by Chadlee
I’m out of breath. It takes everything not to moan out loud. Sweat drips from my forehead onto my hand, lubricating it as I--
“Break is over. Return to your station. Break is over. Return to your station. Break is...”
The electronic voice comes seemingly from nowhere, and I nearly drop my slate into the toilet water.
The video on my device is still playing as I try to silence the notification, but I end up making the porn louder and louder instead of turning off the annoying alarm.
The cubicle is a cacophony of noise, and I’ve gone completely soft. I finally get the damn thing to shut up, and after wiping the sweat off my completely red face, I leave the toilet stall.
Fuck. There’s a guy in the bathroom, washing his hands. He looks at me through the mirror, a quick smirk flashing on his face. I ignore it and wash my hands at the sink furthest from him.
Thoughts start to cloud my mind. I steal a look at the man in the bathroom, who I’m sure works for lab security. I’ve heard my co-workers call him Seven, but I have no idea what his real name is. He’s bearded, terribly groomed, but sexy. He seems to take a liberal approach to the uniform code. That black vest is definitely not standard-issue, although I imagine it must be the only thing his gargantuan arms can fit through.
I stare him down. His brown hair is styled into an undercut and his arms are a canvas of intricate tattoos. His grey sweatpants are slightly baggy, and the outline of his manhood seems impossibly big. I move my eyes over his muscular legs, ending up at his... leather flip flops?
“What are you looking at?”
I swallow, quickly averting my gaze. I wasn’t quick enough.
Before I can move, he’s right next to me. He grabs me by the collar, thrusts me against the mirror. He looks at my nametag.
“Caleb, is it?” he growls in his low Southern drawl.
I nod furiously.
“Well, Caleb, I don’t appreciate bein’ stared at.”
“I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I swear!” I stammer and stutter, I sound pathetic.
He laughs.
“You’re gonna come to my booth. You’re gonna listen. You’re gonna cooperate. And if you do anythin’ out of line...”
He tightens his grip on my collar, choking me slightly.
“But it’s my shift,” I whimper, defeated.
He laughs again.
***
The booth is a tiny metal box overlooking the facility. The various buildings that make up the complex surround a satellite dish the size of a small valley. A satellite dish that I’m supposed to be monitoring right now.
“I’m here. What do you want from me?”
Seven sits in an office chair, in front of a wall of monitors, ignoring me. His feet are up on the desk, and he absent-mindedly wiggles his toes, moving his flip-flops ever-so-slightly, revealing and hiding his rugged soles. Then he uses his left foot to push off his right flip-flop, and it lands on the floor.
“Pick it up,” he says.
His voice is so low, I can feel it vibrating in my skull like he’s right next to me. Something compels me not to protest, and I bend over to pick it up.
It looks like a size fourteen, well-used, practically ancient. The inner part has worn away, leaving a dark leathery indentation. He probably wears them so much that his sweat has permanently soaked into the sole.
“What do you think?” Seven’s low tones resonate through me once again.
I shrug. What does he want me to say? It’s a flip-flop. What kind of mind game…
“I don’t know, man,” I say, struggling to find the words. “It’s just a flip-flop.”
“Smell it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, smell it.”
Even his enticing voice couldn’t convince me.
“Why should I? And who are you anyway?”
Seven gets up. I back away immediately. In the distance, I hear a faint whirring noise, but I ignore it.
His large hands grab the flip flop from my grasp, and he shoves it into my face, covering my nose and mouth like an oxygen mask. But what enters me is anything but clean air. A deep musk, the stench of old leather, and the sharp, salty smell of foot sweat wafts into my nose.
It’s violent, potent, a shock to my system. I try to hold my breath, but eventually, I surrender to my new source of air. I breathe in and out, trying to keep my mouth closed. But I just can’t get used to the stink. Every breath through my nose is a new attack on my mind. I feel as if I’m being knocked unconscious as if I’m breathing in chloroform instead of foot odour.
And then he pulls the flip-flop away. Somehow, I’ve ended up on the floor, looking up at him. My hands and feet are tied. He kicks his other flip-flop off.
“Don’t try to stop me, it’ll be easier that way.”
His massive sole comes down on my face, covering it. He rubs my face with his foot, from my left cheek to my right. I feel the roughness of his sole on my skin, the softness of his toes as he playfully slaps my face. He uses his big toe and his long toe to grab my nose, opening the nook between the toes, releasing the scent. It’s like the flip-flop scent, but... different. It’s sharper, cheesier.
I writhe on the floor, trying to get away, but his one foot is stronger than my whole body’s attempt to escape. He chuckles.
“Let me go!” I shout, finally getting away from his foot for a second or two.
In the brief silence that follows, I hear the whirring in the distance getting louder. “Do you hear that? Something’s wrong with the dish, I’ve got--”
I choke as Seven shoves his foot into my open mouth. I gag on his toes, which are nearly in my throat, and my tongue is pressed firmly against his sole. All I can taste is his foot, and for a moment, it feels like his foot is all I had ever tasted and ever will taste. The salty flavour of his toes mingles with the bitter and musky taste of his soles.
I can barely breathe at this point. I look at him with pleading eyes.
He pulls his foot back a bit, and I gasp for air. But he shoves it right back. He does it over and over, thrusting it deeper and deeper into my mouth until he reaches my throat. I cough and splutter, choking on his big feet, but this just seems to make him smile more.
Finally, he pulls his foot out of my aching mouth and slaps my face with his wet sole before moving back a few steps. Saliva drips onto my chin, and I feel paralysed. I look up at my captor. There’s a massive bulge in his sweatpants.
The whirring continues, getting louder and louder.
I plead once again. “Please, I’ve really got to fix whatever’s going on…”
Seven ignores me, pulling down his sweatpants. His boxers are ratty, covered in stains. The tip of his dick sticks out of the waistband. He smiles, pulling the boxers down as he looks right into my eyes.
I gulp. His boxers fall to his feet, revealing all eight inches of his cock. It’s darker than the rest of him, rock hard and veiny, throbbing with each beat of the man’s heart. I find myself, against all better judgement, starting to feel excited.
“Oh, this ain’t for you.” He says, smugly.
Seven grabs me by the hand ties, forcing me to crawl on my knees. His cock is right by my face. I can feel the heat radiating off it. I can see the precum dribbling out the tip, making the shaft slick. The scent of his hairy balls enters my nostrils.
He sits on the chair and shoves me to the floor, on my back. I’m helpless yet again. He rests his meaty, wide feet on my face and commands me to lick his feet.
“Don’t forget, Caleb,” he says with a cheeky grin. “I’m stronger than you. In every single way.”
He strokes his thick shaft as I obey his commands, sucking his toes like I’m sucking cock. I lick his soles thoroughly like I’m trying to clean every inch of them. I start to get into the rhythm of things, and I find myself strangely hypnotised. The foot stink is no longer an assault to my senses, but like a drug, I’m becoming dependent on it. I don’t know if I like it, but I think I might need it.
My eyes were closed the whole time as I licked his feet. He notices and tells me to open them. I’m forced to stare at his feet as he touches himself. I can see his free hand reaching under his shirt, tweaking his nipple. He must be getting close. His sole, shiny and wet with my saliva, obscures my vision again, and then I feel something strange.
My cock twitches, then stiffens, growing erect as I continue to service his feet. He must’ve noticed because he takes a foot away from my mouth and uses it to rub the growing hardon in my pants. I let out a moan, and he chuckles.
“You’re finally startin’ to get it.”
I’m embarrassed. I don’t like feet. I’ve never liked feet. But this mouthful of toes and the smell of my Seven’s sole has made me harder than I’ve ever been.
He takes his foot away from my crotch and starts to slap my face with it, very hard. It hurts, and yet my only response is to leak precum with every hit to my face.
He commands me to lick once again, using a word I’ve never heard in this context.
“Worship me, boy.”
Something about that word makes me say, “Yes, sir,” without even thinking about it.
I continue my worship, flitting my tongue in-and-out of the grooves between his toes. I run my tongue over his soles. A shiver runs through them.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, boy!” He growls. “Make your daddy cum.”
I want to make him cum. I need to make him cum. My cock is pulsating at the thought of making this stranger blow his load.
He’s sweating like crazy, raining all over me and his feet. His face is twisted in devious pleasure, and his right arm is a blur as he violently masturbates.
He stops for a moment to remove his top. Seeing his shirtless, muscled body covered in sweat nearly makes me lose it. He frantically reaches for the flip-flop next to the office chair and holds it to his face as he jerks off, taking deep sniffs as I worship his feet. I tongue the middle of his soles, which makes his cock throb every time I do it.
“Just like that, boy,” he moans, “Daddy’s cummin’!”
He slams his feet into my face as the orgasm erupts through his body. His toes curl as intense pleasure overtakes his body, and he spasms violently.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Threads of cum blast out of Seven’s beefy cock. First, he shoots across the room, but then he rests his feet at my sides and angles himself down, still not totally in control of his own body. A warm load of cum hits my face. Then another, and another. A few sizable drops land in my mouth.
Cum leaks out of his cock with every involuntary jolt as the orgasm wears off, and he shakes the rest onto my body. I’m still in my work clothes, which are now thoroughly doused in his semen. The bittersweet scent of his cum is comforting, satisfying.
Against my will, a smile forms on my face. I still haven't reached orgasm, but it doesn’t matter.
Because I made him cum.
His semen dribbles down my throat and he instructs me to swallow it all. The taste lingers in my mouth afterwards and I feel warm inside.
Still shivering, Seven takes his foot and moves it to my crotch. I’m still hard, and he gets me even harder by rubbing my throbbing cock with his toes. He takes the other foot and gently rubs my face, using his seed like a lotion. Some sort of new instinctual reaction makes me hold on to his foot and kiss it.
“That’s a good boy,” he croons. “You’re a quick learner, Caleb. Thought I was gonna struggle with you.”
“I feel so... different,” I say, letting his foot rest on my chest.
“My, uh, technique is rough. Usually, I take my time, but when I saw you starin’ at me, I just had to brute force my way into that noggin,” he explains, smiling while he prods my temple with his big toe. “I’ve been makin’ good boys out of men like you for years.”
I should question this, I should protest, I should be angry. But instead...
“Thank you, sir.”
And I mean it.
