Big Time Espionage (Chapter 7)

Much like what happened to Charlie, once Delta began worshipping his chosen altar, there was no stopping him. In a tight circle, he dragged his tongue over every groove in the pliant elevation of her insole, tasting the subtle intricacies of wet salt and ingrained loam along the darker stained dips wherever her instep had really delivered a prolonged pounding to the shoe’s internal structure. Flavors that would’ve once tested his gag reflex in abject disgust now just induced him to slobber like a hungry dog, which made it even easier to lick and kiss-suck at each compounded juncture bearing the mark of the giantess’s foot. Delta soon became so obsessed with ravenously anointing every reachable spot of her insole with his mouth that he almost lost track of the gargantuan entity which had stomped that impression into her flat in the first place. Despite the vehemence of the force from her foot just behind him, repeatedly pumping and sliding her toes in and out of the shoe’s frontward tip, the spy heard nor felt nor tasted anything in his blissfully becalmed senses except the organic grime he lustfully dredged from the ragged-textured depression of that monumental footprint, one lap at a time.

All along, some distant ever-weakening voice in the back of his mind told him to stop what he was doing and crawl up over the wall of the shoe, before it was too late. But at last, near to the point of busting right in his tactical gear, Delta deliberately cut off mental access to that irritating scrap of unwanted logic, and suddenly was free to devote every remaining brain cell exclusively to squirming all over the unknown Xartanian’s grubby insole, collecting long-calcified drops of perspiration and splattered muck out of the ground and tattooing them into his throat with every sour slurp. As the minutes dragged on, his supply of drool dwindled, but even as worshipping the insole turned naturally more abrasive for Delta’s dried-out tongue, he didn’t slow his efforts, no matter how sandpapery the sensation became. Every move he made, chewing and inhaling and marrying his taste buds with the grungily sordid ground in the precise shape of her angelic sole, made him sink even deeper into his allegiance. If only her foot wasn’t actively covering much of the insole now, and given a long enough period to dedicate himself to this worthy task, Delta would’ve happily made tongue-love to every square inch of her flat’s interior, until the whole place sparkled clean and no trace of her excreted scent still remained.

As ardent a disciple of their tormentor’s insole as their fellow spy had become closer to the footwear’s heel section, though, Echo and Foxtrot soon had him beat in terms of depravity. Her toes were no longer barraging into Echo, since her shoeplay had since become tamer, slowing into a gentler more-confined sway. No matter how many times he’d been battered by those pudgy-curved digits, though, it still wasn’t enough. Though dizzy and short of breath from having the wind knocked out of him several times in succession, not to mention more than one fleeting blackout after he got rammed hard enough, Echo wasn’t content to be left slumped, untouched, against the flat’s toe section wall. He rose up shakily, still not seeing or thinking straight, but the fallen spy didn’t require full coherency to follow the urgent instinct now pulsating in his chest. Echo hobbled forward, yanking off his gear and pants as he moved.

By the time he’d reached the giantess’s toes where they’d come to rest, he already had his throbbing member in-hand and was all but weeping from desire to prostrate himself before her foot in total stripped-bare humility. Jerking with unhinged desperation, he fell back to his knees and practically faceplanted into the juicy padding of her pinky toe, which he naturally began to kiss and lap upon her warm flesh with passion equal to what Delta was currently showing that dingy insole on the other side of the giantess’s foot. For every provocative tug at his groin, he flattened his tongue to that irresistible digit and scraped along it again, harvesting the aroma and flavor of brine-brewed toejam straight from her pink-flushed skin. After enough worship, Echo’s eyes weren’t just welled, but flowed with tears of elation and release. He wasn’t destined to last long in this posture at all before bursting. Though even once Echo reached orgasm, there was no post-nut clarity to purge him of those delicious underfoot pheromones, which by now had penetrated to the most integral wiring of his nervous system, and he kept right on glorifying that pinky toe with the vigor of a man going down on his lover after a year-long separation.

Not to be outdone, Foxtrot took a little longer to get his bare-minimum bearings again while still smushed spread-eagle beneath the giantess’s clay-moist toe shafts, but his own zeal was indeed blooming just as exponentially as his team’s. Even while he was still subject to the shifting and gliding and insole-grating of her unconscious shoeplay, his erotically-charged faith in her was soon sealed, whether or not he could move on his own. After he’d been unwittingly toyed with for long enough below her toes, though, and this nameless Xartanian vixen finally brought her foot to rest once more in an upright-arched posture against the middle of her flat, Foxtrot was all but aching to show his animalistic gratitude. Though he couldn’t get enough purchase to fully strip his clothing, he still managed to wrestle his belt down low enough to grab hold of his turgid junk, while willfully wedging his face deeper up into the bulgy groove of digit cleavage between those second and third toes which were currently resting their dewy print-vortex weight upon him. Here, with his face thoroughly sandwiched between slimy odor-pregnant flanks of tender inner toe flesh, Foxtrot breathed the purest possible strain of the giantess’s exhilarating sweat-cloying atmosphere with the decadence of finely aged whiskey. Like his teammate, he didn’t have a prayer of holding out more than a few hazy minutes like this, pulling himself fast toward a brain-blowing climax and languidly huffing trickles of their prodigious conqueror’s saltily-perfumed foot extract as it salivated from her pores.

Alpha, at last, was the only member of the tiny elite infiltration team who hadn’t yet already surrendered himself to either worshipful or masturbatory debauchery with the abandon of a pubescent mental patient. This wasn’t because his willpower was any stronger than the other five spies, however, but rather due exclusively to the fact that he’d accidentally been separated from her toes after that earlier carnival ride while held captive by her swinging foot. Now, able to watch her obliviously degrading and dominating his peers from a relatively safe distance (though not safe enough to avoid sniffing up regular dosages of those seductive toxins from her otherworldly physiology), Alpha had held off from voluntarily hurling himself before her feet again, until now. His awe at all the sights transpiring before him was just enough to make the lead agent stay bowed in reverence a matter of inches away from the action, pants-tented and shivering from fetishistic thirst. By now, he could scarcely remember how long they’d been here, what their original objective was, or even what his own non-code name was. All that mattered in his universe now were these titanic omnipotent ripely-sweltering bare feet belonging to an alien woman he’d never even known existed until the team inadvertently crossed her path on their way to whatever-the-hell it was they were supposed to do in the first place. As those pheromonal chemicals seeped through his brainstem like drops of oily sweat percolating into a ragged flat insole, Alpha just knew had to stay in the holy orbit of those feet: that was his one and only priority now in this mortal coil.