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The bottom of his left sneaker loomed menacingly over my head. “Lick
His sexy voice was so melodically hypnotic that I didn’t need
to be told twice. As I began to open my mouth, I raised my head
slightly off the cold tile floor so that my tongue would have no
trouble reaching the sole of his royal sneaker. There was no need
for that, though. Prince Harry lowered his foot, gently forcing
my forehead back to the hard locker room floor. With one foot on
my stomach—supplying enough force to keep me from getting
up—and the other resting on my chin, I started licking the
dirt from the sole of the one of the blue and gray Adidas sneakers
I lusted after.
The bottoms of his shoes were surprisingly clean: They were just
a little dusty from walking around the locker room and playing ball
in the gym. He laughed quietly to himself as I rocked my head up
and down, licking the full length of his sneakers. I loved the feeling
of my tongue exploring Harry’s Adidases, gliding in and out
every crevice of the design on the bottoms of his shoes. I was getting
excited, and it was starting to show. Harry must have noticed, because
he lifted his foot off my stomach and used it to lightly massage
the growing bulge in my crotch through my gym shorts. “That’s
right, fag,” he mocked. “Lick my nasty trainers! How’s
I wanted to say, “It tastes incredible, your Highness,”
but in the position I was in, I couldn’t really say anything.
His foot was pressed against my face in such a way that anything
I said would have been muffled. In reality, the taste wasn’t
anything that great: a couple months worth of dust, sports grunge,
and—underneath—a plasticky taste. What turned me on,
what made me think that the taste was incredible, was the sheer
thought of being made slave to one of the handsomest and most powerful
men on earth: Prince Harry of Britain. After he felt his soles had
had a good enough tongue washing, he told me to open wide, tilted
his foot at a downward angle, and stuck the toes of his sneakers
into my mouth, filling it with a good three inches of hot Adidas.
“Suck it, fag,” he ordered me. Again, I wasted no time
in doing what I was told.
“Wow…you’re really enjoying this,” he said,
with a bit of feigned disbelief in his voice. It was clear by his
wickedly handsome smile that he, too, was enjoying it, but—since
I was the one down the ground with my mouth wrapped around his raunchy
feet—it was kind of easy for him to look down on me. “You
are one sick fuck!” he laughed, and he tried to force his
toes down my throat even more. By this point, the Prince was now
standing over me, watching me suck and lick the lowest part of his
body. And his foot was angled over my head in just the right way
for me to catch a good whiff of what was to come. The light odor
of foot sweat entered my nostrils; instantly my semi-hard cock sprang
to full wood.
He finally took his foot out of my now-tired mouth, and stood over
me, one foot planted on either side of my torso. “Must be
pretty degrading down there, huh?” he taunted.
“Licking my nasty feet?” I couldn’t answer. As
he ridiculed me, I could do nothing but watch his beautifully expressive
eyes; they sparkled with a magic blue-green fire that sent my senses
wild. Standing above me, he looked like a Greek god, an Adonis,
in the dim locker room light. My cock was harder than it ever had
been, and it begged for me to touch it. I couldn’t, though.
Not yet. “I can’t even imagine being forced to worship
anybody’s feet, let alone feet that get as sweaty as mine
do after sports. I mean they reek!” He laughed.
As he spoke about his own sweaty feet, a boyish smirk overcame his
face. His unabashed cockiness was really turning me on! I loved
to hear guys talk about their feet; it was a surefire way for me
to pop an erection. I had fantasized about it a million times, but
now I was really at the mercy at a pair of huge Adidas athletic
shoes and the hot feet that were inside. “Go ahead,”
he prodded. “See for yourself: Untie my shoes.” It was
at that moment I wondered what I had really gotten myself into.
I lifted my arms, but before I could pull the loose lace to untie
the first Adidas sneaker, he pulled his foot away and—with
a raised eyebrow and seductive grin—said, “With your
teeth.” I inched forward a little to put myself in a better
position. He tilted his foot down for me (just as he had done when
he stuck the toe in my mouth), and the ends of four gray shoelaces
dangled above my parting teeth. In two quick motions, I’d
managed to bite the ends and pull out the neatly tied bows of both
shoes. My heart was racing now as I anticipated what was next. The
Prince’s smile was absolutely gleaming now. He was really
enjoying this…maybe even more than I was.
Sitting down on the bench, he crossed his right leg over the other,
and tugged on his beautiful blue and gray sneaker. “My feet
are so fucking gross right now. I can feel the jam squishing between
my toes!” With a whooshing noise, the large athletic shoe
slid off his sock-clad foot, and I could immediately smell the sweat
that had been building up inside. He looked down at me, shoe in
hand, and said, “Let’s see if they smell,” and
with that, he buried his nose deep in his own sneaker and took a
long, deep sniff.
This was too much for me. The sight of Prince Harry sniffing his
own foot funk was amazing; even though he had sweat running down
his face and his bright copper hair was slightly tousled, he looked
like some kind of sneaker-sniffing angel. He pretended to cough,
pulling the sneaker away from his face saying, “Wow…
You’re in for a treat!” And with that, my face was pressed
against the floor again—not with the hard rubber/plastic sole
of his shoe, but with the sweaty, rank sole of a sweaty basketball
“How’s it smell down there, James?” he asked.
That cocky-ass smile graced his kissable pink lips again. My face
was wet with his disgusting foot sweat. When he said he had sweaty
feet, he meant it. His socks were so saturated that it felt like
he was rubbing a sponge on my face. But that wasn’t the worst
of it; the worst was the smell. “Are my feet smelly, James?”
He smiled cockily, as though he was proud of the powerful stench
that emanated from the soles of his royal socked feet. I didn’t
say anything at first, my mind racing between utter disgust and
His socks smelled like a combination between crotch sweat and buttered
popcorn; the smell was super-strong and it was really turning me
on. My throbbing cock was pulsating, now. “I asked you a question,
fag! Do you think I have smelly feet?” Normally, just hearing
a hot guy say the word “smelly” alone conjured up enough
images of weeks-worn gym socks to bring me to orgasm right then
and there. But having the unnaturally handsome Prince Harry say
the words “smelly” and “feet” (one after
the other), in reference to his own feet, while they were smothering
my face in their putrid sweat sent me over the top. This was a fantasy
come true, and I was in sexual overdrive.
“Harry, your feet really stink!” was all I could say,
pretending to be really grossed out by the whole situation. (Don’t
get me wrong: His feet really were quite disgusting, but they still
excited the hell out of me.)
He was relentless in his torture; the foot kept massaging its funky
sweat and oil into the pores of my defenseless, pink face. “They
stink, do they?” he smirked. His burning sapphire eyes drew
a traceable line to my growing crotch. I was granted a moment’s
reprieve as he removed his sweaty foot from my face, using it to
pop his left foot out of his other “trainer.” It, too,
made a whooshing noise as it was released from its toxic prison.
“If my feet are so ‘stinky,’ if they’re
do disgusting to you, then what’s this?” He used his
right foot to point to—then rub—my swelling bulge, and
I felt like I was in Heaven.
This was the first chance I really had to see his socks. There was
no visible sign of a name brand, but they were awfully thick and
soft-looking. The tops of them had patches of gray from accumulation
of sweat and dirt…he mustn’t have changed his socks
in several days! (This was hard to image from the Prince of England…but
it was true.) When he lifted his newly liberated left foot, an outline
of sweat in the shape of a footprint remained there on the floor
where his foot had been in. And as he slowly lowered the smelly
left foot, I could clearly make out a really dirty gray footprint
on the bottom of his incredibly sweaty sock. He was sitting down
on the bench now: one socked foot massaging my cock through my shorts,
and the other exposing my sense of smell to the harshest punishment
it had ever experienced.
“You really like this, don’t you, James?” he asked,
patronizingly. “You like being under my feet…licking
my trainers…eating my nasty foot sweat…and—most
of all—sniffing my sweaty, smelly basketball socks.”
I could neither affirm nor deny his accusations, because his foot
was dominating my face.
I just mumbled something. It was completely incoherent.
Harry laughed. “What was that?” he leered, temporarily
lifting the foot off my face just enough so I could speak.
I said, “I don’t like it! It’s disgusting!”
mustering all the disgust I could show. I don’t think I was
Harry ripped his right sock off, and practically jumping on me,
straddled my chest and tied the rank sweat sock around my head.
It was a little bit of a relief to have the sock removed from my
nose, though I could still smell nothing else but its incredibly
This was going to be the beginning of a whole new chapter in our