Warning: non-consent/reluctance, humiliation, dirty feet.
It was a hot afternoon and another day of work was ending at the office, when Stuart was called into Mr. Rogers' office, as usual, for another humiliation ritual.
"Kneel and start rubbing," was all Mr. Rogers said, before crossing his ankles on the footstool by his chair, and sitting back comfortably.
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," Stuart replied, as it was expected of him.
He came down to his knees in front of his boss, and carefully removed the man's dress shoes. The smell of warm sweat immediately hit his nostrils, coming straight from Mr. Rogers' thin black socks. The boss wiggled his toes casually and let out a mean chuckle.
"They're pretty damp today, huh?" the man provoked.
"Yes, sir, they are," said Stuart meekly.
"And what do you say?"
"They smell great, sir. The smell of real man, sir," Stuart replied robotically.
"Damn right, boy."
Stuart peeled the socks slowly and tried not to choke. His boss always had sweaty feet, but this time, they were quite rank - a salty cheese scent that immediately filled his lungs, as the man moved his toes even more to humiliate him.
Mr. Rogers was quite the manly type. He not only had big size 13s - callused and veined beasts of rugged appearance - but he was large in general. Even in his late fifties, he had a tall posture and a robust body, with big manly arms, broad shoulders and long and thick legs, although he had developed a large beer gut in recent years.
Mr. Rogers had been a handsome type in his youth - not a showstopping handsome, more like a rugged handsome - but now, his face was wrinkled and his skin was marked by age. The one thing that had remained strong was his deep blue eyes, which still carried a dominant and intimidating energy. His attitude, on the other hand, had become more abusive with each new year.
Stuart had been Mr. Rogers' most loyal employee for over ten years, always kissing his ass and following him around like a good boy, but things had taken a dark turn when Mr. Rogers caught Stuart taking a whiff of his worn-out size 13 shoe.
"I always knew you were a fag," Mr. Rogers had said, his face dripping with contempt, and a sick grin. "From now on, your job is to worship me and follow every command, or else."
And so it began: years of psychological domination, servitude and foot worshiping. Mr. Rogers had turned Stuart into his personal assistant, his coffee boy, his shoe polish, his little slave, and Stuart had accepted the abuse like a sad loser. Sometimes the poor stooge wondered why, but all it took was being in Mr. Rogers' dominating presence, looking into his glinting cruel eyes, and Stuart was on his knees again.
"Rub harder, sissy boy," Mr. Rogers' manly voice snapped Stuart back into reality.
Stuart's weak hands ran over Mr. Rogers' sweaty and callused soles. They wore a mixture of red and yellow tones, dirty with sock lint and some dust, and particularly rough on the heels, where the skin was dry and cracked. Those big feet were burned into Stuart's memory: the long and masculine light arches, the prominent balls, the long toes with hair on the top, the veined texture on the bridges. Mr. Rogers' feet were incredibly manly, but not only that, they were... powerful, as if they carried a certain swagger.
Stuart's pathetic penis would twitch every time he took a whiff of those large feet, or saw a glimpse of those red soles, or even when Mr. Rogers walked confidently in front of him - the sound of his shoes echoing in the office. And Mr. Rogers knew the impact he caused very well, and it was why he had Stuart by the balls.
"You're my sissy servant, my personal doormat, never forget that," Mr. Rogers said casually.
"Yes, sir, you're right, sir," Stuart replied meekly.
"Never forget who's in charge, foot fairy."
"Never, sir..."
He rubbed and rubbed Mr. Rogers' feet for a whole hour, as the boss relaxed and made the last few calls, sitting comfortably on his chair, as all the other employees left and went home, completely unaware of the power dynamic. Stuart had to stay there, by the man's side like a trained dog, and boost his ego, polish his shoes, and light up his cigar, and make more coffee, ad nauseam.
Stuart had learned all kinds of foot massage techniques, and had become almost indifferent to Mr. Rogers' sweaty foot odor - except when they were particularly rank, of course. When his hands and fingers hurt from rubbing for a whole hour, and when Mr. Rogers was finally done debasing him, he was finally free to go. A routine of wimpy servitude awaited the next day.
"Now give them a kiss and fuck off," Mr. Rogers said, as he smoked his cigar.
Stuart applied a loyal kiss to each of his boss' big toes, and crawled out of the office, his penis painfully erect in his wet pants, as always. He would drive home and proceed to jerk off in the living room, the memory of red soles and callused toes burned in his mind, and the smell of rank manly feet still fresh on his palms. He always masturbated to completion, and when he reached the climax, he would whisper to himself...
"Mr. Rogers owns me, Mr. Rogers owns me..." or, "Mr. Rogers is a god, Mr. Rogers is a god..." or even, "Mr. Rogers has a big cock, Mr. Rogers has a big cock..."
To be frank, he had never seen his boss' cock, but he had taken glimpses in the restrooms, or peeked at the fat bulge in front of him once in a while. He knew his boss had a big cock - everything about that man gave big dick energy - the only question was how big, and how manly, and how veiny... He lost track of time dreaming about Mr. Rogers' cock, wondering if one day he would get to see it.
