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!”