Adult Stories

I love having a slave suck my feet, especially if he treats them with the same delicacy as my clit. And I love the feeling of my stockinged feet oozing into shit. What could be better than to have a slave lick shit from my feet, sucking to get it through the nylon from between my toes? Especially if I've spent an hour or two watching him struggle in pain and humiliation.

He has been waiting for a long time, his notions of time have faded but several hours certainly, on the cold stone floor of the dark cellar, naked apart from his bonds. He is hog-tied, his ankles and his wrists are bound together behind his back, his belly on the floor. He wears a thick rubber hood that leaves him minimal vision through a few small holes. The hood has a large hole for his mouth, but for the moment that is filled by a huge ball gag that stretches his jaws to the maximum, strapped in tight behind his head. His cock is strapped tightly backwards around his balls, making it impossible to hump the floor while he is alone. The same strap holds a thick plug deep inside his anus. He also wears a pair of towering high-heel ankle boots, locked in place. Not that they make any difference, at the moment anyway, but they serve as another symbol of his submission. His bondage is completed by a leather collar attached by a short leash to the hog-tie. This holds his head up, or rather makes sure that he does, because if not, he chokes and cannot breathe. Although it is invisible, his back and buttocks are covered in weals from the vicious beating she gave him before applying his bondage. The last thing she did before leaving him like this was to put vicious metal clips on his nipples, two on each: a large one, its deep, pointed teeth digging into the soft flesh behind the nipple, and a smaller but equally vicious one on the tip of the nipple itself. Since his weight is borne by his belly and chest, these clips are driven deep into him sending searing pains throughout his body. It was hard even at first, but now his nipples feel like they are on fire despite the clammy cold of the stone.

He hears her approaching, the tapping of her heels on the wooden stairs leading down into the cellar. The door bursts open, the bright light flashes on and her heels click across the floor until she is standing directly behind him. "Spread your legs", she commands. He dreads whatever punishment she is planning. Her hand closes on the soft head of his twisted cock, gently caressing. Despite the strap he hardens up, his cock straining and trying to straighten itself out. His cheeks start to thrust, pressing his tormented nipples against the hard floor. Only when he starts to moan with pleasure through his gagged jaws does she stop. Then the arousal is replaced by searing agony as she lashes his balls and his erect cock with the rubber whip she is carrying. At first he gasps, then as she continues his gasps and moans turn to shrill screams even through the gag. After a dozen or so strokes, she moves round in front him. He sees her beautiful feet, displayed at their best in high-heel strappy sandals and black nylon. One fine strap crosses behind her toes, another encircles her trim ankles with a fine strap to the top of the five-inch heel. He looks up, to see that she is wearing black tights and a short black rubber dress. She says, "Time for your treat" as she removes his gag. He feels relief and pleasure at being able to close his aching mouth, savouring the movement and the relaxing of his tortured jaw muscles. She permits him one short kiss of each foot. Then she turns around, facing away from him, and crouches down until her cheeks are only inches from his face. A stream of piss flows from her, wetting the tights and splashing on the ground directly under his face. The puddle grows and spreads under him, the warmth briefly heating his chilled flesh and her perfume filling his nose. As the stream slows a trickle and stops, she strains a little and lets out a long fart. She strains some more, and suddenly her tights bulge and the stench of her shit replaces the delicate perfume of her piss. She pauses, then strains one more time. A little thick brown liquid flows through her tights and drips down into the golden puddle. She waits a few moments, to be sure that he is savouring the moment, then she pulls the tights down around her bottom to her thighs and tips the contents onto the floor. Inches from his nose is a mound of her shit. Her flesh is smeared with brown, and her tights are heavy with it. She pulls the tights back up to her waist.

She unbuckles the ankle straps of her shoes, removes each one in turn and throws it over into a corner of the cellar leaving her crouching barefoot on the ground, the mound of warm, stinking shit still between her legs. Slowly she stands, then puts first one stockinged foot and then the other into the mound. It collapses under her weight, squelching round her feet, oozing through the nylon and upwards between her toes. She loves that feeling, and stands for a moment gently moving her feet around and making the most of the warm, moist softness. Gradually she spreads out the mound until it has become a large, circular stain around her feet. Now she walks away in slow, deliberate steps. Each step leaves a footprint, the beauty of her foot reproduced in her shit on the hard floor, slightly smudged through the nylon. As the prints start to become faint, she returns to the centre and sets out in a different direction, until her footprints are everywhere, though she has been careful to leave them as distinct as she can, conscious of the individual beauty of each of these images of her body. Finally she makes her way one last time to a corner of the room where an armchair and a footstool await her, and sinks softly into the chair with her feet thrust out in front of her, still covered in shit. "Clean the floor up, including every last footprint. When you've finished, you have my permission to lick my feet completely clean. But only when the floor is absolutely spotless." She leans back and her hands stray to her covered cunt. She cannot resist rubbing herself through the soft messiness that lines the tights, gently at first so she can make the most of watching him suffer.

He sets to work, beginning with the remains of the mound directly in front of him. His tongue reaches into it, his lips enclose it, and mouthful by mouthful he takes it into himself. It is overwhelming, the intensity and the disgust that he feels at himself, and the excitement at the same time. One more time his cock strains at its strap, trying to straighten out and express his pleasure. To reach the floor with his mouth and tongue he must strain at the leather collar, cutting off his own breath. This slows him down and adds to the pain he suffers. When he pauses for breath, his mouth is filled with the cloying foulness. Soon only traces remain of this mother lode, but he must clean those up before proceeding. The floor is rough on his tongue and the minute cavities in the stone must be individually scoured to remove every last smear. His tongue is sore, his belly is full and the sensation, more than just flavour or smell but a fat richness, enwrap his entire being. Now he needs to start work on the footprints. There is only one way he can move around, deprived as he is of the use of his arms and legs. He must squirm, transferring his weight from one side to the other and in the process moving forward a few inches with each awkward movement. Each time the weight of his body is transferred to his chest, crushing each nipple in turn against the vicious metal clips that still imprison them. Each movement is agony, and he must cover the whole area of the cellar to complete his chore. Soon his tongue is within reach of the first print. Lovingly, he licks at the still-moist traces of his mistress' foot, treating it as tenderly as he would her living flesh. He knows that she is watching him, expecting to see this respect, and that his later punishment will be worse if he fails to show it. But anyway he cannot help himself, he adores her body, he adores her feet and their delicate shape imprinted on the hard stone in the product of her own self. Soon he has removed the first trace of her passage, savouring its flavour and his own disgust and pleasure all at once. Now it is time to move painfully another few inches until he reaches the next, and start over.

Time passes, maybe hours. His mistress has apparently lost all interest and is deep in a magazine. Only one footprint remains, and he cannot keep his eyes from her feet, an irresistible draw as he thinks of the sensation of his tongue on her flesh. His nipples are now oozing blood from their torture, and his pain is awful, his belly filled with the taste of her now-decaying shit. The hours of squirming around the floor have taken their toll on his anus, stretched around the huge plug and squeezed tight with every movement, and his own bowels are now ready to explode. The last few footprints have been hard to remove. They have dried out and have had to be scrubbed with his sore tongue from the rough floor. But now he is just minutes from his final reward.

Suddenly she jumps up. "Silly me", she says, "if I leave my beautiful shoes laying around like that they won't last any time at all". She struts across to the opposite corner of the room where her shoes lay on their sides, and carefully stands them upright before returning to her chair. Although the shit has now mostly dried out, enough remains for each footprint to be clearly visible. He realises without being told that he must clean these before he can touch her. In agony, he sets out to do so. This means squirming across the whole length of the room and back. It takes him another hour, another hour of twisting from nipple to nipple, another hour of agony in his bowels and his anus. He leaves a little trail of blood wherever he goes now.

Finally he returns to her, removing the last print from her journey across the room that seems so long ago now. Without speaking, she lowers her feet from the stool to the floor, making them available to him. In one last squirm, one last arrow of pain through his body, he reaches her. His tongue and lips make contact with the filthy nylon. He runs his tongue over it, feeling the regular roughness of the material as well as the clamminess of the cold and drying shit. He starts by licking as much as he can from the outside, around her toes. Then he must start trying to clean the inside. This is slow work. He must collect his saliva, then dribble it and work it into the nylon with his tongue, savouring all the while the smell, taste and texture of her shit. He encloses her toes with his mouth and sucks, trying to remove as much as possible of the diluted filth through the filter of the nylon, pushing his tongue between her toes to try and scrub the shit that lurks there. He repeats this dozens of times until the liquid seems clean. Then he passes to the rest of her foot, first licking the residue from the outside then washing as much as he can from the inside. It takes forever. When one foot is clean, or as clean as he can make it, he proceeds to the other foot. As he sucks at her feet, she rubs herself through the soggy mess of her tights, coming several times as she watches him suffer and struggle.

Finally he thinks he has both feet clean. He stops and moves his head away. She ignores him for a moment, then looks at each foot in turn. She stands, and pulls the tights down. Her flesh is still smeared, more so because of her own activity while he has been labouring. She pulls the tights slowly down her legs, then slips them off first one foot and then the other. She screws them up into a ball, then once again looks at her feet. She is not happy. She yells at him, "You useless slut, there's still shit all over the place. Under my toenails, between my toes, you're completely useless. I'll have to have a shower now. And don't think I'm letting you near my bare skin, you filthy shit slut." Roughly she stuffs the tights into his open mouth, carefully arranging for the filthy crotch to be outermost and the first part into his mouth. He gags, his mouth barely big enough to accomodate them. Then she takes the ball gag that she removed earlier, and forces it into place against the resistance of the tights. He can barely breathe. She tightens the strap until his breathing is laboured and noisy, and he is choking on the shit that now fills his throat. When it seems like he must suffocate, she tightens the strap one more notch. Then she roughly kicks him over so that he is on his back, his arms and legs bound painfully behind him and his belly and thighs exposed upwards. She takes a cane and beats him dozens of times. He struggles and tries to scream, but through the double gag he makes no sound other than his laboured breathing. His belly and thighs are covered in criss-crossing weals, red and purple and some oozing blood. When she has finished she straddles his body, eases her shit-covered cunt lips apart, and pisses on him, a stream of discoloured piss that washes down onto him and over his wounds. It stings, and he shudders in more pain. When she has finished, she kicks him back onto his belly. Then she squats back down in front of his head, strains for a few moments, and passes two small turds. She turns around, drags him forward a few inches, and pushes his head down into them, smearing them over his hood, around the gag, and into the tiny eye-holes. He thinks the worst is over, but she has one refinement to come. For all his agony and his disgust, he is still excited, his cock as hard as it can be in its bondage. She moves behind him, roughly spreads his legs, and moistening her hand with the shit from around her crotch, she rubs at his cock head for the short time it takes for him to come. One more time he screams, this time from pleasure.

Now, all excitement has faded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of pain and disgust. His body aches as his stomach churns with the foul remnants inside him, his bowels desperate for relief despite the plug keeping it all contained. Bruised and sore, his nipples throb in sharp pain. Breathing is a struggle, each inhale barely passing through the foul fabric forced into his mouth. His eyes and nose burn from the filth that has engulfed them. As she silently walks away, barefoot except for her stockings, she retrieves her shoes from the corner without sparing him another glance. He has no sense of how long he’ll be left alone, or even what time it is. But she knows it’s late, time for her to rest, to forget about him and his torment, and enjoy a peaceful, uninterrupted night of sleep.