Design was Chris’s favorite class, not to say it wasn’t boring, it was. I was just a bit less boring than all the even boringer classes that he had to take.
He was thinking about soccer. An avid soccer player he had been the only freshman to make varsity. Now as a sophomore, he was one of the best players on the team.
Chris was of medium height, with an athletic build. His hair was brown, and always a bit messy. He had fair and relatively unblemished skin, and sky blue eyes. He was hot, and he knew it, as did every girl in his school.
Mrs. Brown droned on, “Today we will be examining the workings of the ancient Indian tiger traps.” Chris sat up. Tiger traps? That actually sounded interesting. On the board was an image of a massive tiger hanging upside down from a tree, and tied tightly with rope.
“Everyone will design, and construct their own trap, using the mechanisms employed by the ancient Indian tiger hunters.”
Wow, this actually sounded fun. For the first time ever, Chris actually felt somewhat excited to start a school project. Before he knew it class was over, and he hadn’t quite finished. He resolved to stop by after school to finish it up, and maybe even test it, given he could find someone to test it on.
His next class was gym. When he got there, he realized that he had forgotten to bring fresh socks or sneakers. That made seven days wearing his old, black soccer socks. By now, they were pretty nasty. Nevertheless, he and his friends played an intense 3 vs. 3 soccer match.
The final bell rang, and Chris went to the design room to finish up. Half an hour later, his trap was done. I’ve worked so hard on this, it would be a shame not to test it, he thought. Feeling devious, Chris set up the trap in the doorway, and sat back to wait. Who would it be? If it was Mrs. Brown he would be in big trouble, but it would also be pretty funny.
He didn’t have to wait long. It was none other than Jim, the biggest nerd in the whole school, coming to collect his science fair project on “Meiosis Induction on Cancerous Cells Using Retinoic Acid.” Now dangling in the doorway, Jim kicked and thrashed, he was starting to panic. “This is gonna be fun,” thought Chris.
“Hey there, need some help,” Chris asked, grinning.
“Get me out of this thing,” yelled Jim.
“Sorry, can’t help you.” Chris laughed.
Jim opened his mouth to yell for help.
Thinking quickly, Chris grabbed a role of heavy- duty duty duct tape sitting on a nearby table (it's the design classroom), and employing several long strands, effectively shut him up. He couldn’t attract the attention of teachers or janitors, they would ruin all his fun.
Jim was still dangling in the doorway. That wouldn’t do. Chris dragged him across the room, and closed the door. Time to get started.
What to do with Jim? Stick his head in the toilet, make him eat something nasty, make him do 100 pushups? Speaking of nasty… Chris wiggled his sweaty toes, imprisoned within a crusty, old, 7 days unwashed sock, all within the confines of his old gym sneakers. “I wonder what those smell like,” he thought. A smile crawled across Chris’s face. It would be pretty funny to make Jim smell them.
Jim’s Point of View
Chris grinned, got up, and started to walk towards me all to purposely. I struggled, but to no avail. I was terrified, and understandably so. I was at the complete mercy of the unlimited imagination and cruelty of a dashingly handsome teenager with a diabolic grin on his face.
“I think you deserve to know, before we get started, that I’ve worn these shoes, with and without socks, for pretty much every gym class and pickup soccer game I’ve participated in for the last year and a half. These socks have led me triumphantly through my last four soccer games without having been washed once, and finally, these feet, believe it or not, are even worse than the shoes and socks. All I have to say to you now is …good luck!”
With that, and a mocking smile, he pulled his worn, grey, sneaker off of his right foot and placed it firmly over my nose. He leaned back, and proceeded to rest his feet on the overturned shoe, ensconcing it even further over my abused face. Lacking the ability to breath through my mouth (its duct taped shut), or to hold my breath for much longer than half a minute, I presently had no choice but to breath in through my noise.
I gagged and choked, waves of overwhelming nausea washing over me. The air was thick, heavy, and unpleasantly moist. Several drops of sweat dripped from the shoe’s insole onto my face, a few even managing to trickle into my nose. Still, this was nothing to nothing to the putrid odor. Imagine a the reek of moldy cheese mixed with the sour stench of milk gone bad, amplified one hundred-fold and concentrated into as small an area as a shoe. Every breath was inescapable agony. The weight of his feet resting on the shoe ensured that I was deprived completely of fresh air. How long would he keep this up?
Chris’s point of view
He was enjoying himself. He found my predicament most amusing. “It must smell pretty bad down there,” he thought, watching me gag and struggle. He snapped a few well- timed photos, reveling in his power.
“How long should I make you smell my shoe? Should I take it off?” he mocked. Of course, I was unable to offer anything in the way of a response.
“I’ll have to interpret your silence as a ‘no’” Chris continued, just to be mean.
His mind raced as he thought of all the fun things to do. “I’ll make him smell my socks now,” Chris concluded.
Jim’s point of view
To my greatest relief, I felt the weight on the shoe relax, as he removed his feet from it and lifted it up off my face. Degraded and completely humiliated, lying immobile on the ground before him, I stared pleadingly up at my tormentor,
“Having fun?” he asked. “Don’t think your done, far from it, time to get up close and personal with my soccer socks!” laughed Chris. My relief was replaced by horror as Chris removed his left shoe also, and leaned back, preparing to rest his socked feet on my face. As his feet approached my face, I’ll admit that I cried a bit, a few tears running down my face.
Chris’s point of view
Chris plopped his socked feet on his face. “Just what I need, a place to massage my feet, and his nose makes a perfect place to itch my toes” thought Chris, starting to feel a little bad for Jim, but only a little.
Jim’s point of view
To my despair, his socks were even worse than his shoes. Incredible but true. They were crusted with old sweat and dirt, and damp from recent exercise. He was merciless. He rubbed his foot all over my nose, up and down, left and right. He curled his toes over my nose again and again, and ground the crusty heel of his foot on my nose. The toe part was really sweaty, but when he pushed it onto my nose really hard (which he did often), I could feel the crustiness of old sweat, and the grittiness of all the dirt that had accumulated on them. Never once did he lift them, even for a second, to allow me a single breath of good, fresh air.
If this isn’t torture, I don’t know what is. Each breath of tainted air sent my head spinning, and made me feel sicker than I had thought possible. And it got worse.
Chris’s point of view
“This is the life,” thought Chris, “a personal foot massaging mat.”
“I should take off my socks and make him smell them,” decided Chris. He was about to reach down to take off his socks when a concerning thought struck him. “If I take off my socks, but don’t have him smell my feet immediately, they will have a chance to air out, and they won't be as smelly.” Then Chris had a brilliant idea, a method by which he would make Jim deal with his socks and bare-feet simultaneously. Here is his plan: 1. take off socks and turn them inside out 2. put the inside out socks in Jim’s mouth 3. make Jim smell feet
Jim’s point of view
All of a sudden, just when I thought I would die it smelled so bad, Chris lifted his socks from my face, and peeled them off his feet, turning them inside out. He grinned down at me, his blue eyes bright with amusement. “These,” he said, holding up the socks, “are going in your mouth.”
I panicked. I struggled with the fury of a cornered beast, and clenched my teeth determinedly. Chris laughed and ripped the tape off of my mouth. “Open up.” I didn’t. Chris kicked me in the stomach really hard. I was defenseless, and couldn’t even double over. He kicked me in the face with his bare foot. As badly as his blows hurt, I obstinately kept my mouth shut, determined not to taste those socks. He stood up and jumped up, coming down hard on my chest, sending pain across my upper body. He was enjoying beating me up. But it wasn’t accomplishing the desired effect. He was seriously getting annoyed. He looked around, and a metal ruler caught his eye. He picked it up and sat down on my chest. I was terrified. He jammed the ruler into my mouth and between my teeth as hard as he could, leaving an unpleasant gash on my upper lip, and even chipping a tooth. Using the ruler he pried open my resisting mouth, and crammed his socks in, one after the other. I could feel how sweaty they were as they went over my lips. He re-taped my mouth, sat back down, and plopped his bare feet over my face, taking care to place his toes over my nose.
His feet were sweat soaked. His toes were long, and dead skin, sock lint, dirt, and sweat had aggregated to form copious amounts of toe jam between them.
He fanned them out over my nose. Then began the agonizing and grueling process of shoving the gaps between each toe up against my nostril. He took care to insert my nose into the gap between big and second biggest toe. He smothered my face with his feet, making sure they covered my poor nose the whole while. He grabbed my nose with his toes, pulling on it. He teased me “They smell great, don’t they?” or “Let’s see if your nose can fit between these two toes.” And this was only half of it. Don’t forget where his socks were.
Both his socks being crammed into my mouth, there was nowhere for my tongue to hide. If you recall, while being forced to smell his shoe, I described a concoction of moldy cheese, and rotten milk. Drink this by the gallon, and you will still be unable to comprehend what is was like to have those week old, gym socks, turned inside out, and pressed against my tongue.
Chris’s point of view
“This is where you belong, you worthless thing,” said Chris, just for fun. He thought it most amusing the way I choked, gaged, cried, and struggled in vain. It felt great having a warm, soft surface to rub your feet. “As the grand finale,” thought Chris, “I’ll make him lick my feet, and eat the nasty stuff in between my toes.”
Jim’s point of view
At long last, Chris lifted his feet from my face, and allowed me to spit out the socks. Only now did he notice that I was crying, at which he laughed derisively. “Alright,” announced Chris, “I’ve gotta go to soccer practice soon, so you’re almost done, one final task, clean my feet …with your tongue. Don’t forget in between the toes”. With that he leaned back, and kicked out his bare feet into my face.
I had no choice. I had learned my lesson about resisting after he had pried my moth open with a metal ruler. Leaning forward I tentatively gave the sole of his foot a little lick, and nearly vomited then and there. I was tasting the sweat, and dirt of an unwashed soccer player’s bare foot right after gym class, who had been wearing the most disgusting socks and shoes all day.
“What sort of lick was that?” yelled Chris. He leaned forward and shoved his foot violently into my mouth. He mercilessly shoved his disgusting tasting, sweat soaked, dirty foot farther into my mouth and down my throat than I would have thought possible. He shoved with all his strength, until more than half of it was lodged painfully deep down my throat, until it couldn’t go any further (not for lack of trying). His toenails cut into me. The length of my tongue was pressed against the sole of his foot. I couldn’t even gag, it was so far down. He smirked at me. “I think I’ll leave that foot there for a while,” he said. My mouth was stretched agonizingly far open, and ached terribly. His foot was way too big to fit this far down my throat, but had somehow managed to.
Finally, he pulled his foot out of my mouth, but the reprieve was short. He dropped the heel of his foot into my mouth, crossed his ankles, and leaned back, ordering me to suck on his heel. Desperate to avoid another foot choking, I did my best to suck the film of dirt and sweat off. Next, he ordered me to lick up his foot, but to stop at the toes, which he was saving for last. I had no choice but to lay my tongue against the dirty sole and lick.
Chris’s point of view
It felt great, having your feet licked. It was like a foot massage, and a warm water foot washing, combined.
“Thanks dude, I really appreciate you cleaning my feet for me, must taste pretty good,” Chris taunted. He also took a few more photos.
Jim’s point of view
“Alright, time for the toes” he announced, inserting them into my mouth, “suck on them, and lick under them. ”
His toes wiggled around impatiently in my mouth. I couldn’t bring myself to lick his toes. They were so nasty and so dirty. His toes suddenly popped out of my mouth, to be replaced by a pair of metal tongs, which Chris roughly shoved into my mouth and used to grab my resisting tongue.
“You’re gonna lick them, even if I gotta force you step by step,” said Chris.
He pulled my tongue out of my mouth, holding on painfully to it with the tongs. Chris rubber-banded the tongs shut around my tongue, their dead weight keeping me from moving my tongue, as he prepared to employ its services.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna have to use you tongue the clean all this shit out from between my toes” said Chris, laughing at my horror stricken expression.
He inserted my immobilized tongue in between his two biggest toes, and proceeded to clean them, running my tongue repeatedly through the gap between them. There is no taste on earth so bad as that of the stuff between the toes of the dirty, sweaty, feet of a teenage boy soccer player straight from gym class after a long day at school in mid summer (the current season). The toe jam that had been dislodged now sat on my tongue, where Chris left it. This excruciating process continued, between every two toes, on both feet. My senses were overwhelmed. My body rebelled, my stomach nauseas, my head aching, and my tongue burning in agony, as Chris calmly cleaned his toes.
Chris’s point of view
It actually felt pretty nice, having a warm tongue between one’s toes. He laughed at Jim’s tongue, which struggled, thrashing like a worm but unable to flee. Chris tried to get Jim’s tongue as far between the toes as possible. It felt like a game, trying to clean out every bit of toe-jam. Chris checked his watch and sighed, he had to go; practice started in twenty minutes. Well, it had been fun, and he had those pictures, so he could blackmail Jim into doing this again. Now that would be fun. He stood up, to my infinite relief. Not wanting to put on wet socks, he pulled his sandals out of his bag and put those on. What to do with Jim? “I guess I’ll have to release him,” thought Chris, “but first let’s show him those photos.”
Jim’s point of view
I had never felt such relief in my life. The torture seemed to be done. Chris stood up, and pressed the release button. Even though my bonds had been released, I was in no shape to stand.
“I gotta go, but don’t you worry, we’ll do this again” chuckled Chris, leaning over to show me the photos. I was to incapacitated to respond.
“Wow,” thought Chris “My feet must’ve been pretty bad.”
Chris grinned down at me still lying on the floor, his brilliant blue eyes laughing. “See you, then” he said, and headed off to soccer practice.
