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The Royal Treatment
by AbercrombieSocks

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The bottom of his left sneaker loomed menacingly over my head. “Lick my trainers.”

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 it taste?”

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 sock!

“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 complete euphoria.

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 too convincing….

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 stinky odor.

This was going to be the beginning of a whole new chapter in our friendship….