Chapter 2: The Foot Whore: Sarah humiliates David with her feet
Time lost meaning. There was only the rhythm she set, the muffled sounds of his efforts, the creak of her shoes as she braced herself against the shelves. Eventually, Sarah rose, a slow, deliberate lift that left him gasping for cool air, his lips wet, his mind blank. She smoothed her skirt down, the gesture mundane and devastating. Looking down at him, she adjusted a stray strand of hair. Her expression was one of deep satisfaction, like someone who had just finished a good meal.
“Stay,” she said, her voice a little rough.
She walked away, her footsteps fading toward the front of the stockroom. David lay paralyzed on the cardboard, the crumpled material stuck to his back with sweat. His entire body trembled. He could still taste her. The front of his uniform was a taut, painful tent. He’d never been harder, or more utterly empty.
Voices floated back, light and conversational. “You’re kidding. He’s still here?” Era’s voice.
“Told you,” Sarah replied. A drawer opened and closed. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“Did he… you know…?” Kristen asked, her tone curious.
“No. He just followed instructions.”
A beat of silence, then Era’s laugh, bright and amused. “Oh, that’s cruel. I love it.”
Footsteps returned, not just Sarah’s. Three pairs of shoes clicked on the linoleum. David forced himself to sit up, back against the shelf. The three women stood in a semi-circle, looking down at him. Sarah held a small green pharmacy bottle and a box of antiseptic wipes.
“Clean up,” she said, tossing the wipes onto his lap. “You look a mess.”
His hands shook as he tore the foil packet. The sharp citrus scent of the wipe cut through the intimate musk still clinging to him. He scrubbed at his mouth and chin, the gesture feeling like an absurd parody of normalcy.
Sarah watched, then unscrewed the pharmacy bottle. She poured a clear gel onto her palm. “Foot cramp,” she explained to no one in particular, working the gel between her hands. “From being in one position for so long.” She sat on a low box opposite him and stretched out her legs. Her stockinged feet landed in his lap, squarely on the throbbing bulge he’d been trying to ignore.
He jumped at the contact. She just smirked, flexing her toes. The cool gel seeped through his pants.
“So, David,” Era said, leaning against a shelf. She was smiling, her eyes bright. “You deliver all over town, right? You must see some weird stuff.”
He stared, confused. Were they making small talk now? “I… guess. Mostly just packages.”
“Boring,” Kristen chimed in. She had found a stool and dragged it over, sitting primly. “But you’re not boring today, are you?”
Sarah began to rub her own foot, her thumbs working into her arch, but the motion transferred through to him. An exquisite, indirect pressure. He swallowed a groan.
“He’s not much of a talker, is he?” Era observed. She kicked off her own flats—bright pink sneakers. She wiggled her toes, encased in sheer nude stockings. “Maybe he’s better with his mouth.”
“He’s demonstrated some aptitude,” Sarah said, her tone dry. She lifted her foot from his lap and extended it toward his face. “Prove her right. The instep is still tight.”
The command was absolute. The other women watched, silent now. David hesitated for only a second before he leaned forward, his hands gripping his own knees. He pressed his lips to the arch of her foot through the stocking. The gel was slick and tasteless.
“Use your tongue, silly,” Sarah chided gently. “You know how.”
He did. He lapped at the nylon, the synthetic fiber rough on his tongue. The position was awkward, subservient. He felt Era’s and Kristen’s eyes like spotlights.
“See?” Era said, delighted. She peeled off her own stockings, one after the other, a slow, stripping motion. She tossed them aside. Her bare feet were small, with cherry-red polish. “My toes are actually killing me. These shoes are cute but they are not functional.”
She didn’t ask. She just placed her bare foot on his shoulder, then slid it down his chest, coming to rest right next to Sarah’s gel-slick one. An offering. A demand.
“He can’t do two at once,” Kristen murmured, but she was shedding her tights too, rolling them down her calves. Her polish was a pale, pearlescent pink.
“Then he’ll have to prioritize,” Sarah said, shifting her foot to press against his cheek, turning his head toward Era’s. “Take turns. Be democratic.”
David’s mind was splitting. The scent of Sarah’s gel, the sight of Era’s red toes wiggling before his eyes, the soft thud of Kristen’s discarded tights hitting the floor. He turned and let his tongue drag along the ball of Era’s foot. She tasted of leather and salt.
“Oh!” Era giggled, a genuine, surprised sound. “That tickles a bit. But don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He moved from her foot to Sarah’s, then felt a gentle tap on his other cheek. Kristen had moved closer, her bare foot now hovering near his left side. He turned to attend to her, his movements becoming mechanical, a puppet serving three mistresses.
The laughter started then, not mean, but light and incredulous. “Look at him go,” Era chuckled. “Like a devoted little puppy.”
“A very thirsty puppy,” Kristen added, her voice hushed with fascination. She experimentally curled her toes against his lips. He opened for them automatically.
Sarah just watched, her expression one of calm ownership. “He likes having a job. Clear instructions. Look how hard he’s working down there.” Her foot pushed a little harder against his face.
He was. He was drowning in it. The humiliation was a live wire, but every giggle, every casual comment about his desperation, only fused it tighter to a pleasure so deep it felt like pain. His cock ached, a furious, neglected pulse between his legs. He was surrounded by bare skin and the smell of women, being used as a living tool, and he had never been more aroused in his life.
“I think he likes your polish, Kris,” Era said. “He’s spending a lot of time on your little toes.”
“Maybe he has a favorite,” Kristen mused, sliding her foot from his mouth and brushing it over his ear, his neck. “Do you have a favorite, David?”
He panted, his mouth free for a second. “No,” he whispered.
“Liar,” Sarah sang softly. “Everyone has a preference.” She nodded to Era. “Sit on the box. Put your feet in his lap.”
Era did, spinning around and plopping down so her back was to him, her bare feet planted on his thighs, right over his straining zipper. The direct contact made him cry out, a short, sharp sound.
“Shhh,” Kristen soothed, moving behind him. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, not massaging, just holding him in place. “You’re doing so well. Just focus on the task.”
The task was impossible. Era rocked her heels, grinding them against him. Sarah extended her foot again, tapping his lips. “My turn again. You’re neglecting your host.”
He leaned forward, taking Sarah’s toes into his mouth, sucking gently on the nylon as Era continued her slow, tormenting movement against his lap. Kristen’s breath was near his ear. “It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it? What you’ll do. What you obviously need.”
He couldn’t speak. He could only moan around the fabric in his mouth, a muffled, broken sound of consent.
“He’s going to ruin those pants,” Era said, bouncing her feet a little. She sounded thrilled.
“That’s his problem,” Sarah said, her eyes locked on David’s glazed, pleading ones. She pulled her foot back. “Okay. Stop.”
All movement ceased. Era went still. Kristen’s hands lifted from his shoulders. The sudden lack of touch was a shock. David swayed, almost whining with the loss.
“Stand up,” Sarah said.
It took him two tries. His legs were weak, his uniform disheveled, the evidence of his state obscenely clear.
The three women looked at him, at the glaring wet patch on his trousers, at his utterly wrecked expression. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the lights.
Sarah finally broke it, her voice soft but carrying. “You should get going. Those other deliveries won’t make themselves.”
It was a dismissal. It was an earthquake.
He stood there, shattered.
Kristen gathered her tights and shoes. Era slipped her sneakers back on, not bothering with the stockings. Sarah remained seated, wiping the last of the gel from her hands with a clean tissue.
They were done. The spell was breaking. Real life, with its schedules and signatures, was seeping back into the cramped room.
David fumbled for words, for anything. “I…”
“See you next week, David,” Sarah said, not looking at him. She threw the tissue into a small bin. It was the most final sound in the world.
He turned and walked, each step a monument to the absurdity of his situation. He navigated the maze of shelves, his body screaming, his mind a cacophony of shame and want. He pushed through the heavy door into the alley. The afternoon sun was lower now, casting long shadows.
He didn’t pause this time. He went straight to the van, yanked the door open, and climbed in. He sat in the driver’s seat for a full five minutes, hands gripping the wheel, shaking. The taste of three different women was layered on his tongue. The feeling of their feet on his body was a brand.
Next week.
The words echoed, a promise and a threat. He started the engine. The van rumbled to life, a mundane sound. He pulled out of the alley, his body throbbing with unfinished need, his head full of the sound of their laughter. He had three more stops to make. He had no idea how he would manage them. All he knew for certain was that in seven days, he would be back at the Midland Pharmacy. And he would walk into that stockroom knowing exactly what he was offering, and exactly what he was there to receive.