Miss Clarke Pt. 01

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Miss Clarke stood only about five foot two, but the second she stepped into the classroom, she owned it. Her voice was calm but commanding. Her words clipped and clear. She didn’t need to shout — people just listened. She had this air about her — like she could see through you, like she always knew what you were thinking.

And if she knew what I was thinking… well, she never said a word. But sometimes, I swear I saw the glint in her eye when she caught me staring. Not at her face. Not at her chest. But at the floor — at the soft, bare feet peeking from her old, beat-up flats.

She wore the same pair almost every day — flimsy black ballet flats, the cheap kind you’d find in a high street shop, totally flattened from overuse. The insides were visibly dark with sweat stains — the heel patch, the toe bed, even the sides where the arches rubbed. I imagined how they must feel inside, still slightly damp from the day before, the sweat baked in. She never wore socks. Never tights. Always bare feet, slipping directly into those worn black shoes every morning before work. The idea that she’d been wearing them for years, day after day, foot sweat soaking deeper into the fabric each time — it drove me insane.

Every lecture, she’d stand in front of us, often resting her weight on one foot while subtly slipping the other out of her shoe. It was never fully deliberate — or maybe it was — but she always gave me just enough. The sole of her foot would glide slowly out, the rim of the shoe clinging to her arch before finally releasing it. Her heel would touch the cold tile floor and she’d flex it, spreading her toes just slightly. I used to stare like I was hypnotised. Her feet were small, neat, maybe a size four — pale with high arches and well-trimmed nails, usually painted a soft red or nude. Her toes were long and slender, always slightly wrinkled at the ball where they met the floor, the skin shining just a little from sweat.

I remember the way she’d rub one foot against the other absentmindedly during discussions — usually while asking the class a question. Her bare sole would slide over the outside of the other flat, almost like she was scratching an itch. Sometimes she’d slip one foot completely out and step her toes on top of the other, letting her instep rub along the heel. The motion was slow. Absent. Natural. But to me, it was pornographic. I’d sit frozen, trying not to breathe too hard, bursa escortlar painfully aware of the growing bulge in my trousers.

The best was when she’d stand at her desk and press her toes into the carpet, curling them until the tips dug into the floor. She’d shift her weight forward slightly, causing her arch to rise and her sole to crease. Then she’d roll her foot outward just a little, exposing the pale underside of her foot, marked faintly with grime from her flats. Every now and then I’d catch a glimpse of the darker, sweatier patches beneath her toes — a place I fantasised about pressing my nose into for hours, just breathing in the heat and tang and salt of her long day.

One day — a particularly hot afternoon in early June — she walked into class looking done. Her skirt was shorter, her blouse loose at the collar, and her face slightly flushed. She exhaled hard and sat on the edge of her desk before the lesson even began. I noticed both shoes were already halfway off.

She uncrossed her legs, let her feet drop to the floor, and then said, almost under her breath but just loud enough:

“God, my feet are so sweaty today.”

I nearly came in my fucking jeans.

She didn’t even look at anyone when she said it. It was just a passing comment, said with a faint little smile as she peeled her shoes off and let them fall to the floor. Both bare feet were flat on the tile now, glistening slightly. I stared at them — at the light sheen on her soles, the tiny specks of lint clinging to her toes, the raw, worn-down skin where her heels had clearly been rubbing against the flats all day. She flexed her toes a few times, sighed, and then finally looked up.

“Right,” she said. “Photosynthesis.”

But I wasn’t hearing a word of it. My entire brain was throbbing with heat. I was staring at her feet like they were sacred objects, utterly mesmerised. She absentmindedly rubbed her feet together, sole to sole, making a soft, skin-on-skin sound that I could hear even over the hum of the classroom. It was like she was airing them out, cooling them, grinding the sweat between her soles without a care in the world.

That scent — I couldn’t smell it from where I was sitting, but I could imagine. The stale, salty musk trapped in her flats, the sourness that builds up from standing all day. I pictured sticking my face into one of those black shoes right then bursa escort and there, breathing in so deeply I’d get dizzy. I imagined the sharp tang of her arch, the concentrated, vinegary stink under her toes — toes that probably hadn’t been properly washed in days.

She’d taught two or three classes before mine. The sweat had time to build. I pictured her slipping her feet back into those flats after lunch, the way they’d squish slightly from the dampness, how the shoes would cling tighter, even squeak a bit as she walked. And now, here they were — bare, hot, stinking, and just inches from me.

I used to close my eyes at night and replay it in perfect detail: the sound of her flats dropping to the floor. The way her toes wiggled once they were free. The casual way she mentioned her sweat, like it was nothing. But to me, it was everything. The confirmation. The permission. The proof that her feet really did stink like I imagined, maybe even worse. That her shoes were marinated in it, every fiber of the insole soaked with her scent. That if I ever got the chance to put my face in them, I’d be knocked flat by the sheer intensity of her foot smell.

That day, I didn’t learn a single thing about photosynthesis. But I committed every detail of her feet to memory.

The older I get, the more I realise just how deeply Miss Clarke had her hooks in me. Not with anything overt. Not with flirting or innuendo or private looks. No — it was the small things. The idle, thoughtless motions. The casual footplay. The way she treated her shoes and her feet like they were nothing special… while to me, they were everything.

She always taught standing. Always pacing. Always moving from whiteboard to desk and back again. Those flats — her second skin — made a soft shuffling sound as she walked, like her soles were too damp to lift cleanly from the insole. Sometimes you could even hear the faintest squelch if the room was quiet and the weather was hot. That sound haunted me. It was the sound of sweat being pressed out of her arch with every step.

And when she stood still, she never just stood. She’d shift her weight onto one foot, then the other. Roll her ankles. Curl her toes inside her flats, flexing them. Sometimes she’d step halfway out, letting the back of the shoe flatten slightly as her bare heel hovered above it, then slide it back in with a little twist, grinding her sole down into that ruined insole again. It was subconscious. Rhythmic. And to me, completely pornographic.

The smell… I never really got close enough to smell it, not for certain. But I imagined it constantly. Her feet locked away in those unlined flats all day, the warm air trapped and swirling around her toes, the sweat soaking deeper with each hour. I imagined how the scent must change — from light and vinegary in the morning to something heavier, muskier by late afternoon. I imagined being close. Under her desk. Sitting beside her. Watching her casually kick off one flat, watching the faint fog of sweat rise like steam, hitting me square in the face.

One Friday near the end of term, we had an open-floor discussion and Miss Clarke decided to sit up on her desk. She crossed her legs and kicked off one flat — just let it drop to the floor. The movement was careless, like she couldn’t stand to have it on for another second. Her bare foot bounced lightly in the air for a moment, toes flexing, heel swinging slightly, before settling into a relaxed point.

She uncrossed her legs, then recrossed them the other way. The other shoe dropped, too.

“Mmm,” she muttered, pressing her arches together. “End of the week. Feet are done for.”

She wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. It was just a tired exhale. But I latched onto every word.

She rubbed her feet together slowly — sole against sole — the way you might rub your hands on a cold day. She wasn’t even looking down. Just idly grinding her sweat-slick soles together as she discussed something about genetics. Everyone else was watching the board. But I couldn’t look away. Her toes wriggled, nails painted that classic deep red, her heels pink and slightly cracked. Her arches glistened faintly under the classroom lights.

And then, out of nowhere, she stopped and said, “If you smell something… unusual… it’s probably just me. Apologies. I think my feet have reached critical mass.”

A few people chuckled. One kid pretended to cough and fan the air. She laughed too, wiggling her toes.

“I mean, you try standing for five hours in the same pair of flats. I should be charging them rent by now.”

I wanted to crawl under her desk. Right then. I didn’t care if the whole class saw. I would’ve licked those flats clean and begged for more. I imagined turning them inside out and sniffing every damp crease. I imagined holding them over my face while she laughed.

She slipped one foot back into her flat with a soft squish. The other followed after a second. And just like that, the moment was gone.

But I couldn’t forget it.