Miss Clarke Pt. 04

The end-of-term prom always felt like a strange dream. Like school pretending it wasn't school. The gym had been transformed into a glittering mess of draped fairy lights and too-loud speakers. Most of the teachers hovered awkwardly near the walls, sipping punch and keeping a loose eye on things. But some -- like Miss Clarke -- had let themselves unwind. Just a little too much.

She was sipping white wine. She wasn't meant to, not officially. But there she was, in a black dress that shimmered slightly in the low light, the fabric clinging to her in the most elegant ways. Her hair was down, which I'd never seen before. Soft, dark waves around her cheeks and collarbone. But it was her feet that ruined me all over again.

Strappy, delicate black heels -- just enough to show everything. Her toes were painted again. Red, perfectly neat, nails gleaming beneath the lights. Her soles flexed with every step, and I watched her pop her heel out of the back of her shoe, sliding her foot out to rest against the cool floor beneath the refreshment table. Casual. Careless. Teasing.

I had drunk too much.

Not dangerously so. But enough to feel hazy. Blurred. Everything was soft around the edges. I'd spent the last hour circling the room, trying not to stare. Trying not to think about what she'd seen. Or what she might have seen.

I still didn't know.

Earlier that week, in the quiet of that forgotten upstairs storeroom, I'd unzipped my bag and buried my face in one of her donated black flats -- the same ones I'd bought secretly at the charity sale. The smell was so strong, so sweet and sweaty and her, that I hadn't even heard the door creak open. Someone had walked past. Glanced in.

Then later -- she'd come up behind me near the lockers and reached into my bag for a pen. Said she needed one for a form. I didn't have time to stop her. And there, just beneath my hoodie, were the flats.

She pulled out the pen.

Smiled.

Said nothing.

Now, at prom, I was lingering near the back exit, away from the thrum of music. I stepped out into the warm night air to clear my head.

Five minutes passed.

Then came the soft click of heels.

I turned.

Miss Clarke stood in the doorway. Her wine glass half-full. Her eyes a little glazed. She wasn't drunk. But she was relaxed -- looser than I'd ever seen her.

She stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind her. We were alone.

"I was hoping I might find you," she said softly.

I swallowed. "Just needed a bit of air."

She walked past me, stopped beside the railing, and leaned on it. Her heels clicked softly with every step. One foot arched slightly, sliding out of its shoe and curling against the concrete.

Her voice came gently. "I've been thinking about something."

"Oh?"

"Something that's been bothering me. Not in a bad way."

I waited.

She sipped her wine.

"Remember the charity sale?" she said.

I nodded, but said nothing.

She continued. "I brought in some old books. Some junk. And that one pair of shoes I always wore."

She glanced at me.

"You remember them, don't you?"

My mouth was dry. "Sort of."

She smiled. "Sort of."

Another long pause. The music thumped behind the doors. Her toes flexed.

"I dropped them off that morning," she said. "But by the time lunch came around -- they were gone."

I said nothing.

She turned toward me slightly. "No one told me who bought them. But I'm curious."

I tried to lie. "I think they were picked up quickly. I didn't see who took them."

"Mmm," she murmured. "Strange. Because later that day, I walked past the second-floor printer room. The old one, the one no one uses."

She turned to face me more fully.

"I thought I saw someone inside. Bag open. Face buried in something."

I looked away.

"Then, maybe an hour later, I needed a pen. Asked you. Reached into your bag."

Her voice was softer now. "And there they were."

I turned back. "I didn't... I wasn't doing anything."

She tilted her head. "No?"

"I was just moving them. For the sale. Someone wanted them. I was just--"

She took a step closer.

"Don't lie," she whispered.

Another step. We were inches apart now. I could smell the wine on her breath. I could see the curve of her cheek in the moonlight.

"I know it was you," she said. "And I know what you did."

My heart thundered in my chest.

Then she smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

"You always stared at my feet," she said. "Every lesson. Every time I kicked those flats off."

I swallowed. My cock was hard.

"I used to wonder," she said. "Why you always sat so low in your chair. Why your eyes drifted. Why you'd freeze when I'd rub my soles together under the desk."

She took another sip.

"They did smell, you know. Especially on hot days. I'd take them off and feel the sweat stick between my toes."

She slipped her foot fully out of her heel now. Her toes flexed against the ground.

"And you loved that."

I couldn't breathe.

She stepped closer, just slightly, until her bare foot brushed the tip of my shoe.

"Did you smell them at home?" she asked softly.

I didn't reply.

She lifted her foot and pressed it against my shin. Slowly dragged it up.

"Did you lick the insoles? Taste the sweat?"

I shook my head -- not in denial, but because I couldn't think.

She brought her heel down and rubbed it slowly along the outside of my ankle.

"I bet you came hard," she whispered. "With your nose stuffed deep inside them."

The fabric of my trousers was tight now. My erection was obvious.

She looked down. Smiled.

Then she stepped back.

"Tsk," she said. "Such a shame."

I blinked. "What?"

"That I'll never know what you really did, Unless, of course... you want to tell me.

She stepped closer.

"I noticed."

A pause.

She looked down at her bare feet. "They were in bad shape, you know. I wore them every single day. No socks. No tights. Just my skin. My sweat."

She stretched her toes slowly against the floor. "I could feel them getting worse. The inside was always damp by the end of the day. I'm sure they stank."

My breath caught.

"I used to slip them off under the desk," she went on, her voice almost thoughtful now. "Let my feet breathe. Sometimes I'd rub them together, feel the stickiness between my toes. Sometimes I'd wonder... could anyone smell them?"

She looked up at me. Smiling. Slightly cruel.

"Could you?"

I didn't speak.

She stepped closer. Her foot brushed my shoe.

"You always stared."

I opened my mouth to deny it -- she stopped me.

"No need to lie. I liked it. It was harmless."

Then a beat.

"Or maybe not so harmless. You tell me."

Another pause.

"Do you have them still?" she asked.

I hesitated. "Yes."

She smiled. "And?"

I couldn't look at her. "I smelled them."

A little breath escaped her lips. "Mmm. I figured."

A pause. She stepped away.

"Come with me."

We walked in silence. Down the corridor. Up one flight. Into the science block. All the classrooms were locked now. Except the small prep room between Bio and Chem.

She pushed the door open. Flicked the light on.

It was dim. Dusty. A metal table stood at the centre, cluttered with leftover lab trays and a roll of brown paper towels. The door shut with a soft click.

She walked to the far wall. Set her shoes down. Bent one knee and stretched her sole behind her, flexing her toes.

Then she sat on the desk.

No words. Just a long, slow look.

"I'm not giving you anything," she said. "Not just like that."

I nodded. Waiting.

"But if you're honest -- if you tell me -- maybe I'll let you close."

I swallowed. "I fantasised about your feet every single night."

"Go on."

"Every lesson I stared at them. The way they slid out of your flats. The way they rubbed together. The sweat."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I thought about licking them. Sniffing them. I imagined the smell -- strong, sour, warm. I wanted it to choke me. I wanted it to coat my tongue. I wanted to lose myself in it."

She didn't blink.

"I came imagining your soles pressing against my face. I imagined licking the dirt off. I thought about licking between your toes until I gagged on the taste of them."

She sipped her wine.

Then she extended one leg.

"Take off your blazer," she said. "Kneel."

I obeyed.

Her foot hovered just in front of my face.

"Don't touch."

I nodded.

She turned her foot slowly in the air, showing me the bottom. "They're still sweaty," she said. "It's been a long night."

She tilted it down slightly. I saw it clearly now -- the faint grime clinging to her heel. The shine of moisture in the arch. The slightly darker skin where her toes had flexed and pressed all night in those heels.

"Smell."

I leaned in. Slowly. Gently.

And breathed.

It hit me like lightning. Thick, hot, sour. A week's worth of barefoot sweat from a night of dancing. Tangy. Cheesy. Her.

I exhaled. Then inhaled again. Longer. Deeper.

She didn't move.

I sniffed up the arch. The scent was stronger there -- concentrated. I let it fill my nose, then pulled back, dizzy.

She smiled.

"Again."

I buried my nose against her foot. Nuzzled the ball. Inhaled until my chest hurt. The smell coated my sinuses -- rich and thick and sweet and foul. I moaned without meaning to.

Her toes brushed my lips. I froze.

She watched me.

"Lick?" I begged.

"Not yet," she said. "You haven't earned it."

I pressed my face deeper. The stench overwhelmed me. I wanted to cry with how good it was.

"I dreamt of this," I whispered. "I'd trade anything to keep this forever."

She pulled her foot back.

"That'll do."

I looked up, desperate.

"Next time," she said. "Maybe."

Then she slid off the desk. Picked up her shoes.

"You'll remember this," she said softly. "And I'll remember what kind of boy you are."

She opened the door.

"And maybe I'll let you be worse next time."

Then she was gone.