Miss Clarke Pt. 07

It was over.

Technically.

The last bell had rung hours ago. Lockers slammed. Bags were dragged down corridors one final time. Students shouted their goodbyes and scattered into the heat. Even the staff had started disappearing. A few cars still sat sunbaked in the lot, but most had gone.

Summer had begun.

But I couldn't leave.

Not yet.

---

The corridor outside her room was silent.

Not school-silent -- dead-silent.

That special kind of hush that only happened when a place had emptied completely. When the windows were open but the breeze didn't move. When the air felt too still and the light too yellow and the walls echoed like a chapel.

I stood there for a long time.

Sweating through my shirt.

Bag heavy on my shoulder.

Staring at the door.

Her door.

Room 14.

Still closed.

Still quiet.

But I knew she was in there.

---

She'd said it that morning.

One sentence.

Just a glance across the hallway. A look that made my stomach turn.

"If you've got a minute after school," she said, "I might need a hand clearing up."

That was it.

Nothing else.

Just that.

But it wasn't what she said.

It was the way she said it.

Too soft. Too deliberate. The words stretched just enough to leave no doubt.

And the look she gave me as she walked away -- like a finger across the throat.

She knew I'd come.

---

The door creaked when I pushed it open.

Hot air greeted me. The kind that sticks to your skin.

The lights were off. The sun from the windows painted long rectangles across the desks, stretching to the back of the room. Everything looked half-melted. The fans had been unplugged.

She was sitting on the edge of her desk.

Waiting.

Not smiling.

Not saying a word.

Just... waiting.

---

Her shoes were on.

The black flats.

The ones I recognised instantly -- because I'd seen them a hundred times, sniffed them in secret, memorised every crease and fold. The canvas was soft and crumpled. The heels flattened. The arch sagged like they were tired. Worn without socks. Without mercy.

And I could already feel it.

That same familiar heat behind my eyes. That ache in my stomach. The dryness in my throat. The smell hadn't reached me yet -- not properly -- but the memory of it was strong enough to make my mouth water.

She uncrossed her legs.

Tilted her head slightly.

"Close the door," she said.

---

The latch clicked louder than it should have.

I dropped my bag by the wall.

Walked forward.

Slowly.

The classroom felt alien now. Familiar shapes made strange by the light. Chairs pushed aside. Whiteboard wiped clean. A year's worth of lessons erased. But the desk -- her desk -- was exactly the same.

And she hadn't moved.

Just followed me with her eyes, watching each step like she was measuring them.

When I reached the front, she crossed her legs again -- slower this time.

And I caught the scent.

---

It was faint at first.

Not even enough to name.

Just a warmth in the air. A hint of skin. A trace of something sour and soft that made my knees lock and my mouth fill with spit.

Then she shifted slightly, and the breeze changed.

It hit me.

Properly.

Warm.

Stale.

Heavy with hours of sweat and sealed canvas.

My eyes fluttered.

God.

It was her.

Her feet.

That smell -- thick with skin and heat and something sharp and deep that only built after an entire day barefoot in flats -- it soaked the air now.

I breathed it in.

I couldn't not.

---

She didn't speak.

Didn't move.

She just looked at me.

Waited.

Like she was giving me a choice.

But it wasn't one.

Not really.

I was already sinking.

Already folding.

Already dropping to my knees in front of her desk before I even realised it.

---

The carpet felt rough beneath my palms.

The smell was stronger now.

Not just in the air -- but around me.

Like I'd stepped into it. Like I was kneeling in a cloud of it. My head just inches from her feet, close enough to see the fraying edge of her left flat, the faint black line of sweat worn into the canvas near the arch.

I didn't dare speak.

Didn't dare move.

And she didn't help me.

She just lifted her foot slowly -- so slowly -- and slipped it free.

---

The shoe came off with a soft shhft, like something wet being peeled open.

Her bare foot emerged, flushed and pink and shining faintly in the low light. The heel was red. The arch gleamed. Her toes flexed against the air as if stretching from a cage.

And the smell doubled.

Tripled.

It hit me like a cloth over the mouth.

I swayed.

"Better," she said softly.

Then she reached down and removed the other.

---

Both feet bare now.

Both flats discarded on the carpet beside me.

And the smell.

Christ.

It was everywhere.

It clung to the soles. It curled off her skin in waves. It wasn't rotten. It wasn't cheesy. It was something else. Something deeper. Like the inside of a shoe left in the sun. Like warm rubber. Like skin. Salt. Heat. Days and days of barefoot sweat fermented into the canvas and soaked into the air.

I couldn't breathe properly.

And I didn't want to.

---

She raised one foot.

Held it above my face.

Waited.

I looked up at her.

Our eyes met.

And I opened my mouth.

---

Her sole came down slowly -- hovering -- then pressing.

First against my nose.

Then down across my mouth.

Not hard. Not gently either.

Just enough to let me feel the full weight of her day.

The skin was hot.

Wet at the arch.

The pads of her toes spread slightly as she pressed down, sealing my mouth under them.

The smell was overwhelming.

It poured into me, heavy and sharp, making my eyes water.

My tongue moved.

I didn't think.

I licked.

---

She didn't stop me.

Didn't flinch.

She just watched.

Silent.

Letting me worship.

Letting me earn it.

---

Her foot moved slowly across my face, dragging the slick arch across my lips, the side of her heel over my cheek, her toes curling around the edge of my jaw.

I kissed them.

One by one.

Softly.

Gratefully.

Every inch of her sole was coated in sweat -- real sweat. Not imagined. Not leftover. Fresh. The kind that came from hours of walking, standing, pacing, all of it locked inside shoes that didn't breathe.

And I licked it up.

Like it was mine.

Because it was.

---

She brought her other foot up.

Pressed both soles against me now -- smothering.

Pinning.

Owning.

One foot rubbed my lips raw while the other rested across my nose, forcing every breath to come through the heat of her skin.

And I didn't fight it.

Didn't hesitate.

I took it all.

The stink. The weight. The slow, sticky glide of her feet across my face as she rubbed them into me, like I was a cloth meant to clean them.

I moaned.

She chuckled.

Her feet didn't move at first.

Not much.

Just weight. Heat. Pressure.

Both soles pressed against my face, toes spread slightly, arch damp and warm. She didn't speak. Didn't command. She just held me there, like it was the most natural thing in the world -- like my face was meant for this.

And maybe it was.

My lips trembled beneath her. The taste of her skin was soaked into me already -- salt and dust and something acrid and human. Something real. I couldn't breathe except through the gaps between her toes, and even then, the air was thick with her.

Her sweat.

Her smell.

Her ownership.

I was lightheaded already.

---

She leaned back slightly on the desk, bracing herself with one hand, then ground her heel forward against my cheek.

I whimpered.

Not from pain.

From gratitude.

The ball of her foot was soaked -- that sticky, glistening kind of wet that came from hours barefoot in the same collapsed pair of flats. The skin there was tacky, warm, and when it smeared across my lips, I opened my mouth without thinking.

She slid two toes inside.

---

It wasn't graceful.

It wasn't delicate.

It was filthy.

The pads of her toes were hot and slick, curling around my tongue like they'd been here before. My mouth filled with the stale taste of her -- that leathery, sour tang that only got worse the longer it sat in shoes like hers. But I didn't gag.

I sucked.

God help me, I sucked them like they were the only thing keeping me alive.

Her other foot shifted higher, pressing into my nose now, her heel sealing one nostril, the arch blocking the other. My face was pinned. Trapped. Completely smothered in her.

And I didn't fight it.

I took it all.

---

I moaned again -- louder this time.

My hands stayed on my thighs. I didn't dare move them. I didn't want to do anything I wasn't told to do.

Because that was the point.

I was hers now.

Not just in the room.

Not just on my knees.

Inside.

Miss Clarke had taken something from me the moment she caught me sniffing her shoes -- and every second since then, she'd only dug deeper.

And now?

Now she was inside my mouth, inside my nose, filling my head and lungs and stomach with the rank, ripe, awful heaven of her.

---

She pulled her foot back.

Slowly.

The toes dragged along my tongue, my teeth, my lips -- then slipped free with a faint pop, connected for half a second by a strand of spit.

She looked down at me.

Still quiet.

Still calm.

Then, after a moment:

> "Pick one up."

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

Her flats were still lying next to me -- abandoned like trash. The same pair she'd worn all day. The pair I had once stolen.

My heart thudded. My hands shook.

I reached for the left one.

And the smell hit me all over again.

---

It was stronger now.

Freed from her foot. Steeped in the heat of the room. The inside of the flat glistened faintly -- worn canvas so soaked with her sweat it looked sticky. The toe-bed was dark. The heel was nearly black. And the scent...

God.

Sharp.

Ripe.

Almost fermented.

Not just foot sweat anymore -- this was days of it. Weeks. Months. Skin and salt and dirt baked into the fibres. Her smell, locked inside, refusing to fade.

My cock twitched hard in my trousers.

I didn't even touch it.

Didn't need to.

---

I brought the flat to my face.

My hands trembled.

I looked up -- one last check, one last moment to see if she'd change her mind.

But she didn't stop me.

She just smiled.

And nodded.

I buried my nose in the shoe.

---

It was like falling.

Like slipping beneath warm water.

My eyes fluttered shut.

The stink was thick enough to taste -- every breath through my nose a punch of stale salt and that dark, slightly vinegary bite that made me dizzy.

I groaned into it.

Pressed harder.

Dragged the rim of the opening across my mouth, my nose, my chin.

Miss Clarke's flat wasn't just a shoe anymore. It was an object of worship. A container for her filth. And I was the one meant to consume it.

Her foot pressed back to my face again -- the other one now, heel against my temple, sole dragging slowly across my cheek as I inhaled the canvas soaked with her.

---

I whispered into the shoe: "Thank you."

I didn't even realise I'd said it.

She laughed -- soft and cruel.

> "Poor thing," she murmured. "You're actually addicted to it, aren't you?"

I nodded.

I didn't trust myself to speak.

The shoe came away from my face, and she took it from my hands.

> "Lie down."

Her voice was firmer now.

Quieter.

But with that same command.

Like she wasn't asking. Like I should've been lying down from the start.

---

I obeyed.

My back hit the carpet. The classroom spun a little -- the heat, the smell, the blood rushing in my head. My hands fell limp beside me. My chest rose and fell fast.

And then she was standing.

Above me.

Barefoot.

Looking down.

---

Her feet were flushed. Slick. Her soles were shiny with sweat, and her toes twitched slowly against the carpet as she stepped forward. Her skirt swayed slightly. Her legs were soft and pale in the yellow light.

She planted one foot square on my chest.

Then the other.

Slowly.

Like she was testing my strength.

Like she wanted to see if I could take it.

And I could.

I would.

Anything.

Everything.

---

She walked up me.

Her bare feet tracing my ribs, the ball of one foot pressing into my sternum, then higher -- my collarbone -- my throat.

And finally, she stood with both feet on my face.

---

It was heaven.

It was hell.

The pressure wasn't unbearable -- not yet -- but it was enough to flatten me. Enough to smother me. Her soles sealed over my nose and mouth, hot and sticky, like a pair of soft, sweaty masks. Every breath was thick with her. Every heartbeat echoed through the floor.

And above me, she just stood.

Arms crossed.

Looking down.

Like she'd won.

---

> "Look at you," she said softly. "So desperate. So obedient."

I moaned beneath her.

I couldn't open my mouth -- not with her standing on it -- but I nodded slightly, the tiniest movement against the crushing warmth of her soles.

And she laughed again.

Soft.

Cruel.

Pleased.

---

She stayed there for minutes.

Not moving.

Just shifting her weight slightly from one foot to the other, dragging her skin across mine. Grinding it in. Letting her sweat soak deeper into my face. Letting her stink become part of me.

And I let her.

Because it was hers.

Because I loved it.

Because I was hers now, too.

Her weight shifted slowly.

Not enough to hurt -- not yet. But enough to make sure I felt her.

The ball of her right foot ground into my cheek, then slid up toward my nose, dragging the slick imprint of her sweat with it. Her left foot rocked gently on my mouth, the arch pressing down just enough to seal it shut.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe properly.

And I didn't want to.

She just stood there. Silent. Poised. Balanced.

Like this was always how things were meant to be.

Like I was always supposed to end up here -- beneath her feet.

The minutes passed like heat. Sticky. Stretching. Sinking into my skin.

When she finally stepped off me, I gasped. Not for relief. For loss.

The air felt empty. Clean. Too clean.

I looked up.

She was sitting on the desk now, legs crossed, her bare feet dangling just above the floor. Her soles glistened faintly in the warm light of the setting sun outside -- pink, flushed, damp. Her toes flexed slowly. Relaxed.

She didn't look at me.

Not at first.

She just examined her own foot like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, finally, she spoke:

"Crawl."

That was all.

I didn't hesitate.

I moved on hands and knees across the floor, still trembling. My lips were wet from her. My face smelled like her feet. My cock strained in my trousers -- aching, untouched.

She lifted one leg slightly as I approached, her toes curling, then pointed at the floor beneath her with a single gesture.

I knew what to do.

I slid beneath the desk.

Her legs parted slightly.

She pressed one foot to my face.

It was hot. Wet. The smell even stronger now that it had had time to stew -- without the flats to trap it, it had nowhere to go but into me.

And I wanted it.

I moaned. Kissed her heel. Licked the arch.

She didn't stop me. Didn't guide me. Just let me work.

She tilted her head back and sighed.

Like this -- this slow, deliberate worship -- was what she'd been waiting for all along.

And I gave her everything.

My lips found each toe. My tongue slid between them. I licked the grime from the ball of her foot, tasted the bitter edge of the day's sweat, buried my face against her sole and breathed. Not because I needed air -- because I needed her.

Her toes flexed gently.

I kissed harder.

"Good boy," she murmured.

My cock jumped.

She switched feet.

Lifted the other into my face like it was a gift -- and it was. It was.

This one was worse. Riper. The heel had a sharp, vinegary stench, like dried sweat and warm leather, and when I dragged my tongue along it, I tasted the ghost of her flats.

I didn't care.

I loved it.

She pushed it harder into my mouth.

I sucked. Licked. Moaned.

Everything else faded.

There was only her foot.

Her skin. Her scent. Her power.

She pressed her toes to my lips one last time, then drew her foot back slowly, strings of spit connecting us.

She looked down beneath the desk at me. Her eyes calm.

Her voice low:

"Tell your parents you're staying at a friend's house tonight."

And just like that -- I knew.

This wasn't the end.

It was only the beginning.