The Goddess Of Sweat - Britney Fills Me With Stinky Feet And Socks
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When the door opens, I almost tremble. She's back. Beautiful. Serene. Cruel in the most perfect way. Wearing that tight top that clings to her chest like a second skin, and white leggings that reveal even the outline of her thigh muscles. Her belly button was exposed, sweaty. But my gaze went straight to her feet.<br>Old, worn-out black sneakers. The ones she wears every day, without ever washing them. White socks — or rather, dirty, grayish, damp, stained by time, effort, routine. I recognize the smell in the air before I even get close: strong, sour, completely feminine. A smell that can't be explained, only felt and obeyed.<br>Britney sits down in the armchair. She looks at me calmly.<br>“Still there, just like I told you to.”<br>She pulls me by the collar. She brings me closer until my face is pressed against her sneakers. The heat that emanates from there disarms me. The sweat accumulated during the day, from the gym, from the street… is a dense vapor that rises from the fabric and enters my nostrils straight into my brain. It’s bitter, salty, organic. The smell of a real woman. Of feet that don’t clean themselves to please — they get dirty to dominate.<br>Britney doesn’t need to say anything else. I start to smell them. First from the outside of the sneakers, then from the space between the laces. And the more I inhale, the more she smiles. I moan, but not out of pleasure — out of necessity.<br>Then she takes off her sneakers. Slowly. On purpose. The socks come to the surface: soaked, almost stuck to her foot. Marks of use on the soles, yellowed on the heel, with that smell that mixes humidity, stuffy skin and the natural acid of her body. I bury my face there. I inhale with everything. I lose myself.<br>— Stronger. It smells like a good slave.<br>And I obey. I smell it as if it were my only function in the world. As if the smell of Britney's feet were the only air I had. The cloth of the sock, warm and wet, covers my nose like a mask. And I feel it: the sweet smell of dried sweat on the fabric, the acid of the sole, the sea air of time trapped inside the sneaker.<br>Then she looks me in the eye and raises an eyebrow. It's the signal. I take the sock off with my mouth, feeling her fingers, warm, flexible. She takes the sock from my mouth, rolls it up and pushes it inside me. Now the smell doesn't just enter my nose, but my throat. She silences me with her own sweat.<br>And when I think I can't give in any longer, she takes off the other one. Sock after sock, smell after smell. She shoves this one in my mouth too. I am silenced by her filth. For everything she has walked on, lived through, sweated through.<br>I take a deep breath. Her feet touch my face. And even without seeing my reflection, I know: I am just a slave to the smell. A servant to dirty socks. To female feet. To Britney.
