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. I unlock 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.