He Didn't Know I Was Trans – A Foot Worship Session That Left Me Thinking

A client visited last night. I'm 99% sure he didn't know I was trans.

He probably found my ad in the dom and fetish directory—the one about pee play. But instead of messaging the number on that ad, he wrote to the one I use for the trans section. So I assumed he knew. I didn't double-check.

He hired a foot domination session and mentioned he also wanted to rim me. I quoted the price for foot worship and told him that if I liked him, I might sit on his face. It was a real maybe, but then...

He arrived. He saw me. He handed me the money.

I told him to get comfortable and stepped away to store the cash somewhere safe. When I returned, I let him kiss my legs. He worked his way up to my underwear and pressed his lips there, reverent. Something about the moment made me unsure whether he really knew what body was beneath the fabric. A flicker of doubt.

So I gently pulled him away.

The Session

He was into verbal domination. A natural submissive—service-coded, eager, easy to guide. I made him kiss my feet. I laid him on his back, fastened a collar around his neck, and spanked his ass. Then I positioned myself in the opposite direction so my feet rested at his face while I played with him from the other end.

He did a lot of poppers while we moved through this. Thrilled. Surrendered. Exactly where he wanted to be.

We played like that for a while. I teased his ass. He worshipped my feet. The rhythm was good.

At some point, he got tired of my hands on his bum and asked, directly this time: "No eating pussy?"

I said no.

He said okay. Thanked me. Said he'd leave.

We were thirty minutes into an hour he'd already paid for. But he was dizzy from the poppers, so he stayed longer. He offered more money to eat pussy. I said not tonight.

And then, because he was kind and gentle and I had no reason to be cold, I was nice to him. I caressed him. We talked. He was a gentleman. He left happy.

As he was leaving, he asked if one day he could lick my pussy.

I said maybe.

The Strange In-Between

Here's the thing: he was inches from my dick. He even kissed it through my underwear. It wasn't hard—but it's still bigger than any clitoris I've ever seen. Though, to be fair, I haven't seen every clitoris. Maybe there are big ones. Maybe some compare to a soft trans dick.

I don't know. What I do know is that he didn't register it. Or if he did, he didn't care enough to break the spell.

And I sat with that tension for the whole session—the low-grade awareness that I was hiding something, or not hiding it so much as not correcting an assumption. Is that unethical? Should I have stopped, disclosed, offered to return the money?

He paid for domination and foot worship. He got domination and foot worship. He got feminine energy, which is what he was seeking. He left grateful. He even asked if I would write about this. (Here you go, darling. Surprise.)

But I would have enjoyed the session so much more if he'd known. I wouldn't have been on edge, wondering when the penny would drop. I could have relaxed into the power, the surrender, the heat of it—without the quiet hum of what if he notices now?

What I Actually Enjoyed

Despite that edge, I did enjoy it. Immensely.

There's something uniquely arousing about a man completely surrendered at your feet. The physical sensation—his mouth on my toes, the warm wetness of his tongue—was genuinely pleasurable. My feet are sensitive in a way that surprised me the first time, and now I know to expect it.

AI recreation of a beautiful scene I witnessed yesterday

But the deeper arousal was emotional. The power. Having him there, collared, moaning into the arch of my foot. The soft humiliation of it. His obvious, desperate enjoyment. Feeling desired. Feeling in control.

I stepped on his balls. Lightly. He moaned. I pressed my foot into his face and he leaned into it like I was doing him a favor. That kind of submission—freely given, enthusiastically received—is intoxicating.

And when I briefly lowered my ass toward his face, the sound he made? Pure, unguarded hunger. I didn't let him touch. I didn't need to. The moment itself was the gift.

On Mastery (A Reflection)

While I was playing with him—while he lay there following my commands without hesitation—I had a familiar thought. One that's been surfacing a lot lately.

I've become very good at this.

It's the same feeling I had a few weeks ago during a prostate massage. I first learned the technique in 2023, but it took until now—nearly three years of practice—to feel genuinely confident. To know, in my hands, that I've mastered it.

Same thing happened with psychology. When I finished university, I felt like a fraud. I thought I was terrible. Turns out I wasn't. I just lacked experience. It wasn't until years later—2023, actually—that I realized: Oh, fuck. I'm really, really good at this. My listening, my processing, my assessments. All of it.

And now, domination.

I've been exploring BDSM for years. I started offering it professionally around 2023—tentatively, experimentally. But lately something has shifted. I've been getting more requests: sensual domination massages, hypnosis-infused age play, trance states woven into lingam sessions. And each time, I feel more instinctive. More present. More capable of creating exactly the experience the client needs without overthinking.

Yesterday night confirmed it. The session flowed. The client left happy. I felt powerful, competent, alive.

There's something beautiful about recognizing your own mastery. Not arrogance—just the quiet confidence of having done the work long enough to trust your hands, your voice, your instincts.

The Next Chapter

He said he'd write again. Possibly tomorrow. He wants to know if one day he can lick my pussy.

When he does, I'll tell him. Gently. I don't have one. But you enjoyed yourself anyway, didn't you?

I wonder how he'll react. He really liked my energy. He said so. If only he'd known from the start, I could have enjoyed it even more.

Maybe next time.