THE FOOT FAIRY
Well, we couldn't all be Tinkerbell. The Tooth fairy? Nah, that position's for life. In this economy, one is kinda forced to take odd jobs to put fairy food on the fairy table. And with a lot of weird people out there in the world, there's a lot of odd jobs to take.
In the body parts hierarchy, I stand pretty low. So obviously the tooth fairy is the godfather, mafia boss, all that good stuff. I'm the foot fairy. Pretty close, right? Now! The job name doesn't match what I had to put down in the CV all that much... I don't go around stealing people's feet from under the pillow. In this kinky century, we made a deal with the outside world. There are a lot of strange people out there that are willing to offer a handsome buck for some feet photos. All they have to do is give a name and a face and an unlucky winged fellow, me, will go unnoticed to play photographer for them. It ain't much and it ain't even honest work, but we all need that coin!
So...how's my target for today?
Nick, age 26, height 6ft4", weight 240 lbs, shoe size 13 US. Big guy! Oh no...crap! Occupation: construction worker! Oh, man! They're always the ones with the smelly feet! I don't get paid enough for this. Well, the order does seem to have been placed by a thirsty foot guy living next to their current construction site. Sigh... let's do this.
What? Do I even have to put a PR here?! Fine.
The advantage our clients have when choosing fairies as providers is stealth. Unlike normal, human, foot photo snatchers, fairies can easily get into the desired guy's house and room without running the fear of alerting someone and being noticed. Additionally, even if the guy wakes up, the fairy's small size makes it invisible from afar, allowing our imps ample time to hide. To book your order for a foot fairy call (555) 55... Yeah, that's enough.
Finally, I arrived at this guy Nick's place. Nice house...reallllly nice house. Too bad he lives alone in it, that's what the detective fairy told me ( yeah we're a big bunch). Quickly scanning the place, I spotted an open window on the first floor, no doubt him trying to cool down in this summer heat wave. I flew to it, rested on the window frame, and inhaled a bit after the tiring journey for my 5cm body (1 31⁄32 inch for the Americans out there).
Inhaallllle and BOOM! I fell. " DEAR GOD, WHAT'S THAT SMELL?" Did a faulty mouldy French cheese factory secretly operate under this guy's bed? And a vinegar one?! There's no way his feet smell this strong to hit me from the open window. No way. I've had to pinch my nose a fair few times when getting up close and personal for my soles photoshoots, but never from a good 4 meters away from a guy. Either a stray crawled its way to the room to die, a month ago, or indeed this guy had atomic weapons of mass destruction for the bottoms of his feet. And I'd have much rather been a priest for a dead dog than a photographer for such soles.
With a braverheart than that 1995 movie about one Scottish lad, I got up and slowly marched in the warzone that was the bedroom. Immediately, I was hit by the hot air wavering out of the room. The warmth and humidity not only made it unbearable to breathe but also gave me a full-body cringe. Regardless of what my job name may have you believe, I don't like feet, socks, or boots; smelly or not. Let any foolish guy who thinks he lusts over such things cover two of my shits on nights like these and he'll do a 180. Fast. Foul smells of musk were sown into the already dense air making for an olfactory blanket of horrors.
While trying not to vomit and pass out, my vision got adjusted to the darkness of the room. I laid eyes on the beast of a man lying on the heavy cotton-padded bed. The goliath gave bad press to the otherwise huge king-size mattress on which he was resting, making it look not much bigger than a child's cushion. Spread over the thing, the overwhelmingly white and luxurious plush was covered by the tan and muscular body of my construction worker. The sheer mass of the man engulfed my eyes and attacked them with the sight of biceps and triceps, back muscles and calves.
Even though he was sleeping face down, his tone left little to wonder that pushing into the bed's foam was a pair of milky pectorals and surely a tray of abs... But I'm getting ahead of myself!
So overcome was I by the hot figure in front of me, I almost forgot about the deadly odour poisoning the room's air. I was only brought back to reality when my eyes followed the fine line of this Nick's calf to his well-formed ankle. There I encountered the main obstacle to getting my job swiftly done for the night: the reeking socks hugging the worker's putrid feet. And that was gonna be a problem. I was the foot fairy, not the sock fairy- he's the one who keeps mismatching your socks and losing them in the washing machine. To do my job I had to rid the feet of the sweltering black wads.
Being able to cover the guy's huge feet and rest comfortably above his ankle meant that the socks were positively ginormous compared to my poor frame. To add to my struggle, the closer I got to the sock the more the room became airless, the only O2 I was supposed to live by was the steamy and oppressive fumes coming out of the said socks. That's to say I was in for a rough night and by my standards, a high raise.
There wasn't any smart way about dealing with the problem the hosiery imposed. I had to rush in as one would do when entering cold water and hope for the best. I decided to go on the smoother way to hell and avoid the slimy soles as much as I could, opting to land near the man's ankle and start pulling down from there. The sock had surely seen better days than its current state. Thankfully for me, the elastic that was supposed to grip the ankle was pretty loose, no doubt from excessive overwear. Heck! I think the sock was better held in place by the ungodly amount of foot jam and sweat taping it to the soles, giving the outer layer an unforgettable shiny appearance. Gross. The material that encased the feet, nylon, also didn't help with the sock's longevity and from the smell of it, also didn't help with breathability. Double gross. Being in the trade for quite some time, at first, these were just assumptions based on a bird's eye view of the foot situation. But when I started rolling the rapidly peeling end of the sock and the enclosed air fermenting inside escaped, I knew that my assumptions were, sadly, correct.
I think I needn't even say the extent to which I was grossed out. Based on what I've shared already in this account, you can probably imagine my reaction when I was attacked by the stench. And I was attacked Blitzkrieg style. By the time I got to the heel, I was so green I more closely resembled an elf than a fairy. The point of no return came when I actually saw the heel of the sock. My God, man, that heel was fuckin' thinning out! It looked more like a mosquito net than sock material. I pulled what little strength I had and yanked the rest of the damned thing off, with it peeling slowly and sticky and falling to the ground. The fumes coming out of the barefoot made me indirectly contort my face into a disgusted grimace before going to the window to cool off and let the ruddy colour out of my face. After some time to rest, I repeated the process with the other foot, this time less clumsily.
The sight of the two feet now unclothed was truly one to behold. I positively hate feet, and my animosity towards them is all the more aggravated by this job, but there was something hypnotising about this pair. So yeah, the feet: HUGE! Dwarfing with ease most other men's while being proportionate to his body; so he wasn't running around with some Ronald Mcdonald's! The soles' arches were very pronounced and as a whole, they sported a very luxurious curve. The entire foot, following the body, seemed sculpted, while also generously leaning into abundant meatiness and a certain fatness which could be best spotted in the toes. Thus, the digits were plump and long and so fat that, had you not seen the rest of the body, you might be inclined to say they belonged to one more corpulent. The smooth skin of the sole was occasionally furrowed as a result of such meatiness, resulting in stout trenches that were littered with little bits and bobs of dirt and black sock lint, all the more glued to the foot by excessive toe jam and sudor. Slimy and wet looking galore.
Very poetic, I know. Imagine the impression they had on me, being a good six times bigger than my entire being! They were towering! Their stench kept me at a superficial two-meter distance, considering the odour reigned supreme over the entire room. But their outward appearance, like the rest of the body, was so pleasing to the eye, so comely formed, that it drew me in.
For once I thanked the smell of moldy eggs boiled in vinegar that they emanated which woke me up to reality before I entered the point of no return. Regardless to say, I'll surely print out some copies of the photos when sending them to the client. In that spirit, I took out my mini-camera and got to work, as the stench of the socks was close to rivalling the feet in a fetid war of dominance over who'll make me nauseous first. One like that... Oh, I like this lighting! Keep still! Say cheese, don't just make me smell it! Aaaaand done!
My photoshoot client had proven himself quite a heavy sleeper until then. Of course, with the threat of his stinking feet, I had not dared get too close and the mini-camera flash was practically negligible, but still, no twisting and no turning. That was until nature called and the man of the house awoke to take a piss. The swooshing of his mattress signalled him making eyes and caught me off-guard. In a fit of adrenaline, I had to find a place to hide. I wasn't exactly microscopic, so the moonlight-illuminated window or the floor weren't plausible options. In such situations, the place under the bed is a man's best friend, but the damned frame was low and almost glued to the floor. No open drawers, no nothing! I had to make a quick decision, which proved to be more a stroke of stupidity than one of genius. I almost had a stroke!
So my big brain hiding spot proved to be the carcass of my former enemy, the entryway to veritable hell, the disregarded opening of one of the grimy socks I had to peel off! Fuck! Looking back, I'm sure there could've been a thousand better hiding spots, but I've never been one to perform exemplary under stress. I pinched my nose and tried my hardest to convince my stomach not to churn as I silently crawled into the wad, military style.
I heard loud stomps falling like heavy rain against the defenceless ground and prayed to not be cartoonishly squashed under the soles I had just photographed a minute ago. The fear overcame the disgust and my heart skipped a beat when the blizzard of stomps ceased. It skipped two beats as the cease was not followed by any sound of an opened door. " There's no way he managed to see me. How could he suspect anythIIIIIIIING?!" The last part of my thought escaped through a scream as I was swiftly lifted off the ground to the level of Nick's face, a good two meters! I was basically bungee-jumping in the sock at that point, but I dared not let out a peep. Through the thinning material at the sock's end, I could see the handsome face of the previously tranquil construction worker, all his features drunk with sleep. A slight lift threw me at the sock's extremely as the man decided to bring the fuming material to his nose and give it a tentative whiff. I don't know how he was so senseless; senseless enough to actively want to sniff that cursed mouldy mass of cloth and also senseless enough to not be able to realise from a mile away that the socks were indeed malodorous.
I felt like veritable prey as a first loud sniff hit me from behind like frost. When the second one followed, I was genuinely mortified that the fragility of the dwindling material will have me fall through many of its would-be holes and be discovered. Fortunately, some form of divinity up there laid a tender hand over me and kept me inside the fuming material... only to make my final predicament WAY worst!
In a move toward organising that was truly unexpected of a man living alone, who seemed too tired to even change his socks weekly, Nick decided to prologue my expedition with his sock-express. Seemingly affected by the offensive smell of his wads, he decided to end their reign of olfactory terror and throw them in his closet. In his work boots. IN HIS WORK BOOTS! At this point just let me be discovered but no more of this sock torture!
To waste went my shifting and twisting in the pungent sock. I was unceremoniously dropped into one of the tall shoes, the contact with its interior being lessened by the padding of the shoe. To make matters beyond escapable, I was the first sock to be dropped as the other soon followed, generously filling the boot up to its opening maw. Then the closet door was loudly closed and a canopy of complete darkness covered my sight.
The light, decaying socks proved breathable. However, it was only filtered air that I could consume. Air that had to pass through two layers of sock into a humid boot. I wanted out and I wanted out fast. Forget my cover, I screamed, but my already puny voice was rendered into a lack of sound by the sweltering material. I have to admit that I found this guy Nick's feet hot, but his foot odour problem was on a whole another level. I was trapped in a prison of acrid musk, vinegar, cheese and noxious eggs. This foot odour thing wasn't even funny, just let me out!
"Mhhhgggh mmgggph!"
THE END
