Filthy Pink Sneakers.
By Marina Cooper
The cute doorman gives me an enigmatic look when I say I'm here to see you. I'm not sure if maybe he thinks I'm your daughter. You're not quite old enough for that, I'm not quite young enough -- but we're pretty close. Am I wrong for thinking that's hot? Definitely.
I think it's much more likely that the doorman just approves of my skintight and borderline-indecent running shorts and my sports top, which manages to be effectively restrictive without hiding much, least of all my nipples, which have gotten hard and visible on the run. I think "enigmatic," really, means "horny," and I admit it's kind of a turn-on as he looks me over lasciviously; he's cute.
Even so, it's not the look he gives my body that turns me on the most; it's the disapproving stare he lavishes on my filthy, stinking pink sneakers. Five days it's been, and I wonder if he can smell them. But I feel no shame, no worry -- just arousal, because I know why I've been wearing them and I know how my filthy feet are going to get clean.
But I'm not in the mindframe to flirt. Plus, I've run five miles, from East 20th to West 65th, in 80 degree weather wearing next to fucking nothing. I'm pumped and worked into a frenzy. My attitude is equal parts thrill at having done it and desire to take it out on your ass.
The cute doorman waves me through, and I take the elevator to your floor. You've left the door open, so I can come in casually and find you sitting there on the Danish Modern divan, smelling of fresh shower. You're wearing pale grey sweats and a white T-shirt, your hair damp. Your cock's already tenting the sweats.
I close the door behind me. "What are you doing?" I snap harshly. "Did you take a shower?"
"Yes, Mis--" you begin to say, but I put up my hand and you stop in mid-word.
"Don't talk to me," I snap as I saunter over to you. "I can't believe you took a fucking shower."
I sneer with disgust, bending over so I can flatten my palm against your cock bulging through your sweats. I caress it gently, then snap my hand down and listen to you gasp in surprise. It gives me a visceral thrill. I flick my fingers against your cock, hitting it through the sweats, smiling as you cringe and squirm. "Pull it down," I purr, and you look up at me apprehensively and then obey, your hands trembling. You pull the waistband of your sweats down past the thick swollen head of your cock; you hesitate, look up at me, and my eyes go wide in anger. You pull the waistband all the way down beneath your balls, and I look it over, smiling and laughing a little. It always gives me such a thrill to see it so hard when I almost haven't done anything.
I flick your cock with my fingernails, watching you squirm, hearing you whimper. My pussy goes wet as I see your distress. I get hotter as I flick your cock harder. I wrap my fingers around it and dig my fingernails in, and that brings a deep moan from you, as I scrape my nails firmly across your sensitive flesh.
I release your cock and laugh, standing up straight. I reach out and grab your face, digging my nails in a little, and spit in your face. Humiliation washes over you as my spittle drips from your face, so I do it again, then smile broadly.
"Do you know how long it's been since I took a shower?" I ask you. You do, because I told you, on the phone before I made the run over, but that doesn't matter because it's part of the ritual. I spit in your face again and tell you "Get your clothes off. First you're going to give me a bath. And then you're getting dirty again, and this time you won't wash it off."
I withdraw and plant myself in the big vinyl armchair, the one I love to sit in when you're servicing me. Normally I'd prefer leather, especially since it's on your dime, but this armchair has certain advantages. The vinyl material of is virtually indestructible, very important for my purposes; no amount of wetness has so far proven able to damage it. The arms are just cushy enough for my legs to fit over, so I can spread my legs just right while you kneel and your mouth works on me for as long as I want it to, which is where the wetness usually comes from -- your drool and my juices, and occasionally far more than that.
But I won't be spreading my legs for you to eat my pussy this time, because that's not what it's about. This time it's about my feet. That's why it gives me such pleasure to wriggle in the chair, pulling the tight running shorts over my ass and down my legs and over the filthy pink sneakers I've been wearing for five solid days, four nights -- even, two of them, while I was sleeping. And I haven't changed my socks.
I pull the sports top over my head and lay there sprawled in the recliner, legs spread and filthy feet up on the footrest. I can smell them from here, and it disgusts me. That makes it even more pleasant for me to make you clean them, make you smell and love and caress them with your tongue, because it disgusts me that you want it so bad. So help me, that makes my pussy wet.
Your sweats and T-shirt are on the floor; you come over and stand before me, naked. It's never easy to stay dominant when I see you naked like this; the sight of your body all toned and ripe and ready for pleasure is enough to make me melt. And you look so, so unbelievably fucking handsome when you're ready to be dominated and humiliated like this. It's enough to make a girl want to wrap herself up in your arms.
But then there's your cock sticking out hard and a look of shame and hungry excitement on your face; that makes me feel much more dominant. It makes me want to hurt and humiliate and degrade you, which is, quite honestly, what I'm here for.
You're standing close enough for me to reach out and kick your cock; I'd kick your balls a little just for fun, but that would require me to stretch, and I'd rather get down to business.
I look you up and down, my eyes lingering on your cock. "That won't do," I say. "Get me my dildo. You know the one." You do know the one -- the one with the heavy bulb on it, nice and smooth for working my G-spot. You retrieve it from the bedroom, and present it to me. I snatch it from your hand and cradle it against my thigh while I hook you with my foot and guide you down onto your knees.
I hold out the dildo.
"Get it wet for me," I tell you.
You obediently take the dildo in your mouth; I hold it still at first, then thrust it forward, making you drink deeper from it. I lean forward so I can grab your hair and guide your head up and down onto it. I see your eyes going deep into subspace as you suck cock for me. I laugh.
I pull your head back, withdraw the dildo, lean back in the chair. I cradle the dildo against my naked body and laugh.
"Quite a talented little mouth," I laugh. "I wonder how you're going to do with something really filthy."
Then I stick my foot in your face.
"Make it clean, shower-boy."
"Yes, Mistress," you say, and begin to lick.
There's really not much you can do to clean my filthy sneakers; nothing short of three to five good machine washings is going to stop them from stinking, but that's hardly the point. As you lick, I rub the sneaker, all over your face, watching the hot flush of humiliation as you inhale the scent of my five days without washing, without changing my shoes. Speaking of which, I can smell myself, smell my sex, strong and ripe and eager between my spread legs. I move my foot back and tap your face, with exceeding gentleness so I don't hurt you but with enough firmness to make you understand that you've just been kicked in the face.
"Not good enough," I say. "Take them off."
You obediently begin to untie my sneaker; as you slip it off of my foot, the smell hits me, mingling with the ripe scent of my sex and the clean scent of your shower. You untie the other sneaker and take it off, and the smell mounts. You're getting visibly excited, your face red and your breathing short. I stick my socked feet in your face and you breathe deep, smelling them.
"Take off my socks, too," I say. "Put one on your cock.
"Yes, Mistress," you say, and peel off my socks. Now the smell is intense, filling your little living room. It turns me on, especially as you slide my stinking sweat sock over your hard cock.
I stick my bare foot in your face and tell you, "Clean."
You begin to lick, and I have to catch my breath. Especially after five days with the same shoes on, every inch of my foot-flesh is ultra-sensitive. They're always sensitive; so much so that I've almost climaxed from having a foot massage. You take one foot in your hands and caress it while you obediently lick the other, your tongue working from toe to toe and then slowly down across the ball of my feet. Having both feet close to your face requires that I keep my legs spread wide, knees cocked over the soft arms of the easy chair. Your thumbs work the ball of my left foot while your tongue caresses the underside of my right. The sensations flood my body as the scents fill my nostrils. I begin to moan.
The dildo is still glistening with your spittle, but even if it wasn't, it would glide into me easily. I ease it down to my pussy and slide it inside, the head of it spreading and stretching me slightly. My eyes practically cross as it goes inside me; the combination of the sensations in my feet and in my pussy are almost too much to take. You service my feet, enthusiastically now, moving from one to the other with your tongue, always working and caressing with your hands while your mouth services me, overwhelming my naked body with arousal. I can't wait any longer. I slide the dildo deep into me and begin to fuck myself.
I'm close already -- impossibly, unbearably close. It's been five days, you see -- five days since I've come. I'm fucking myself hard, now, as you're working that spot that sends shivers through me. It's just behind the ball of my feet, and massaging it is always guaranteed to make my eyes roll back in my head if they aren't already. Right now they are, but a little extra push never hurts, and it makes me moan as I fuck myself rhythmically, feeling my orgasm approaching.
You concentrate on just the one foot, now, the right, the most sensitive one, because you know your Mistress is going to come. You press firmly on that spot behind the ball as your tongue works the underside of my toes, your breathing deep as you inhale the scent of my feet.
I feel my orgasm coming; it's different than almost any type of orgasm, because inside I feel swollen, full, ready to burst. I can feel the tissue around my G-spot pregnant with wetness. Because it's been five days, you see, five days since I came -- but not since I masturbated. That, I did four or five times a day, the whole time, never letting myself climax. Ever since I trained myself to squirt, I've learned that getting close and backing off, getting close and backing off, made me juicy and swollen and ready to come inside. It's agony, but it's such pleasure when I let go. And it makes me wet, deep inside, and ready to squirt all over you.
You're about to be drenched, and it'll make that shower you took feel like a spring drizzle.
"Come up here," I snap hoarsely, holding off with great effort. You obey, coming up to my pussy and putting your face close. I'm trembling all over, my naked body almost out of control. I'm going to come any second. I fuck myself steadily, pausing to rub my clit, and then I feel it about to happen.
I want you to get all of it, so I pull the dildo out of my sex and start to rub my clit vigorously to get myself over the edge. It's so good that I have to really concentrate to prevent my eyes from rolling shut, but I do -- because I want to see you take it. You can't watch, though, because you know you're about to be underwater. You shut your eyes tight and you face takes on a look of rapture in anticipation.
Then I come.
The first stream drenches your face, soaks your hair, and I see you shivering all over with the heat of it. Pleasure explodes through my body as my come squirts out all over you. Another stream, and another and another as I keep rubbing my clit, and then there's no rubbing necessary, just my orgasm coursing through me as I soak you. When I'm finally empty I can't stop my eyes from shutting. I go limp in the chair and lay there spread and panting, listening to your low moans.
When I finally take a deep breath and open my eyes, I look at your glistening, dripping face, and smile at you.
"Stand up," I tell you. "You've earned your reward."
You obey me, standing before me with your cock hard and sticking out. You've long since lost the sock, and your cock's now slippery and glistening from the juices running down your face and body. They're still dripping onto me as I cock my legs just right to wrap my feet around your cock. I'm not the most talented girl in the world, but when you're this close and ready to come I know I can get you off.
I begin to pump, working my feet up and down your cock. It's hard to keep hold of it, lubed as it is by my ejaculate, but I manage. It's a turn-on watching you tremble all over. I lay there spread and watching you, jerking you off with my feet. Then your head goes back and you climax, shooting hot come over my feet; you're so turned on that it shoots all the way up my legs and mingles with the juice all over my legs.
My feet are both covered in your come as you finish. A look of relief crosses your face.
I start to laugh lightly, with extreme pleasure.
"You got them dirty again," I say, my voice musical.
"Get them clean," I add, but you're already going down onto your knees, and my eyes roll back as your tongue starts caressing my feet again. I guide the dildo between my legs and slide it back into me as I relax into the chair and sigh with pleasure.
From next to us, I can still smell my filthy pink sneakers. I think I'll be wearing them again soon.
