Anticipation

The next day, I was a wreck of anticipation from the moment I woke up.

Harry had left early for work, pressing a kiss to my forehead before heading out, and I'd spent the entire day in a state of heightened arousal, replaying yesterday's session over and over in my mind. The memory of those rank socks pressed against my face, the overwhelming stench of his trainers, the way he'd dominated me so completely—it all had me half-hard for most of the day.

He'd texted me around three in the afternoon: Gym after work. Be ready for me. On your knees by the door. Naked.

My cock had immediately stiffened in my jeans, and I'd had to adjust myself discreetly at my desk. The rest of the workday had dragged interminably, every minute feeling like an hour as I watched the clock, counting down until I could go home and prepare myself for him.

I'd left work early, claiming a headache, which wasn't entirely untrue—I had an ache, just not in my head. By the time I got home, I had two hours to kill before Harry would arrive, and I spent them in a state of nervous, excited energy.

I showered thoroughly, making sure I was completely clean for him. Harry liked me pristine before he made me filthy. I even douched, knowing that he'd probably want to fuck me again, and I wanted to be ready for whatever he had planned.

Then I waited.

I'd set myself up by the front door at half past five, kneeling on the hardwood floor completely naked, my cock already half-hard with anticipation. The position was uncomfortable, my knees aching against the hard surface, but that was part of it—the discomfort, the submission, the waiting.

Every minute that ticked by felt like torture. My mind raced with possibilities. Would he use those same socks again? He'd said he wouldn't wash them. The thought made my cock twitch. Eleven days of wear now, even more pungent, even more disgusting. Would he make me worship them again? Would he shove them in my mouth? Make me suck on them while he fucked me?

I heard his car pull into the drive at quarter past six, and my heart rate immediately spiked. The sound of his door slamming, his footsteps on the path. I straightened my posture, head bowed, hands on my thighs, presenting myself exactly as he'd expect.

The key turned in the lock.

The door opened.

And there he was.

Harry stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, still in his workout gear—grey joggers and a black vest that clung to his torso, dark with sweat. His hair was damp, his face flushed from exertion, and even from where I knelt, I could smell him. That intoxicating mixture of sweat and musk and pure masculinity that made my mouth water.

He looked down at me, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.

"Good boy," he said, his voice low and approving. "Look at you, exactly where you belong."

"Thank you, Sir," I replied, keeping my eyes lowered.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and dropped his gym bag on the floor with a heavy thud. Then he just stood there for a moment, looking down at me, letting the anticipation build.

"Did you think about me today, Luke?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir. All day, Sir."

"Did you touch yourself?"

"No, Sir. You didn't give me permission."

"That's right, I didn't." He reached down and gripped my chin, tilting my face up to look at him. His hand was slightly damp with sweat, and I could smell the gym on his skin. "Your cock belongs to me. Your arse belongs to me. Your mouth belongs to me. You don't touch what's mine without permission. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir."

"Good." He released my chin and stepped back. "I had a fucking brutal session today. Legs and cardio. I'm absolutely drenched." He lifted one arm, and I could see the dark patches of sweat under his arms, could smell the sharp, acrid scent of it. "Can you smell me from there?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And does it make you hard, you filthy little slut?"

"Yes, Sir," I admitted, my cock now fully erect and leaking slightly onto my thigh.

Harry laughed, that deep, confident sound that always made me feel simultaneously small and cherished. "Of course it does. You're such a fucking pervert, Luke. My perfect little pervert."

He bent down and unzipped his gym bag, rummaging inside for a moment before pulling out his trainers. The same ones from yesterday. Even from a distance, I could see how worn they were, how the fabric was stained with sweat and God knows what else.

"I wore these again today," he said, holding them up. "Didn't even let them air out. Just shoved them back on this morning and went straight to the gym. They're fucking rancid now." He brought one up to his own nose and inhaled, then wrinkled his face in exaggerated disgust. "Christ, they absolutely reek. Can you imagine what they smell like inside?"

My cock twitched visibly, and Harry noticed, grinning.

"Oh, you want to find out, don't you? You want to bury your face in these disgusting trainers and breathe in all that stale sweat and cum."

"Yes, Sir. Please, Sir."

"Beg for it properly."

I swallowed, my mouth dry. "Please, Sir, may I smell your trainers? May I worship them? I want to smell how rank they are, Sir. I want to breathe in your scent. Please let me be your trainer-sniffing slut, Sir."

"Fuck, you're good at this," Harry said, his voice thick with arousal. I could see the bulge in his joggers now, his cock clearly hard beneath the grey fabric. "But not yet. First, I think you need to help me out of these sweaty clothes."

He stood directly in front of me, and I reached up with trembling hands to grip the waistband of his joggers. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell the concentrated musk of his crotch even through the fabric.

"Slowly," he commanded. "I want you to savour this."

I obeyed, easing the joggers down inch by inch. He wasn't wearing underwear—he never did at the gym—and his cock sprang free as I pulled the fabric down, already hard and glistening slightly at the tip. The smell hit me immediately, that concentrated, sweaty musk of his cock and balls after a workout, and I inhaled deeply without thinking.

"That's it," Harry murmured. "Breathe it in. That's what a real man smells like after he's been working hard."

I continued pulling his joggers down, revealing his thick, muscular thighs, also glistening with sweat. When I reached his ankles, he stepped out of them, and I was confronted with his feet, still encased in those white trainer socks.

The same socks from yesterday.

Eleven days of wear.

They were visibly dirty now, the white fabric yellowed and stained, particularly around the soles and toes. And the smell—even from a foot away, I could smell them, that sharp, vinegary stench of feet that had been trapped in trainers for far too long.

"Take my vest off," Harry ordered.

I stood on shaky legs and reached for the hem of his vest, peeling the sweat-soaked fabric up over his torso. His skin was slick with perspiration, his muscles defined and perfect. I pulled the vest over his head, and he stood before me completely naked except for those socks.

"Back on your knees," he said.

I dropped immediately, and he stepped closer, his cock now level with my face. It was fully hard, the head dark and swollen, a bead of precum forming at the slit.

"You want this cock, don't you?" he asked, gripping it at the base and giving it a slow stroke.

"Yes, Sir."

"You want me to fuck your throat? Make you choke on it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Not yet." He released his cock and instead lifted one foot, placing it on my shoulder. The smell intensified immediately, and I could see the sock up close now—the fabric worn thin in places, stained with sweat and dirt, absolutely filthy. "First, you're going to worship these socks. You're going to show me how much you love how disgusting they are."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

He pressed his socked foot against my face, and I inhaled deeply, the stench filling my nostrils and making my head spin. It was even worse than yesterday—sharper, more pungent, with layers of accumulated sweat and bacteria. It should have been revolting. It was revolting. And I fucking loved it.

"Smell it," Harry commanded. "Take deep breaths. Fill your lungs with the stink of my feet."

I obeyed, breathing in through my nose, the smell so strong it was almost a taste. My cock throbbed, leaking steadily now, and I had to resist the urge to touch myself.

"That's it. Such a good little foot slut. Now lick it. Lick the bottom of my sock."

He lifted his foot slightly, presenting the sole to me, and I extended my tongue, dragging it along the dirty fabric. The taste was indescribable—salty and sour and bitter all at once, the flavour of concentrated sweat and grime. I could feel the texture of the worn fabric against my tongue, could taste the days of accumulated filth.

"Fuck, look at you," Harry groaned. "Licking my dirty sock like it's the best thing you've ever tasted. You're such a fucking pervert, Luke. Such a disgusting little slut."

"Yes, Sir," I mumbled against his foot, continuing to lick, my tongue working over every inch of the sole.

"Now suck on my toes. Suck them through the sock."

I moved to the front of his foot, taking his big toe into my mouth through the fabric. The taste was even more concentrated here, where sweat accumulated between his toes, and I sucked hard, my tongue working around the digit, soaking the fabric with my saliva.

"That's it. Get it nice and wet. Suck all that sweat out of the fabric."

I moved from toe to toe, sucking each one, my mouth filling with the taste of him. The sock was soaked now with my saliva, clinging to his toes, and Harry was groaning above me, clearly getting off on my degradation.

"Other foot," he commanded, switching feet.

I repeated the process, worshipping his other foot with the same devotion, licking the sole, sucking his toes, breathing in that overwhelming stench until my head was spinning and my cock was aching with need.

"You love this, don't you?" Harry asked, his voice thick. "You love being my foot bitch, my sock slut."

"Yes, Sir. I love it, Sir."

"Beg me to take them off. Beg me to let you worship my bare feet."

"Please, Sir," I gasped, looking up at him with what I knew must be desperate eyes. "Please take off your socks. Let me worship your bare feet. Let me lick between your toes, taste your sweat directly. Please, Sir. I need it."

Harry grinned down at me, that predatory expression that made me feel like prey. "Since you asked so nicely."

He sat down on the sofa, and I crawled over to him, positioning myself at his feet. He lifted one foot, and I carefully peeled the sock off, revealing his bare foot beneath. His skin was slightly damp with sweat, and the smell intensified even further without the fabric barrier.

"Smell it," he ordered, holding his bare foot up to my face.

I pressed my nose against his sole and inhaled deeply. The scent was overwhelming—pure, concentrated foot sweat, sharp and vinegary and absolutely intoxicating. My cock jerked, and I had to grip my thighs to keep from touching it.

"Now lick. Clean my foot with your tongue."

I started at his heel, dragging my tongue up along his sole, tasting the salt of his sweat directly on my tongue. I worked methodically, covering every inch of his foot, licking between each toe, sucking on them individually, cleaning away the accumulated sweat and grime.

"Good boy," Harry murmured, his hand reaching down to stroke his cock slowly as he watched me. "Such a good little foot cleaner. Now the other one."

I removed his other sock and repeated the process, worshipping his foot with my mouth and tongue, losing myself in the taste and smell of him. By the time I'd finished, both his feet were clean and glistening with my saliva, and I was so hard I was afraid I might cum without even being touched.

"Look at you," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous. "Cock dripping everywhere, desperate to be touched. But you won't touch it, will you? Because you're a good boy who only cums when I give you permission."

"Yes, Sir. Only when you give me permission, Sir."

"That's right." He stood up, his cock bobbing in front of my face. "Now open your mouth. I'm going to fuck your throat, and you're going to take it like the good little cock slut you are."

I opened my mouth obediently, and Harry gripped the back of my head, guiding his cock between my lips. He didn't start gently—he pushed in deep immediately, hitting the back of my throat and making me gag.

"That's it. Choke on it. I want to feel your throat squeezing my cock."

He started thrusting, fucking my mouth with steady, deep strokes. I struggled to breathe through my nose, my eyes watering, saliva dripping down my chin. He was relentless, using my mouth for his pleasure, and I loved every second of it.

"Such a good cock sucker," he groaned. "Taking it so deep. You love having your throat fucked, don't you?"

I couldn't respond with my mouth full, but I moaned around his cock, and he laughed.

"Yeah, you do. Fucking slut."

He continued for several more minutes, his cock hitting the back of my throat repeatedly, until finally he pulled out, leaving me gasping and drooling.

"Bedroom. Now. On your back."

I scrambled to my feet and practically ran to the bedroom, climbing onto the bed and positioning myself on my back, my legs spread, completely exposed and vulnerable.

Harry followed more slowly, taking his time, letting the anticipation build. When he entered the bedroom, he was carrying his trainers and both socks.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he said, his voice matter-of-fact. "And while I do, you're going to smell these." He held up the trainers. "And taste these." He held up the socks.

My cock twitched violently at the thought.

"Yes, Sir. Please, Sir."

He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between my legs. He spat into his hand—we still weren't using lube, the slight pain part of the experience—and slicked up his cock. Then he lifted my legs, draping them over his shoulders, and positioned himself at my entrance.

"Beg for it," he commanded.

"Please fuck me, Sir. Please use my arse. I need your cock inside me. Please, Sir."

He pushed in slowly, and I gasped at the stretch, the burn. Even after yesterday, it was still intense, still overwhelming. He didn't stop until he was fully seated inside me, his hips pressed against my arse.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned. "Such a perfect little fuck hole."

Then he started moving, long, deep strokes that had me gasping and moaning. He picked up one of his trainers and pressed it against my face, covering my nose and mouth.

"Breathe," he ordered.

I inhaled deeply, the stench of the trainer filling my lungs—that concentrated smell of sweat and cum and pure masculine filth. It was overwhelming, making my head spin, and my cock throbbed against my stomach.

"That's it. Breathe in how disgusting I am. Breathe in the smell of my rank trainers while I fuck your arse."

He was pounding into me now, hard and fast, the trainer still pressed against my face. I was drowning in sensation—the stretch and burn of his cock, the overwhelming smell, the degradation of it all.

Then he pulled the trainer away and shoved one of the socks into my mouth.

"Suck on it," he commanded. "Taste how rank it is."

I sucked obediently, the fabric soaked with eleven days of foot sweat flooding my mouth with that sour, salty taste. I could feel the texture of the worn fabric against my tongue, could taste every layer of accumulated grime.

"Fuck, you look so good like this," Harry groaned, his rhythm becoming more erratic. "Sucking on my filthy sock while I destroy your arse. Such a perfect little slut. My perfect little slut."

He was hitting my prostate with every thrust now, and I could feel my orgasm building, that familiar tension coiling in my lower abdomen. My cock was leaking steadily, creating a puddle on my stomach.

"You're going to cum for me," Harry said, his voice strained. "You're going to cum just from my cock and the taste of my sock. No touching. Just my cock in your arse and my sock in your mouth."

I moaned around the fabric, my body trembling, so close to the edge.

"That's it. Cum for me, Luke. Show me what a good boy you are. Cum while you're sucking on my disgusting sock."

And I did. My orgasm hit me like a freight train, my cock jerking violently as I came all over my stomach and chest, rope after rope of cum painting my skin. I was moaning and gasping around the sock, my arse clenching rhythmically around Harry's cock.

"Fuck, yes," Harry groaned, and I felt him swell inside me. "I'm going to fill your arse. Going to pump you full of my cum."

He thrust deep one final time and held there, and I felt the warmth of his release flooding my insides, felt his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into me.

We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us trembling and gasping, connected in the most intimate way possible. Then slowly, Harry pulled out, and I felt his cum start to leak out of my well-used hole.

He pulled the sock from my mouth and tossed it aside, then leaned down, his tongue dragging through the cum on my stomach. He licked me clean, gathering every drop, then kissed me deeply, sharing the taste of my own release.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, covered in sweat and cum and thoroughly satisfied.

"Fuck," Harry said, collapsing beside me. "That was even better than yesterday."

"Yeah," I agreed, my voice hoarse. "It really was."

He pulled me against him, and I settled into his embrace, not caring about the mess, just wanting to be close to him.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, echoing my question from the day before.

I laughed weakly. "If I can still walk."

"That's my boy," Harry said, pressing a kiss to my temple. "My perfect, filthy boy."

And as I drifted off, exhausted and satisfied and thoroughly debauched, I thought once again that there was nowhere else I'd rather be than right here, in his arms, covered in the evidence of our depravity.