Your comments are most appreciated -- if you like this story, please let me know you're reading! alien_ov@yahoo.com === RESPECTING MOTHER'S FEET In high school and college, I lived alone in a townhouse with my mom. She has a home office and mostly works mornings, so by the time I get home from classes, she is usually stretched out on the living room couch, relaxing and watching TV. One afternoon there was a movie on cable I wanted to watch and asked Mom if I could change the channel away from her program. "No way," she scoffed. "I'm in the middle of watching this." "C'mon, please? I hardly ever get to watch any movies!" I wheedled. "Okay," she sighed, "I will give you the remote control so you can watch your movie, if in return you come sit over here and give me a foot rub. I was out and about in pumps all morning, and my feet ache." I glanced down at mom's feet; she was wearing her worn old dirty grimy pink open-heeled house slippers on her bare feet, the same she wore every afternoon and evening. I gave Mom a puzzled look, shrugged my shoulders and agreed to rub her feet. I sat on the floor by one end of the couch and took off her slipper. Her wide, fleshy size 9 feet were visibly moist and sweaty, and they were STINKY. I wasn't sure how I felt about the strong foot odor. The movie came on but it was hard to concentrate with Mom's wide sweaty footsoles so close to my face. I diligently rubbed her wrinkled arches and long fleshy toes. Her feet really stank, it came in waves sometimes when she would spread her toes or rub the sides of her feet together. Whenever my attention started to waver too much from the foot massage, Mom would nonchalantly clear her throat and wave her toes in time with the film's background music until I returned my focus to rubbing her feet. I rubbed her feet in silence for over an hour before she got up to figure out what to do for dinner. A couple days later I came home and Mom was on the couch with her legs stretched out. I asked her to move her legs so I could sit there and see the TV better. She glanced down at her slippers. "Smell my feet," she said, off-handedly, with a smug grin. "What?" I balked. "You heard me, I would like you to smell my feet. I work long and hard to provide you with a roof over your head, and furniture to lay around on watching TV. I'm tired of you being rude and inconsiderate. I had a busy morning and I'm really enjoying stretching out on the couch. If you want me to move my legs, show me a little respect. Smell my feet." Mom was laughing as she spoke - she was mostly giving me a hard time and playing around - but she also wasn't in any hurry to move her legs. "Go on, smell," she urged. "They're not getting any fresher in these slippers And then, for whatever reason, without speaking, I went down on my knees next to the couch, cradled Mom's wide bare heel in one hand, removed her worn rubber-soled slipper, and smelled my mother's foot. It didn't occur to me to just give them a symbolic sniff -- I straight away pressed my nose up against the sole of her foot, my nose rubbing into the sweaty groove between her first two toes, deeply inhaling the full-on sharp cheesy smell of Mom's tired, sweaty feet. It disgusted and exhillerated me. I wrinkled my nose and took deep breaths, pressing my face close to her pale wrinkled soles, still damp and sticky with bits of lint from the old slipper stuck to the curves of her arches and the bottoms of her sweaty toes. I think Mom was a little surprised by my enthusiasm in obeying her order, but she did not make any sign for me to stop. "Do you want your Mother to rub her sweaty feet in your face?" she teased, grinning a pleased, superior grin. I blushed and whimpered and nodded my face against her foot bottoms. "Yes please," I mumbled. And rub she did, wiping those wide, wrinkled, sweaty, smelly footsoles and arches all over my cheeks, forehead, eyes, nose, and lips. She clenched and wiggled her toes, pressing the gaps between her toes against my nose and urging me to sniff. "That's a good boy, " she laughed. "That's how to show respect to your mother." Since that day things have changed. I give Mom lots of foot massages - LOTS of them, as many as she wants. Usually as soon as she hears me step in the door she'll call out "Foot massage time!" and that's where the next two hours are spent, before worrying about anything like homework or dinner. Mom has gotten very bossy about ordering me to smell her feet. She likes to do this at random, when I'm getting ready for class in the morning, or eating a meal, or whatever -- I have to drop everything to go down and smell Mom's feet. They stink, too, and Mom knows it and loves it. "You know you like the smell, " she teases, "so you have no right to complain" She has taken to wearing her rancid old leather tennis shoes and hiking boots around the house during the day, always without any socks, so that her feet will be extra ripe and smelly when I get home in the afternoon. Mom has not washed her feet with soap in weeks. Several nights a week Mom has me be her footwarmer when she sleeps; I crawl down under the covers and she rests her fleshy bare soles against my face all night. I love waking up with Mom's smelly feet in my face.