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.