowed to move or speak, because no lady wants to feel or hear that her insoles are alive. The only reason for Rebecca to use you is the fact, that no conventional product prevents disgusting toe illnesses as good as 'sacrificial anodes'. From a certain level upwards sweaty feet need something special. And for her and her mother too it's high time to buy more shoes of this kind. Well, that's all you have to know!”

Sitting there, facing the fetish dream of my early years, I began to tremble. The kid I fed with semolina pudding was almost adult and female enough for men and male sacrifices. But instead of taking two guys of her age she enslaved me, her father. “Will she ever find out? And what will Heather say?”

I remembered her starting an apprenticeship at the courthouse of the tall judge I worshipped twenty minutes ago. A matching duo, because both were stunning redheads. And also matching was her goal. When we played with dolls my action figure was the one she put into jail, and now she was going to become a prosecutor!

Laura turned the first shoe and peeled off it's thin rubber-sole, exposing a brown surface with the rectangular outlines of an opening. And after removing the leather lid there was a slave-dummy made of moose rubber.

When she put it out I saw the underside of the white nappa leather covering the foot-bed and an oval hole leading up the aslope sole. This hole definitely was the housing for our legs.

As she turned the shoe again I could see the completely white inside and a small circle, showing where to cut out the breakthrough for the face. These shoes doubtlessly were made especially for slaves and surely not a single-unit production!

One minute later my body pictured a “L”. And when I looked at my feet, I saw nothing but a white wall and a rectangular patch showing the often seen label “Paris” and the European shoe size 36.

That number prefigured to suffer under a short but relatively wide foot carrying 130 pounds young womanhood. For comparison: To fit in the shoe of my sister (size 7) one must be half an inch taller than me but would have to endure 20 pounds fewer. Live isn't fair!

Now I felt pressure on the back, building a relief of my upper body in the leather sheet above. And I also felt some kind of pillow pushing my head up. So I didn't look straight under the arched roof but was facing the sickle-shaped rim showing the black colour of the outer surface.

Then I was turned upside down, smelled glue and felt blows of the hammer fastening the new rubber sole. Of course, our nice colleague Laura was a skilled cobbler, processing men not the first time.

Ten minutes later the other shoe was finished too. So we landed on a silver platter and were brought out to the waiting guest alike some dish.

Rebecca examined the well done work, saw me and showed not the slightest reaction. Then I tilted sideways, neared the nylon covered sole, saw the wetness under the wide ditch of her toes and at last fife long unpainted nails pointing in my direction. It looked cute and monstrous the same time!

To women it usually didn't matter if it was a known or a foreign face gazing with disgust between her sticky toe clefts. But this kiddy girl thought it was funny waving the toes and making smacking sounds by spreading them.

This way she teased me for a while and showed me my tiny place in the middle of the wide surface of the lifted foot-front, right there on the borderline between her slender toes and the ball of the foot. I could see white calluses at the sides and a yellow spot in the centre; the result of walking on high heels for two years. But my main focus belonged to the small soft looking caldera in the middle – the source of the strongest foot odour I sniffed by then.

Well, I ever thought the hell would be black or red. But there under the fawn layer it was snow white, because my personal devil was a red Celtic witch. And I can't deny that I have had immodest thoughts!

Eventually the nails entered the shoe, scratched along the roof and thumped behind my head on the sole. I still had enough light to watch the descent of the fearful crevice emitting a skin burning stench, until the monstrous ball of her foot touched my upper tights and buried me from the waist to the neck. The yellowish spot in the middle really was as hard as it looked!

Already the pressure of the expanded leather drove my nose deep in the hot chasm where I held my breath as long as possible. But as she slammed me to the floor with an indescribable force, to her nothing but lowering her foot, the suddenly rising air pressure above my face shoot the gas trough the nose. It was obvious that the walking motion would ventilate me automatically. And I couldn't figure how to survive thousands of these suffocating attacks every day.

Perhaps I should be thankful to be part of open toed pumps. How easy it could've been her mother choosing me. I still loved her, but she had nearly the same sweaty feet and was crazy about the steep over-knee boots I gave her one Christmas.

All these calming thoughts were out of my brain as Rebecca began to lower the middle of her second and third toe, shifting my face right and left and then pumping with both together. And this was the very moment when she called my name. I couldn't believe it, but the fine lady really talked to me!

She said: “Yesterday my mother told me about your unworthy life as a shoe cleaning slave. I'm ashamed looking up to you as a scientist while you pervert watched my feet, most likely with dirty thoughts. In fact, I should scrunch you as the worm you are. But that would be much to lenient!

Are you happy that I coincidentally elected you as my right insole? Yes, I think so, because I know all about your secret desires. And licking shoes definitely was not the meaning of your life. Absorbing my foot odour on the other hand is absolutely the best you can do.

Well then, worm, I want to feel a light breeze of air between my toes, but not wafting upwards. Worship your goddess!”

Waiting only a second she lifted the leg, slammed it down and teased me by tapping the foot, until I suicidally did as demanded. Though the two layers of soaked nylon slowed the airflow, she could feel me breathe in and was satisfied.

Tapping again she added: “If you don't behave, I can make your life much worse. To this you should know what you breathe right now. This is how my toes smell three hours after showering. For me it would be an easy task to wash my feet only every third day. Can your worm-brain dig it?”

I nodded and felt her pull me bag to the couch in preparation to get up. Again there was the piercing stepping sound of slim leather heels equipped with tiny horseshoes, but this time much louder and combined with pressure and rough tremors like bending wood. And when she rolled over, my half head vanished between her juicy toes. It felt like being clamped in a bench vice.

The proud redhead left the club, hit the pavements and walked home, showing a female snappy pace with seductively swinging angles. Nobody seeing the two cute tiptoes inside the small holes of her fashionable pumps thought about foot odour, let alone suffering men.

So did her mother until she got a phone call. Then she asked sternly: “Is it possible that one of your fresh insoles rather should be in one of my shoes? Well, I'm the one who married him, and so he's my possession!” And chuckling the girl said: “Maybe. But we have the same shoe size. So what's the problem?”

My smart daughter was right, because at least the family stayed together!

Already three years later the peep-toe pumps became a little too outworn for the office. So Rebecca opened the soles and pulled out her pale worms. The question was now, which shoes will be our next prison. And while discussing it with her mother, we were confronted with two terrible facts.

1. Meanwhile living insole fittings were available in all shoe stores for about fife pound pairwise, what meant, for my daughter I became less important.

2. In preparation Heather bought boots alike the one I gave her for Christmas, now equipped with upgraded insoles and forcing a much more effective smell absorption to the detriment of the men's lifespan.

Now I turned rebellious like never before, what normally wouldn't have been a significant thing. But I, the man in the house, was too amusing to went out ignored.

Smirking they thought about how to solve the little problem until Rebecca came up with a mean idea. Objectifying me she said: “The mother of my old school friend owns a small shoe store. And when it doesn't want to worship you, we should let her but it on the shelve between all the other cheap fittings. That'll open it's tiny eyes – but then its to late.”

My copper blond witches nodded in unison. Then Heather turned her face to me and said: “Any time you must accept what you are. You're one of the best foot care products a woman can get, made for smelly feet and therefore most useful in cuddly lined boots!”

The very next day Rebecca brought us to the store, and behind the counter stood one of the now grown bitches I worshipped at the club. We couldn't understand what the girls talked about, but she agreed sternly and put us in one of several cages filled with naked men. The slaves were between 18 and 40 years old and wore a number on their chests – the shoe size. And while the girl closed the lid, my daughter vanished.

She was right with the opening of my eyes, because to the customers one insole was like the other. There was no further inspecting, no thoughtful handling and not the slightest bit of empathy. And again some I knew from school and of course from the office where I worked several years. Former associates and even relatives like my sister-in-law turned into serious predators!

Mostly the buddies of the biggest cage, wearing a 7 ½ on the chest, vanished pairwise in handbags and shoes. It must have been fifty in only four hours.

Suddenly the blonde financier of my bank came in, wearing a gray suite with wide trousers, matching high heeled pumps and no stockings, showing off veins and sinews albeit she was at most 25 years old. But my experiences told me that at younger ages the feet show the true maturity of a woman and at older ages contrariwise.

Mrs Butler was looking for patent leather pumps, again with fife inch stiletto heels and comfortable insoles containing men. And as the clerk brought some, coincidentally size 5 ½, she sat down and removed sweaty feet with professional pedicured nails. But as sexy they may have been, she couldn't try-on these pumps without two of us. So Rebeccas friend opened the cage, fumbled around and nearly caught me.

I watched my fellows vanish in the steep shoes, getting stomped flat under strong toes and walked on for a minute. Then she abused them to try another pair of pumps, sandals and also fluffy mules for at home.

At last the slim lady bought black pumps together with the already exhaust duo and mules combined with a pair of youths from another cage. And as always, when buying expensive footwear, the men were for free.

That of course was the pedagogic nutrition of it, to be absolutely nothing. At home I would've been at least a husband and father!

The worthlessness of my sex became even more visible when the clog showed 13:00. It didn't take long and three youths with white, red and blue sneakers entered the store. The about 14 years old kids jumped around giggling, not sure, which kind of adult's shoes to try-on first. It turned out that the blonde, physically a cheerleader, was a birthday girl and got money for her first high heels.

As she raised her right foot to try-on black pumps, I saw a relative wide sole encased in a white sock with a dark spot under the toes. And after a long day at school this spot could be nothing else but soaking wetness!

I watched her lower the toes to the place where a tiny face should protrude from the insole and violently shifting the heel left and right, trying to drive the broad ball of the foot forward. Imagining to be the slave inside caused me to shiver with disgust. Even on the shelve I could smell the intoxicating acrid stench!

Quickly the saleslady, once a bitch like them, came over and said: “First I want to see if you're able to buy something, because our shop isn't Disney World!” And as that was cleared she added: “OK, but these shoes are made for human insoles, which you seemingly need sorely. Are these socks of yours always that drenched? Well, I have to know, because over there on the shelve are different articles. Some are made especially for sweaty feet.”

Getting it the girl looked straight in our direction and replied with a nasty grin: “Sweaty isn't the right word! My feet are cheesy, my toe are much more cheesy and between my toes... Well, a suitable description has yet to be invented. I hope you can offer me two matching subjects anyway.”

My daughter's school friend turned and neared smiling the cages. Opening the lid she fumbled around and acted like snatching anyone. But her eyes were fixed on the two newcomers.

My disgust magnified when I watched the almost full grown child from a worm's-eye view, seeing clearly her youthfulness. And a second later I saw the wet darkness in front the unusual wide ball of the foot.

The blonde repeated her brutal shifting, bringing the roller almost upon my body. The wet texture already surrounded my face and stunk like a mix of Limburger cheese and vinegar essence. But the shoe wasn't wide enough. So the clerk said: “Either you try another pair, or you take of these socks.”

Of course, she did and tried a third time to slip in. And as the foot came down I had to believe to vanish under very cheesy toes, because under the wool she wore black nylon stockings. Maybe she also wore these two hellish layers during her practice.

Now the smooth steam roller could do his job, carrying about 100 pounds prospective womanhood to the entrance and back. First she was a little unstable but learnt quickly to stomp me flat like a full grown woman. It wasn't as painful as expected. But maybe it only seemed so because of the unbearable stench between her hot toes.

After sitting down the girl kept me in suspense and asked: “Is this stuff strong enough for a whole day in solid leather sneakers? I mean, like all cheerleaders I wear shiny nylon stockings combined with socks. That's part of our uniform.” And the clerk said: “Absolutely no limitation! If you want, you can wear these items in rubber boots or latex-stockings.”

With that I got the fresh air I needed and was carried to the counter. I looked ahead a future under the drenched woolen socks of a bitchy schoolgirl and feared the sour smell forming in sneakers. And when I was behind the counter, I felt a hit on the back of my head. Then all turned black.

*

When I came true, all was dark except of the heel area high above. It was dimly lit as if being inside of a shoe cabinet. But I heard heavy feet step all around me.

Then there was a shushing noise. I saw toes encased in wool enter the heel section and coming down the almost vertical sole. And as I tried to move, I couldn't, because there was a sheet above me, revealing only my face. Somehow it felt familiar.

Quickly the socked toes came over me, settled and banished my nose in the moist cleavage. I heard and felt the jolt of the heel slipping in, and to my surprise the next sound war the rattling of a zipper walking around the voluptuous female calf and further up, definitely reaching the knee and not stopping there.

At last I accepted my fate and took a deep breath, expecting the deadly sour mist of the girl. But it smelled much more feminine and burned my brain with nothing but intense cheese. Instantly my dick became stiff!

Finally the foot lifted, accelerated like a plane and stomped down about twelve yards ahead with more than 100 pounds. Then came the next step and another, faster and faster, leading down some stairs, hitting the hard pavements and turning into a common ladylike pace. Meanwhile the smell climbed up to a suffocating level and showed no intentions to stop anywhere. The cheese became stronger and stronger, dominating all my senses.

At last I received the suspicious sound of a hall, and some steps later I felt like placed in the feeding dish of a dog. Then it hit me. My owner forced her foot into the mouth of a human shoe cleaner!

Later I thundered over the dance floor, where the massive toes emitted more sweat and stink. And there was only one way to attenuate it a little – my nose!

After hours, to me an eternity, the foot slipped out and thundered away. I literately could see the damp rising from me and the wide surface I was sealed in. Not hearing a single word I relaxed until the foot came back. The earthquakes, the heat and the acrid toe cheese returned, but this day I listened to the sounds of an office.

Eight hours later, when the foot had vanished, there again was silence for about 11 hours. Then the heavy monstrosity returned, encasing my face with nylon mashes of unknown colour.

The giantess told me nothing, as if it should be a punishment. But there were other people calling her name. Now I knew for sure where I was imprisoned. Women simply call it boots.

The futile rebellion was my biggest mistake, because now my wife treats me really like a cheap article from the discounter. I guess, she don't even think about me. And my experience in the shoe store was nothing but a put-up affair to teach me a lesson. I think, after leaving the store Rebecca asked the three girls to play along. Especially the blonde enjoyed her role!

Well, here the circle closes. Sometimes I need a minute or two to become aware that the coarse gray texture surrounding me is the lining of Heather's right over-knee boot. She'll wear me until I'm exhausted and ready for the waste bin!

From time to time the odour of the merciless stomping foot becomes a “little” stronger. And then I know, that my beloved daughter wears me – a really bad girl.

THE END