You were the last surviving member of your squad. Nine elite operatives tasked with the retrieval of a predator for study - alive if possible, for study - dead if necessary. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into - and now you were the only one left. One by one your squad had been separated, split up - and picked off one by one. Soon after the sunrise - your radio was reaching only static. Out of ammo and food - you had to get off this rock before you met the same fate.

You were so preoccupied with that, you didn’t even see the net trap until you tripped it - a tripwire snapping under your boot sending a deftly-woven net swinging down, weighted with nothing else but your squad’s mangled rifles, slamming into you and pinning you against a nearby rock outcropping, knocking the wind clear out of you.

You struggled to free yourself, and managed to get your knife out of the sheathe in time to hear an inhuman sound that chilled you to your very bones - it almost sounded like… laughter. You held out your knife as the brush started to move - and she emerged. Standing at an imposing height - quite nearly 9 feet tall, streaked with mud and leaves from her hunt, her helmet betraying no emotion past the featureless visor - the Yautja made that eerie, unsettling chuckle once again.

With an unsettling amount of comfort, she sits down across you on a nearby boulder in the clearing, your rifle knocked behind you - there’s no way you could reach it in time. She leans forward, and you can feel the heat radiating off of her alien skin, marked with hard scales where her armor doesn’t cover it - with a flash of motion, she flicks the combat knife out of your hands - again, that low, guttural chuckle.

She sits back down with the sound of clinking trophies from her hunts and metallic shifting of her armor, slowly placing her left foot atop her right ankle - sharp, claw-like toenails poking out from a hard-soled sandal. She looks directly at you, unblinking, as she undoes the clasps and works it off, letting it fall into the dirt. You can see her huge, meaty sole exposed to the sun as she lets it fall. It was huge - easily the size of your head, toes splaying in the open air, enjoying their newfound freedom. You could see the patches of cleaner flesh where the straps had sat, the streaks of skin that weren’t caked with dirt and grime from her hunt, the sheen of alien sweat that had collected the dirt everywhere else.

“What the hell -” you say quietly, watching her taloned toes flex as she swings it down into the dirt, repeating the same process with her right sandal with a relaxed ease, letting you watch the whole process as if she were drinking in your fear and confusion. She lets both sandals fall unused into the dust, and then lifts up her legs - each thick, grimy sole bigger than your head as she hovers them both in front of you.

You don’t get a chance to say anything else, as the Yautja presses the ball of her right foot directly over your mouth and nose, spreading her toes wide with an alien sound that might have been one of pleasure, or mockery. The rough skin on the ball of her foot smothered your mouth shut with a healthy coating of sweat-stained dirt for good measure. Then, her sharp-taloned toes curled eagerly around your nose, the first and second wiggling forcefully to slot your unwilling nose perfectly between the huntresses’ huge, sweaty digits. It was only a matter of time before you had to inhale - and when you did, your whole body struggled and squirmed from the stench of her toes, the grimy crevice between them packed with dead skin, sweat, and mud as her left foot cups the side of your face so you can’t turn away, making you take it all in as she watched. Her left foot was long and slender, toes curling through your hair as the heel rested just under your chin, a huge sole reminding you just how physically outclassed you were as you were forced to huff the Yautja’s rank feet.

But she was far from finished with you. She kept her toes wrapped around your nose, and slid her second set of digits down to your mouth. You try to shake your head free, but of course, she had all the leverage here - pressing you back against the rock with her other foot, smacking your head against the stone a bit until you felt dizzy, mouth opening in a scream of pain - only to be promptly and roughly filled with the thick, sweaty toes of her other foot. You felt the rough patches of her scaled skin on your tongue, and the bitter tang of her sweat. It was foul - somehow far more potent than a human’s sweat, but still somehow distinctly feminine. Your eyes rolled back in your head at the sheer disgust, the thick, meaty toes almost stretching your mouth too far as they crammed themselves in, up to the ball of her foot, wriggling in delight across your tongue. The Yautja’s sharp nails were pressing into the back of your throat, gagging you on her sweaty soles as she shoved them in as deep as they could go - and then, to your horror, the rough, sweaty toes curled around your tongue and dragged it out into the open, using it like a string of dental floss between the gritty, slimy space in between her big and second toe. All the while, you were being forced to inhale nothing but the acrid, mind-melting stench of the female Yautja’s feet. Hunting down your squad had taken nearly 3 days of non-stop tracking, trapping, moving and fighting - and of course, she hadn’t bathed. Now, you were her stress relief from a hunt well completed - and you were starting to wish you had simply been killed like the rest.

As soon as her toes let go of your tongue, you pull it back into your mouth - and the huntress makes an angry clicking sound, and kicks your head against the rock. You see stars, and she fishes your tongue back out with her toes, pressing it flat against your chin. She lets it go - and you pull it back again. This time, she kicks harder - jamming her dirty heel right down on your eye so hard it swells shut and you feel a hot wetness on the back of your head as it hits the rock. She pulls your tongue out again, and you are too dazed to do anything but take it.

She takes the sole of her left foot and drags it, slowly, down the flat of your tongue. From the rough heel caked in dirt, sliding up the delicate wrinkles of her arch, to the very tip of her clawed big toe, she wipes her dirty foot on your tongue as if you were a human doormat for her filthy soles. Then, she does it again, getting all the spots you missed the first time - and again, and you can taste every single inch of her sweaty, filthy sole, the tang of vinegar and mud on your tongue as she makes the chuckling sound once again.

Finally, the toes of her right foot unhook from your nose, letting you breathe something but toxic alien toe grime. But it doesn’t last long, as she quickly hooks her left foot behind your neck, and presses the sole of her right onto your tongue again, pressing your whole head into the fleshy sole. It was large enough to cover your whole face underneath it, and she grinds it against your tongue harder - the calloused heel like sweaty, dirty sandpaper against your abused tongue as she makes certain that you taste every single inch of it intimately and fully. You gag weakly, seeing through your good eye that the sun was nearly at the peak of its journey across the sky - you had been swallowing the filth from this alien’s soles for hours. And what’s more? She didn’t show any signs of stopping. After she seems satisfied that you had been thoroughly acquainted with every inch of her grimy soles, she releases your head from her foot-lock.

Then, as if to insult you even more - she places both of her feet, still slick with your tortured saliva, right back down into the dirt - undoing the last hour or so of your forced licking. She holds up her sandal and makes the same gesture - your tongue hanging out as she flips the footgear to show a deep, dark imprint of her sole implanted into the material. She presses the slick, greasy heel-print onto your tongue and slides it up to the toes, using you to scrub her filthy sandal clean. Somehow these tasted even worse - you doubt they had ever been washed or even taken off - you wanted to die right then and there.

You had first gagged on Yautja soles at dawn. Now, the sun was setting - just about to dip behind the horizon, and you were still tasting her first sandal as her toes wrapped back around your nose with a fresh coating of dirt, somehow as sweaty as before you had started. A single tear ran down your cheek from your un-bruised eye.

The Yautja merely made a sound of deep satisfaction, rubbing the tear away in a streak of grime under her big toe before scrunching them back around your nose.