"You're gonna wanna get used to the smell of my feet - I love my foot massages, and the slaves always take a while to get used to my foot odour. Oh my god, one time a kid your age actually passed out after I left him in my gym bag for a couple hours. It was hilarious! I made him eat my toe jam when he came to, to teach him not to be such a wimp." The man chuckles as he fishes through the laundry hamper, finally pulling out two wrinkled, moist grey sweatsocks. You watch from his other hand as he sniffs them, then gags in disgust, trying to keep his mouth shut. "Man," he says, "I do not pay the cleaners enough to handle this shit!" he shakes his head as if sharing a joke with a buddy, then holds the mouth of one sock open and dangles you over it. "Have fun, little guy!" "WAI-" Is all you get out before you're dropped into the dank bottom of the sweatsock, crumbs of grime rolling against your legs. The smell is appalling; you're suprised the other slave only passed out instead of dying! Ashton's foot odour could surely crush any other man's foot odour in a competition. It is a foul, rank, sickeningly potent stench and it charges at you from all angles, suffocating you. Outside, Ashton stands with the sock pinched in between two fingers. He holds it as far away from his nose as possible, watching the bumps made by your tiny limbs as you struggle around hopelessly at the pit of the sock. He had almost forgot how damn good it felt to be able to do this kinda thing whenever he wanted to a real human being. Just the sight of you squirming around in there, Ashton's property, like a present in a Christmas stocking, gets him so excited..
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