Warning: This story is about gay sex and domination between young adults. If this subject offends you, or if it is illegal in the country where you live, or if you are under 18, then read no further and quit this page now.
Copyright 2008 Subtoy_Kimy. All Rights Reserved.
CHAPTER 7: PIZZA HOME DELIVERY
Though I craved it, I dared not jack off and release the load that was boiling in me, and burning to blast. Terrorized by the zero tolerance I was subjected to, I didn't even try. The three minutes I was given to shower and be back were too straight anyway, and I couldn't even dry my hair. I just rushed as fast as I could, and managed to be back right on time and all naked, just as ordered.
Kevin and Damien were lazily slouched in their sofa, facing the TV set. While chatting cool, their legs were stretched out and their shoed feet lain on the top of the central table. A football match was about to start.
In how I was, with my hair untidy and wet, and with Kevin's used towel pending around my neck and along my torso, I stood still at a certain distance, not knowing what I was to do next, and whether I had to kneel down or not. Damien turned at me, and I caught a sparkle in his eyes. "Your boy's not bad like this," he said.
Kevin smiled with irony, and stopped the chrono. Pointing at me with his chin, "go get us two more Buds," he ordered.
I executed and served the beers on a tray in the way I was taught, putting one knee down and bowing my head with respect. Damien grabbed his can without even turning at me. When I did the same before Kevin, he unexpectedly ordered me to stay where I was:
"Want my spikes taken off," he said.
Before I could get back from what I just heard, he moved his stretched out legs and lifted up one of them towards me. I turned red. I held his leg by the calf, and laid it down again, with his shoed foot right in front of me, heel on the table. It sized not less than 11.
I concentrated on unlacing his spike, and did it as slowly as I needed to delay the moment I'd be facing his sweaty socks, and all of what I started to figure out would follow. By the time I did, they both resumed chatting like in disregard of my listening presence, but actually wanting me to listen.
"... So, you're telling me how you managed to bathe without wetting your spikes?" said Damien, both amused and intrigued.
"Yeah, actually I stepped into the bathtub, and I sat in it and laid my spikes up on the edge of it, and only then I started to fill it up..."
"Cool!... I couldn't have done the same in the showers of the gym. So I just worked and came right over..."
To keep their feet immersed in their whole day sweat clearly seemed to be the deliberate issue they had been planning for. As I started to guess what in their mind was hiding behind such intentions, I panicked but dared not react or let it show. When I pulled out Kevin's spike, my heart was hell of drumming. I laid it on the floor.
"Next" he ordered, while stretching out the other shoe, straight to my face. I started unlacing it in the same way I just did the first. While I executed, Kevin addressed to Damien suggesting:
"Hey, how about ordering some pizza? I'm kinda starving aren't you?"
"Yeah... bu' then let's do it right now, before the match starts."
At this, Kevin grabbed his cell phone and called Mac Milano where he sounded he was already databased, like regular customers usually are.
Mac Milano - or Emem's, as it is commonly named - is known for having built its marketing strategy on hiring the cutest boys for the delivery job. They're all selected and recruited in the suburbs where the communities of Italian immigrants are the greatest, and precisely in the public areas of these suburbs where young skaters usually gather. Big posters of these attractive recruits are then displayed on Emem's advertising road campaigns. In this way, when a calling customer is delivered, it is always by one of these local celebrities, a familiar face he'd noticed before, or wishes to see live. This strategy worked, and it was at the origin of Emem's huge growth.
Kevin placed an order for two medium size Margheritas with extra Prociutto, to be delivered the soonest.
I pulled out his second spike, and laid it next to the first.
Though the sole side of his socks looked bright and clean, a whole day of physical efforts left them totally wet and sweaty. His day had started with hours of hard football training, followed by the hard whipping session he inflicted me, and all of what came after in the afternoon, and it showed.
"Now go get two breakfast bowls, and a bottle of cool water from the fridge," ordered Kevin. "You have twelve seconds to be back."
I rushed executing, and came back to my place, wondering what corn flakes bowls would be for.
With his chin pointing at the bowls, and with a finger pointing at his feet, "put one of them down here," he said.
As typically expected from the late teen he was, the more I obeyed him, the more he went ordering me with an increasing attitude, and his orders became shorter and more authoritarian:
"Now socks," he said, while facing me raw with the sole of his lifted up foot, to which Damien smiled.
Again I held Kevin's calf in one hand, and grabbed the upper end of his sock with the other. I started to fold it down on itself. In anticipation to the end result, I felt awfully embarrassed to soon be facing his bare foot so closely. Even facing his penis didn't make me feel that much ashamed. As my fingers kept slowly pulling his sock, I uncovered the slenderness of his powerful ankle, and I reached the sole side of his pinkish heel. My face blushed red with embarrassment.
"C'mon! Harry up," he ordered with a hint of anger, and he jerked his foot right before my eyes.
I kept pulling, till the sock flipped inside out in my hand, and his bare foot spread its androgynous beauty to my eyes. Despite the awfully humiliating situation of being facing his toes so closely, I was instantly hit by the awesome gracefulness of them. With a second toe equal in length to the big one, if not slightly longer, and with his toenails cleanly cut in crescent, they were perfectly shaped, and looked as if drawn by some kind of fairy. I was in admiration, and secretly felt like I could prostrate myself to their awesome beauty, no matter how degrading this would be.
As if he could read what was in my mind, "kiss it," he ordered with contempt, and while bending the end of his toes slightly down, just enough to make them pointing at my lips. As he didn't seem to be kidding, I looked at him imploring: "C'mon," he insisted, without hiding his enjoyment in feigning some snobbish manners.
Damien enjoyed watching my embarrassment, and he laughed briefly.
Thorn between a cruel seduction and a seductive cruelty, I kept holding his foot, with the heel of it in the palm of my hand, and bowed my head with respect. I brought my lips close to the topside of his toes, and closed my eyes, cut my breath, and with the very tip of my lips, I kissed his foot with an awesome respect, and with an extreme sensuality.
With not a slightest comment, he just withdrew his foot in an offhand manner, and all he said was "next," while the sole side of his other socked foot confronted my face raw.
I started over again, and did it all the same.
The next thing I was ordered was to fill a quarter of the bowl with fresh water from the bottle. I had barely finished executing, when Kevin plunged his toes in the bowl.
"Mmmmyeah, gooodl!" he moaned with delight, cynically willing to tease me with his enjoyment, and he slowly wiggled his toes right before my eyes. "There's no cooler way to remove one's sweat after hard training," he added addressing to Damien, but obviously willing to raise my panic. While he went on alternating between one foot and the other I couldn't stop wondering if he would ever order me what he sadistically enjoyed suggesting. "Hey Dam, you really should try it... it's really good," he continued cynically.
"Of course I will," replied Damien with an amused determination, then he snapped a finger and pointed at his feet, where I was to move with the second bowl in hands.
...
All of what Kevin had me doing with the contemptuous self-confidence of the natural arrogant winner he was, Damien had me doing it his way, under the severe power of a permanent threat. I had to remove his red All Star, then his ankle socks, till I came to face his bare feet.
Much more than I expected they would be, Damien's feet were simply to die for. Slightly but so gracefully arched, and so gorgeously long toed, they were the perfect merge between an aggressive sportiveness and a pure aristocratic elegance. His toenails were beautifully shaped and cleanly cared, looking as if he just had them pedicured. Well aware of their awesome beauty, Damien did not order me to kiss them. He just confronted my lips unmercifully with the topside of his toes, and cruelly waited to see how long I could resist before I do it by myself. Behind the titanium frame of his eyeglasses, never the devil in the eyes of this 19-year-old DJ was that powerful. He stared me into a silent obedience, and it didn't take seconds before I was broken with desire. Bowing my head almost devotedly, I kissed Damien's feet the very way I had just kissed Kevin's.
They both went on refreshing the soles of their feet, wiggling their toes, and releasing in the water the tiny particles of dry skin caught between their toes, after a whole day of physical efforts. Meanwhile, I was kept down, dealing both with the pain in my knees, and with the unbearable uncertainty of this ritual's issue. Meanwhile, and above all, I also had to bear listening to how they enjoyed the pleasing and relaxing sensation of it.
On TV, the players started entering the football field and warming up,
"Now take my socks in your hand," ordered Damien firmly, when he finally withdrew his feet out of the water. I did.
As his bowl was still laid on the floor, right before me, Damien ordered me to unfold his socks and to make sure they were well turned inside out. I did. Obviously considering my obedience as the least of my duties toward his awesome gorgeousness, he then ordered me to soak the sole part of his socks, which was the sweatiest, and to squeeze the water out, by twisting them firmly over the bowl, and restart. While I executed, he went arguing with Kevin on how enough concentrated in foot sweat the water should be, but none of them mentioned a hint on the real issue of this operation. I only could guess and fear what this was all about, and panic, then hope it wouldn't be what I guess it was, then panic again, but well knowing that their arrogance was such that hardly nothing was really impossible.
With an offhand disregard of how I could feel about it, Damien made me soak and squeeze his socks three to four times each, before Kevin had me doing it all the same, each one of them in his bowl, till they agreed that this should be enough. But I still didn't know or want to know 'enough' for what.
"Now pick up the bowls, and lay them on the table," ordered Kevin, when the football teams started positioning in line for the national anthems. At this, Damien moved from the left end of the sofa to the middle of it, leaving his bowl behind, for me to pick it up. I picked it up with the hard feeling that what I feared most was getting closer to become inevitable.
...
Damien adjusted comfortably crossing his fingers behind his head, and he laid his feet back again on the table, right beside Kevin's. In this way, they both had me kneeling down at their feet without disturbing their straight view on the TV screen. I was like hypnotized by how the gathering of their feet exhaled their awesome sensuality right before my eyes.
"Good. Now pour the water of one bowl into the other," ordered Kevin.
"And better not waste a single drop of it," added Damien severely, and with a hint of an authoritarian threat.
While I was kept kneeling before their gracefully muscled legs, facing half the sides and half the soles of their stretched out feet, I executed what I was ordered, to the letter. Water had become slightly tinted with a whitish dusty color, and had lost some of its transparency.
As they enjoyed watching me doing, Damien's toes stretched and wiggled and stretched again, while Kevin's feet rubbed against each other's. I was scared to death. I wondered how I could escape what was undoubtedly coming next. I searched my mind trying to find out if there was something I could possibly offer in exchange of their eventual renouncement, but I found nothing that they couldn't order and get anyway. Teams' national anthems had started to be played. My heart was hammering. Kevin's feet stopped rubbing. A drop of sweat dripped down along my back.
"You're given a choice," said Kevin with a cynical smile. He pointed at the water bowl, and his upper lip twisted with disgust.
"Uhh nooo, please..." I interrupted imploring, before he even finished what he had to say.
"You either drink it all now," he continued, disregarding my interference, "or ..." and he stopped there, enjoying to raise my panic.
"Or... you choose to stay there on your knees, but you'll be kissing our feet for as long as the match goes on," followed Damien, obviously amused though trying to look strict.
Despite the pain on my knees, I was just about to rush on the second choice, when Kevin interfered adding this: "But of course, kissing our feet will only raise your chance to be spared the drinking, so if this is the choice you take, you take it at your own risk."
"And that'd make it bout two thousand kisses at each one of our feet, or eight thousand kisses all together," said Damien, "this is just in case it helps you makin' up your mind," he added cynically. "Any question?"
They were all together so hard, so self confident, so arrogant, and above all so gorgeous, that dealing with them was lost in advance:
"Uhh... please, isn't there something I could do to just make sure I'll be spared the water bowl?" I asked inquiringly, like craving some indulgence.
"Mmmm, nope... not really," said Kevin feigning ironically to be sorry. "Nothing but an all the way perfect execution," he added as he winked at Damien.
"Yap," approved Damien, "a perfect execution of our foot kissing is your possible way out, but still, it's not really guaranteed,"
"Right. At the end of it, it will only be up to us to decide whether it was good enough or not," added Kevin, with his typical winner smile.
"Yeah, it depends on how satisfied we will be."
"Now that's the deal, what's your choice?"
Thorn between the bad and the worst, they subjected me to such a cruel situation were I was bound to take the bad, though well knowing I may end up with the worst as well. The hardest thing of all was yet to say it. As they both enjoyed to watch how hardly thorn I was, my face blushed red, and my eyes looked down, and my voice trembled when I whispered what turned to be my own choice: "I ki... uhrrr... I kiss your feet."
On their final instructions, I only was to count the hundreds loudly, but in between every hundred my counting was to be kept silent, so that they keep following their match without being disturbed. With this rule, anyone of them could control any hundred, anytime, and make sure I was not cheating. Also, after every thousand kisses executed, I had to alternate between their feet, so that none of them waits too long for his turn.
"And finally, you better not raise up your eyes from the one of our feet you'll be kissing, before total completion of your duty," warned Kevin.
"Unless you're thirsty, of course," added Damien, to which they both burst out laughing.
As the referee prepared to whistle the beginning of the match, they had fun inviting each other's to the honor of the start. After some feigned courtesies, Damien was finally first to lift up his bare foot straight to my face. Facing me raw with it, "enjoy!" he said, with a killing contempt.
I held Damien's foot in my hands, and started kissing it.
Kevin and Damien concentrated on following the match and commenting it, without even showing a sign of enjoying what they had me doing. Kissing their feet was of course very degrading in itself, but much worse was that they didn't even seem to notice that they were having it done. They simply behaved as if this was my privilege rather than theirs, and this made the feeling of it even more degrading than it already was. I didn't even want to think that I was worshipping the feet of the two arrogant juniors who had just raped me a little earlier, and forced me to swallow their load. Perhaps they considered what they were having me doing, as the least of what I owed to thank them for the rape. Along with an awful pain in my knees I had to struggle with the pain that started to spread along my chalks, and the feeling my lips were burning.
...
The first half time of the match had just passed its middle, when I had accomplished a bit more than a quarter of my total job: One thousand kisses on Damien's left foot, then as much on Kevin's, then I had started kissing Damien's right foot, when the doorbell buzzed. I suddenly panicked, but Damien's foot in my hand didn't even twitch. Kevin slipped his bare feet into his spikes, and he rushed all naked to answer.
"Your pizzas," said a young voice over the speakerphone, with a little stress on the 'i' of 'pizza', which gave it a hint of Italian accent.
By the time the delivery boy came up, I announced the fourth hundred, and then dared a desperate attempt to avoid being seen in the very situation where I was: "Please Sir, can I stop, just until..."
"No you can't," was Damien's firm and immediate reply, as he shrugged his shoulder. He just shake his foot at my face, as to confirm his verdict.
By the minute it took the pizza boy to come up, Kevin had grabbed his wallet, opened the door, and he was back in his position: "Come in," he called out, when the pizza boy reached the doorstep.
The boy made a few steps inside and then stopped short, like instantly hit by the scene that was scrolling right before his wide open eyes:
"What's going on here?" he said, totally astounded.
Stefano was his name, as written on the Mac Milano ID card that hanged over the pocket of his overall. He was tall and slim and above all, very nice looking. With his light brown and silky hair, tall enough to cover his neck, and with braces along his bright teeth, he had the perfect kind of face that fits with Emem's requirements and reputation. I felt terribly ashamed to be seen in this very situation.
"Come over," reiterated Kevin, in a natural way that showed there was nothing unusual, "put them down here."
The Emem boy stepped slowly, and though I dared not meet his eyes, I could feel how he stared at me fixedly.
"What? Never seen a slave before?" said Damien.
Again, I felt awfully outraged by the word used to describe how I was to be considered, and though I dared not react, it showed.
"A slaaave?" repeated the boy amazed, while he kept staring at me with a contemptuous disdain.
"Yeah, the kind of houseboy one can order anything," explained Kevin.
"Anything?" the boy exclaimed again, with a smiling stupefaction, before he twinkled his eyes as to make sure he was not dreaming.
"Yeah, right, anything, as long as it brings fun, or entertainment," said Kevin as he gave the boy 20 bucks. "Keep it all," he added.
"Ow, thanks a lot," said Stefano, as he realized he has just been tipped almost as much as the total bill.
"Five hundred," I announced.
Before Stefano reached the door, Damien suddenly turned at Kevin, like with an idea popping up in his mind, and I just caught they both winked at each others: "Hey, when's your day off?" called out Damien.
"At Emem's we're closed on Mondays." he said, inquiring.
"Well then come over on Monday, and we'll let you share some good times with us."
"Yeaaah?" he said joyfully, "Cool! Monday's the day my Emem's buddies and I join for skating. But I can come right afterward," he added.
"Cool, then be here at seven," said Kevin before he added what was enough to kill me: "And get all your Emem buds with you, we'll have a small party."
"Reaaally? Ow that's really cool" he exclaimed, "I bet they won't believe it," he added, with his nice Italian accent
At this, my blood ran cold, and I felt I could burst out.
Kevin and Damien topped their hands with a smiling complicity, and all I could do was to deal with the facts of their further plans.
At the half time of the match, I was nearly done. I had exhausted the bits of my strength and pieces of my dignity, to just satisfy these snobbish juniors' whims and their insatiable entertainment. I struggled with what had become an unbearable pain and with the worst kind of humiliation to please their feet with four thousand kisses, and this was still one half of the total job I was subjected to complete. I was allowed what they contemptuously called a generous break, but to just finish the remains of their pizzas and clean the table. After this, I was cynically instructed to wash my hands and lips, before I resumed execution. When the referee whistled the second half time of the match, Damien lifted up his foot and his 11 size bare sole slammed against my face. Glancing at the bowl I dared not react. All I could do was to hold his terribly gorgeous foot by the ankle with the recommended respect, and I started kissing it back again.
After five thousand kisses, I laid Damien's foot down and held Kevin's lifted up one, to start over with a new thousand; the sixth. I shamefully became acquainted with how every one of their toes flexes under the sweet touches of my lips. At this stage - but I wouldn't be able to say when it really started - none of them bothered instructing me anymore on where I was to move my kisses. All they needed was to bend their toes, or bend them back, or twist their foot in a way or another, and either move of the foot I was holding was an instruction to me in itself. Regardless of how degrading these silent orders were, their power over me was such that I could only comply. Kevin mostly liked to feel my kisses on his toes or else, have them spread along the fleshy outer profile that runs from the side of the heel up to the base of the little toe. Damien rather prefered to have my kisses spread all over his soles, mainly on the center of his archs. I guess he enjoyed to feel my eyebrows brushing against his protruding ball.
...
Like in a perfect synchronicity, the referee whistled the end of the match, when I had just announced the eights thousand, and laid Kevin's foot on the table, and sighed. I was like stoned, but wondered what kind of miracle made me reach the end of my execution, despite the pain.
Kevin stood up and stretched his arms: "Twas cool, wasn't it?" he said with a lazy voice of someone who's just waking up. He was even more divine than I ever saw before.
"Yeaaah..." was all what Damien said, as he slipped his feet back into his All Star, and adjusted his eyeglasses.
To think that I spent all this time, degraded into humiliation, struggling with a hard rising pain, for them to just find 'twas cool... yeah', I realized that the extent of their power over me had no limit. Actually I didn't even know if their last comments were on my execution or the match, and dared not move. As Damien was tying up his laces I glanced at the bowl, and the fear invaded me. Some tiny black particles released from the soles of their feet and from in between their toes floated on the surface, a few others had sunk into the low transparency of the water mixed with their foot sweat. I badly needed to be sure that I was definitely released from the threat of it, and for this, I was even ready to start the whole thing all over again. But for them, there was no reason to hurry, and they cruelly kept on torturing me with the uncertainty.
"Still, it could have been better, couldn'it?" said Damien.
"Yeah, sure..." approved Kevin lazily.
The seconds of silence that followed this were the longest ever, and the hardest to bear. Finally Kevin turned at Damien with a visible will to end up with a verdict: "You know what?" he said, "if we want it to be better next time, I see no reason why we'd grant him our tolerance."
"Sure, why would we?" approved Damien, as he stood up as well. "All the hours and hard times we spent training and working out make this water too precious to be wasted," he added, and he didn't seem to be kidding.
"You're perfectly right," said Kevin, before he turned at me adding: "Sorry boy, you kissed our feet at your own risk; now you won the honor of savoring our foot sweat... It's our verdict and it's final, so c'mon!"
Depp in me, I knew I could be inflicted such an outraging unfairness but I still didn't want to believe it could be possible. "No, please," I sighed craving their mercy, and still hoping this would only be part of their teasing torture.
"N' then you'll tell us how it tastes, or how much you liked it..." continued Damien with a cynical arrogance, without hiding his feeling smug.
"Mmmm... he'll love it for sure; he'll even ask for more," added Kevin so self-confident his beauty could make me do anything.
I bowed my head, ashamed by the cruelty of their comments. After I spent that much time bearing the pain, suffering, and degrading myself for the only sake of spreading pleasure to their snobish feet, I hardly believed that this would my reward. But for boys made with this terrible mix of divine gorgeousness, and contempt, and arrogance, the simple 'why not' argument ends up always winning over any other logic.
Kevin lifted up his knee holding my chin with it, and forced me to look up: "I said c'mooon!... that's an order!" he added, with a hand threatening to slap my face.
I held the bowl, brought it to my lips, closed my eyes, and sipped.
"Yeaahhh... ggooood... c'mooon... sssavor it... mmmm..." were the kind of reactions that came out of their clenched teeth. I sake for a desperate consolation that could somehow ease the outrageous infliction I was being subjected to, but all I found was two young masters' head-to-toes devine beauty. "Yeaah! swill it ... yeaah again!... ggooood, swallow it ... yyeaaah!... You fffuckin' love it!"
When I laid the bowl back, they checked to made sure that not a drop was left in it, and topped their hands with winner smiles on their faces. Then they simply tuned their back and walked out through the entrance door. They'd finish at the Speedy Gonzo's, as I heard them saying.
"Hey, close the door behind you when you leave," said Kevin.
"And don't forget to wash the bowl very well before," said Damien.
CHAPTER 8: THE SKATEBOARDERS' PARTY
I was petrified when Emem's striking boys started coming in, stepping inside one after the other, like top models fashion showing. The bunch was made of six slender studs, all of them dressed in sleeveless shirts of different colors...
(to be continued)
P.S. This story is dedicated to my favorite reader Jason (NYC), and also to my cyber Master Mark (from UK) whose beauty inspired me every detail of this chapter.
As usual, I apologize for my frenchy English. I also apologize to have taken that much time before bringing this chapter to its end.
Names featuring in this story are fictional and totally invented. If they happen to belong to existing people and / or places, it's only by pure coincidence.
Finally, reader's comments (positive or negative), corrections, and / or suggestions are mostly welcome: < Subtoy_Kimy@yahoo.com >