Mallory’s Messages

The lecture hall was a little better than half full, and the lights at the front were just dim enough to cast a yellow glow of the the first third of the stadium seats. It was halfway through a long Wednesday lecture, and the class had drifted into the haze of the overhead projector and the scribbling of notes. I leaned back my head and rubbed my eyes as I stretched slightly, and as I leaned forward again to my notebook I heard by pen clatter to the ground.

I groped around for a moment in the golden semi-darkness but my hand felt nothing, so I slowly ducked down and looked beneath the seat. As I grabbed it and began to raise my head again, I couldn’t help but notice a small flicker coming from underneath the seat of the sandy-haired blonde girl sitting in the row ahead, three seats to my right, who was wearing dark blue jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt bearing the name of the university.

Her name was Mallory, and her bright eyes and wry smile had been a near continuous source of daydreaming for me over the semester. As she began writing a new line in the blue ink of her notes, my eyes drifted furtively beneath her chair, from the heather gray elastic at the top of her sock to the pale, rosy pink of her heel and her ankle. She was wearing a well-worn pair of Birkenstock clogs, which looked as though she had had them a long time and seemed to have been selected primarily for their comfort.

Over the remaining hour of the class, I watched in distraction as she idly began to tap her right foot, slowly and discreetly at first, and then gradually beginning to flex it against the toe of her shoe so that it slipped off and dangled invitingly a couple of inches from her heel. It revealed the first glances of the several large, colorful polka dots that adorned her socks; orange, green, blue, purple… A couple of times she let her shoe drop and flexed her foot against it, revealing the slight imprint of her sole in her shoe. Her socks looked dirty, like they had been worn the day or two before, and there was a light, faint discoloration tracing her foot as she occasionally wiggled her toes.

I was so entranced that didn’t notice when the professor said to hand in our assigned papers from the week before. People at the edges of the rows began getting up and making their way to the front, but Mallory was still seated, dangling her shoe lazily. All of the sudden she snapped it back as the fluorescent lights flicked on, and she got up to join the line at the front. I thought in that moment that I had caught a flash of her deep blue eyes as she stood up, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I collected my paper and walked down just as she got back to her seat, and people began getting their things and filing out as the professor announced that that was all for the day. Turning back, I lost sight of her in the resulting chaos and by the time I reached my seat again she was gone.

I gathered my notebook and bag, and pulled on my jacket as I made my way out into the hall, listless in my longing, and disappointed that I didn’t get the chance to see her one last time before the weekend. I stepped out through the main doors into the chill of the early autumn air, and walked down to the library with her image fluttering my mind. I nodded, smiling, to the girls behind the counters at the information desk, and headed for my usual corner, a warm, infrequently-visited section behind the microfiche periodicals with a couple of large, comfy chairs that were never occupied.

I sat down and pulled out my books, setting my bag on the little table in front of me, and leaned back, searching for my pen. I reached down into the right pocket of my jacket, and paused for a moment, feeling something soft. I touched it with my fingertips for a moment, before feeling a piece of paper tucked inside next to it.

Looking around behind me, and seeing that there was no one, I grabbed the bunch together, and pulled it out to look. It was the same pair of dirty, dotted grey socks, with a note saying, “If you think you can handle the real thing… 555-4693. M.”

* * *

Mallory was an exquisite beauty in her soft, comforting, girl next door sort of way. She had long, straight, shoulder-length sandy blonde hair, and a casual, sporty way of dressing. I almost always saw her in jeans, a hoodie, and sneakers, the uniform she had seemed to adopt for wearing to class. She had fetching grey eyes and a bright but measured disposition. Like me at 24, she, at 25, was a bit older than most of the other people in our class. We were both juniors, but we had both also taken time off in the real world after high school before returning to get our degrees. We had bonded over this slightly, in that shallow, offhand kind of way, and in our occasional pre- and post-class chats we had happened to find that both of us were single. While we didn’t flirt exactly, I think both of us sensed a polite but playful, reserved brand of chemistry between us.

The more I look back on the events that unfolded, the more I think that it wasn’t the first time she had caught me looking at her feet. I always tried to be discreet, but some days we happened to sit closer to each other, some days I may have let my fantasizing run on a little longer than was judicious, and I think at one point or another she began to notice and suspect. Whether this latest observation was some symbolic key for her, whether she assumed I desired the further depths to which she would drive me, or whether she simply desired, herself, so much to bring me there, I still don’t know. But as I would learn over the days that unfolded after that fateful Wednesday, everything I assumed about her vanilla disposition was a veil that hid the regal, powerful, and exquisitely cruel domme she kept inside her.

* * *

I called the number on the note later that afternoon, back at my apartment, holding her gift in my hand, and I felt the wind fall out of my stomach when she didn’t answer. Three minutes later though, I got a text message:

You don’t waste time, do you? Sorry, I can’t talk right now. What are you doing Saturday night?

I tried to catch my breath, and to come up with something to say, but I got another before I could respond:

If you don’t tell me you’re free, I’ll be very disappointed.

I was so nervous, but I managed to get out that I was, and she sent me back, simply,

😉

That night I took the socks she had given me, laid down on my bed under the lamplight, and sniffed them as I masturbated quietly.

The next morning I stepped out of an early shower, dried off, and went back into my bedroom, and when I went over to my phone on the bedside table I saw that I had received a new message from her. It was a video, and when I tapped on it my screen suddenly filled with the image of what appeared to be the end of her bed. A few seconds passed and she stepped into the frame and set her pink and black Nike running shoes on the floor, bending over as she did to let me see the shape of her ass in her black yoga pants, and then she turned around, showing me her full breasts held down in a pink sports bra under her white v-neck tank top. She ran her hands up and down her sides and then put them on her hips for a moment, and then she reached for something behind the camera and sat down on the edge of the bed.

I could see her face now, and it dazzled me all over again, but my eyes fell predictably down her legs as she crossed them. Her yoga pants were calf-length and her tan skin contrasted against the black, and as I looked I realized I was seeing something I never had before– her bare feet. I didn’t see them for long, because she began putting on a plain pair of white ankle socks, but I marveled; they were perfect. She had a dark, rich burgundy polish on her nails, something I had never seen on her hands, and every inch of their shape was unequivocally amazing.

She unrolled her socks and separated them, and then she stood up and dangled one of them in front of the camera. They were plain in every respect, except across the seam of the toe, where it said in grey letters, “No Boundaries”. When she sat back down and put them on, though, I could see that they were woven with bands of elastic across the bottoms of her arches. She stretched and flexed them, just for a moment, and I wanted desperately for her to hold them up to the camera so I could see her soles, but her attitude was very matter-of-fact. She crossed one leg, then the other as she put on her shoes and tied them.

Then, oddly, she reached down and tapped the ankle of her crossed leg twice and then held up a single finger. She paused for a moment. Then she stood up and reached for the camera, and just like that the video was over.

I was horny again, but as I tapped the screen to go back to the messages I saw that I was already running late for class, so I had to get dressed quickly and run out the door.

About an hour and a half later, sitting in another, smaller lecture hall, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket again. I was in the back row this time, so I decided to chance it, and I saw that she had sent me another video. I slipped in one of my headphones and tapped the screen. This one showed her running on one of the treadmills at the college’s gym, just two buildings down from where I was sitting.

Her back was turned (the camera appeared to be sitting on the floor at the end of the treadmill), and I could see a narrow triangle of sweat that had soaked through the back of her shirt. I watched her ass as it bounced in time with her ponytail, and I looked at her pink shoes as they pounded on the rubber mat. The video went on like this for a few minutes, and I tried to divide my attention between it and the lecture, but the vision was hypnotic.

Finally I heard the beep as she pressed the stop button, and listened as the machine wound down. She slowed to a stop, drank from her water bottle, and then turned around and walked back to pick up her phone. She held it up to show her body, and then pulled it in to show the v in her shirt. The skin on her chest glistened, and I could see that she was pouring with sweat. She turned the camera around and stepped back on to the machine, pointing it at the display, and I saw that she had been running for over 30 minutes at a 60% grade. Then, even more abruptly than before, the video ended.

Luckily, the class only went on for another five or ten minutes, and on my long walk back home I watched both of the videos again and again. I could only imagine, as I’m sure she intended me to, how sweaty and stinky her socks had gotten during her workout. This thought danced around in my head as I walked, and as I got to my front door a third video arrived on my phone.

It was shot from the same angle as the first, looking down at the foot of her bed, and this time the same white cotton ankle socks were sitting on top of it. She walked into the frame wearing a thick white towel wrapped around her body, and her slender, muscular legs ran down beneath it. Her long hair was wet and brushed out, and my eyes slipped across her exposed collarbone and chest.

She turned around and opened the towel, letting it fall to the floor and letting me see her naked backside. She cocked her hips and wiggled them a little, and then she bent forward and put her dirty socks back on. I searched for a hint of her labia through her legs as she did this, but I could only see her ass, and she kept her chest straight so I couldn’t catch even the slightest glimpse of her breasts.

When she was finished she put her hands on her hips and stood there for a moment before sliding back her right foot, lifting it up, and laying it flat against her other heel, showing me her sole. She stood that way for maybe ten seconds, letting me soak it in, and then she knelt down, picked up her towel, and tossed it behind her at the camera.

I had wanted to respond to all three of these videos, but when I tried I didn’t know what to say. In all three of them her attitude was so deliberate and so matter-of-fact that it stunned me in a way. My only reaction was a private one, and visceral. I felt so aroused by her acute intuition, and I swelled inside my pants as I dug my keys out of my pocket and opened the door.

I headed straight for my bed and pulled her socks from beneath my pillow, but my phone buzzed again in my pocket as I began undoing my belt.

Are you home from class yet?

I replied that I was.

Good.
And have you used my socks yet? I hope you have.

I told her, with just a touch of embarrassment, that I had used them last night before I went to bed.

Today, slave. Have you used them yet today?

I felt a rush at being called by that name, and I told her, with somehow greater embarrassment, that I hadn’t. There was a pause, and then she texted me again:

Tsk, tsk. I’d have expected you to do it this morning too. You’ll have to make that disappointment up to me.

Another moment passed, and then another. I suddenly felt that I had to say something, so I told her that I had only just gotten home, and that I was just about to use them.

Not good enough. It’s too late now.
You’ll have to be punished.

My heart began pounding, and I felt myself trembling slightly, wondering what would come next. I sat down on the edge of the bed as I watched the animated ellipses that indicated she was typing a message. Finally, after two minutes or more, it arrived:

Do it now, and sniff those socks good while you do. Cum on your stomach, lay my socks out on your face, and then send me a picture showing me you’ve done as I said.

I shuddered a little, involuntarily, and I read the message twice more to make sure I wasn’t imagining this, and then I hastily took off my t-shirt and pants and laid down. I pulled down my underwear and opened the bottle of lubricant, sniffed her socks, and within a couple of minutes I had cum, casting thick, milky ribbons across the lower half of my torso. I breathed heavily for a while, looked down at myself, and then reached for my phone, my heart still beating hard.

I opened up the camera app and set the phone on my bedside table, propped up against some books, my face just visible at one edge of the frame and my cum-covered stomach at the other. Then I set the timer for a 10-second delay. I held her socks in my hand for a moment, hardly believing I would do what I was about to do, but she was so beautiful and confident and had commanded me so directly, I almost felt like I didn’t have a choice.

I hit the button, laid down, put her socks on my face and my hands at my sides, and I waited. I counted to ten and then waited a few more seconds just to be sure. I sat up again and attached the photo our conversation, feeling just on the edge of horny and humiliated, and after an extra moment’s hesitation I hit “Send”.

A minute passed, and then another. I got up and went to the bathroom to clean myself up, and when I came back there was still nothing. Then, suddenly:

Lol

I stared at the message, my face drooping softly, watching the ellipses as she typed her next message:

Good boy.
Now to punish you, I’m going to show this picture to all my girl friends, and let them know I’ve got a horny little footslave on the leash.

The hair almost stood up on the back of my neck, my heart started pounding again, and I started trying to type a message begging her not to, but before I could finish another arrived:

Let this be a lesson to you, slave. Every morning when you wake up and every night before you go to bed you are to smell my socks and masturbate, or you’ll be punished. Don’t forget again.

I sat down and stared at the phone, and then at the socks still lying next to me on the bed, and then back at the phone again. I imagined the laughter and the looks on her friends’ faces when they saw the picture, and I felt glad for a moment that it didn’t show who I was. I picked up her socks and slipped them back under my pillow, wishing I had just made myself late for class, and then I crawled into bed and pulled the covers over me.

Throughout the next couple of hours I got several more messages from Mallory, all screenshots from a group text that she had evidently sent out to about eight numbers I didn’t recognize, keeping me updated periodically as the responses rolled in. The first one began with the picture, captioned with the words “Footboy tribute this morning ;-P,” and underneath there were three responses from the same number:

OMG!!!
Lol
Who is that?? Have I met him?

The second one came in a few minutes later, with a message from a second number:

Woowww, haha

Then a third, about half an hour after:

Bwahahahaa

And another, several minutes after that:

Lol, nice
He should smell mine, they’re ripe from volleyball ;P

They went on like this, more or less, and every time I got one I felt a fresh surge of mixed humiliation and arousal, knowing that another girl had seen Mallory’s dirty socks on my face. I didn’t know any of Mallory’s friends, except vaguely this one girl Renée who sometimes sat with her in class (I assumed she must have been in on the text), but I could only imagine what they were like.

I laid down that night in awe at the change my life had made in the last 30 hours or so, all from staring for a moment too long. I did as she had commanded, sniffing her socks even more hungrily than before, and then cleaned myself up and switched off the light, curling up under the covers and looking back over the messages. I re-read what she had written and I watched her videos a couple of more times, and then about five minutes after I finally put down my phone to go to sleep it buzzed again.

It was another video, shot handheld as she sat on the edge of her bed. The camera was pointed down her legs at her socks, and she let it run for a few seconds as she wiggled her toes. The camera turned as she pulled back the covers and stuck her legs underneath, briefly flashing her red and white striped panties and the bottom of her black tank top, and then she reached for the lamp at her bedside with her other hand. The screen went dark, and then the video was over.

I woke up the next morning, Friday, to another video of her putting on her shoes, shot from the same angle as before from on top of what I guessed was her dresser. She was wearing her usual jeans and a hoodie, her sleeves pulled up to her elbows, and there were those same white ankle socks again, a little dirtier than before. She looked at the camera as she put her hands on the bed, crossed her legs at the knee, and sat there for a moment flexing her ankles. Because of the angle I still couldn’t see her soles, but I watched as her feet arched and her toes pointed. Then she pulled on a pair of broken-in red low-top Converse and tied them tightly, tapped at her ankle again as before, and this time held up two fingers.

When the video shut off I dutifully pulled her socks from beneath my pillow and completed my morning tribute, imagining her feet in those canvas shoes and sniffing gratefully as I came. I anticipated seeing her again in class as I cleaned myself up, and apparently she had thought of that too because at that moment I received another message:

You’re coming to class today aren’t you?

I quickly replied that I was.

Good
I want you to take a shower, and get everything nice and clean.
Then, when you get dressed for the day, I want you to take one of the dirty socks I gave you, slip it over your cock and tuck your balls down into the heel. That’s going to be your only underwear for the day, and aside from going to the bathroom you’re to keep it on until I tell you you can take it off.

My eyes flicked to the clock at the top of the screen and I saw that if I was going to take a shower I was nearly running late. I texted back, “Okay,” and began pulling off my clothes. I went into the bathroom and turned on the water, and when I came back to check my phone again she had replied:

That’s another thing.
When I give you an order, it’s ‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘Thank you, Mistress,’ even. Try to sound a little more grateful.

I responded as she commanded me to.

That’s better.

I made it to class just a few minutes before it started, and I scanned the room for her as I entered. The room was a little more than half full, as usual, and everyone was spread out in twos and threes throughout it but she was nowhere to be seen. I settled into an empty section towards the middle on the left hand side, self-consciously feeling the fabric of her sock around me as I sat down.

I checked the clock on my phone; one minute til. I fidgeted a little, deciding to take off my coat, and drummed my fingers on the small desk attached to the chair. I looked around again to make sure I hadn’t missed her somewhere, but no. I saw Renée sitting in the back, but no Mallory. She was never late, it was unusual. But just as I watched the red second hand of the clock drift over the 12, and as the professor started in, the door opened and she walked through it.

She crossed the room with a lazy smile on her face, her bag slung over her right shoulder, and began making her way up the stairs. Her eyes drifted over me with no outward sign of recognition, but she got to my row and slid past me, carefully selecting the seat two over from mine. She didn’t look at me as she pulled out her notebook and pen, adjusted her hoodie, and ran a hand through her hair. But then she crossed her legs and slowly pulled up the hem of her jeans, conspicuously showing off the quarter-inch of white fabric between her ankle and the top of her shoe, and she started bobbing her ankle slowly.

After a minute or so she pulled out her phone, and I felt mine buzz in my pocket.

I have a good mind to make you get down and kiss my feet right here in the middle of class.

I felt my pulse rate quicken and my eyes get wide. “Please,” I texted, daring even to give her a pleading look, but she just looked forward with apparent engagement at the professor. “Please don’t.

Haha

She jotted a note or two and then took up her phone again.

Take it easy footboy ;-P
I’ve got other ways in mind to humiliate you

A few moments after that a picture came in, one she had apparently taken that morning before she had recorded her video. The camera had been laid down on the floor at the side of her bed and the image showed her face looking down with raised, expectant eyebrows above her dirty socked soles. She sent another message and the little banner notification dropped down from top of the screen:

Lay your phone down, bow your head, and kiss it.

I looked around me, but before I could see whether anyone was looking she sent another:

Do as I say
It’s either this or I make you do it for real
In front of everyone
You have 5 seconds before I start taking off my shoes.

She surreptitiously held out the five fingers of her hand beneath her hand and started counting down, and as my heart leapt I lowered my head and kissed the phone.

Hahahaahaha!!
Oh man! You’re so desperate for my feet
You should have seen the look on the girl’s face behind us
Do you think she saw what you were looking at??

I could feel my cheeks burning and I slunk down in my seat a little bit.

The class went on for another hour with her bobbing her ankles, rubbing her feet together, and more than once overtly turning the soles of her shoes so I could see them, teasing me now and again over text at the same time.

I bet you wish you were really kissing my feet. Don’t know if you could handle it tho. They’re getting SUUUPER smelly. I bet if I kicked off my shoes they’d stink up this whole room!
I can’t wait for tomorrow night. I’m gonna stick these stinky feet in your face and make you smell ’em so hard!!! 😉
I’m gonna smother you in my stinky socked feet until you can’t take it any more!

She was getting what it took me a minute to realize she wanted; the class was almost over and I was extremely hard. With the extra padding from her sock around my dick it was going to be incredibly obvious if I stood up, and as the professor concluded and Mallory put away her things she peeked under my desk and smiled. I was still trying to figure out what to do with myself when she slipped past me without so much as a look and quickly left the room.

My phone buzzed as she disappeared though, delivering a text she had written out at the last minute before we broke:

Good luck with that. ;-P

In the bustle and noise around me, finally my erection subsided and I got my stuff together, and I left too, but by then she was long gone. I started making my way back home, hot and bothered to say the least, and pulled out my phone trying to think of what I should say. I didn’t get the chance though, because halfway there another text came in:

By the way, you’re not allowed to jerk off when you get home. You’re not allowed to take my sock off at all until 7:00 tonight, and when you do you’re going to lube up that hand and stroke yourself for 10 minutes but you’re not allowed to cum. I want you all pent up when it comes time for you to meet my feet.
I expect you to send me a video of you following my orders. You’re to do it completely naked, bent over, with your face down in my socks and your ass up in the air.
If you’re a good boy and you do as I say you’ll get to cum under my feet tomorrow.
If not, then we’ll just call the whole thing off. Got it?

I did what I could to busy myself until the evening, trying to study, trying to write a paper for my chemistry class, but it seemed like all I could do was watch the clock. She also seemed intent on making sure my mind didn’t wander too far from her; at about 5:45 she sent me a photo looking down gym shoes on the speckled rubber floor of the locker room, and then another little video of her playing some basketball with some other girls I didn’t recognize. Then later:

I’m heading home from the gym now.
I expect that video on my phone at 7:15. You’ll be sorry if it doesn’t come in on time.

So naturally, come ten til 7 I was getting myself ready. I started recording at 6:59, stripping off my shirt and then my pants, and I counted in my head until I could remove her sock from my penis. I had the lube and her other sock ready, and I assumed the position she had indicated and did as she said.

I turned off the camera and washed off my hands hurriedly, scrambling back to my phone and realizing with a lurch that it was 7:14. I hastily attached the video to our conversation and hit “Send”, but then I blanched again as the progress bar stuttered and it looked like the 11-minute video was going to more than a few seconds to send. I started panicking and tried connecting to the wi-fi, “7:15” staring loudly at me from the top of my screen, but then, just before the next minute turned over, it finished.

Cutting it close footboy.
Tsk tsk

Time passed as I waited for her to watch the video. It seemed like forever, and then finally the ellipses popped up on my screen.

🙂
Good boy.
Now tell me ‘Thank you’.

I did, and she sent another picture looking down her legs in black pajama bottoms at her white ankle socks propped up on a coffee table in front of the couch she was sitting on, past the bottom of her hoodie and a beer bottle in her hand.

Now I’m going to call you, and you’re not to answer.
You’re not to decline it either. You’re to stuff my socks in your mouth and watch it ring, and then you’re going to wait while I leave you a voice message.
When it arrives you’re going to wait until 9:00, and then you’re going to lay down in your bed and turn off all the lights while you listen to it. It will give you instructions for tomorrow. Then you may take the socks out of your mouth, put them under your pillow, and go to sleep without cumming.
And don’t forget to text me good night. 😉

When I finally removed her socks from my mouth nearly two hours later, my heart was pounding as I laid my head to the pillow and it felt impossible for me to fall asleep. The voicemail had been so incredible, unbelievable even. It had specified in great detail how I was to spend my day tomorrow and what I would do when I saw her. It gave me directions to her house. And it contained more relentless teasing, giving me permission to edge again while she talked about what she was thinking of doing to me, but still forbidding me to cum.

In the morning I got another video, much the same as the other two, but of course when she tapped her ankle she held up three fingers. I finally realized what that was about– she was reminding me how many days she had been wearing her socks.

It was all I could do to keep myself from masturbating. I left the house and ran some errands, trying in vain to keep my mind off the evening, doing my best not to have any down time at home where I might get myself into trouble. By the time I finally did come home to get ready the sun was starting on its way down, and I listened to the voicemail again and prepared.

* * *

And so there I was, standing on her front porch at dusk, getting ready to lay eyes upon the sandy-haired queen who had been ruling my last 72 hours. I got down on my knees, as the message had said, and I reached up my hand to ring the bell.

My heart was beating fast as I heard the double chimes echo through the door. I knelt there for what seemed like forever before the locks began to turn, and then she was standing there, her hair up in a ponytail. I looked up to her face, the light from the hall behind dancing through her hair, and the light from the porch glinting off her high, round cheeks.

She looked down at me expectantly, and then raised her eyebrows up. Her voice on the recording flashed across my mind, and I felt my lower lip quiver as I leaned down slowly, and bowed. I laid my face onto her shoe laces and kissed, and again at the front of her ankles before sitting back up to look at her again.

“Good boy,” she said, leaning down and placing a finger underneath my chin. “Now get up, and follow me inside.”


© 2017

Click here for more sexy short stories from
SMUT Project Press!