/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.17526054]

Is there no good literature on the beauty of a woman’s feet? If not I’m going write it. And I’ll dedicate it to you, /lit/

[Anonymous No.17526070]

>>17526054
Gradiva by Jensen

[« Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ » !!oI3er5KKetj No.17526077]

>>17526054
They’re just feet. It’s just a fetish you’ve developed. Look in the psychology section

[Anonymous No.17526081]

>>17526054
source?

[Anonymous No.17526090]

>>17526054
Pushkin's Eugen Oneguin focused so much on the feet of its female characters that it became a running joke in Russia.

[Anonymous No.17526109]

>>17526077
Why can you not appreciate art when they’re spread in your face butters

[Anonymous No.17526116]

>>17526090
Of course that fucker Pushkin beat me to it

[Anonymous No.17526196]

>>17526054
Me desu
In years past,
when I'd admire the marching ranks of soldiers from the sidelines,
I thought of nothing more but to plow one of those sweet yellow teacups with their boyish pork-pie hats,
to lay down in front of their lines and feel the incessant thousand strikes of muddy bootheels upon my naked and bleeding chest:
Punish me, Great Mother.
My unabating lust for the blows of your heel is my greatest crime.
Slag away!
And, lying there, reduced to a lowly rag of red paint,
I would grab one of those heavenly doves by her malnourished belly,
foist her to the ground and initiate the species of sexual congress that briefly ends the universe:
and you would watch, Father, from your high podium,
you and your likeness below, two great eyes beaming for the joy of one of his sons.
But as I lay dying of pleasure,
a great reservoir into which your fine dames had poured the pure beauty of their cruelty, I found hope on your aspect.
I saw those kind and mobile eyes, a feast for my imagination;
I saw the way you salaciously swung your hips when you appeared atop the parapet after a flourish of trumpets;
to you did all turn their ecstatic gaze, to you, Father of the Nation.
You saved me from the excesses of my concrete stomped passivity:
me, writhing into death by lust of being a bootprint, did you raise up.
To you I sacrifice my body, to you I offer my soul to heal,
trampled underfoot by its own insatiability.
Let us fly to Mount Paektu, Father,
in winter, in spring; in summer, in fall.
Passion knows no season!
I will press my face against the warm, throbbing anchor of your underlip
while unbuttoning the rigid shell of the Fatherly Garments,
until I have coaxed from you the life-restoring kiss.
I lay prostrate before your almighty feet,
your toes spread like eagle talons,
and turn around, ready for the opening of the blessing.
How wrong-headed, my earlier desires, Father!
You have shown me the way.
I love you, Leader and Father of the Nation,
and my heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will
Yes.

[Anonymous No.17526272]

>>17526054