Miss Clarke Pt. 05

It was the second-to-last day of term, and nobody cared anymore. The desks were still lined up in their usual neat rows -- six long columns, front to back, with narrow wooden tops and matching stools -- but no one sat up straight. No one opened a book. No one even pretended to be doing work.

Miss Clarke had wheeled in the AV trolley with one hand, pushing it carefully between the desks, and everyone knew what that meant: movie day.

The blinds had been drawn across the tall windows, the lights flicked off with a loud click, and the TV screen glowed dim blue in the front corner. Someone groaned when they saw the title. Some nature documentary from before we were born. Something about birds or plants or climate. No one cared.

We were done.

Or at least -- everyone else was.

I sat at the very back of the classroom, alone.

There were two stools per desk, but mine was empty on one side. The kid who usually sat next to me was off sick. That meant I had the whole back row to myself -- the only person in the room without a partner. And because of the layout -- those old, wooden desks that reached right down to the floor -- no one could see me from the front. You'd have to come all the way to the back and peek behind the desk to even know if I was still there.

The room was dark. The screen flickered lazily. Everyone was facing forward, slouched in their seats, staring blankly or scrolling their phones under the desks. No one talked. No one moved.

Except me.

Because Miss Clarke was standing at the front -- and she hadn't sat down yet.

She looked incredible.

Her usual white blouse was tucked perfectly into a black skirt that ended just below the knee, revealing bare calves and slim ankles. Her hair was pinned up, a few soft strands loose around her temples. She didn't need to say anything -- just folded her arms and stood near the screen, watching us like a hawk in the low light.

That silent authority she had -- it filled the room even more than the film did. She never raised her voice. Never had to. One look from her was enough to make people sit straighter. Even now, in the dark, she held the class in her palm.

But I couldn't stop watching her feet.

The way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. The way she lifted her heel slowly, subtly, letting the back of her flat fall away. Her foot arched slightly, then dropped back in. The soft, half-squelch sound of bare skin against the damp insole made my cock twitch instantly.

She still wore the same shoes -- the cheap, beaten black ballet flats she always had. Even after giving her old pair to the charity sale, she'd replaced them with another that looked nearly identical. Thin, shapeless, darkened already from sweat. The back rim was loose. The sides wrinkled. And she still wore them the same way -- barefoot. No tights. No socks. Just her skin pressed into that ruined black lining, hour after hour.

I imagined the state of them already.

Less than a week old, and probably already wet on the inside. Probably already stinking. Probably soaked with her barefoot sweat, squished and squeezed and pressed into the fabric with every step.

She shifted again, and I saw it -- the heel slipping out a little further this time. Just a hint of her sole showing beneath the hem of her skirt. Pale skin. High arch. Toes curling unconsciously. She was barely moving, but I couldn't look away.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, without a word, she walked.

Not toward the desk at the front. Not out of the room.

Toward the back.

My pulse jumped.

I didn't look up. I couldn't. I just kept my face pointed forward like everyone else, eyes locked on the screen even though I wasn't watching it.

I felt her draw closer.

Her footsteps soft. Her presence unmistakable.

Then -- the gentle scrape of a stool being pulled back.

She sat down.

Right beside me.

My whole body froze.

No one noticed. No one turned. The desks in front of us blocked the view. The light from the screen barely reached this far back.

She didn't speak.

She just... sat.

Her arm rested lightly on the desk. Her legs crossed at the ankle.

And beneath the desk -- out of sight -- her foot brushed mine.

Deliberate.

I didn't react.

Then I heard it.

The soft sound of fabric against skin. Her flats being eased off. First one. Then the other.

My cock strained against my trousers.

She shifted slightly in her seat. Adjusted her blouse. Let out a quiet sigh, like she was finally relaxing.

And then her foot moved again.

This time, it slid firmly against my shoe. Up the side. Then down again. She didn't nudge or tap -- she caressed. Her toes traced along the leather, slow and lazy.

She was barefoot. I could feel the heat of her skin through my shoe.

Then -- without looking -- she whispered, just barely audible: "Drop your pen."

My hand trembled.

I let it roll off the desk. Bent down slowly. Slid off the stool.

The space under the desk was cramped, but dark and quiet. Completely hidden. No one could see me from the front. No one even turned. The film droned on in the background, some narrator talking about migratory patterns.

And then her foot found my face.

She didn't wait.

She pressed the arch of her foot directly onto the bridge of my nose, covering it fully, like she was smothering me with her sole.

It was wet.

Sticky.

And the smell...

I inhaled sharply -- and almost moaned.

It was rank. Powerful. Not dirty -- not like old socks or grime -- but sharp and salty and humid, like sweat that had been pressed and reheated over hours. That flat had been an oven. Her foot the source.

She ground her toes down gently against my cheek. Her heel slid across my mouth. Her arch smeared sweat across my nose.

She didn't say a word.

She just used me.

My hands stayed on the floor. I didn't dare move them. My face burned hot as her foot explored every inch of it -- toes gliding over my lips, pressing under my nose, curling against my chin.

I sniffed again.

And again.

Each time the smell hit harder -- vinegary, sour, pure foot stench soaked into soft, sweaty skin. I imagined how long she'd been on her feet. How hot her soles must have been. How the sweat must have soaked into the fabric of her flats and stayed there all day, fermenting. Now she was wiping that scent directly onto my face.

My cock throbbed with every breath.

She flexed her toes against my lips.

I opened slightly. Tasted the tip of her big toe. Felt the skin -- smooth but slick. I could taste the sweat. The salt.

She paused.

Then moved her foot back -- slowly.

But a second later, the other foot replaced it.

She switched.

The smell was just as strong -- maybe stronger. This one had a hint of something earthier, deeper. Her heel pressed against my nose. Her toes hovered near my mouth. She rubbed up and down, side to side, coating my skin.

And above -- she was completely still.

Watching the movie.

Acting like nothing was happening.

Like she wasn't slowly face-fucking me with her stinking bare feet in the middle of a classroom.

I felt her shift again. The faint creak of her stool. The soft brush of fabric.

And then -- barely audible -- a quiet breath.

I froze.

Was she...?

I looked up slightly, just enough to glimpse the underside of the desk.

Her legs hadn't moved.

But her right hand was gone from the desk.

It was in her lap.

Hidden.

Still.

Then -- another soft exhale.

She was touching herself.

In the dark.

With her foot glued to my face.

The thought made my vision swim.

I buried my nose deeper into her sole. Pressed harder. My lips found the crease under her toes, and I kissed it. Open-mouthed. Wet.

She twitched.

Her foot slid down my cheek, rested on my throat for a second -- like a warning -- then pressed back up again, harder.

I sniffed again. Moaned softly.

She kept rubbing.

Her heel moved in slow circles over my mouth. Her arch smeared sweat across my face. Her toes curled slightly each time I licked.

She didn't stop.

I lost all sense of time. The smell was dizzying. My trousers were wet with precum. I didn't care. I was her footstool. Her toy. Her secret.

And she was getting off on it.

Finally -- her foot paused.

Rested against my cheek.

And then pulled away.

I stayed down for a second. Breathing. Shaking.

Then I reached for my pen. Sat back up.

She didn't look at me.

She simply crossed one leg over the other, slipped both feet calmly back into her flats, and sat with her arms folded like nothing had happened.

The movie played on.

The bell rang twenty minutes later.

Lights on.

Voices rising.

Chairs scraping.

Students stretched and gathered their bags. Miss Clarke stood slowly, thanked the class in her usual clipped tone, and reminded them about tomorrow's lesson. Then she turned to me -- just briefly.

"Nice to see you paying attention for once," she said.

And she smiled.

Just a flicker.

Just enough to make my heart pound again.

Then she walked away.

Her flats made that soft, familiar squish against the carpet as she moved.

And I sat there, flushed, soaked, face still tingling -- already desperate for next time.