Paying The Price 6

Ted was nervous. He'd been asked to meet at an apartment building. The woman who called him earlier was surprisingly knowledgeable about the lending scheme they had going on. He knew it was wrong what the company did to borrowers, tricking them into signing up for the promise of low mortgage payments only to have those payments inflated, and not warning them about all the fees. The men he worked for claimed to be brokers, but he wasn't even sure anymore; and for all he knew, they were forging documents too.

He knew it was too good to be true that he could be making so much money so soon after law school. It was an opportunity to get familiar with the real estate market and to make more money than some of us fellow graduates now working for the government. He had big plans. If these companies were doing so well in a shaky housing market, he wanted to be a part of it. He suspected that huge profits probably meant dishonest practices, but how could money be made without breaking a few rules?

He was studying to take his broker exam when he learned that the company was taking advantage of people and forcing their homes into foreclosure. He tried not to think about it, but he'd begun signing documentation. He was involved and whatever came of it, he'd be in trouble with the state bar.

When the woman called him, she told him what his bosses were doing, things he didn't even realize. She also told him he was implicated and could go to jail, although it didn't have to come to that.

It was the usual extortion, he figured. Everyone was gaming the system: his bosses as well as the blackmailer who called him, probably looking for money.

Ready to confront the situation, he stood up from the park bench and approached the artist lofts. It was a dingy building, much in need of a facelift. From what he could tell, much of the building was abandoned. Since the elevator wasn't in service, he climbed four stories and looked for room 404. Some of the other doors weren't even marked.

He was nervous. He'd been asked here by bad people who were going to do bad things to him. He thought about running. He'd take his chances with the state bar and the FBI, if need be. He hadn't done anything wrong. He just worked for dishonest people.

"Ted," said a woman standing at the door. She was of average height and a bit on the plump side, her thick-rimmed glasses concealing pleasing features. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asked before opening the door.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, apprehensive.

"I want to propose something, that's all."

"What?" he asked.

"Oh, stop it," she said, shaking her head and grabbing him by the arm. "Get in here," she said firmly, pulling him into the apartment and closing the door behind her, locking it.

There was a large cavernous room with support beams, unfurnished but for some chairs and sofas. In the center of the room, on a large carpet lay a naked man with salt and pepper hair, his mouth gagged and his arms and wrists tied to a chair. Seeing Ted, the man moaned, struggling to free himself, but to no avail.

"Don't worry about that," said the woman. "That doesn't have to happen to you."

Ted was being nervous, he was frightened. What was going to happen to him? He didn't have much money, just lots of debt. He was ready to break down and beg to be left alone.

The woman ushered him into a small office. It had a funky smell, something reminiscent of old gym socks, but it was the least of his concerns. He took a seat as she closed the door.

The woman sat behind the desk and shuffled some papers around.

"Did I talk to you over the phone?" he asked her.

"Yes. My name's Sierra. And I'm here to help you."

"Help me?" he asked, doubting her words. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"You haven't?" she asked with a knowing grin.

"I've only been working for them for like four months now."

"You know they were defrauding people and you did nothing. The Feds will see you as a criminal."

"I didn't want to hurt anyone."

"They don't care about that. And it's a shame because you're a young, cute guy who deserves a better chance than the one they're giving you."

"How did you find out about them?"

"I know someone who knows things and he tells me things about people," she explained vaguely. "Things I can use."

"To blackmail," he said, calling a spade a spade. "You want money, I understand. But I don't have money. "

He noticed a pail of old sneakers and flats heaped in a pile, dress socks and gym socks piled on top. It was the source of the irritating stink in the room, but his goal was to keep the meeting short anyway.

"I don't want your money," said Sierra, calmly.

"Then what do you want?" he asked.

"I want your service."

"I don't understand."

Sierra leaned back in her chair and threw her feet on the desk, one pant leg crossed over the other, the soles of her scuffed flats facing him.

"I want you to be more ... accommodating," she explained. "I want you to listen to me and do what I tell you. I want you to behave, because it's in your best interests to do so."

"Behave?" he asked. "What do you want?"

"How much do you want this to just ... go away?"

"Just tell me what you want, alright?" he asked, anxious to cut to the chase and hear the worst.

"No one ever has to know anything as long as you do what you're told and provide me good service."

"What service?"

Sierra kicked off one flat and then another before recrossing her legs, her sheer dress socks wrinkled and glistening with sweat as she wriggled her sock toes. The stink was like a kick in the gut, pungent and vinegary; like moldy shoes with a hint of cheese.

"Can you put your shoes back on," he whined. "They stink."

Sierra grinned, flexing and wriggling her toes without so much as removing her feet from the desk.

He turned away.

"Get closer," she ordered, her voice louder than before, more peremptory.

He inched his chair closer, his head averted and a face over his nose.

"Closer," she demanded.

He got close enough that her sock feet were almost touching his arm. His face remained averted.

"Just tell me what you want?" he snapped.

"Don't take that tone with me," she said firmly. "You don't call the shots here. I do. And I'll tell you what I want when I want. Your job is to do what I tell you. That's it."

"Then tell me what you want me to do."

"I want you face next to my feet," she said. Shocked, he hesitated. "Now," she yelled.

"What?" he asked in disbelief.

"Do I have to tell you again?" she asked, piqued by his failure to follow directions.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked. "Let's just get serious here. You want something."

"I told you what I want. I want to feel your face under my feet," she said, her voice shrill. She was furious.

"They stink," he answered weakly, the reality of his situation beginning to set in.

"Of course they stink. They're feet."

"Really stink. They're disgusting."

"Why do you think I want your face on them," she explained, her frown dissolving into a sly smile.

"I'll do something else," he explained.

"Alright," she answered with a chuckle. "Stand up and strip."

"What?"

"I tell you what to do and all you do is ask questions," she growled, her smelly sock feet still crossed on her desk. "This only works when you do what you're told. Exactly as you're told. And when you do exactly as you're told, what happened at your company remains a secret."

"That's what you want. You want me to strip and then you won't tell anyone."

"Stripping is a good start. Now get your clothes off, for fuck sake."

He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. He then loosened his undershirt and pulled it up over his head.

"Keep going," she said, a smile broadening on her face.

He kicked off his shoes and turned, looking to see that the door was shut.

"The door's locked and no one's here."

"There was a man ..."

"Except him," she said, waving of the thought with a flick of the hand. "Now hurry up and get your clothes off."

Reassured, he unbuttoned his trousers and, unable to look her in the face, slid them down to his ankles before stepping out of them.

"Put your clothes in the corner," she barked. "I hate slobs."

He complied before resuming his seat.

"You're not done yet," she said sternly. He look at this socks and, standing up, reached down to remove them.

"Not your socks, idiot. I want the socks on. Your shorts. Take them off and put them in the corner."

"What is this for," he asked, blushing crimson at the thought of exposing himself.

"I want to see what I'm getting," she replied as if he'd retained him for sexual services. He didn't know whether to be excited or repulsed.

He stood and lowered his shorts, one hand over his cock and balls as he threw the shorts into the pile and sat down.

"Stand up," she barked. "Hands at your side. I said I want to see you."

He complied, feeling humiliated as she eyed his body.

"Not bad," she answered. "On your knees."

He hesitated. This was too humiliating.

"Are you deaf or just really stupid? I said on your knees."

He dropped to his knees.

"Now get closer to the desk," she demanded.

He could see her sock feet directly in front of him, the fabric was thinning on the heels and the balls of the feet from too much wear, a few holes with dirty toes protruding. The smell was vile, pungent and cheesy. She couldn't have changed her socks for days and days.

"I said get closer, idiot," she shrieked. "I gave you an order."

He inched closer.

"What do you want from me?" he said, weakly.

"I want you to stop asking questions and do what you're told. Everything'll be fine when you do what you're told. Now get your face up against my feet."

She constantly wriggled her sock toes. He felt sick. He inched closer until her sock toes grazed the side of his head. He was holding his breath.

"Face me," she barked. He turned, the rough fabric of her damp sock feet against his face, her two sock feet pressing up against his face, the balls of her feet against his eyes. Her thin socks were soaked with sweat.

"Please. They really stink," he begged. "How 'bout I wash your feet for you," he suggested.

"You've got a long road ahead of you, at this rate. And a lot to learn, you stupid little man. When I give you an order I mean it and when I say no questions, I mean no questions. Now lean back and look at my feet."

He gazed at the wrinkled fabric of her disgusting sock feet, the ends encrusting in the cool air.

"Smell them," she barked. He recoiled.

"I said smell my feet. Now."

He sniffed tentatively, the fabric of her socks pungently cheesy and very sour and musty. He made a face.

"Under the toes," she said, wriggling her toes again. He could see the skin of a calloused ball of her foot through the threadbare fabric.

He sniffed again, before turning his head away.

"I told you to smell them not look all disgusted. They're feet. They stink. And now I want you to smell them. What don't you understand, dumbass?"

He hesitated.

She pressed the toes of her sock foot up against his nose. "Smell them. So I can hear it."

He sniffed. The cheesy stench was turning his stomach.

"Don't stop. Keep sniffing. And I want to hear it."

He hesitated too long, and she slammed her sock foot against his face. "We can do this another way, you know. I'm giving you a less painful way out of this. I'd suggest you listen up, idiot, and do what I tell you."

He imagined goons roughing him up. He didn't want to get hurt, but this was so humiliating. He took a deep breath as she wriggled her sock toes over his nose. It was like sniffing cheese cloth. This was cruel.

"Keep smelling them loud until I tell you to stop," she ordered as she turned to some paperwork on her desk.

He sniffed loudly again and again. The humiliation of being on his knees smelling her disgusting feet was even worse than the stench. Had his life come to this? Was this the only way to salvage it? His nose between some bitch's dirty sock toes?

The putrid, cheesy stench didn't get any easier even after five full minutes of sniffing, as she alternated feet. She'd cross one foot over the other and then recross them, having him sniff from the heels and back up to the toes, clenching her toes over his nose before asking him to smell all the stink of them.

"Can I do something else?" he mumbled, still sickened by the smell.

It was a surprise when she pushed his foot away with her sock foot, still damp with sweat.

Sierra got to her feet and walked around the desk, stopping to peel off one sock before dangling it in front of his face.

"Open your mouth," she barked. He hesitated.

He felt her foot against his balls. She pressed hard. "Do you want to get hurt?"

He shook his head.

"Then open your mouth," she yelled.

He opened his mouth and she shoved the sock, crusty toe end first, into his mouth. The sheer sock just fit.

"I wouldn't have had to do that if you'd shut your mouth like I told you to and just smelled my feet. I decide what you do and I take no suggestions from you, dumbass."

The acrid, vinegary tartness of her filthy sock was beyond humiliating. He wanted to spit it out, but this woman was unpredictable. He feared where disobedience might lead.

Sierra sat back in her chair, slipped off another sock before throwing her legs back on the desk and crossing them. Her bare feet were filthy, dirt and sock flecks on her wrinkled soles and on the toughened, calloused skin of her heels and the balls of her feet. They were thick, wide feet, her toes round and still wiggly. He could even see dirt between her toes and under her nails as she wriggled her toes.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she howled, angrily. "Keep sniffing."

Sierra's feet were far from pretty, rough to the touch and, not to mention, poorly cared for. And yet she loved having them on his face.

He pressed his face against the warm, damp flesh of her soles and began sniffing again, the ripe stink of her toes even worse as she slid them over his nose and scrunched his nose with them. More nauseating still was when she pressed her toenail up against his nostrils. He could really smell the sharp cheese of her toe jam.

Unable to breathe through his mouth, his every inhalation was stringer and deeper. Her sweaty feet slapped over his face as he had to smell everything from her heels to the tips of her nails.

"If you promise to listen and do what I tell you," she explained. "You can take out the sock."

He nodded before pulling the sock from his mouth. He tried scraping the taste off his tongue.

"Now start licking my feet," she demanded.

He recoiled. He was about to say that they were filthy and disgusting, but caught himself in time.

"Well, hurry up," she barked.

He leaned in close and took his tongue to the closest sole, her broad, wide foot still glistening with sweat as she flexed her toes. It tasted tart.

"Up and down. I want everything licked and I want them licked clean."

"I can keep smelling them," he suggested.

She slammed a foot against his face. "When are you gonna learn?" she shrieked. "This is gonna be work, isn't it?"

He shook his head and began licking her filthy soles, spitting out pieces of sock fiber and dirt as he cleaned.

"Don't spit them out. Eat them."

He was ready to object, but there was no point. He licked and swallowed, just as he was told. He hesitated, close to choking.

"I said clean my feet not make faces," she yelled.

He continued, his tongue feeling the hard skin on the balls of her feet and the hard ridges on the sides. Pressing a hard, calloused, filthy sole, she told him to clean them.

"Use your teeth to scrape off the dirt. I want them clean, smooth and soft."

He opened his mouth, taking her broad sole in his mouth and used his teeth on them. "Bite me and I'll kick you so hard in your balls you won't be able to walk out of here."

He as careful with his teeth as he scraped, licked and sucked. He did the same with the other heel and with the hardened flesh of the balls of her feet.

"Stop making faces, idiot. You've got a lot to learn about foot cleaning, don't you? You seem to forget what's at stake here."

He remembered what was at stake. He'd never felt so degraded before. Was he such an awful person she thought he deserved this?

BY the time he got to her toes, he had to stand up a little, sucking on them one at a time and then two or three at a time.

"Get between the toes too," she said sternly.

There was black gunk between her toes and it turned his stomach just look at it." He stooped down and used his tongue to dislodge a piece from between her thick big toe and the second one. It fell on the floor.

She kicked his face. "Damn it," she roared. "This doesn't work if you don't listen. I told you to eat the dirt, didn't I?"

He nodded.

"Then pick it up and swallow it," she growled.

He did what he was told, trying to swallow it before tasting it. And yet, he could still taste the sharp cheese of the dirt. He cleaned out her other toes and swallowed.

She directed his attention to dirty spots, castigating him for overlooking them and then berated him for not getting her heels smooth and soft enough. She kept him licking and sucking on her feet another ten minutes.

As he licked, an intercom beeped. He gazed up, but she appeared not to have noticed. He busied himself with cleaning her feet when he felt a draft on his bare ass. He turned.

There was a tall woman in jeans, blouse and sneakers retrieving his clothes and shoes from the floor.

"Those are mine," he yelped.

The woman turned, gazed down at his naked body and smirked. "I gathered as much." She was of average looks with a slim, athletic build. Her smile might have been more attractive under other circumstances.

"It's alright," said Sierra. "Amber's just putting them somewhere safe. I have to leave."

"I'm done then?"

Amber chuckled as she shook her head.

"Here's his file," said Sierra to Amber, leaning over the desk to offer the other woman a file folder. "I've put him down for smelly feet and dirty feet," she continued.

Amber's stifled laughter irked him. "Look, you had your fun with me," said Ted angrily. "There's nothing else."

"Your foot worship left much to be desired, Ted," said Sierra as she retrieved a handbag from a drawer. "You have a lot to learn. You know that. We all know that."

"Come on," he said. "Enough's enough."

"Did you really think you were going to get off that easy?" said Sierra with a twisted grin.

"You've got his file," Sierra told Amber. "You know what to do. I won't be back 'till later."

"I'm sure we can come to some arrangement," he ventured.

"This is the arrangement, and you'll shut your stupid mouth for once and do what we tell you," said Sierra, between her teeth.

"Typical," muttered Amber as she handed his clothes to a woman in the hall.

"My clothes," he howled. A college-aged woman of average height and long dark hair, his clothes in hand, glanced down at his nakedness before flashing a broad smile.

He reached for his clothes when Sierra stopped his hand and slapped him hard in the face. "Stop it," she yelled. "The longer you fight this, the longer this whole process is gonna take."

"Process?" he asked, a hand to his cheek.

"I'm leaving you with Amber. She'll provide further instructions."

Amber ushered him outside. "This way," she said, her voice even.

As they stepped outside the office, Margo locked the door and produced one of her sheer socks from a pocket. "If he doesn't shut up," she said dangling the sock. "You know what to do."

Amber made a face as she accepted the sock, letting it dangle in her fingers.

"Sorry, those are pretty nasty."