The New Roommate

I slid open the door to the patio of my apartment and stepped into what felt like a sauna, squinting in the harsh July sunlight. I felt the thickness of the hot air on my face as I sat down at the little patio table and lit my cigarette, and as I pulled out my phone I decided to check the temperature– 96 degrees. I cringed as I saw it and flipped back to the text message Elaina had sent me just a few minutes before:

“On my way home.”

We had entered into an unusual arrangement over the last nine weeks or so. I had needed a roommate to afford the ungodly cost of housing in my city and when it happened that she was looking for a place at the same time it seemed to make a lot of sense. I had known her through being friends with her younger sister, had met her a few times here and there, and I found her quite attractive so when she suggested moving in together I was pleased, not least of all because I thought even if nothing ever happened between us it would be nice to have her around.

She was tall, about 6′ 1″.  Taller than me certainly, and when we saw the place for the first time I couldn’t help noticing that her high ponytail was nearly brushing the ceiling. She had a slim and alluring, but powerful shape, an extremely casual style (she was usually seen in a long sleeved t-shirt and pajama bottoms when at home and she rarely wore anything fancier than jeans when she left), and a “chill”, laid-back attitude.  She laughed often, smoked a little weed now and then, and was more than comfortable hanging out with me at nights.

There had definitely been something between us when we first met, flirting a little here and there before we had even thought about living together, but for a couple of unimportant, incidental reasons nothing had ever come of it. It was something of a shock then, in the early days of living together, to see her lounging around the house, to hear her in the shower, and to find myself in her room and on her bed from time to time.

We were good roommates.  We didn’t argue about bills, or cleaning, or noise.  We would have little parties and do things together, little shopping trips and home projects, and we became friends apart from just being people who lived in the same apartment.  But by the second or third week together it was apparent that we were becoming something more.

We had been unpacking some boxes in the living room and putting stuff up on the walls, and the whole apartment was starting to get hot because of the season. I was hanging a framed print of hers on the wall, an oddly appropriate vintage poster for Attack of the 50 Ft. Woman actually, and when I turned around to ask her how it looked I was surprised to see her laid out on the couch with her feet up on the arm of it, shaking her ankles for a moment before kicking off her worn black, low-top Converse.

“I’m tempted to just let you hang all of my stuff,” she said, closing her eyes as she put her hair up in a ponytail and wiggling her toes in a pair of faded royal blue ankle socks. “My feet are killing me.” I knew, from a moment of uncontrollable curiosity I had indulged a few days prior, that she wore a size 13, and I could see that her socks were wearing, and damp.

“Oh yeah?” I replied. “You’re just gonna lay there, all comfortable, while I do all the work, is that it?”

“That’s right,” she said with a tough, satisfied smile, “and when you’re done with that you can rub my feet.”

My heart did a little somersault as I looked at them and then back up at her closed eyes. The moment fell over me and I felt my eyes widen as I looked back down, and it wasn’t until I heard her laughing that I realized I had completely forgotten to say anything.

She had sat up on her elbows and she looked at me with an electric, devious expression that said she was putting something together, and then she laughed again, throwing her head back and bringing her hands to her face as she laid back down.

“Oh man, you should see your face.” She crossed her ankles and started stretching her feet again. She looked at me again, the realization coming to her, confirming what she had suspected, and something strong and authoritative took over her voice. “You look like you’d be happy to rub my feet. You look like it’d be a dream come true. I think you’d be thrilled to be my little footboy.”

It was true. There had been little moments up to then that had put me under her spell, that had gotten my attention and gotten me reminding myself about boundaries and other people’s things.

When we were moving in her dresser she had handed me her sock drawer to take down the stairs, and as I walked with it I felt a sense of duty and pride, happy to be helping her with them. I couldn’t help but look them over, the lime green athletic socks, the fuzzy ones with the red and white stripes, the faded cow print ones, and I wondered pleasantly how soon it would be before I saw them on her feet.

Things like that had affected me. Seeing her slip off her shoes at the end of the day, stealing glances at them tucked up under her while we watched movies together. Somehow, in the midst of it all I think she must have begun to suspect, and now it looked like I was about to get more than I ever expected.

“Well go on then,” she said, pointing to her feet with her eyes. “Let’s see whether you’d be any good at it. Go on, get on your knees.” I set down the things I had in my hands and watched her feet flex and stretch as I got down on their level. I couldn’t believe how big they were, and yet how feminine and sexy. I wanted to serve them, to serve her, and to show her how grateful I was for the privilege.

“I have to admit I like the prospect. Having someone to rub my feet every night when I get home from work. Go on, start rubbing.” I reached up carefully and started with the left one, and she smiled and closed her eyes again. “I have to say though, I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into. I have some of the stinkiest feet around, and if I make you my footboy you’re gonna have to do a lot more than rub.”

That was true too. I had first caught a touch of her powerful foot smell a few days before moving in with her, when I went over to her friends’ place to hang out, and they were all sat on this big sectional couch playing video games and the only spot left was by Elaina’s feet. Her old, well worn sneakers were on the ground, and as they played I feigned interest in the noise and flashing lights while I caught the tantalizing little whiffs emanating from her bare soles. I could only imagine how tough it would be to smell them up close.

I could smell those same little whiffs as I rubbed, and she sighed and pushed her feet into my hands. I could feel that they were sweaty and dirty. After a minute or two she sat up and looked at me, eyeing me carefully, and then she nodded her head to the side of the couch. “Lay down,” she said. “Lay here underneath me.”

I did as she said, and I lay there looking up at her as she sat up. “I’m gonna put these feet in your face, and if you can handle the stink for ten minutes maybe I’ll make you my little footboy.”

I shook as she lowered her big socked feet down on top of me. She rubbed her feet all over my face, and I groaned as I felt how warm and wet they were. “Smell!” she cried, and I knew I couldn’t hold out much longer. “Smell my stinky feet!”

I finally gave in, and when I sniffed them her stink poured into me. They were so smelly, so powerfully dirty, and I groaned into them, my whole face covered by her big size 13s. I felt completely engulfed by them, completely submerged in them, completely under their spell.

She pulled them down onto my cheeks and looked down into my eyes, and she let out an enthusiastic laugh. “Haha, had enough yet?” she jeered before covering my face again. “I think you might make a good footslave. Keep sniffing!”

She kept me under her feet for at least the next ten minutes as she detailed all of the things that would be different about our living arrangement if I was going to be her footslave. I’d assume all of the household chores, including her dishes and laundry, I’d cook dinner for her every night and breakfast for her on weekends, and when she got home from work each night, “you’ll sniff the stink out of my feet before giving them a tongue bath and an oil massage.”

When she was satisfied that enough of her stink had absorbed into my face, she brought them down onto my neck and asked me, “Do you want this privilege slave?”

I looked up her long legs and stammered, “Y-yes please Mistress.”

“Good boy,” she said, and she pulled off her ankle socks. “Open your mouth.” My lips parted and my eyes were wide, and Elaina stuffed her socks inside my mouth and I tasted their sweat and grime. I moaned and heard the muffled sound as I reeled and she pinned my head back to the floor.

If anything her bare feet were even stinkier, and I whined into them as my eyes started watering. She wiped and rubbed them and taunted me, saying, “I just knew I’d get you under my big, stinky feet. I knew I’d make you my footslave.” She pressed her toes into my forehead and her heels into my chin.

She lifted them up and slapped me lightly a few times with each of them, and then she covered my face again. “We’ll get to the licking and sucking soon, and we’re gonna teach you how to give me pedicures. You’re gonna spend all of your spare time in the service of my feet. I might even train you to cum for these feet.”

I whined into her soles again, and she pushed them hard into my face one more time. She got up from the couch laughed again as she looked down at me. She stepped straight down onto my face a few times, and then nudged my cheek with her toes and told me to get up and get back to work.

She made me hang the rest of her pictures with her socks still stuffed in my mouth while she laid back and relaxed on the couch. After that I unpacked a box of dishes she had brought over, and set up an IKEA floor lamp she had bought. She made me crawl around the apartment for the last part, and she summoned me several times to kiss her feet in between tasks.

Finally, she instructed me to kneel in front of her and open my mouth, and she pulled out her socks and inspected them. She wiped them across my face and made me sniff them again, and then she wadded them up and stuffed them down my pants.

“I think it’s time for us to take a nap,” she said, and before long we were laying in her bed with my pillow at the foot of the bed, and when we got situated she covered my face again and told me to kiss them until she fell asleep.

In the days after that she was strict in enforcing her new rules, and the evenings went exactly as she had planned. That had led us up to tonight, and she was on her way home for more. It was Friday though, the first night of the weekend where I would have to serve her around the clock.

When she walked in the door I fell to my knees and kissed the tops of her sneakers, another new rule for when she entered a room. I could almost smell her ripe toes through her shoes. She ordered me to lay down as she kicked them off, and she walked up to my head and stuck her white gym socks in my face, first one and then the other.

I cringed and squirmed. They really stank today. But she didn’t subject me to them for too long because she had other plans. “I think it’s time we took things to the next level,” she said, stepping down next to my side. “I think it’s time we took the next… step.” And then, before I knew it, I was underneath her, her full weight on top of me, trampling me.

She only stood still for a moment and then she started walking all over me, stepping on and off to let me breathe. When she stood up on top of me though her head reached the ceiling, and she laughed as she towered above me. She let her weight press down on my chest, and then she placed one stinking foot on my face. I looked up at her as she steadied herself with her hands on the ceiling.

“I’m gonna stand on your face,” she said softly, and then with another step that had the grace of a gymnast she did. She stood on my face and I felt her full weight stacked on my head. When she stepped off again I gasped for air and looked up at her, so completely and utterly dominated by her feet.”Good boy,” she said. She trampled me for another few minutes, standing on my face another couple of times, and I groaned and moaned beneath her. Then she said it was time to make her dinner, and she went off to take a shower.

When she got out dinner was almost ready, and I had heard her pleasuring herself with the showerhead. She sat down on the couch and made a conspicuous show of putting her stinky worn gym socks back on, and I cringed at the thought of it as I served her her meal. We ate together quietly, discussing our days at work, and when she was done she put her feet up on the coffee table and said, “Well come on then, I haven’t got all night.”

This is my life now, dominated and controlled by my roommate Elaina. There are eleven months left on our lease, and I just hope I can make it. I am her footslave, and I live to serve her feet.


© 2017-2018


Look for this story soon on Amazon, Smashwords, and Goodreads!


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