Office Stooge

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.

A few days later, Mr. Rogers was particularly moody and angry at something, and Stuart was called back into the boss' room. That summer day had been excruciatingly hot, and Stuart could only imagine what those feet would smell like.

Mr. Rogers did not say a word this time. He simply snapped his fingers and pointed to the floor in front of him. Stuart assumed his position, and began removing his boss' dress shoes, this time trying to hold his breath.

"I have a surprise for you," Mr. Rogers said. "I forgot to wash my feet, but also... I didn't wear socks today. What a coincidence."

"W-what?" Stuart stuttered, and as he removed the shoes from the manly feet, a strong smell of ripe cheese invaded his nostrils and made him gag.

It was a mistake. Mr. Rogers hit him with his right foot - a big foot slap to his cheek that echoed in the room.

"Show proper respect, fuckface!" the man said aggressively, almost barking.

"I'm sorry, sir! Thank you for your ripe feet, sir! They smell great, sir!" Stuart said with tears in his eyes, and reluctantly started rubbing the extra-damp soles.

"Open your nostrils and inhale, foot fairy. This is the smell of a real man, something you'll never be, remember?" Mr. Rogers slapped his face with the other foot.

"Yes, sir, you're correct, sir!" Stuart replied pathetically, and then closed his eyes and took a deep whiff right above Mr. Rogers' toes.

He tried his best not to gag again, and instead assumed a face of reverence and respect, his shoulders curved, his head down, and started rubbing as carefully as possible, performing all the usual massage movements: rubbing the ball and the arch with his thumbs, doing circles around the heels, pressing his knuckles against the sole, and stretching the big toes.

"Smell that rich cheese, fag. You wish your small sissy feet were this manly, huh?" Mr. Rogers provoked.

"Yes, sir, I wish I were half the man you are, sir!" Stuart said promptly.

"Yeah, you little wimp. Now slide those fingers right in between my toes, come on," the man threatened.

"Y-yes, sir, right away..."

"Yeah, rub that toe jam, foot nerd."

Stuart tried not to gag again, feeling the slimy and sweaty dampness between every toe, all at once, as the cheesy smell intensified and took hold of his lungs. He wanted to finish that particular job as soon as possible, but Mr. Rogers noticed it, and forced him to stay not one hour, but one and a half, rubbing and praising his feet endlessly, as the man talked to clients and smoked cigars.

When the no-soap, no-sock torture was finally over, Mr. Rogers told him to kiss a different part this time.

"Now kiss those rough heels, sissy boy. And don't forget the calluses."

Stuart planted a thankful and loving kiss over the dry dead skin, and one little kiss for every callus, and then crawled out of the office like he always did. He wondered if that kind of humiliation would continue to happen for the rest of his life... Mr. Rogers was relentless and seemed to truly enjoy debasing him.

The next day was a 'Flip-Flop Friday' - an office event that happened every month, established by Mr. Rogers, that affected all employees except Stuart. People did not know exactly why Stuart was the exception, but it was something about him being embarrassed of having girly feet.

Mr. Rogers knew exactly what he was doing when he established that rule - the policy would drive Stuart completely mad the entire day, being forced to be among his manly coworkers - a group of tall straight men - and trying to ignore all the foot tease in front of him. Some would even cross their feet over his desk and poke fun at him for wearing shoes - especially Pete the manager, with his fat sturdy body and fat sturdy soles, who always had a mean grin and a cocky demeanor around him.

Then there was Doug, the office hunk, with his handsome jaw and muscular body, and his long steamy toes, casually wiggling in front of Stuart. And there was Paul, the old salesman rascal, with his nasty smile and extra-fat gut, who would sit next to Stuart and start clapping his massive heels against his flip-flops to provoke the poor stooge - the sexy sound surely caused a boner in Stuart's pants. The whole day was a manly foot-teasing nightmare.

That Friday, Mr. Rogers showed up late in the afternoon, wearing a tropical shirt and some cargo shorts. He had apparently spent the day at the beach, negotiating with business partners, and everyone kissed his ass for showing up all casual and relaxed.

When Stuart was called into the boss' room, and crawled to the boss' feet, he immediately noticed Mr. Rogers was playing another game with him. The masculine man wore brown leather flip-flops, but his massive feet had sand all over the soles and between the toes.

"Today I have a special task for you," Mr. Rogers said with a cocky grin. "Start by sniffing my toes and my flip-flops. Feel the beach energy in your nostrils."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." Stuart obeyed meekly, lowering his head all the way to the floor and sniffing the big sandy dogs.

"Big whiffs, pansy. Feel all the heat and the sweat. I had a great time at the beach."

"I'm glad you had a great time, sir, thank you, sir."

"Shut up and sniff, pussy boy," Mr. Rogers barked and wiggled his toes right in front of Stuart's nose, releasing a light and warm cheese odor.

Stuart kept sniffing his boss' flip-flops for a while, until the superior man kicked them off and crossed his ankles over the footstool.

"Now for the special task. I want you to stick out your tongue and clean the sand off my feet," Mr. Rogers said casually.

"W-what? Clean your feet, sir?" Stuart stuttered and gagged with the new command.

That was going too far! He would never dream of actually licking his boss' feet, not in that state, not that sandy and sweaty, with dirt from the streets and everything.

"You heard me, foot fairy. It's time you take the next step in your sissy journey. Stick out your tongue and start polishing my feet. I want them squeaky-clean!" Mr. Rogers said aggressively in his most intimidating tone, his blue eyes cutting through Stuart's soul.

"B-but, sir!" Stuart whimpered.

SMACK! Mr. Rogers hit him with his right foot.

"Now, sissy loser!"

It took about a minute for Stuart to break under the pressure, and he reluctantly moved his tongue out of his poor mouth and... licked his dignity goodbye. As he felt the rough sandy texture on his wet tongue, and registered the salty and tangy flavor, Mr. Rogers cackled cruelly at his new pathetic debasement. The strong figure was enjoying every second of it, as Stuart gagged and licked again and again.

The taste became saltier and spicier, especially around the toes, and the texture was particularly rough. But the worst part was having to swallow it - where else would it go? If he tried to spit it out, Mr. Rogers would smack him even harder! Feeling the hot cheesy taste linger down his throat was the worst part.

He licked and whimpered for the next hour, and since Mr. Rogers was never satisfied, he kept licking and cleaning off every single grain of sand, from the heel to the toes, and even between the toes! His tongue hurt for some time, and then it slowly became numb, until he was blindly licking up and down, and sucking in all the dirt he could reach. His boss sat back and relaxed, indifferent to his struggle.

"It's almost done, come on. Don't forget the sand between the toes, I said I want them squeaky-clean!" Mr. Rogers encouraged.

"Yes, sir, I'm trying my best, sir..." Stuart whimpered and moaned and shoved his tongue in the toe gaps repeatedly.

"Damn, you're moaning like a real bitch, haha!" Mr. Rogers observed.

When Mr. Rogers said that, Stuart noticed something strange: Mr. Rogers' bulge was growing bigger and bigger, and it seemed he was not wearing any underwear beneath his cargo shorts. Stuart tried to peek at it discreetly... Yes, his boss' cock was definitely growing in size, until it reached a clear boner in his shorts.

"You're looking at my cock, you little fag?" Mr. Rogers barked.

"N-no, sir! I'm s-sorry, sir!" Stuart whimpered and licked faster between the toes.

"Yes you are, you sissy bitch. Come on, then, stare at it, take a nice look at my fat schlong! Haha!" Mr. Rogers commanded, spreading his thick legs wider and making his bulge twitch provokingly.

Stuart could not help but stare at it - it was a long and fat snake, throbbing just inches away from him. He could almost feel the heat coming from it, coming from Mr. Rogers' legs as well, and the musk emanating from... his big balls!

"Like what you see, freak?" Mr. Rogers asked.

"It's... it's very large, sir!" Stuart noted, and kept staring at the fat dong as he licked the last grain of sand from his boss' big toe.

"Much bigger than your sissy dick, huh?"

"Yes, sir, it's much bigger, sir!"

Mr. Rogers' loud cackle echoed in the room and inside Stuart's mind. And then the boss did the unthinkable: he reached for his fly, and his schlong popped out of his shorts in a swift motion. POW! It was the biggest prick Stuart had ever seen! He could not believe his luck.

"What do you think, fag?" Mr. Rogers asked and his cock twitched aggressively.

The cock was not only the biggest one Stuart had ever seen, but it was also the manliest. It was a large and intact sausage, with thick and veined foreskin, a large red head with a fat piss slit, a curved shape that radiated swagger, and a large pair of low-hanging nuts in a hairy ballsack. It was definitely the manliest thing Stuart had ever seen in his life!

"It's the manliest thing I've ever seen, sir!" he let out, his voice dripping with worship and admiration.

Mr. Rogers grabbed his cock, stroked it a few times, and then slapped it against his thigh over and over again, in a hypnotizing motion.

"Take a good look at it, sissy fag. This is what a real man has between his legs. Remember that, now crawl back home and jerk off. Haha!" Mr. Rogers laughed cruelly and put his cock back into his shorts.

Stuart crawled out of the office with tears in his eyes, and his poor dick twitching uncontrollably in his pants. As soon as he entered his living room, he dropped his pants and started a long and pathetic stroking session, to the image of his boss' incredible big cock - now registered forever in his mind - and the taste of manly feet in his mouth.