by Foot L Slave
I know what he’s doing, sitting on the couch watching TV, checking the clock every 30 seconds.
He knows I get off work at 5, and it’s 5:20. Iunlock the door and he immediately jumps, shutting off the TV and stripping down to nothing. Bare-assed, he gets on the floor on his knees and assumes the position. I know he’s been waiting for this moment all day, since I’d left this morning and he gave my boots a longing goodbye.
The door opens and he looks up from the ground to see his Master’s perfectly chiseled features, an obvious heartbreaker and womanizer of a person. I just stand there expectantly, a smirk crawling onto my perfect face. He crawls over, his ass wagging (just like I like), and immediately begins kissing my boots, slightly muddied from the day’s work and wafting a subtle aroma of the contents inside. Silently, I tilt the boot up, insinuating that I’d like him to lick out the treads. He hesitates and looks up, knowing where the boots have been, and is well-reluctant to get started on them.
Knowing this, I use my other boot to push his face into the ground, where I force the treads onto his lips. “Open,” I command, in a calm, yet commanding voice, and he concedes, producing his tongue for his Master. Satisfied in the humiliation (I didn’t really want the treads cleaned out), I grab the chain and collar kept by the door, gently clasp it around his neck, pat him on the head, and lead him to the couch.
As I sit down, obviously tired, I remove my shirt and throw it at the boy’s face. The armpit of the plain white tee (now yellowed with sweat) falls directly onto his nose. “Alright, pup,” I say. “You know the drill here. I’ve got a couple extra surprises for you this time though. Get started and you’ll find out.” As I finish freaking him out with those “surprises,” I throw the shirt off his face, and use his head as a shoehorn to pry off my tight boots.
Ignoring his moans of pain from the process, I struggle with them for a minute or so, but finally gets them off, sending a thick, damp cloud of stink into the air. I know my foot stink has always intrigued him; it’s undoubtedly a rank smell, one that I know no one would ever want to go near. But he’s always somehow found it intoxicating. The thick, popcorny-smell of my feet mixed with the damp leather of my shoes somehow mixed to make some sort of perfect faggot cocktail, a stink so foul and humiliating that only he would find pleasure in it. Immediately recoiling (as he always does when Master’s shoes come off), he proceeds to lay back down on the floor while I laugh at his reaction. “You always look horrified, kid. But we both know that even if you didn’t like my foot funk, you’d be sniffing them straight for hours.” I knew I was right; I completely owned him. Any abuse I wanted to provide him with, he’d take, no questions asked. He, then, noticed my first surprise out of the corner of his eye. I’d gone and grabbed a roll of duct tape while he wasn’t paying attention, and sat back down on the couch. “So, like I said, boy. There will be some nuances today,” I said with that same smirk. “I’ve had a particularly rough day at work. My feet are swimming in pools of their own sweat and will need some extra care. So don’t question anything new, you understand, fag?” Concerned, he simply nods, knowing that any protest will be met with a swift kick in the face. “Alright, boy. Try these shoes on for me,” I say, my grin widening. I proceed to rip a long piece of tape and tie some of it behind the back of his head. Still grinning at the obvious look of fear on his face, I grab my boot and turn it upside down, allowing a few drips of sweat to fall onto his face. Understanding what’s about to happen, he begins to try to escape. “No, no, no, boy. You can’t go anywhere.
It’s important to Master today that you take in even more of my foot stink. More stink, more worship, got it?” I say pointedly. “Good boy, now sit still,” I say and proceed to cover his nose with the rancid boot, taping over the sole so that he can’t escape breathing it in. The air is thick and warm, and notably smellier than usual. He coughs a couple of times, unable to swallow it along with the drips of sweat that fall into his mouth. I just laugh and put my socked feet up on the shoe, using him as a shoe sniffer and footrest. I’ve always been a multitasker.
It’s been almost a half hour now that my boot’s been tied to the boy’s face. I’ve been relaxing, sipping a beer and watching the game, and I know the boy’s suffering. He coughs every once in a while and I can sometimes hear the faint sound of gagging, likely due to the heavy, thick air trapped between the shoe and his nose. I know a significant amount of sweat has dripped into his mouth from the insole. “Good,” I think, “he needs to get accustomed to that.” Finally, after a significantly long coughing fit, I relent. “Alright, kid,” I say commandingly, “times up.” I rip the tape off the shoe and he takes a huge gulp of air, panting heavily at its freshness. “That’s right, boy,” I say, a malicious smile creeping on my face, “you’ll definitely wanna take in as much of that while you still can.”
A look of terror crept up on his face, knowing what I was about to do next. My socked feet, now yellowed and stained from the sweat I’ve poured into them for about 4 days, found their way to the boy’s face, muffling out his protests with their damp stink. I sit there knowing that the boy is suffering. I’ve done everything in these socks for the past couple of days. Haven’t showered, haven’t cleaned them, kept them in my stinking boots to make sure nothing removed the smell. Need the boy to take it all in. Positioning my socked toes over his now-scared eyes, I make sure his senses are completely engulfed in my feet. The wet socks stick to his face as I rub them around, trying to smear the smell into his skin. Want it to stick to him, to be his cologne. I want the boy to walk around with my foot stink on his face knowing that people will know who he belongs to because of the mark I’ve left. I let up for 5 seconds, letting him grasp for some air a bit while still looking at my massive yellowed-socks. Finally, I drop down again, clamping his nose with my two biggest toes, holding him there for as long as he can take. His face turns bright red, and as soon as he looks like he’s gonna pass out, I unclamp and spread my toes around his nose, making him take in alllllllll that stink. All that hard day’s work culminating between my toes in lint, toejam and sweat is now being inhaled by my boy. He coughs and gags at the stink, his face dripping with my sweat and I laugh. “I know, I know, boy,” I say between chuckles, “they’ve never smelled like that, huh? Can smell them from here, and sure am glad I’m not in your position.” Finally, after a couple more rounds of my clamping game, I decide to really let him have it. “Okay boy, get ready!” I say, reaching down and peeling my socks off. It takes a couple of minutes to get them fully off- the sweat and dampness lend themselves to some cling, and even after they come off, the amount of lint stuck to my feet is insurmountable. “Okay boy, open wide!”
I sit there on the couch, hovering my feet inches above his face, gazing down at the boy’s open mouth. His eyes offer a paradox; terrified, and yet so eager. I slowly bring down my feet to his waiting face, the soles quite literally dripping with sweat. The stink is unimaginable from my position; unbearable from his. I gently place both feet over his face, my large size 13’s now engulfing his field of vision. His senses are quickly overtaken by my feet. The smell, the sight, the taste, all pouring into his eager puppy face, taking my feet like there’s nothing more for him. “Alright boy, you’re going to give these bad boys a sniff cleaning,” I say, wiggling my toes over his frightened eyes. “Mouth stays closed. Big, deep inhales all around.” This is the ultimate torture. I know that my feet will taste horrific, but the stink is a tease, a rank taste of what’s to come. I rub my soles all over his face, smearing it with sweat and dirt from the backyard (I made sure to get them nice and dirty yesterday morning). He just lays there moaning, half from pleasure, half from pain, inhaling the stink from my heels and slowly reaching up toward my soles as I press them into his face. As I lift my feet up, they cling to his skin, the sweat plastering them on, temporarily fusing my perfect feet to his pathetic face: the most perfect from of gay marriage.
Finally, I let him have it. “You’ve been doing pretty well down there, huh?” I ask, eager to see his response. He moans, knowing to keep his mouth shut from my previous orders. “Well, since you seem to voice no complaints, I guess we should just move on to the appetizer before your meal,” I say, a big vicious smile creeping on my already excited face. I position my toes right over his nose, forming a little air pocket tightly sealed around it. “Any air that’s getting to you now, boy, will be filtered through your master’s toes,” I say. “Now, I’m not sure you can see it through my feet, but there is a whole lot of toejam and lint between them, so be sure to take bigger breaths here than before. I want your lungs filling up with your master’s special slave oxygen.” With my orders commanded, boy begins to breathe heavy and slow, blowing his warm breath through my toes, creating a little fag air conditioner for his master. “Good boy,” I say, as I notice him start to gag. “Yes. I know, it’s bad, isn’t it? You know how long it’s been since they’ve been washed, boy.” He simply nods, keeping my toe-seal in place over his nose.
“But don’t worry…” I say slowly, “you’re about to get a chance to clean them up yourself. No more stink once it’s down your throat!”
TO BE CONTINUED…
