Miss Murdah: Foot Stink AromaTherapy -CloseView
You wanted to be helpless? Let's make you truly helpless.
I wrap you tight in plastic wrap, spiraling it around your arms, your chest, your legs, binding you to yourself until you couldn't move even if you wanted to. Your eyes go wide as I layer it thicker, sealing you in, making you my packaged little foot slave. Then the tape comes out. I rip a strip, press it hard over your lips, sealing your mouth shut. No begging. No whining. No wasted words.
Now you're just a nose and a pair of desperate eyes. And I'm about to give both of them exactly what they deserve.
I peel off my boots, the ones I've been wearing for days, working, sweating, building up that legendary foot stink everyone whispers about. My socks are damp, clinging to my soles, yellowed at the toes from all that heat and moisture. I press them right against your taped mouth first, grinding the cotton hard, letting you taste my sweat through the fibers even though you sealed. Then I drag them up, slowly, across your cheeks, your jaw, settling my arch directly over your nose.
Breathe. Go on. That's all you get now.
I flex my toes inside the sock, working it against your nostrils, pumping that sour, cheesy, perfect stench straight into your lungs. I hold it there, pressing harder, smothering you completely. Your eyes water. I laugh. I wiggle my toes, letting the sock bunch and rub, grinding my sweat deeper into your skin. You squirm in the plastic, trapped, and I just press my other socked foot onto your forehead to hold you still.
Then the socks come off.
My bare toes are wrinkled, damp, the skin between them soft and slick with days of built-up sweat. I dangle my bare sole over your nose, letting the heat radiate down, watching you flinch before I even touch. Then I press down, sealing my sole airtight over your nostrils, cutting off every breath. I hold and hold and hold until your eyes panic, until you writhe against the plastic, until I finally let you gasp - and all that fills your lungs is pure, concentrated foot stink.
I rub my bare toes across your nose, one by one, making sure each one gets its turn smearing scent onto you. I grip your nose between my big toe and second toe, squeezing, making you to inhale only what I allow. I drag my heel across your nostrils, my arch, my instep, every part of my foot working you over. My legendary stink fills that little pocket of air around your face, trapped by the plastic, nowhere to go, nowhere to escape.
I press both feet flat now, covering your entire face, my toes curling around your chin, my heels digging into your cheeks, my stench-filled toes wrapped and rubbing your nose. You wanted to worship? This is worship. Helpless. Hopeless. Completely at the mercy of my sweaty toes.
You wanted to smell my feet? Now you'll smell nothing else. Ever.
I lean back and admire my work. Wrapped tight. Mouth taped. Face buried under my bare soles. Just a nose, taking in my stink, eyes rolling back, trapped in plastic and sweat and me.
That's my legendary foot stink, slave. Remember it. Suffer it. Breathe nothing but it.
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