Saturday, July 9, 2011

Living With Attractive Fat Women

Living With Attractive Fat Women
By Author Unknown

I share a house with three young, attractive fat women. They all know of my fetish for women's foot odor, and tease me constantly.
Of the three, I have known Claire the longest. She is 23, a year out of college, short and very curvy with curly blonde hair. She is very nonchalant in teasing me with her feet. She'll get me to give her foot rubs, sometimes through her sweaty white athletic socks. When she's had enough, she'll pinch my nose between her socked toes, hold it there for a few seconds, grin smugly, then leave without another word. Like the other women, though, she doesn't mind when I take the initiative to wash all of her socks, and clean her muddy shoes when they need it.
Sandra is the youngest of the household, at age 19. She wears glasses with fashionable square black frames, and has short wavy red hair tied up in cute ponytails. She has a beautiful pear-shaped body; her breasts and upper body are medium-sized, with wide, curvy hips and immensely thick, fleshy legs. She always wears pretty red polish on her pudgy toes, ornamenting her wide, chubby size 11 feet. She likes to show off her pedicure in thong sandals, but also spends lots of time wearing sneakers over knee-high nylon stockings or bare feet. Her feet REALLY stink, and she knows it. Ever since she learned about my fetish, she's delighted in having me wrapped around her finger. Her flirting and teasing are playful in tone, but she can be quite bossy and forceful in her foot games. Sometimes she'll be watching TV, seated in the recliner in the living room, with her feet propped up, and as I walk through the room, she'll clear her throat to get my attention. When I look at her, she silently points at her feet. I swallow with anticipation and move to sit on the floor at her feet, but before I do, she raises her finger to stop me. "Fix me some popcorn and get me a soda," she smiles, her pretty blue eyes gazing at me commandingly through the frames of her glasses. Not only do I hurry to comply without a word of protest, but I even fall to my knees when serving her the items, just as she likes. She gives me a wry, satisfied grin, takes the snack, and points at her feet. I sit cross legged, close my eyes, and take deep, joyful sniffs of her stinky, sweaty footsoles. They smell soooo good. The chores and errands that Sandra orders me to do are never seriously exploitative of painful - just little conveniences for her, and a flirtatious way for her to enjoy her power over me with her wide, soft, stinky soles and her pretty feminine pedicured toes. And she is always extremely generous in allowing me to smell her feet, espescially when they are nice and sweaty. She cups her moist pink soles completely over my face, immersing me in the overpowering scent and wrinkled gritty texture of her feet fresh out of a pair of grimy old leather sneakers without socks.
Sandra has a big fetish for nylon knee-high stockings. She only owns one pair that she wears at least four days a week, and never washes them. The soles of the knee-highs bear the dirty sweat-stained imprint of Sandra's toe pads and heels. She says she likes the way the nylon feels on her toes, and how it traps her foot scent. It's such a turn on getting to smell her feet in these nylons - they always smell a little different depending on what shoes she was wearing, but the odor is always incredibly powerful.
My third housemate is Alisa, who is the oldest resident of the house, in her early 30s. She is more buxom, by far, than either Claire or Sandra. She is strikingly attractive, with long, dark hair, lovely feminine features, and a wonderful sense of grace and charm. She wears lots of long, flowing skirts, and her feet are often in fashionable low-heeled pumps. Among my housemates, Alisa is also, by far, the most focused on having me smell her feet.
Alisa's job requires her to wear dress shoes, and she has had all of her pumps fitted with special "easy comfort" insoles. These cushion her feet, but they also act as sponges which soak up enormous amounts of her foot sweat, and the result is that there is an intense blast of pungent foot odor that fills the room whenever Alisa takes off her shoes. The smell is so bad that Alisa has to be careful not to take her pumps off in the common areas of the house because the stink grosses out the other women. Alisa was just delighted to find out about me when I moved in. Often when she gets home, she'll call my name and I'll follow her to the master bedroom. She has turned a corner of the bedroom into a parlor and reading room, where she seats herself in a wide, cushioned chair and invites me to sit on the floor at her feet. "Take off your clothes," she instructs. I blush slightly but I'm used to receiving this command from Alisa. It doesn't mean that anything sexual will happen - Alisa just gets off on knowing that I'm willing to get naked in order to smell her stinky disgusting dirty sweaty size 12 feet, fresh out of ten hours in full leather pumps with months-old odor-intensifying cushioned insoles. Sometimes Alisa wears thigh-high nylon stockings, other times the pumps are worn over bare legs. This effects the tone of the smell but not the intensity - Alisa's stinky feet are ALWAYS an assault on the senses, but the concentration of the powerful odor when her shoes first come off is just unbelievable. It's impossible not to involuntarily gag and swallow when the wave of smell first hits, espescially when sitting cross-legged on the floor with Alisa's foot mere inches from one's face. "You get to take off my shoes tonight, lucky boy," she teases. "Do my feet smell nice? You like to smell my foot bottoms, don't you? My stinky old foot soles, all sweaty and wrinkled looking like they've been soaking in a swimming pool. Can you believe how sweaty my feet get in those shoes? I hope you like it down there under those dirty stinky old smelly feet of mine." She giggles with pleasure as she slowly spreads her toes under my nose, seductively brushing my cheek with her wrinkled footsole and soft, wide heel.
I spend plenty of time massaging those fat, sweaty, warm, moist, stinky feet and toes. I give Alisa pedicures twice a week now, without fail. Some nights she has me lick the sweat from her wide, wrinkled bare soles until I am sore from the effort. Other nights she announces I'm not allowed to look at her bare feet, and the tan thigh-high stockings stay on. She has me spend half an hour or so chastely massaging her stockinged feet, after which she allows me to bury my nose in the toe of her sweaty pump and eagerly sniff her shoe.
One day about a month ago, Alisa had invited her mother over for coffee. Her mother is a sharply-dressed, voluptuous woman in her 50s with handsome features and short dark hair. The two of them had the house to themselves and were sitting on the living room couch, talking and laughing, when I arrived home. Alisa called me into the living room and made introductions. I made pleasantries for a few minutes and then started to excuse myself. "Hey, wait," Alisa said. "I want you to come here and smell my feet." I swallowed nervously and looked at Alisa dumfounded. "No, really, smell my feet," she repeated, sounding perfectly calm and reasonable. "I was telling Mom about how you like to smell all of our feet, and how nice it is having you to give everybody foot massages and paint our toenails all the time. It's nothing to be ashamed of." She gestured to her feet, still in pumps, and looked at me expectantly. I blushed furiously, resolved myself to my fate, and dropped down to the floor at the corner of the couch were Alisa was seated. She raised her feet up into my lap and I dutifully slipped off the low-heeled pumps, revealing a pair of sweat-soaked feet encased in tan nylons. She flexed her fat, red-polished stockinged toes in my face, waving the humid rush of hot stinky foot odor into my nostrils. I kept my mouth closed and slowly inhaled the powerful stinky stockinged foot aroma, letting it gradually permeate my senses, making my eyes water with its intensity. Alisa slowly pointed and twisted her pungent feet this way and that, always mere inches from my face. She smiled with satisfaction to hear me inhale loudly, obviously desperate to smell and worship her tired, stinky, sweat-soaked feet. "Now smell Mom's feet," she suddenly announced.
My heart raced, but by this time I already heard the clomp-clomp of Mom's full leather pumps dropping onto the floor. Scarcely unable to believe what I was doing, I crawled down to the other end of the couch where I eagerly, wantonly, gratefully, buried my nose between the soles of her fat, smelly, 50-plus year old feet. Her heels and balls of feet are slightly callused, and the soles are leathery and wrinkly; her feet are incredibly sexy. They actually are less stinky than Alisa's feet -- anything is! -- but they have a very distinct, very sharp natural perfume. The sweaty dew that collects between her toes when she wears pumps is just amazing.
Since that day, Alisa's mother has come to visit twice more, and both times I've ended up smelling and massaging her feet for extended periods of time. Alisa is also now teasing me by suggesting that soon I'll be giving her Mom regular pedicures, and maybe she'll even let me taste her sweaty feet, if I please her.
I love the way things are where I live. Nothing has changed from our original living arrangements -- I'm an equal housemate to everyone else when it comes to paying the bills and making decisions that affect the household. And at most any point during the day or night, there's a pair of sweaty, smelly, stinky, voluptuous feminine feet waiting and beckoning to be sniffed, massaged, and pampered.
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