Professor At Their Feet
by Pjssdc

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Three hours later, I was in my classroom, teaching elementary rules of good writing.

The class was dragging for me, because I anticipated with hope and anxiety a meeting with my Master right afterwards, since he had asked for the class location. Then the door suddenly swung open. Without a word, He strode to the front of the room, sat in a chair beside my desk and hoisted his feet onto it. I turned from the blackboard and tried to be cool.

He interrupted me mid-sentence. "Take off my shoes."

I hesitated for a second, and He spoke harshly. "NOW!" I leaned over and as unemphatically as I could, slipped his loafers off and placed them on the floor. A silence filled the classroom and I started to talk again.

He spoke again, very clearly. "My feet are a little sore, slave. Better rub 'em." He smiled sarcastically. Again I paused. He leapt from his chair and grabbed me by my tie. "Did you hear me? Get down on your knees and rub my feet now or you'll never do it again." He let go, sat down, and again crossed his feet on the desk.

Knowing I had no choice, feeling my face redden with humiliation, I knelt and obeyed. I massaged his feet with as much detachment as I could muster.

Silence descended. I kept my head bowed to my task, enjoying despite myself the pungent smell of his socks, but heard shuffling and my Master spoke up. "I think all the girls should leave." An exodus ensued. "You guys," he said, "have a choice. Leave or come to the front row." Movement, and a few bodies settled in front. As I paused and looked up, my Owner talked to the guys who stayed.

"You stayed because something about this interests you. Well, good for you. Because I can now guarantee each of you an A in this class if you just do as I say."

I knelt in awkward silence, noticing who was there, but not looking any of them in the eye.

"Your teach here is going to do for you what he just did for me."

"Is he going to rub our feet?" one of the more innocent boys asked.

"You bet. He will even kiss your feet if you tell him to."

"I want him on his knees in front of me," declared the one cocky kid whose good looks and attitude had always provoked me.

"Do it," my Master ordered. But as I started to crawl toward Thomas, He grabbed my sleeve. "The way you do me, slave. Not dressed. Get those clothes off now."

I could not believe it, but I actually started to feel my cock stir at this evidence of my total subjugation. I stood up, kicked off my shoes, and stripped to my underwear and socks. I knelt in front of Thomas.

"Take off his shoes," Master ordered. I bent down and slid off his deck shoes. And, without being commanded to, I lowered my face to the floor and kissed his insteps. Thomas instinctively pulled his foot back, and I found myself looking up at him with a begging expression, aching to sniff those damp brown socks. He smirked a little, then let out a relaxed sigh, put his hands behind his head, and stretched his foot toward my face.

"Rub it, Bill," he said.

I could see the places where his foot-sweat had made the sole of his socks shiny. There was a small hole that exposed a little of the nail of his big toe. There were expanses at the ball and heel where the pinkness of his foot showed through threadbare fabric. They looked, and smelled, as if they had been on his feet for days. The reek of them, as I held them in my hands, made my cock stir, and when I thought about how further degraded I was by this, not only forced to strip and kneel before my students and massage and kiss their feet, but getting a hard-on as a result, a real boner sprang on me. I crouched, my standard ploy, in an effort to hide it, which just brought my face closer to the smelly socks that I was now rubbing eagerly. I felt the socked foot of my Master press against the back of my head.

"We know you want to smell it, slave," he said as he turned my face, pushing my nose against Thomas's foot. The worn fabric felt like a web against my lips, and my nose found its way right into the pit of the sock - that spot between the big and second toe and the ball of the foot. It was wet and stunk of that boyish, hormone-rich sweat that young men exude. I inhaled greedily, and felt a tug on my hair.

"Enjoying it, huh?" He asked.

A pause.

"Stand up."

I lifted Thomas's feet from my shoulders and stood. I tried to cup my crotch, which was now directly in front of Thomas's face, with my hands, but my Master slapped them away. He pulled them behind my back and made it clear that they were to stay there. My dick strained against my boxers, popping a gap in the fly. My awareness of my degradation, of course, only made it harder.

Then he reached in front of me, slipped his thumbs under the waistband of my drawers, and stretched them forward, deliberately brushing the fabric across the flaming, ultrasensitive tip of my hard-on. I shuddered with mixed physical ecstasy and conscious degradation. He lowered them to my knees.

So there I stood, completely exposed, psychically and physically, in utter humiliation. Could I go any lower? The answer was yes, literally and figuratively.

"On your knees again, for Chrissake!"

As I obeyed, my boxers slid to my ankles. The cold linoleum tiles burned my knees.

"Now move down the line."

Hobbled by my underpants, I sidled on my knees over to Andrew, who presented his Nikes with a chortle.

I didn't wait for the order, but bent to my task, undoing the white laces, loosening them, tugging off the shoes, massaging the sweat-socked feet, kissing and sniffing the soles, removing the socks and licking the linty feet.

Then came Mark's black penny loafers and blue cotton socks, and Alden's suede brogues. My master shoved my face forward onto those, saying, "No hands," so I gripped the laces in my teeth and proceeded as I had with my Master that evening at my apartment.

"Now he is going to be a good slave and put your shoes and socks back on, boys," my Master said. Nearly weeping with humiliation, I picked up Alden's wrinkled socks and stretched them out and scrunched them to the toe. As I handled them I could see the dust come off them in the sunlight and their smell again wafted up my nose. I smoothed them over his feet. I loosened the laces of his shoes, opened them widely to receive his feet, then laced them up tightly.
"Are they comfortable?" Master asked.

Alden hesitated. "Do it over, slave," Master ordered. I did. As I proceeded along the line, each student made me repeat the humiliating task of dressing his feet more than once. They were laughing openly now. While I was laboriously trying to become an acceptable slave, I heard Master talking to them, asking for things like paper, marker, tape. I didn't pay attention.

Class time had elapsed, and people started gathering in the hall. "Put my shoes on," Master ordered. I did so, and noticed as I looked up that the teacher who came into the room after me - my chief rival in the department, in fact - had just taken in what was going on. He gaped briefly, then smiled scornfully, pointed, and laughed.

Master told me to stand up. He stepped on my boxers, holding them to the floor, then told me pick up my clothes and leave the room. I realized I would have to step out of my underpants and leave the room naked. Quick as I could, I gathered up my clothes, trying to hide my shame, but could not cover my naked ass as I scampered past the gathering crowd. Someone slapped my ass, then another, then another, harder. I dove toward the men's room door, and into a cubicle. As I started to close the door, Master pushed it open and said, "All right, get dressed, but no shoes or socks." It was awkward getting dressed in the confined space, but I managed. Master took my tie, and draped it loosely around my neck, flipping it into a loose knot.

"Give me your socks."

He tucked the socks into the tie, and stuffed the toe of one into my mouth.
"Pick up your shoes, and hold one in each hand."

I obeyed, really puzzled now about what was to come.

Master reached down and undid my belt, waist button and zipper, so my pants slipped down around my hips, and my boxers became plainly visible, and even parts of my cock and pubic hair showed through the boxers' fly.

"Follow me."

Awkwardly, holding my shoes and trying hard to keep my pants from slipping down more, I followed Master out onto the building steps. There, while the between-classes crowds surged in and out of the entrance, he told me to kneel sideways, facing him. He had made a sign that read "Foot Slave" and he taped it to my shoulder. Then he leaned against the building and greeted people.
I knelt there barefoot.