My name is Elizabeth, and I live in a large mansion with my brother, Todd, and my mother Violet. My dad used to live with us, but he died a few months ago. While he was alive, mother resented me and Todd for taking his attention from her, as well as for costing them money, not that we were ever short on that. When daddy was alive, she never expressed this resentment because he loved us so much that it would have outraged him.
She is a beautiful woman, young for a mother of two 18 year olds, who has always been spoiled and used to getting her way, so not being able to say and do exactly as she pleased must have been a major irritant for her. Things were always the same, with daddy spoiling us while mother watched angrily (despite never exactly wanting for anything herself). Then, he died in a road accident, and suddenly everything changed.
It is mid-afternoon on a hot summer day. Mother went out earlier to go shopping with a friend, and is due back at any time. Me and my brother are both in the kitchen, he on all fours scrubbing the floor while I preside over a hot stove. I turn to look at my brother, who has a panicked look on his face as he catches my eye. He has run behind on his chores again. He has never been bright (to put it kindly) and is quite clumsy and slow. I feel sorry for him. Then, I hear the door open and my heart stops. Mother must have walked home, for some reason, so we didn’t hear her arrival. A few moments later, she enters the kitchen, with all of her regal beauty. I curtsy respectfully to her.
Welcome home, mother. I’m sorry, we didn’t hear you arrive. May I get you anything?
Tell me, she says in a dangerously calm manner, when did we decide that greeting your mother at the door was too much effort to bother making?
I’m so sorry, mother, I reply quickly, bowing low and curtsying again. It’s just, like I –
About to say Like I said, we didn’t hear you arrive, I stop myself just in time.
Please forgive us, mother… Please, I add pathetically.
I keep my head bowed, worried, not knowing how she will respond. I feel relieved when she says, I presume dinner is ready.
Oh, yes, mother. I’m just about to plate it up for you, I hope you like –
She cuts me off. You! She sternly turns to my brother. Fetch me a drink and bring me the list.
She goes into the living room, and my brother rushes to fetch her drink and goes quickly after, grabbing a piece of paper from the side as he goes. As I serve up dinner, I can hear them in the living room.
Is there anything else, mummy? My brother asks, respectfully.
Kneel before me, is her lazily said reply. So… (I imagine her glancing at the chore list, seeing the ticks and lack of) I can see you’ve had an easy morning. Perhaps you think scrubbing the toilet is beneath you, and that’s why it hasn’t been done? And the same with de-weeding the garden, it seems?
I – I’m sorry, mummy. Please, please forgive me, I hear him say in his most grovelling tone. There’s nothing else he can say, even he knows that nothing he says will make any difference to her.
Hmm, she pretends to consider him. No, I don’t think I will. You will do all of these chores, and extra, before you get any food or sleep. You will also be spanked later, when I can be bothered dealing with you. Now… she sighs as I hear her relaxing into the sofa. Be a good boy and help take off mummy’s boots. It’s such a beautiful day that I decided to walk home, and now my feet are all hot and sore.
At this point, I enter with my mother’s food on a tray to see my brother unzipping one thigh-length leather boot and pulling it from my mother’s foot. As her dark-nylon clad foot gets free, she wriggles her toes and gives a sigh of relief as my brother goes about removing her other boot. Once both of her feet are free and resting on the footstool, my brother waits, on his knees, as I place my mother’s food tray on her lap, and then, kneeling too by the side of the sofa, I start to cut up her food in preparation for feeding it to her. This was the regular routine, since (she said) she had to do it for us when we were young, so now we should be thankful of the chance to pay her back.
Ahh, she says, so good to be out of those hot, sweaty boots of mine. Now, I bet you’d like to be a good boy and make it up to me for being so lazy about your chores, wouldn’t you?
My brother nods, dumbly.
Well, I know how you can start. Get those hands to work. Give your mother a nice, long, soothing massage on her sweaty feet.
I feel for my brother, I really do, because I know from experience that my mother’s feet smell, even at the best of times, and on a hot day like this, when she’s been walking in leather boots… Even from my position, I’m catching the undeniable whiff of her feet. I can tell my brother is suffering, from the look on his face and the way he tries to keep his head as far away as possible from her moist soles and wiggly toes as he massages them. I wish I could communicate to him what a mistake this is. I try to make eye contact, but it’s too late.
Oh, dear, mother says. How upsetting. I thought you wanted to make amends, and yet you seem to just want to hurt my feelings. Do my feet smell that much? Even so badly that my own loving little boy, so keen to please me by rubbing them, cannot even stand to be near them? Gosh, that’s so…insulting.
She says this last word slightly more quietly, almost a whisper, which sounds far more dangerous than any amount of shouting. Thankfully, my brother gets this. He leans forward so that his face is only a few inches from her stinky toes.
That’s better, she says. But, now I need some reassurance. You’ve upset me by making me think that my beautiful little tootsies smell bad. You need to show mummy that you were just being silly, and that her feet aren’t smelly at all.
She stretches her toes
Smell, she says simply.
Defeated, although unable to hide completely the expression of revulsion on his face as he is forced to sniff his own mother’s feet, he plunges his nose into the crevice between her toes and inhales. I wrinkle my nose. I can only imagine the stench as I watch his features contort with disgust.
Ahh, mother says, relaxing back into the sofa again as she accepts another mouthful from the fork I hold for her. That’s better. Show mummy how much you love her by sniffing her toes and massaging her feet. It’s only fair; I brought you into this world, gave you life, so in return, the least you can do is obey my every whim and cater to my every fancy at all times. Don’t you think so, daughter?
Oh yes, mother… Thank you.
She looks at me, a victorious gleam in her eye.
Tell me you love me, she says in a sugary, girly voice.
I… love you.
She looks down at my brother, still labouring at her sweaty, stinky feet.
I love you, he says, his voice distorted by having his nose pressed against her tights and his mouth so close to her sole. Clenching her toes around his nose, she roughly jerks his head from side to side, and then releases so that he can smell again.
Oohh, so nice to feel that cold air between my hot toesies. Start taking deeper, longer breaths. Ahh, that’s nice. Keep those fingers working, too. If you’re going to offer to massage my feet, you should always make sure you do your best to make it as soothing as possible. Be tender, but firm. That’s better. Well, it looks like we’ve finally found something you’re… well, good would be pushing it, but certainly not bad at. She smirks, looking down patronisingly at him.
Having fed her the last morsel, I take her plate back to the kitchen and fetch a glass of red wine for her. Having handed it to her, I stand back and await instruction.
That’s enough, she says, kicking my brother’s face away. He grunts with surprise, which quickly turns to relief. Then she says to me, kneel down, beside your brother.
I do, not knowing where this is going, but dreading it all the same. Even now, a couple of feet away, I can already smell her feet.
That was fine, she says, taking a sip of her wine and smiling down at us cruelly. But, not quite good enough. I’ve been in these tights all morning long, and it’s so hot, my feet are still sweating in them. I wonder if there’s anything you think to do, to help mummy’s tired, sweaty feet cool down.
I, of course, realise before he does. Steeling myself, I reach forward. She pushes me away.
No, no, she says in a falsely reproving voice. Remember, these little chores you do are to thank me for being your mother. I allow you to do them so you won’t feel guilty. But, that doesn’t mean I’m always ok with it. You need to ask me, first. She looks down at me expectantly. Inside, I shudder. This is all an act to make us humiliate ourselves, because she knows we’re too scared not to play along. I try to stifle my last shred of shame.
Uhh, would you like me to remove your tights, mother? I ask hesitantly.
She puts on a pout. No. The question is, do you want to take off my tights.
Can I… Please, may we take off your tights mother?
That depends. What do you want to do once you’ve taken them off?
We want to… massage your… your dainty feet, and… and we want to smell them, too. To, uhm, show you how much we love you. I feel my face reddening with humiliation.
She wrinkles her nose and looks at us with disgust.
Really? You mean, you actually want to rub my stinky feet? Your own mother? And to smell them! That’s simply repugnant. Still, it sounds nice for me, and if that’s really what you’re into…
So, I remove her tights, and we are faced with our mother’s pale, slender bare feet. Her toenails are painted dark red (I painted them myself, last night, when they were a lot less stinky). Like all the rest of her body, her feet are beautiful. At least, by feet standards. Still, they are feet, sweaty and smelly, so disgusting.
Well, she says, spreading her toes. Don’t keep me waiting…
Reluctantly, I take a hot foot (she wasn’t lying when she said they were still sweating) and start kneading. Beside me my brother does the same. Then, knowing she is still watching us, I remorsefully plunge my nostrils into her toes and sniff. The smell is immediate and putrid. It makes my eyes water. She giggles above us and then relaxes back, although I am sure she’s still watching us, savouring every moment as our hands and faces suffer for her pleasure.
After a while, she speaks again. You know, this is getting a teensy bit boring. I’m sure there are other ways you can think of to show how much you love your wonderful mummy. Any ideas?
We both look blankly at her. For once, I’m as stumped as my brother.
No? Oh, of course, silly me. I’d forgotten how dim you both are. Well, luckily I have an idea. I saw a documentary the other day on ancient Egypt, and the pharaohs. Do you know how the people used to show fealty to the pharaohs? Well, the used to kiss their feet…
We know we don’t have a choice. We’re too scared of her to say no. So, still rubbing and sniffing, we now begin also, with pursed lips, to kiss her feet.
Louder, she croons. Big, adoring smooches.
After a few minutes of this, she stops us again.
Nope. I still don’t feel adored enough by my two children. I feel like there’s only one thing left to try. Your father used to do it sometimes and it felt great. You can carry on rubbing my feet, and while you’re doing that, you can… suck on my smelly toes!
I gasp. Everything that has happened so far has been disgusting, but this is just sick. My mother’s stinky, slimy toes in my mouth is something I never dreamed I would have to face. And yet, as she wiggles them mockingly beneath my nose, I realise again that I have no choice. In the end, and by whatever means necessary, she will get what she wants. She always does. It’s only a matter of how difficult we make it, and how she will punish us if we do.
There are tears in my eyes (and this time it has nothing to do with the smell) as I open my mouth and, determined not to be sick, take her toes into my mouth. They taste the same as they smell. That is, disgusting. She gives a contented moan as her slimy toes wriggle around in our mouths.
Work those tongues now… There’s some extra sensitive spots between my toes that are just crying out for a good tongue bath… Ooh, that’s right, and don’t forget to suck. Gently, gently… Take your time, there’s plenty of time for you to work out just how mummy likes it, I promise. Practice makes perfect… and you two are going to have a lot of practice… Why don’t you try licking my soles? No, don’t be silly. Stick your tongues out all the way and lap hungrily at my feet, like dogs. By the time you’re done, all the smelliness should be gone.
With that, she sighs with pleasure and grabs the TV remote, a contented smile on her face.
This story is taken from: