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Sweaty Soccer Socks Story
by Vas

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Matt was the star player on his high school soccer time. Everyday he’d come home all muddied from soccer with his socks stained from a long hard game and sweat pouring down his ankles. Usually he’d go over to the lazy boy recliner that he owned in the den and remind himself that it was time to veg out and relax.

“Thump…thump” his cleats sounded as they hit the floor.

“Geez, man, my feet fuckin stink today!” he exclaimed out loud.

Boy was he right. I remember watching his feet resting on the edge of the foot stool from the other room, afraid that he might catch me staring at his rank and smelly feet.

Matt was a big dude, about 6 8’’ and he had these long white Adidas soccer socks he loved to wear to pretty much every practice. A lot of the soccer players noticed that he would go for weeks of playing soccer without changing his socks. But no one would think to ever question Matt about his sock habits. Even when he took off his huge cleats in the locker room, and people felt the compulsion to hold their nose, no one would ever dare to complain about his intensely sweaty foot odor.

Until one day…I was walking into the locker room, and Matt knew who I was. He knew I was the lame towel boy that was supposed to take all the soccer players soiled socks and jocks to the Laundromat. Several times I’d be walking when suddenly **swap** the sound of his long wet soccer collided with the bridge of my nose and lips. As it hit the floor I stared down at the thing for a minute. The once white sock was now discolored a deep orange, stained as usual with his toe prints on the bottom.

His socks were so wet that when he took them off he had a habit of wringing the sweat out of them with his bare hands. You’d actually hear a wet sucking sound as he popped off his cleats. You’d also see these huge wet imprints on the floor of the locker room that told you Matt was there. No one had feet like this guy. He must have worn a size 18 shoe, but his feet were not the super thin and bony type either. He had a gloriously high arch, the balls of his feet naturally prominent, and toes that were long, meaty, and could spread apart widely when he sat down and wiggled his toes after the soccer game. And boy did Matt’s feet stink! It was not a sick smelling odor, I’d say. It smelt rather sweet and vinegary with a long lingering quality

“What the fuck are you staring at, dude?” he exclaimed. “What’s-a-matter, never smelt a real jock’s feet before? Don’t you know man that I like my big stinky feet? I’m not fuckin embarrassed about them either. Don’t you like when my soccer socks are soaked with sweat after a game? Don’t you like it when I’m done with a game and I simply slap some cheesy socks over your face?

“Your feet stink, sir.” I politely exclaimed, rather reservedly. I has a shirt and tie on as I stared at this guy who looked like he was several feet taller than me. (I was only fifteen at the time- this guy was about 27).

“Why the fuck are you all dressed up” he said. “You look like fuckin Jeeves in your little Sherlock Holmes outfit. Think you’re still in class at school? Welcome to the fuckin locker room my friend! Matt makes the rules in this world. You’re going to be sucking soccer socks for homework, and smelling ripe cleats. After baseball you’re going to be sniffing stirrups and sucking them dry. Or if I substitute a pair of skater tube socks for my game socks one day then you’ll really be sorry. They fucking reek man. Reek!

Matt had this loud and aggressive voice, but one that sounded sparkled clear, high and cocky. He had a beautiful voice for a big loud jock, but his cocky voice had a really domineering edge to it. You felt like he owned you. You felt like when he talked he paralyzed you with so much excitement that you couldn’t move.

Minutes later there I was tied under the bench of the locker room, with just Matt. It was twenty minutes past the soccer game and all I could do was stare up at Matt in his dirty uniform. His smooth penetrating dark eyes seemed to pierce my skull. I felt literally helpless, and I knew there wasn’t going to be much in the way of an escape. He was currently resting on the bench, with his cleats propped up on my stomach. I could feel the heavy weight from his feet against my body, and he hadn’t even taken off his cleats yet.

“In case you haven’t forgotten buddy,” he said, I sometimes wear my Adidas Sambas without the socks, so they really stink. You’ll have to sample those another time I’m afraid. I’ve got something far worse in store for you!” he laughed cockily.

“Smelly feet, smelly feet” he whispered repeatedly into my ear, in this sing, songy way. He appeared to be grossly amused at my predicament, taunting me with things like “smell this spare foot pad that’s been laying in my gym bag all week” or “do you like stinky feet, little dude?”

I glanced at his legs that were dangling above me. On either side of my head two huge muscular calves encased in long dirty white striped soccer socks dangled precariously over my head. I felt like I could feel the heat emitted by his feet through his cleats. I could already see visible sweat stains poking through the tops of each cleat. Subtle orange discolorations in the fabric surrounding the heel of the sock just before it entered the cleat. These socks seemed to glisten with sweat, as it appeared the sweat had literally plastered them flat against his legs like adhesive cement.

“If I may ask, I said, what kind of socks are you wearing?” I remarked somewhat frightened.

“You’ll know soon enough little man. All I’ve got to say to you know is that this is going to be the fucking smelliest experience you’ve ever had in your whole entire life. I’m glad you ate nothing today, because otherwise I’d think twice of giving you this special treatment. I think most people would puke their guts out from this stuff, but I’ve made it just enough to be slightly unbearable, I suppose. So maybe, if you’re lucky the eyes inside your head will still be intact after I remove these clodhoppers. I’ve worn these socks to the Liverpool game, then to Westham, then to Bridgeport. These are the socks that have led me to win game after game dude.

That’s why I need you to be my slave. Someone ought to pay homage to my size 18’s. If feet stink, they’re supposed to. Real bad ass jocks with attitude don’t go limping around with clean white socks. They’re supposed to never freakin’ change the fuckin’ things. They’re supposed to wear them with high tops and muscular calves, with their hats turned backwards, nice muscles, and a crewcut. I’ve got the full pack baby. You don’t know how lucky you are to be bound up helpless beneath me now. I belong in a fuckin Adidas commercial.

I looked up at this big muscular god with his clean shaved crewcut, and muscular physique. He was a big, bad, powerful jock if there ever was one. Loud, rude, haughty, and full of sarcasm.

I felt like I was going to completely explode. I was simultaneously scared and elated to be under this huge dude. He began to ask me why I was staring at his socks.

“So. It looks like you’re into feet. Huh?”

“…uh, yeah, uh, I guess so” I murmured.

“Do you like big feet?”

I nodded faintly.

“Do you like Really big feet”

“um, um, I don’t know” I squirmed. I could feel my stomach rolling with excitement.

“What about stinky feet?”

“A little”, I gulped.

“Stop fucking squirmin’ he said, as he mounted his gargantuan cleat against the side of my head.

“What about feet that fuckin’ reek to high heaven and that make your senses totally reel?” he said.

“I…I .. don’t think so, I said. That’s too much for me, sir. Sorry, sir.

“Well Matt’s sick of hearing your bullshit whining. Tonight I am going to bathe and batter your head in with old socks and huu-uge smelly feet. Like sweaty soaked soccer socks? Get ready Dick!” He shouted

At once I felt the heel of each cleat pressed against my chin with the full weight of his body.

“Chin up” he commanded. “I’m going to use your chin as a fuckin’ shoehorn” he exclaimed.

One by one, he pried off his cleats.

Instantly I felt like gagging. All I could see now was that that bottoms of his socked soles were plastered tightly against my shirt, and when he tried to lift them off again they were stuck like some kind of an adhesive.

“Shit dude. My feet stink from way up here” her remarked. “I can’t imagine how bad it must be for you.

Then, with a pronounced effort, he managed to lightly peel his socks off my shirt. When I looked down at my white dress shirt all I saw was two huge orange toe prints covering the whole top of the shirt.

“Peee-uuuu” he sighed in relief.

“Ready to smell them?”

I felt my eyes watering. They seemed to be rolling around in the back of my head. I felt slightly dizzy but also immensely exhilarated.

Gradually the slick damp surface of his socked soles was revealed to me in their full glory. Two massive, deeply stained soles stared at my face. I could feel the wetness of his socks leaking through the fabric of my shirt. Drops of sweat oozed freely from his socks onto my face as he began abrasively rubbing them hard against my face.

“Your nose is going to become a fuckin’ orange grater now” he remarked.

I could feel the dirtiest, smelliest part of his sock- the orange-yellowish stained tip of his soaked Adidas aggressively braise the underside of my nose. Back-and-forth. Back-and-forth. I was starting to feel really woozy from the smell.

“Starting to feel woozy now, Dude?” he laughed.

“Stop. Please I cried. Your feet stink too much for me.”

“This is a good educational experience for you” he said. “Ever hear of an acquired taste?” “You’re going to do this again with the same socks next week.” “By then you’ll have a little more of an ability to enjoy my dogs.” “Its all about getting into them.” “You have to enjoy breathing in and out.” It’s really relaxing for me- not to mention stinky for you.” “ Your face is going to fuckin’ reek and stink like my toes when I’m done with you!!!”

I could feel the massive wet socks soaking through my skin. I felt like I could smell his feet on my face even when he removed them.

“Smell my heels loser” he said. “Now, Smell between each and every toe” he said.

I could feel the abrasive stink of his socks as he used my head to pry them off his feet, amidst wiggling and scrunching his sweat caked toes.

“Time to suck the soccer socks” he cheered.

He shoved the ripe orange toe ends into my mouth and I could feel the squelching sound of sweat as his toes spread against each other, writhing in staccato. I couldn’t take it anymore. His feet tasted like Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.

“They’ll be more dinner for you next time” he said.