Showing posts with label feet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feet. Show all posts

Monday, March 28, 2011

Brown Socks

Ok they are waiting for you, read the text message. Tell me when you get them.

When I arrived home, mid-afternoon, after a lunch with a former student, they’re waiting for me—an inconspicuous lump in the bottom of my mailbox, hiding among the circulars and the bills. They’re simply a pair of socks, rolled up into each other, into a ball of fabric. When I unfurl the brown nylon, I’m immediately reminded of women’s stockings, sheer and shiny. But the garments aren’t as long as a pair of stockings, and it’s printed with what I suppose is intended to be a masculine pattern around the hem. They’re the kind of socks I imagine an old Mexican man wearing to church, or to a wedding.

Maybe that image is stuck in my head because the kid who drove across town to stuff the socks into my mail box happens to be Latin. Darrio, he told me his name was—a kid in his mid-twenties. His profile photos showed him as almost impossibly narrow-waisted and full-bottomed; his lone face photo was thugged out, tough and mean-looking.

But all he really wanted, he told me, was to serve what he called ‘white man dick.’ I had plenty of that.

I’ve got them, I texted back. I pulled the sleazy fabric over my toes and past my ankles. I didn’t like the look of them. I’d never have chosen the things on my own, much less worn them. But they were his choice, what he wanted me in. They’re on my feet.

how long will u wear them, he asked.

All day, I promised. I’ll wear them tonight when I sleep, and all tomorrow, too.

o fuck, hot!!! he texted back. i want u in ur shoes when we meet, k?

I kept my promise, too. But so no one would see, I pulled a pair of my usual cotton socks atop them.

I saw him in person for the first time the next night, when he emerged from an ancient Oldsmobile convertible and loped his way up my front walk. He wore an oversized hoodie printed with enormous letters, and a pair of baggy sweatpants that could’ve contained not only MC Hammer, but his entire posse of musicians and backup singers. “‘Sup,” he said once he was over the threshold. His dark, glittering eyes flicked over me. His lids were heavy and hooded.

I was wearing a pressed shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a pair of clean jeans, and a dress belt. On my feet were my best leather Oxfords. I could see I’d chosen the appropriate outfit. His eyes devoured me in one long, long look in which he seemed to take in every detail, from the rounded tie of my laces to the polished buckle at my waist, from the ring on my finger to the spectacles on my nose. “You got something for me?” he asked at last, after a visible gulp. I saw his knees bend, as if he intended to lower himself down.

“Upstairs,” I told him. He shed the puffy overcoat he’d been wearing and left it on the floor, then sprinted up to the second floor with me following.

The light in the bedroom was deliberately low. There was just enough illumination for me to see him I sat down, legs and feet spread wide, hips poised at the mattress edge. “Strip,” I commanded, as his hands instinctively jerked toward my feet.

Again he obeyed. He pulled off the hoodie and shucked the sweatpants in a matter of seconds, then shimmied out of a pair of tight designer briefs. His body was as good as the photos—better, even. He was tall and lean, with skin several shades darker than mine. His nipples were dark smears of brown. Curly hair covered his legs and pubic area, and skirted around to his ass. That beautiful ass. The ass that was as perfect and round as his photos had made it seem. He was fortunate to possess one of those perfectly flat stomachs that slanted down to a large, curved, uncut piece of meat. He squeezed it self-consciously to show it off to me, then stared in my eyes.

I nodded, giving him the signal.

In a flash he was back on his knees, bending over my dress shoes and untying them with a delicacy that belied his thuggish exterior. He gasped as he removed the first shoe; his hands lingered over my feet for a moment, then tugged off the second. He lifted my right foot to his face. Then, as I watched, impassive and stone-faced, his eyes closed. His forehead leaned into the flesh on the ball of my foot. He sighed. As his face softened with contentment and need, his dick rose, rock hard.

“Lay back, papi,” he whispered, eyes still shut. I leaned back on my elbows, still wanting to watch him at work. Lovingly, tenderly, he rubbed his face all over my foot. His pillowy lips pressed against the arch; his chin dug into my heel. While he sniffed and rubbed the day-old socks, his hands massaged the sides and tops. His dick bobbed in the open air, stimulated by whatever was passing through his head.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked him in a low voice.

He nodded. Very gently he returned my foot to the floor, not releasing it until it made contact with the wood. Then he picked up the left foot, moved it to his face, inhaled deeply, and began to go to work.

With the second foot, he licked and sucked the nylon-covered flesh once he’d finished sniffing and massaging it. He took his time, lost in private sexual reverie. After long minutes, he lifted both feet to his face, so that his eyes were covered, and his nose surrounded. I heard him take one deep, lingering breath, as he inhaled the essence of my smell.

I pulled him onto the mattress. His soft lips met mine. He was a decent kisser, though I could tell that wasn’t where his passion lay. I pushed his head down my torso until his tongue flicked out for the head of my dick. “Wet it up,” I told him.

Like a good boy, he obeyed. There were two halves to this bargain. He’d get as long as he wanted with my feet, and his socks. And I’d get his hole.

As I said, it was a beautiful ass. He gasped and trashed slightly as I tongued it, as if instinctively trying to buck me off. Then he gave in, and relaxed. The muscles protecting his most highly-guarded area relaxed, and gradually open as I ate at him with increasing vigor.

By the time I was ready to enter, he was moaning. His hips rolled, back and forth, up and down. I squirted some lube on my dick, then applied the remainder to his ass. My knees straddling his thighs, I pushed in.

He yelled like a boy. I’d barely gotten two inches in when his hole clamped down around my meat, barring further entry. “Take it out, take it out, fuck!” he cried.

My mouth was close to his ear. I let out a long ssshhh. “Hold still,” I told him, to keep him from trying to squeeze me. “Hold still. Get used to it.”

A tear was rolling down his face. At my command, though, Darrio stopped his thrashing. He dug his forehead into my pillow, but he also bit down on his lips. I could hear him whimpering still, like a kicked puppy, but at least he wasn’t making my ears ring.

Guys praise me sometimes for my sensitivity, for being attuned to what my lovers need. That’s all very well, but there are some times, and some guys, when none of that matters. When the only needs to which I’m attuned are my dick’s. This was one of those times. I could tell he didn’t want to be fucked, that he was only doing it for foot time—that he was only doing it because he felt obligated, after I’d worn his sleazy nylon socks. And you know, that was fine with me. He’d given me permission in advance to take his hole. I could’ve let him off the hook.

But I didn’t.

Inch by inch I worked my dick into his hole. He clearly had never had anything that size in there, before. The guy’s breathing was shallow, and he clutched at the pillow and sheets as if they were his life preservers, but he endured. Every new inch brought him more pain, and opened him wider—but he endured.

Then, when I rolled him onto his side with myself buried in him to the hilt, I reached between his legs and encountered his full bulls and an uncut dick that was not only rock-hard, but slick and slimy from the precum flowing liberally from its tip.

He was fucking enjoying it.

He continued to whimper and whine as I fucked, but didn’t protest at first. Then, after a few moments, he said, as if apologizing, “I can’t take this very long, papi. I’m sorry.” I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just kept pounding away. “I can’t . . . not for much longer.”

It didn’t matter. The combination of his round, fleshy butt and and his vise-like hole were working magic on my dick. It twitched, and began to demand to burrow deeper, deeper inside. I let it have its way.

He let out a sob half of relief, half of unexpected arousal, when I came. I held him tightly while it happened, letting loose my seed deeper into him than he’d ever taken before. Then he brought himself off with a few quick strokes, shooting his seed all over my pillow. Every crush of his muscles as he shot squeezed me farther out of his hole, until at the very last I’d withdrawn in a messy pool of my own semen, puddling onto the blanket.

Then I let him have my feet again. For a long time—a very long time—we both lay on our backs with our heads pointing in opposite directions, balls to balls. My feet lay atop his face, as he licked and sucked and sniffed and gobbled at their soles, through the nylon fabric. It was relaxing, and arousing in his own way, but I knew he couldn’t handle another fuck. Not for days, at least. The kid had an advanced-studies appetite, but mine is not a survey-level dick. Beginners might admire it, but rarely can they handle it.

Not that it keeps me from trying, when I’ve got permission.

At last I suggested it was time for him to go. Without a word he hopped up from the bed, pulled on his loose-fitting clothing and shoes, and tripped down the stairs. “You want to do this again sometime?” I asked.

“You way too big for me,” he mumbled, not looking me in the eye.

“I’ll wear the socks again.”

He considered that. I knew he would. “Keep ‘em,” he said, with a look of mingled shame and desire fleetingly crossing his handsome, guarded face. “I’ll be back.”

Somehow I knew he’d say that.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Foot Service

Many years ago when I was in graduate school, I became involved with a Roman Catholic priest with a foot fetish.

I’ll pause for a moment to let that one sink in. Yes, I know, it sounds like the start of one of the jokes printed on the reverse side of the Playboy centerfold. Larry the foot-sucking priest, I called him in my head.

I met Father Larry in the university library restrooms one day. He was a not-unattractive guy with a fat uncut dick with whom I had a good preliminary time under the toilet stall. When he asked if I knew of someplace to go so he could show me what he really liked, I invited him back to my student apartment. He wasn’t in his robes and collar, by any means. I didn’t know he was a priest until he told me behind my closed apartment door. Mostly I think he told me so that if I planned to be disturbed or to freak out because of his revelation, I’d get it over with fairly quickly.

I found out Larry’s fetish almost the moment we were alone. He knelt down on the ground and removed my shoes for me with reverence. Then he drew my stockinged feet up ot his face, one by one, and rubbed his face over them. He bowed so low over each one that I couldn’t help but be reminded of Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’s feet with her hair, thought I thought bringing it up in a priest’s presence might border on sacrilege.

I’d just been through some fairly traumatic stuff in my life when I met Larry. My meetings with him were something of a relief, because not only was I excused from the usual anal and oral proceedings, but all I really had to do was relax and put myself into his hands. Put my feet into his hands, that is. Larry would use oils and lotions, or plain old soap and water, and lather up my skin until it was wet and slick. He’d run his fingers through every crevice, along every ridge, and massage my feet until I sank back into the pillows and mattress with my eyes closed. For long periods he’d rub muscles down there I never knew I had, and which I certainly had no idea were so pleasurable.

And then he’d start to suck. He’d run the broad flat of his tongue along my sole, letting his teeth chew both at the ball and the heel. He’d suck my toes, one by one, letting his soft lips envelop them completely. His tongue would tickle at places ordinarily never touched.

Larry would perform his service literally for hours at a time. I’d strip down after lunch and enjoy bathing in long and uninterrupted periods of pleasure, and not surface again until nearly dinner. Larry, too, was lost in his own private world when he’d kneel down at the end of my bed and begin working on my size elevens. He didn’t need music, nor talking, nor any kind of encouragement. He had his personal enjoyment as his own agenda, and nothing would deter him from it.

At the end of our sessions, Larry liked to get off. He’d rub his lotions or the soap into my skin. Then he’d draw my soles together so that the arches formed a long, narrow oval. In that he would slide his thick dick. It would have been stiff and dripping for most of our session, and ready to explode, but usually he’d treat my combined feet like a deep, wet pussy that he intended to pound into submission. Once he had blasted his load all over my feet and ankles, he’d withdraw, open his eyes, laugh, and then begin fumbling for his clothes.

Occasionally Larry would take me out to the restrooms again. We’d sit side by side in stalls. Once he was certain no one was around, he’d kneel down on the ground, untie and remove the shoe closest to him, and rub his dick over the naked skin. Usually in a restroom setting he’d shoot quickly, covering the top of my foot with an enormous, sticky load in the better part of two minutes. But it was our time in my apartment I loved the most—those long, languorous hours in which all I had to do was relax, let go, and enter that sweet, slumber-like drowsy state that accompanied the sweet service he’d give me.

I’d met a couple of guys since Larry who would pop a toe or two in their mouths, but I’d never encountered anyone who could service feet like he used to—until Friday night, anyway. I had my house to myself for the weekend and nothing better to do at midnight than invite over a guy to work my dick with his ass and mouth. But damn, what a mouth. I knew it was going to be a great session when he took exquisite care of my cock with his mouth, licking and sucking and squeezing at it in a way that continued to make me feel harder and harder without actually propelling me to orgasm. He was a great kisser, and knew how to chew my nipples like a pro. He chewed at my thighs with his mouth and licked my balls and ass, and then extended my leg in his hand and let his fur-surrounded lips work their way down, and down, until finally they were brushing against my feet.

I gasped, and then his mouth opened. He applied suction with his lips and tongue to the underside, occasionally letting his teeth spark a moan. I writhed as he used his thumbs to manipulate the muscles, and let out a cry when he started taking my toes into his mouth, one by one.

Unlike Father Larry, this new guy wasn’t solely into my feet; he wanted my cock most of all, and did things with his ass to keep me hard all night. But from time to time, usually after I’d shot, he would return to my size elevens. And there I’d be again, slipping back into that warm pool of pleasure and basking in it with no regrets.

When my new friend left Saturday morning, it was six a.m. I’d not been up that late deliberately in years. My legs were shaky. My feet were so slick and oily that they slipped on the hardwood floors when I let him out.

But damn. They surely did feel good.