You tried to deny it at first, the way that the stink wormed its way into your nostrils after a good workout, the way that your cock twitched in your pants. But it happened. Again and again and again. Eventually, even you couldn’t resist it anymore, and the moment you got home, pulling off your running shoes and practically ripping your socks off, you shoved your nose into your feet and drank in the scent.
It was intoxicating. It was addicting. It was thick, it was heady, and it flooded into your nose, making you warm and tingling all over. You palmed yourself through your shorts, your cock hard and twitching against your thigh, leaving a streak of pre-cum on your skin.
You rubbed your cock against your thigh, groaning as you mashed your nose into the sole of your foot, and quickly approached the edge. It was good. So good. But just as you were about to hit your climax, you realized what you were doing. You jumped. You let go of your foot, letting it snap down into its natural position but bumping your toes against the corner of the coffee table.
You cursed, looking at the sticky mess that you’ve made between your legs, the huge dark spot in the fabric of your shorts. You decided that it was just a momentary lapse of judgment. A passing weakness. You weren’t going to do that again now that you had satisfied your curiosity. Of course not. But you took a cold shower just in case.
Just before you went to bed, you turned on the white noise machine that your personal trainer had given you. You had mentioned that you were having some trouble getting to sleep. The little device, as seemingly innocuous as it was, was a life saver. The hiss of static filled your ears, and, after a few minutes, your head. You felt soft and fuzzy, like you were floating in a sea of cotton candy.
At first you had thought that there were faint voices in the static, and you’d said as much to your personal trainer. He’d laughed and told you that that was normal. It was called pareidolia, the human tendency to see patterns in otherwise chaotic stimuli.
It was a big word. And you were sure that you should have known what it meant, but for some reason, you hadn’t. You had worried, for a moment, at least until your personal trainer murmured a few words that you didn’t really catch but nevertheless sent a wave of warmth and calm washing over you. How silly that you had thought you knew the word pareidolia. You were smart, but not that smart.
You had thanked your personal trainer for explaining the situation to you, and walked away. If you hadn’t, if you had somehow found a way to resist, maybe you wouldn’t have ended up where you are now, but who knows? It’s not like there’s a chance for you anymore.
It wasn’t a momentary lapse of judgment. It wasn’t a passing weakness. You were definitely going to do it again even though you had satisfied your curiosity. At first, it had been easy to deal with. You just went home, gave your foot a sniff, palmed at your cock, and that was it. But as time went on, that became insufficient.
When you got horny, you got the urge to stick your face in your foot or in your shoe to drink in your scent. When you caught a whiff of your foot, you got extremely horny and couldn’t help but at least give your cock a squeeze. Again and again and again this happened until you were powerless under the thrall of your own feet.
You couldn’t cum without the stink on your face. And smelling that musk made it so that you couldn’t function without cumming. And you managed, for a little while. You darted into the washroom whenever you had to. You pumped out a load whenever it became too much. You said you had developed IBS, too embarrassed to admit why you were suddenly so fretful in the office.
But eventually even that wasn’t enough. It started taking you longer and longer to cum. One time, you desperately pulled and pumped on your cock for fifteen minutes in the stall, holding your breath in, hoping no one would come in to hear the toilet seat rattling underneath you because you knew you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. And after that, it became impossible to cum without your nose stuck down your shoe, or mashed up against your foot.
You didn’t remember where you got the idea from, or what made you think it was a good one, but you went and bought a chastity cage. You got horny when you were hard, you reasoned, so obviously the solution was to find something that wouldn’t ever let you get hard. You felt as though there was something wrong with that logic, but you couldn’t figure it out. It was hard to think. Like your brain was partly made of fluff.
It was a bad idea. It didn’t make you any less horny. It didn’t you crave the musk, the stink of feet any less. You whimpered and you whined in bed three days after you put the cage on, writhing because there was no relief from your overwhelming lust. You had a shoe pressed against your face, your hand down between your legs rubbing your locked-up nub.
You couldn’t take it. You didn’t know what to do. You needed to unlock. You needed to cum. You shook your cage and rolled over onto your side, using one hand to keep the shoe against your face. You reached for the key that you kept on your nightstand, but it wasn’t there. You felt a pang of panic. You looked around. It was nowhere to be seen.
Keeping the shoe on your face, you looked under your bed, under the nightstand. It wasn’t there. You decided it was time to break out your emergency copy, but even that was gone. You wept, pretty much, then and there. You were so pathetic, you couldn’t even look at yourself in the floor-length mirror that was standing in the corner of your room.
You were naked, on your knees on the floor, drinking in the smell of your own feet from your shoes, palming your leaking nub. And then you received a video call. It was from your personal trainer. You answered it. “Hey, bitch,” your personal trainer said. “Looks like the programming has done its work, huh?”
The video your personal trainer was showing you was of a computer screen. There was a live feed with two thousand viewers. It was of your room. You were on the phone, desperately humping the air with your locked up cock and flinging pre-cum everywhere. “Fag didn’t even know what hit him,” your trainer laughed, “Hey, why don’t you come over? My feet could use a good tongue bathing?”
You were repulsed. But not really. The moment he said it, it was all that you could think about. You moaned, the sound low and needy. It was all you could think about. Nothing else. No thoughts of resistance. No thoughts of escape. Just an overwhelming desire to drive over there, without even bothering to get dressed, so that you could give a pair of feet the worship that they deserved.
It was like heaven on earth when you finally got your tongue on your trainer’s big sweaty toe. It felt tangy and musky on your tastebuds. It was bitter and repulsive, but for some reason you thought that it was the best texture, the best flavor in the world. And you knew that he had just finished his workout, too. You could still smell the man musk, the stink of a real man off of him.
You were so enthralled, so far gone, that when he wrapped that chain choker around your neck, you didn’t really care, as long as you got another taste of his foot. And you did. He just laughed and called you degrading names. Dumb bitch. Stupid slut. Pathetic footslave. Idiot fag. Dumb footrest. Brainless foot cleaner.
At first it made you feel so humiliated, so degraded. Your cheeks would flush and you would quiver, all at once feeling so little, so meaningless, so pathetic, and so, so aroused. Eventually, you got used to it. The humiliation never went away. It still made you feel so… inferior. You enjoyed it, too. But it wasn’t quite as intense before.
Once you accepted it as a fact of life, you began to internalize the words used to describe you. You had never been an arrogant cocky stud, but you had had self-confidence. That was slowly stripped away from you, until you became a weak, simpering loser. And while you had never been particularly brilliant, you had at least been a little smart, but even that was taken away. These days, your thoughts moved at a snail’s pace, if at all, and most of the time what little brainpower you had left was dedicated to thinking about your master’s feet and how horny you were for his cock.
By the time that your master was done with you, you were beyond recognition. Brainless. Mindless. No will but your master’s. A kept slave for whenever he felt like he wanted to get his feet spit-shined. And you were all too happy to do it for him. It was what you lived for. It was the only thing you knew.
And you were horny. Always. Endlessly. Your master would come down and fuck you. Down your throat. Up your ass. At first, you had not liked it. You had been straight, in your previous life. But you realized that your master wouldn’t give you his feet if you didn’t start participating. So you did. He cunted you down both ends, making you the perfect receptacle for his cock.
Maybe it was the fact that he pounded your prostate every time he fucked you up your chute, or maybe it was the fact that he never stopped calling you a fag, or some variation thereof, but you eventually came to like it. You loved it, even. He called you a fucktoy. His cocksleeve. It made you feel so meaningless, but all that did was make your cock strain in its metal cage.
Master removed your plastic cage for a while. You thought he was being merciful, but you were wrong. He had your cock pierced. Then he fitted a metal chastity cage on you. It was tiny. No doubt your dick would shrink into a nub over the years. And it was going to be permanent. He welded it shut at his earliest convenience.
Master wasn’t being merciful. He was being evil. Once you had the cage on, he made sure that you always had a vibrator up against your crotch. Just enough to keep you straining, just enough to keep you riding the edge, but never enough to get you to cum. No matter how much you bucked your hips. No matter how hard to humped.
You were pathetic. You were weak. You had once had success, promise, but no longer. Even just a mildly threatening look from your master made you want to piss your pants. One particularly heavy step in your direction made you beg for mercy. You were broken. Thoroughly and completely.
Even your mind had been warped. Constant degradation. Constant humiliation. The endless deluge of stupid, idiot, moron, dumbass, dumbfuck, it wore away your sense of self, your own intelligence, until you could barely count. Until you forgot even the difference between night and day, the passage of the hours, your only notion that time kept marching on the fact that your master came for you at least twice in between your moments of fitful sleep.
You remembered your old life, but only in fragments. You dreamed of your old job. It hadn’t been great, but it had been cushy. You dreamed of your plans to advance your career. None of that mattered now, though. You were enslaved. You were broken. You were nothing more than a footfag for your master.
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
