I Became the Gym Goddess’s Slave

The adult acrobatics workshop at the sports center had its evaluation that night: human pyramids. We’d spent three weeks building them, planting our feet on the mats hour after hour, and at the end of each class that mostly female gym was left steeped in a thick, almost solid smell that got into our clothes and came home with me.

We all trained in socks. All of us except Daria, of course. She never put anything on her feet, not even those closed shoes she took off with two fingers before climbing up into the formation. And wouldn’t you know it, her spot was the pyramid’s apex. Right on my shoulders. So the weight of that twenty-three-year-old Russian always fell on me, in direct contact with the pale sole of her bare foot.

Of course, I accepted the position without a peep.

I would never have dared to talk back to her. I have no idea what real power there was in that cold stare of hers, capable of disintegrating anyone who dared argue with her without wasting a single word to prove it.

Our group was the first to perform. So my misfortune wasn’t limited to feeling the constant pressure of her bare feet, like little sustained kicks; I also had to bear them still sweaty, after an hour of warm-up. Soft feet, pale, pink only on the pressure points. Beautiful, I blush to admit it.

The whistle blew and the routine began. I already looked like her subject. That woman enjoyed pressing her foot down on my shoulder with an intermittent rhythm, impossible to anticipate, so I never quite got used to it and feared every new push. On one of those presses she found a spot that seemed to please her, a sensitive area beside my collarbone, and kept driving her heel in until it pulled one of those tears from me that come out on their own when the pain is sudden and concentrated.

Knowing the routine was ending comforted me. In a few seconds all that torture would be justified by the score.

Then a spike of pain made me let out a low groan. She used my teammate and me as a springboard to jump to the floor in the final move. Her moment of glory, improvised and at our expense.

Her and her permanent need to show off, not caring who she stepped on along the way. And, to make it worse, she scored half a point more than the two of us. Hadn’t it taken us far more effort than it had taken her?

Daria, too clever by half, knew it perfectly well. That’s why she looked me in the eye and let out a little laugh.

***

In the blink of an eye class was over and we were sent to the changing rooms. I ran to the bathroom to find a mirror. The usual redness on my shoulders had been joined by something new: her imprint had been left on my skin with the sharpness of a stencil worn down by years, and the concentrated sweat from her foot seemed to have irritated that sensitive spot beside my neck even more.

How pathetic my attempt to clean it was. I only made it worse, reddening the already inflamed skin even more.

I came out of the bathroom frustrated, with a very childish internal tantrum and that lingering feeling of being a loser. In the empty room only Daria was left. The others were already on their way home.

She didn’t even deign to look at me, which was normal, and seconds later I was alone in the gym. I looked back toward the bathroom with the feeling I’d forgotten something without knowing what, and then, in the doorway of the women’s changing room, I saw an object that stuck in my mind: a shoe. Daria’s closed shoe! And only one?

I picked it up carefully, holding it by the laces, and left the sports center at almost desperate speed, with the ridiculous hope of giving it back to her.

Before I even looked at her face, I searched for her feet: she was now wearing strappy sandals. I shouted her name. She didn’t turn around. Repeatedly: that attitude of hers was already a habit. Every time I tried to talk to her she ignored me, as if reminding me she played in a league higher than anything I could ever aspire to, even in my dreams. I had to give up when her car drove away from the center’s door.

With no choice but to stash the shoe in my backpack, I walked home, where dinner was waiting after such an exhausting day.

***

Once in my room, I started taking things out of the backpack. Seriously? The sole of her shoe had dirtied the whole inside. As if doing it to help her wasn’t enough. And worst of all: now the whole backpack smelled like her feet.

What if I take a deep breath?

I felt sick and ashamed that my own head would produce such a thought. But it was too late: my cock had gone rock hard, pressed against the fly, throbbing with every mental image of those pale, sweaty feet pressing into my face. I grabbed it over my pants and noticed the wet patch of pre-cum already beginning to show through the fabric.

I tried, I tried to focus on something else, but I couldn’t. A mentally impossible challenge. Curiosity filled my chest with adrenaline. Something in me wanted to bury my face in the backpack and sniff like an animal at that haughty woman’s sweaty insole.

Still, I managed to hold back. I opened Instagram. Is she really that superior, or am I just idealizing her because I got used to her contempt? Maybe she’s just bitter and that’s why she acts like this.

It did no good. That woman had not only trampled my shoulders with contempt; she had trampled my pride too. Her profile was full of gift photos, comments from men groveling over her. Most of her portraits were natural, without filters, and still perfect. There was a photo of her in a bikini, lying in a hammock, legs crossed and the soles showing that perfect curve of the arch. A groan escaped me and without realizing it I had already unbuttoned my pants, my cock out, starting to jerk off with my thumb sliding over the soaked glans.

Fighting that submissive posture that was beginning to take shape inside me made me feel fragile, weak, ridiculous. Her smooth face justified her arrogance. Her princess features justified her arrogance. That charming little upturned nose justified her arrogance. I understood my own shame before such an imposing presence.

In the end I gave in. I got down from the chair, grabbed the backpack, opened it, took out the closed shoe, and buried my nose inside. The smell hit me like a slap: concentrated sweat, leather seasoned by the soles of her feet, a sour, salty aroma that made me tremble all over. I inhaled deep, mouth open against the insole, sticking out my tongue to taste the fabric soaked by her feet. I stroked my cock with my free hand, squeezing hard, and thirty seconds later I came in streams right inside the shoe itself, unloading thick semen over the insole I had just licked. The orgasm left me exhausted, panting, with my cock still dripping and my legs weak.

I had to get rid of that object that seemed enchanted. Especially before she discovered the white stain inside.

Then a faint light illuminated my bad luck. In several of her highlights the name of a neighborhood appeared, repeated over and over. A neighborhood I knew well: years ago I had worked as a delivery guy in those streets, and I’d noticed that every mailbox bore the neighbors’ names.

With the shoe back in the backpack — badly cleaned inside with paper, though the smell of semen remained mixed with her feet’s scent — I spent hours going through that area. Sweating, another half hour checking surnames, until it appeared: “Daria Volkova.”

When I pressed the buzzer I did it softly, almost tenderly, as if that gesture belonged to the first almost religious devotion I had ever felt in my life.

***

A metallic screech sounded and the door opened outward, much faster than my reflexes, hitting me squarely on the nose.

When she saw me with the tip of my nose red as a clown’s and one of her shoes in my hand, she let out a beautiful laugh that showed off her perfect teeth. She appeared in front of me, snatched the shoe from my hands with violence, and then, with a grimace of disgust as if she’d stepped in dog shit, spat on my nose in mockery of my clumsiness. And she shut the door in my face, without saying a single word.

Thirty seconds of pure emptiness. My mind replayed those fleeting seconds on a loop.

Still in shock, the door opened again, this time harder, and I took a brutal blow that cut off my breath for a few moments. Her laughter echoed through every corner of my head while she closed it once more, now truly done with my existence.

As you can see, in addition to being beautiful, intelligent: a new attribute that multiplied my growing devotion, still unconscious at the time.

I stood motionless for so long that the moisture ran from my nose to my mouth, and I swallowed her spit out of sheer lack of reflexes. A sweet taste, mixed with the salt of my tear after the blow, which I then licked from my lips.

I’m dying of shame just admitting it. How was it possible that I had gone over every last drop of something as humiliating as a spit? Who did she think she was? Tomorrow I’d set her straight. I wasn’t some doll she could mock and get away unscathed. After all, I’d crossed half the city to return her shoe, when I could have waited until the next day. She was going to find out.

Back home, again. So many hours walking, so much effort for nothing. And still, that night, lying in bed, I jerked off again until I came twice more, with the taste of her saliva still imagined on my lips.

***

That night I didn’t sleep. The insomnia, which multiplied my frustration and my rage, ended up making me feel like a wild animal, inside and out, with those dark circles and that bitter face.

With my pulse racing, I went into the sports center the next day.

—You. Stay with me during the break. We need to talk.

—And if I don’t want to, what? —she only lacked spitting on me again, in front of everyone.

—I’m serious —I gathered the little courage I had.

But she let out that insidious little laugh again, so harmful to me, and walked off.

Keep laughing, I thought, because even then I didn’t dare say it out loud.

During the sets before the break I managed to loosen the tension in my body a little. But it was enough for the whistle to blow and for me to see her coming over to throw me right back into that initial beastly state. That woman knew how to drive me insane without opening her mouth, without laughing, without spitting on me.

***

Me, sitting on the bench; her, on top of the judge’s table, a hand’s breadth from me, so that my head barely reached her shoulder.

—What do you want, little clown? —she brushed the tip of my nose with her index finger.

—Look. This is the last time you disrespect me. You’re not going to... —and while I was talking she slipped off one sandal.

—Oh, shut up already —she cut me off, covering my mouth with the force of her heel, and pinched my nose with her toes until I whimpered in pain.

For ten seconds I refused to breathe. But no matter how hard I held out, I ended up giving in, bewitched by her smell, completely stupid, inhaling desperately the little air her foot allowed me. My cock got hard again, swollen against my gym shorts, and she noticed immediately, lowering her gaze with a cruel smile.

—Look what we have here —she murmured, and without removing her foot from my face she brought the toes of the other one to my crotch, pressing my cock over the fabric with humiliating slowness.

She tore them away with a sharp yank. Her soles were stuck so tightly from sweat that they dragged me forward, and she, with that look of disgust, gave me back to the seat with a light kick.

—Thank you —I said irritably, in a sarcastic tone.

—Thank you for what, for stepping on your face? Ha, ha —her malice pushed me toward rage.

—No, smartass. You know that... I... I said it because... —my exhausted brain couldn’t finish.

—Forget it. You don’t know how to talk, much less invent a believable excuse. You’re dying for these feet, but these feet don’t belong to just any slob.

—Hey! I warned you! Stop...!

A slap brought me back to consciousness. Full of infamous contempt, she pressed the sole of her right foot against my neck and twisted it like someone crushing a cigarette butt.

—Listen carefully, scum. If that’s such a lie, you’ll accept the challenge I’m about to give you —she shot me a murderous look that made me lower my eyes—. I’m going to stick the insole of my sandal to your face for one minute. If when I take it away I see it wet with saliva, I’ll understand that you’d give your miserable life to kiss my feet, and then you’ll be my slave, my servant, my worshipper, until I say otherwise. If not, I’ll have at least a minimum of respect for you. Understood?

I didn’t dare answer. I only begged her for mercy with my eyes.

—Fine. Say hello to your new friend —from her sandal came an insole bearing the sweaty, slightly darkened imprint of her flawless sole.

***

At first I resisted, but she had greater strength and I had no choice but to give in under the pressure of her foot.

For the first ten seconds I refused to breathe again. She held her foot firm, sure of winning. Then, to stay alive, I took the risk and inhaled all that perfume of sweat, a small amount but so concentrated it altered my consciousness like a drug. Addictive, even. So much so that I didn’t mind inhaling harder still.

Without realizing it, I stuck out my tongue and started licking the insole, dragging it over every groove of her foot’s imprint, sucking up the accumulated salt, swallowing the bitter dampness that clung to my palate. A muffled moan escaped me. I could feel my own cock already soaking my pants, throbbing without anyone touching it, about to come just from the taste of her feet in my mouth. She saw everything from above and laughed with calm cruelty, like someone watching a dog eat its own shit.

—That’s enough —she said after the minute, removing the insole and showing it to me, shining with my saliva—. Look at yourself. Drooling over a pair of feet. You are exactly what I thought.

—Yes, goddess, yes... I’ll be your slave.

—Then move aside, nobody gave you permission to keep going —and she kicked my face until she knocked me off the bench.

From the floor, panting, my face still soaked in her smell, I came inside my pants without anyone touching my cock. A hot, thick jet that soaked the fabric and seeped onto the bench. She noticed it by the spreading stain and laughed even louder.

—Seriously? You came? And you even stain my gym, scum? —she crouched, grabbed me by the hair, and forced me to look her in the eyes—. From now on, every drop of semen you want to spill, you ask me for it. And you’ll unload it where I say, not whenever you feel like it. Understood?

—Yes, goddess —I murmured, my face dripping with spit and tears.

***

From then on I was her total slave. I accepted my natural place before a woman like her. Every afternoon I ran her errands and then she let me massage her feet. For every mistake, one more day without smelling or kissing her soles and her heels —she never let me lick her toes or instep—, a day in which I could only clean the sole of her sneakers with my tongue.

The good days, on the other hand, were a perverse celebration. She’d make me lie on the floor of her apartment, on my back, with my cock out and throbbing, and she’d sit on the sofa with her legs crossed, the sole of one foot on my face and the other pressing my cock against my belly. She’d cover my nose with her heel, forcing me to suck the toes hanging over my mouth, and she’d make me come by rubbing my cock with the arch of her foot, slowly, like someone crushing a cockroach out of boredom. When she was done, she’d make me clean the semen off her foot with my tongue, swallowing every drop while she pulled my hair and called me scum, worshipper, piece-of-shit doll.

Other nights she’d lie in bed with a book and keep me for half an hour licking her soles while she got bored, not giving me a single word. I licked every sweaty centimeter of her arch, her heel, the pink mark where she bore her weight when she walked, and I could feel my mouth filling with the concentrated taste of her whole day. If I dared bring my tongue toward a toe, a kick would send me back to my place.

Once she made me kneel in the shower, mouth open like a bowl, and she peed inside without stopping laughing, while she pressed my neck with the sole of her foot against the tiles so I wouldn’t get the idea of closing it. I swallowed every drop of her hot, bitter piss, heart racing and cock dripping on its own. Then she made me lick her wet feet one by one, taking the moisture off with my tongue, and she forbade me from coming for the whole week.

Over time, Daria started a formal relationship with a guy and coerced me into paying for her gifts and whims. Meanwhile, I remained her second-rate toy: she’d call me after fucking him, with her cunt still dripping and the soles of her feet soaked in another body’s sweat, and order me to lick her feet while she told me in detail how her boyfriend’s cock had gotten her pregnant that afternoon. I came while listening to her, always humiliated, always grateful.

When they got married, she got tired of me and never called again.

I insisted and insisted, until the inevitable block came.

On these sad nights, when the world reminds me of my failure, I still wait for her return. So many hours walking, so many days of sheer effort... and I still haven’t learned a thing.