Tom stands in front of the bed, the corner of which you're perched on, wearing a sleeveless black shirt, baggy white barketball shorts and socks which are slightly darker on the bottom, evidently having been dragged out of a days-old clothing hamper. A pair of worn and faded running shoes hang from his curled fingers, the laces nearly touching the ground. Tom is just standing, smiling at you, savouring the look of terror on your face. "Dude you have 'no' idea how long I've been waiting for something like this. My own little toy.. All mine.. I can do whatever I want to do and there's nothing you can do but suck it up." he closes his eyes, enjoying the long-awaited moment. "You are just gonna love my feet. We've been on the road for months and, dude, I'm not fucking with you, these babies haven't seen clean water for weeks.." Tears start to spill from your eyes and Tom shoves one of his shoes on, pressing his foot on the corner of the mattress, inches from your body to tie the laces. Even the outside of the shoes stink unforgivabley. You look up at him, your eyes wet and pleading. Tom's two fingers close on your shoulders, lifting you by them and dropping you into the second shoe. The smell that assails you can only be described as violent, and when Tom's foot banishes your light and settles on your front, the unearthly stench of his filthy foot makes you want to be violently ill. Worse when he starts jogging, and your rank dungeon is flooded with masses of bitter-sweet sweat. The warm liquid runs into your mouth, offending your tastebuds, and leaves your whole body dripping with the filthy, unbearable stuff.... Above, his face coated with sweat, Tom smiles to himself. He could get used to the feel of this little guy struggling under his foot.. The run can't last forever, though, and eventually Tom heads back to the hotel, deciding that when he's showered and you're washed up...