Your dad sits back in his chair, arms crossed, with his two gargantuan feet resting on the desk. The black sheer monsters smell like days' worth of stale sweat and the beaten leather of his insoles. His toes wag impatiently. Feeling smaller than small, you trudge forward and hesitantly lay your hands on the vast sole of one socked foot.
"You feel like a real man, rubbing your dad's feet?" He asks you in his booming voice. It reverberates through you like a surround sound system, making you shake. "You're not half as tough as you think you are. You're just a spoiled little brat. A worm. And you're going to learn to respect your superiors. Rub harder!"
He shouts at you, and you feel tears prickle the backs of your eyes balls. No, you think. You can't cry like a little girl here and now. The humiliation would be too much to bear. You dig your hands into the warm, tired muscles of your father's feet. Soon you're too tired to block your nose and you let the musky smell of his feet flow into your lungs.
"I asked you a question, boy. Do you think you're a real man or not?" The giant demands.
"No, sir." You say in a tremulous voice.
He lowers both feet so you can rub the damp toes through the sweaty socks.
"I can barely feel your weak little hands. Use your head." He says, and spreads his toes so you can butt your head into their socked pads. You hesitate for a split second. "Do it this second or you'll spend the next twenty-four hours inside my shoe, groveling under my foot like the little worm you are."
You press your face deep into the curve beneath his toes. Your dad's sweat is salty and far more musky than yours. A real man's foot odour, you think to yourself.
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