Foot Binding Smell Novels & Stories

Kevan's finger drifted down and turned to grip her slightly calloused heel. "Mr. Rogers…" she whispered very softly, abashed. "Mm?" Kevan responded while placing her foot on his knee, which shocked Larissa further. Did he not…think that it was nasty?! "It's…not sanitary…" She curled her toes. Hearing this, Kevan stared at her foot seriously for quite a while—Maybe it was due to long periods of being wrapped in stockings and leather shoes, but the skin of her feet was fairer than her arms. Moreover, despite having been cooped up in her shoes for so long, they did not look sweaty or smell nasty.

Just being around them and talking to them would make me chub up. Their boots were usually well-worn, carrying a musky scent of leather and sweat that turned me on. When I could, I’d take their boots into the back room under the pretense of doing something special. In reality, I’d sneak into the small bathroom, sniff and lick the boots, and jerk off.

Climbing out of bed, I decide that I have to find out what is responsible for that pungent smell and where it is coming from. The minute my feet touch the floor, I discover the root of the toxic fumes. Beneath my toes I feel something cold and slimy. Trying to step around it carefully, I realize that it is far bigger than I first had thought and almost stumble over it. What on earth is on my floor?

I inhaled a deep breath, the air was clearer now. I looked down at my feet and groaned. Not only were the borrowed boots horrendous, but they were also two sizes too big. I looked ridiculous, but the men were starting to complain about the smell. I kicked a heel against the leg of my chair, the jostling feeling of the shoe around my foot foreign to me.

She flexed her toes in encouragement. The women were coordinating above because Erika released her grip on my face and torso. With their feet, the two women pushed down on my shoulders, signalling me to lie on the floor. Anna slid both feet to my face. I love the smell of her feet, imbibed with a glorious mixture of the finest shoe leather, slightly damp sweat, and something intangible I can only describe as female pheromones. I'm addicted to the smell, taste, and feel of Anna's feet.

I bent over, dry-heaving, my body rejecting something that wasn't there. "It's the smell," Veronica said, waving a hand in front of her nose. "The dead magic. It makes everyone sick." She was right. It was the smell. It had to be the smell. But as I straightened up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, a sharp, blinding pain shot through my left shin. I hissed, grabbing my leg, nearly falling to my knee. I looked down. My combat boot was unscathed. The fabric of my pants was intact. There was no wound there.

Still, with routine came adaptation. The third week was the worst: the itching under the cast was unbearable. I counted the days until my hospital visit to finally have it removed and take a proper shower—without relying on wipes for my foot. «I swear my feet smell.» When the day finally arrived, I felt like I was floating. Figuratively, of course—jumping was still strictly forbidden. «Goodbye, dead weight. Hello, soap on the sole of my foot.»

If only she knew how that was going. Well, she won’t exactly want to hear about it. “I’m home!” I call out, kicking off my shoes and flopping onto the couch. Fifteen minutes pass, and there’s still no sign of her. Not even a sarcastic remark. That’s weird. Just as I’m about to get up and look for her, something hits me. A smell. A truly awful smell. It’s thick, heavy, and wrong. Like something is burning, but also… maybe rotting? My stomach churns, my eyes sting, and I slap a hand over my nose.

I grabbed a container of body wash and a scrunchy, got it good and soapy, then began washing her, working down her back, being careful to gently but firmly rub and massage her body. Soon I worked my way down to her feet. She turned, placing a hand upon my head and lifted her foot as I washed and massaged. The soft moans she made encouraged me. Despite my own desire, I didn't spend long on her feet. I'd lost my last girlfriend when I was open about my foot fetish. She was happy when I would surprise her with heels or clothing that emphasized her legs, but the moment I came clean, it was "I can't be with a guy who wants to lick my feet."

"Can't feel ground. Can't move toes. Feet need to breathe." "Feet don't breathe, they're feet." "My feet breathe." Elowen was wandering down the aisle, and she stopped suddenly. "What about these?" She held up a pair of sandals. Simple. Just a flat sole with one wide strap across the top of the foot. Open air. Nothing caging the toes, nothing covering the heel. I took them suspiciously. Slipped one on. It was... acceptable. My toes could move. Air touched my skin. I could still feel the texture of the sole beneath me, even if it wasn't the same as bare earth.