But maybe… maybe if she just had a taste of the pure stuff, just a tiny little taste, she’d get thrown off. Maybe it would be too much for her. It’s sweat. It must be disgusting, no, worse, revolting; the popcorn must have masked it’s true flavor, but here, in this little pool, is the real thing, and if she only takes one little lick… or gulp… she’ll know it’s nothing to yearn for, nothing to like. Like overexposure therapy. No, not even that; she doesn’t need any sort of therapy. Just needs to satisfy her curiosity…
Temper her thirst…
One little lick. And that will be it.
She lifted the hand that got into the pool of sweat. It was trembling. Her fingers glistened; it was the same kind of shine that the man’s sweaty soles gave off in the dim, unsteady light provided by the screen. She brought the hand to her lips, feeling her heart beat so wildly that she could hear it in her ears. Valerie closed her eyes.
“I’ll hate it”, she thought as she extended her tongue and gave her own fingers a slobbery, wet lick.
Her tastebuds exploded at the taste; it was familiar, but intensified tenfold. She swished her tongue around in her mouth, feeling that tiny droplet that she licked off her fingers coat the insides of her cheeks. It burned. It also burned on the outside — from the humiliation. And shame.
It was a complex taste, one composed of, she knew, a great multitude of pheromones, skin oils, tiny bits of skin waste and who knows what else. Dust. It was pure, essential, exquisite. It was a dirty ambrosia. A divine nectar, given by a god to a lowly, puny mortal. It was headache-inducing, heavy, intoxicating, primal in what it carried and what it did to her. That piece of soggy popcorn was a mere appetizer, a shadow; she may have thought the sweat to be just seasoning on the snack before, but now she new it was the popcorn that tainted and diluted the concentrated musk of this mysterious god.
"Fuck, no", she moaned weakly, knowing what was to come. The need to just try it was turning into a burning, all-consuming, fiery craving of an addict. She tried to hold on to what she knew about herself: she was a bright, pretty young girl, kind and quiet, nature-loving... but it felt fake, weak, silly. She wanted to get drunk on his footsweat, she wanted to debase herself, wanted to dive headfirst into a whole pool of it, and drink, suck it in, slurp it up, inhale, ingest, guzzle! Choke on it! Feel it burn her mouth, her throat, her insides!
In a masochistic, submissive craze she lowered her head, plunged her lips into the pool and started greedily lapping it all up! She helped herself with her hands by trying to pool the sweat towards her face, so that it would be easier to gather it with her lips. It got all over her sleeves, collar and face; she was messy, as if she lost her manners along her dignity. It was bitter, it was heavy, it made her stomach lurch, but her soul and her heart felt like they were in the right place, like this was what she was always meant to do - slurp up a man's sweat. Degraded, she basked in the greatness of the all-powerful giant above her. In that moment, she'd agree in a heartbeat to be his tiny sweat rag, his miniscule cleaner. For as long as he wished. Or, perhaps, until her body couldn't process it anymore.
In this religious fervor she eagerly consumed the sweat, slurping what was an equivalent of half a liter at her scale in a minute or two, and then tracing the surface of the lacquered wood with her tongue, trying to find the last tiny droplets, trying to collect the thin film that still remained adhered to it. As she consumed all that was within her reach, she started searching around frantically, but whatever wetness she came across was just her own saliva. Was that really everything?! There was so much just a second ago... and yet it seemed like so little; it seemed like she could take more! She wanted more!
She swung her head - and felt something wet on her cheek. She raised her hand and found a wet lock of hair. It must have brushed against the armrest while she was lapping up that puddle of sweat, she realized. The realization was akin to electric shock. She brought the lock to her lips, bit into it, sucked the moisture out, and every drop that she managed to squeeze seemed more delicious, more precious, because she was running out... unless... unless...
Some of the sweat traveled up that lock of hair, too high for her to be able to connect that to her mouth, no matter how hard she pulled; if she had scissors, she'd probably cut it off right there and then. Valerie resorted to rubbing it off on her fingers. But this was all simply to delay the inevitable. She consumed what was given to her - lapped it up, enjoyed it, fallen victim to it - but her body yearned for more, as if it found a new purpose in doing this.
"How did it come to this", she idly wondered. "I am a sweat-slurper. Me! Oh God... Oh God, but I want more!"
She should have been feeling terrible, demeaned and humiliated, but instead she simply felt very thirsty - and there was also that ecstatic part of her, the one that felt butterflies in her stomach, the one that derived such a deep, carnal pleasure in being in this position. The one that wanted to be utterly submissive to this man, to the lowest part of his, to the emanations of his very skin. She'd sacrifice so much for the chance to keep doing this. God, she'd pay him for this. Anything! Anything he asks, just let little Val lap his sweat up!
And, while she may have been done with the puddle, there was always more to come. Because he was immense. And he was right there, wasn't he? She would lick his foot dry for him. She'd be like an ant enamoured with sugary honey.
She lifted her eyes, still in her position on all fours, her knees aching from resting on the hard wood.
And she saw...