<Authoritarian, m/m, high school, college, feet>
SERVANT TO A SOCCER STUD CHAPTER 34
Right before Christmas 2020. Kyle and I were at home in Virginia. With the lockdown still in effect, both Penn and Penn State did not hold in-person classes. But unlike summertime when I basically lived in Kyle's bedroom, now that college classes had started, I spent certain days of the week at home when Kyle and I had to log on for remote lectures, or do problem sets, or study. Kyle still focused on maintaining his A average. My role was to make it easier for him to do well and feel good -- not get in his way. Don't get me wrong. Kyle still owned me and all of my time, and with the snap of the fingers his cockhead or big toe or whatever he wanted was quickly enveloped by my mouth within no more than ten minutes of his order (including when he decided my mouth helped him study). But he no longer wanted me around all the time. After all, I was the one attracted to his gorgeous magazine-cover face; he had no desire to look at me except when the face of his former friend -- whom no one in high school considered a loser -- gave him a huge boner-inducing power trip whilst the mouth and nose attached to that face was serving and servicing his musky genitalia and stinky feet.
I was fine with the slightly altered arrangement. When it came to the actual worship sessions, it was no less frequent. When we were both awake, I was always on-call, and Kyle's massive stud libido obviously hadn't gone down, and it's not like during still-the-height of the pandemic, Kyle had any girlfriend to shoot his load into. All he had to do was summon me, and I was there, ready to please him and do his bidding. Honestly the only "time lost" was when I didn't have to sleep on the floor every single night, and that was a relief. Plus I got to masturbate at home and actually cum. Not that anything made me cum these days other than thoughts about Kyle, huffing some piece of Kyle's worn clothing, listening to recordings of Kyle's sexy-as-shit voice I had on my phone, etc. Anyway, when it came to my schedule and living arrangement, with no imminent prospect of getting physically on campus and finally being apart, it was whatever Kyle wanted, as with all things.
I was in the middle of a live class in my room at home when my phone dinged Kyle's tone.
"Get over here bitch" read the text.
Oh well. Guess I'll have to watch the rest of class as a recording later. Thank goodness it wasn't my freshman seminar or something where the professor would have noticed my absence. Those thoughts about myself lasted less than a second though, and I could already feel my dick sprouting to attention. Amazing. One curt text from Kyle was enough to get my juices flowing. Maybe it was because the night before was one of the few times I had not cum; it was already late by the time I left Kyle's house having been fucked bareback (Kyle doesn't choose that often, but he chose it last night), had to finish and email in an assignment when I finally got home, and then was just too tired to jack off. When I woke up, it was already time to start class, so my morning wood had to subside without release.
So with a clearly visible hard-on pressed against my pants, I grabbed my coat and sprinted out of the house. It was a cold day. I put all my cross country skills to good use. I ran as fast as I could not just because I wanted to please Kyle (and not get in trouble with him for making him wait) but also because I was so eager to be with Kyle. I considered my position vis-a-vis Kyle as "being with him". I was the next closest thing to a girlfriend. It's laughable though; Kyle treated me as nothing more than his property, an object for his pleasure, abuse and entertainment.
That day, Kyle's front door was unlocked. (If I had to make him unlock the door, then it was my fault for making him do extra work.) I entered and bolted upstairs.
Kyle was sitting at his desk, in a hoodie and sweatpants. He looked so cool, so hot. Incredibly sexy in a "don't mess with me" kind of way. I was rock hard and leaking pre. He also looked sweaty, like he had just been working out. The Petersons have a gym in their basement. Kyle had his sneakers on, must have been running on the treadmill. What a treat; I was gonna get to taste Kyle's post-workout gym feet fresh out of socks and sneakers. My heart started racing even more, if that was possible. I had experienced this treat countless times before by now, yet each time my heart pounded and my throat dried. It never got boring; I never lost interest. Because Kyle is that special. Because I had a crush on Kyle since I was like 13 years old. I stared at him constantly for three long years before that fateful night two years ago I came out to him, and as I think back, within ten minutes, probably closer to five minutes, of outing myself was begging him to worship his feet. The pandemic only isolated me even more from the rest of the world, closed me off to any other possibilities. I was more devoted to, and obsessed with, Kyle than ever. And this wasn't like a pair of socks I steal once and over time the socks lose their aroma or something. No, this was the real thing. Up close and personal. Each new contact is with fresh new pheromones, more powerful than ever, intoxicating me, cementing my addiction to him.
"Good morning, God," I said solemnly, as I closed the bedroom door behind me and took off my coat.
He stood up and smacked me hard across the face, then pushed me onto the ground.
"Don't speak unless spoken to, cunt!" he shouted at me.
That wasn't a rule, obviously, and many times in the past he beat me for not properly greeting him, without prompting, the moment I entered his room. Nonetheless, I immediately uprighted myself onto my knees.
"You deaf, shitstain?" he yelled at me and kicked me on the chest, knocking me over again. I guess that counted as having been "spoken to." Oops.
I righted myself again, onto my knees, this time replying, "Yes sir, thank you sir. I understand, my Lord." Meanwhile, my body ached from the kicks from his firm sneaker sole.
He sat back down on his chair and slapped me hard across the face, nearly knocking me over a third time.
"What the fuck are you waiting for faggot?" he snarled.
I rushed to untie his right sneaker, removing it, and burying my face in it. The dirty warmth enveloped my face still a bit cold from being outside in the middle of December. It was like an affectionate hug. I reveled in it, breathing deeply. Kyle's workout stench was potent, of course, and for almost everyone else in the world, they would wretch in disgust, but that nasty scent just made my high higher. Even after all this time I had spent with Kyle's shoes, socks and feet, I never tired of this amazing feeling. I felt warm, secure, safe, relaxed, blissed out, and very excited all at the same time. On these cold winter days there was simply nothing better than warming up with the insides of Kyle's stinky shoes. They were my hot chocolate, my cozy blanket, my crackling fire.
Until I felt a hard kick to my head, not with Kyle's socked foot, but with Kyle's still-sneakered other foot. "Wake the fuck up, faggot. You're here to get me off, not to get yourself off. God what the fuck is wrong with you?"
He was right. I had better be careful. I started regretting not cumming last night to cool off my jets a bit.
"I'm so sorry Master Kyle. May I please worship your socked foot, Master? They are so stinky, but I love your stink so much, as you know. Oh my God, they're size 12, right?" I squealed like the combination of a schoolgirl and a pig, obviously knowing that Master Kyle now had size 12 feet. "I get so WEAK just saying the words 'size 12'. Please may I kiss your monster size 12's, you unbelievably good looking jock stud man God?"
"Go ahead fuckface."
I started massaging Kyle's right foot, kneading and pressing the way Kyle liked, and wrapping my lips over the moist toes, sucking out the putrid sweat juices and swallowing greedily.
I started shouting at the top of my lungs, "I love you, Master Kyle's foot! I'm so fuckin' in love with you, Master Kyle's foot! I have asked, no, begged, to let me marry you over and over and over again, but you have rejected my proposal, and rejected me, because I am not worthy of you, Master Kyle's foot! So I am so, so thankful you give me the time of day, let me sniff you, let me suck you, let me swallow your sweat, oh great God foot of Master Kyle! Thank you so, so much!" In between each sentence, my mouth did more work on the socked treasure, kissing, licking, sucking, inhaling, massaging with my hands, lips, tongue, cheeks, nose, and forehead.
"Get going on the other foot, retard." (A word that has gone out of the Gen Z vocabulary yet somehow Kyle picked it up from Brad and now uses on me whenever he wants.)
I took off Kyle's left sneaker and dove to this second socked foot and this time instead of kicks, it was Kyle's hand that smacked my poor head repeatedly using his first sneaker.
"You forget to pay respects to my sneaker, huh, dumbass? Why do you get more and more retarded? Don't you learn anything in how to serve me properly?" Kyle barked angrily.
"Sorry, Master. I'm so sorry," then buried my nose in the rancid warm left sneaker. Of course I would have made nose love the sneaker, but got in trouble a mere few minutes ago for "getting off" on the first one, so thought I wasn't supposed to repeat that mistake. But deep down I knew, as usual, whatever I did Kyle could twist as the wrong move, even if completely contradicting Kyle's own prior edicts, then he would punish me for it.
So I worshipped Master's left sneaker same as his right. I might as well enjoy myself, since if I didn't go all out, Master would punish me for doing a half-ass job. Maybe I didn't get enough sleep or something, because I had forgotten my reminder to myself moments ago to be careful not go get overly hot and bothered.
On his way to his bed, Kyle kicks me in the head again, strips off his hoodie, and plops down against a pillow. "Let's go, bitch," he ordered.
So I respectfully put down his shoe I had been inhaling next to the other one neatly, then crawl to Kyle's left socked foot now at the foot of Kyle's bed, for deep and passionate worship. I repeated my marriage proposal to this left foot as I had earlier narrated for the right foot, then thanked it for rejecting me as well, calling myself a loser (that was the nicest word I used among about a dozen far more insulting ones). Kyle chuckled and laid a loud fart. I apologized to him for not having my nose in position to inhale the fart. Kyle scoffed.
"Ready for my bare feet, faggot?"
I recalled that first night Kyle said those exact words to me. Hearing them again from this Soccer Stud's perfectly-at-the-same-time-young-and-masculine-sounding voice, I shuddered in my own dangerously euphoric state. I peeled off both socks and after stuffing each in my mouth and breathing in the naked foot stink as hard as humanly possible for five minutes each sock, I removed the socks from my mouth and enthusiastically began performing Audible French Kiss with Supporting Hands on those beautiful jock feet.
My face was no longer cold from being outside, but the warmth radiating from Kyle's soles continued to fill me with heat. God, how can I want another person as much as I want Kyle? How can I lust after another dude's feet at all? Oh God, you smell so good, so sooo good. I breathed in and out in and out in and out. My lips caressed and made out with Kyle's foot skin with reckless abandon. As smooth as Kyle's sole was after getting so many foot baths from my tongue, they were still rank from his treadmill workout. It's a big part of my foot fetish, how something so beautiful could still always be made to bear the essence of a virile man. Meanwhile, I saw out of the corner of my eye Kyle pulling down the waistband of both his sweatpants and his boxer brief, revealing his now rock hard cock standing straight up in the air. Kyle casually played with it, guessing correctly that I was sneaking longing glances at it, therefore teasing me with every little tease of his own cock and balls, every little tug, every little stretch, every little rub, every little fondle. God, I wish my tongue was his hands right now.
Oh, but no, my tongue got to make out with Kyle's feet -- just as sweet. Kyle's sexy moans and groans got me even more hot and bothered. "Mmmm...ughhh.....sigh.....ooooof.....yeah, you stupid faggot, mmm, there you go, you dumb piece of shit....ugghhh, oh yeah, you are so bad at this you piece of shit......ughhhhhhh.....I hate having to settle for you to serve me.....you fuckin' moron.....I hate you you gay fuck......you worthless fag .... fag homo shit .... queer piece of shit ..... why doncha just die you fag ... ughhh.....sigh.......mmmmmmmm." As he writhed with pleasure, his legs would stretch and his feet would extend into my nose, each stretch helping add to Kyle's pleasure, and apparently to mine as well. Whenever Kyle wasn't talking, I would call him my Master, my Lord, my God, begging him and thanking him and praying to him, making audible slurping, kissing and sucking sounds. "Please, Master Kyle, please let me perform these services for you forever. My life is yours, Master Kyle." I humped my whole face into Kyle's left foot, inhaling and licking and sucking like there was no tomorrow.
Somehow between the sight of his fully erect manhood, the stench of his feet, the taste of his post-workout toe cheese, the warmth of his skin, the sexiness of his voice, his deliberate teasing of my brain and DNA, and my general emotions on hyperdrive, I came. I came in his presence. Oh shit. I was fully clothed, so maybe if I had planned to cum, I could have concealed it, but there was no plan here. I knew the rules. I would never deliberately cum in Kyle's presence, ever.
So I shocked even myself as my dick spewed out my cream. Kyle was used to a constant level of effort by me that any little blip or interruption is sufficiently different as to be rather easily noticeable. My face left his feet, my hands sort of just froze, and I let out a few croaks contemporaneous with my ejaculation, rather than continue to pour out my verbal glorification of divine Kyle.
"What the fuck .... what the absolute fuck ...." as the realization started to hit Kyle. "Did you just cum, you fuckin' faggot?" Kyle pulled up his sweatpants and underwear, covering up his own unsatisfied cock, and moved to the edge of his bed, glaring down at me.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry Master Kyle. I didn't mean to, I didn't mean ..." Before I could say another word, a series of hard punches landed on my head and face. Then Kyle pushed me to the floor, he got off the bed, and proceeded to beat the shit out of me, with the only pause for Kyle to grab one of his fancy belts with the hard metal belt buckle so he could tear into me with that weapon. I deserved it, of course, and remembered to thank him profusely for the beating whenever I could get a word out.
Next Kyle pulls off my pants, then my cum-soaked underwear. Now I'm naked from the waist down. For once I wasn't hard. He then takes the inside of my underwear pouch, and you can probably guess the rest. He smears all of that cum onto my face, then uses the fabric to wipe every molecule of semen into my mouth, up my nose, wherever. He was very rough with what he was doing, not precise at all he was so angry.
"I told you never, ever to cum in my presence, and you can't even do that one thing right you dumb faggot!" He took his index finger and middle finger and pushed the most concentrated part of my underwear pouch into my mouth, making me suck and swallow my own jizz molecule by molecule. "You just can't fuckin' control yourself, can you, homo. It's so damn disrespectful, you putting yourself over me, your God. I should kick you out of my house forever and never let you back, is that what you want, moron?!?" With my underwear still in my mouth, I couldn't answer him, couldn't apologize like I needed to. "I am SO SO nice to you, you piece of shit. I let you jack off at home whenever. I fuckin' give you my dirty clothes for you to huff at home, you sick perverted faggot. And the one thing I ask you do right in return, you can't?!?"
Kyle's statements weren't exactly accurate, of course. He didn't ask me to do "one thing", it was more like a million. I was his servant, after all, waiting on him hand and foot, not just sexually, but in virtually everything else, from laundry to gifts, from errands to being his toilet. When he needed to pee in the middle of the night and I was in his room, he didn't need to walk to the bathroom. He simply stuck his cock down my throat, jolted me awake and unleashed the tap. I drank every drop. Sometimes after that (if I was lucky), he'd make me nurse his softening cock in my mouth, keeping it warm, until he fell back asleep. And no, he wasn't "nice" to me ... though he did gift me his soccer varsity jacket after his senior year season ended a year ago. Now that clothing, I buried my face into every night for a month, memorizing that jock leather smell and picturing all sorts of climax-inducing images in my head.
Still, Kyle's basic premise was accurate (well, anything Kyle said was "correct" in my world anyway), and I felt awful, for disappointing him, for disobeying him. I mean, it was because my sexual desire for him was so unabated and unabashed that this grave error happened, but that's no excuse. There is no excuse. Even worse, my sin interrupted what had been a very pleasurable and drawn-out jack-off session for him.
"Keep sucking down your disgusting cum, shitstain." Kyle's cum is God's gift to man, but my own cum? Yuck. Disgusting is right. I never want to taste my own cum. It just goes to show you how much it's all about Kyle and my undying crush on him. I'm sure objectively my cum and his cum do not taste so different, maybe not different at all. We're both young, white, athletic 18-year-olds. But all the thoughts and feelings I attach to his sex juice inevitably elevate my taste of his baby batter into something infinitely more palatable, something I could not get enough of. The same goes for all his other bodily excretions and excrements. I have no desire whatsoever to taste the corresponding things from my own body. So Kyle making me eat my own semen was indeed a punishment, a punishment I fully deserved.
When Kyle was finally satisfied with this portion of my punishment, he dragged me by my hair into the bathroom, put my whole head into the sink, then doused it with listerine, roughly "cleaning" my face, then taking a bar soap to my tongue and yes, washing my mouth out with soap. "You're still gonna use this mouth to make it up to me, fag, but no way is any of your nasty cum gonna come anywhere near my body, you got that, faggot?" Yup, Kyle first makes me eat my own jizz, then makes sure it's completely out of my mouth before my mouth gets to make contact again with Kyle's body parts.
By the time Kyle finished washing out my mouth, and dragged me back into his room, he was hard again. Phew. Now he ordered me take his sweats and boxer briefs completely off, and I blew him. Yes, one of the reasons I am not allowed to climax in Kyle's presence was so that my unsatisfied sexual need caused me to serve him harder, more intensely, more desperately, more lustfully, more desirously, more lecherously. But fuck, it's Kyle. So despite my massive screw-up, I also was hard again because now I got to bask in the shadow of Kyle's 8.5-inch cock, nuzzling Kyle's warm balls, seemingly not losing one iota of lecherous desire to make Kyle feel good. So I gave Kyle the blowjob of a lifetime. Well, every blowjob I gave Kyle was my maximum effort, but I felt so guilty that day that I'd like to think I went even further than usual. After maybe ten minutes, Kyle was ready to climax.
"Mmmm...ughhh.....sigh.....ooooof.....yeah, you stupid faggot, mmm, there you go, you dumb piece of shit....ugghhh, oh yeah, you are so bad at this you piece of shit......ughhhhhhh.....I should have thrown you out, maybe I still will for your fuck up.....you fuckin' moron.....I hate you you gay fuck......you worthless fag .... fag homo shit .... queer piece of shit ..... why doncha just die you fag ... ughhh.....sigh.......mmmmmmmm." Sounds like how Kyle talked at me even before I fucked up today? Yup. I guess I'm a dumb fag moron who deserved to "die" whether I'm doing A+ or F work serving Master Kyle. Kyle was going to abuse me either way, as he should. It's how a fag should serve his master, and how Master should treat the fag. The fag's reward is the servitude; Master should be mean and cruel for good reason, bad reason, or no reason.
Somewhere in that string of moans, groans, insults and epithets, Kyle shot his typical ample load, and unlike my cum which ended up unceremoniously in my underwear (until Kyle used it to punish me), Kyle's holy cum ends up directly and instantly in my adoring mouth, while it's still near-body-temperature warm, and which I happily ate. And yes, I EAT his cum. Not just swallow. E-a-t. As much as I hated the experience of being force-fed my own cum, I LOVED Kyle's cum. So every chance my mouth got to spend him with Kyle's cum, I bit it, chewed it, swirled it in my mouth, coated my teeth and gums with it, savored it, used it as a mouthwash, let it sit on my tongue, and otherwise maximized absorption, before finally letting my lucky throat have a piece of the action. That's how I ate Kyle's cum. I really eat the cum. It was a ritual -- topped now only by snorting Kyle's cum. Snorting is more unique and in some sense even more respectful to Kyle's precious cum (because no one else would even think of doing it, let alone actually do it), as I described in the last chapter, but eating his cum is slower and I am able to give more controlled and deliberate attention to it (so in another sense, eating the cum enables a greater show of respect). Both methods work for Kyle, and so both methods work for me.
Some of you out there still don't like how much Kyle calls me a faggot. But what is the alternative? I could stop worshipping Kyle any time I wanted to; he wasn't forcing me to do anything. But for me to be in this "relationship" with him, I had to take what he dished out. That was the deal, the only deal, and I accepted that deal. Plus what he called me is what I am. Both universally and specifically with respect to him. I am a faggot, and I am also HIS faggot. He owns me, I belong to him. And every time he called me that, my dick throbbed more, more precum spewed from it, and the more I wanted him, to kiss his feet, to lick his asshole, to eat his cum.
I read these other phrases online, BDSM, sex slave, dom-sub, alpha-beta. To me all those phrases sound too much like a relationship focused on sex. My relationship with Kyle is not focused on sex. It's focused on servitude. My "sex" is used only in service of Kyle. Like sure, I AM Kyle's sex slave, because if he orders me to perform sex acts on his body using my mouth, I obey. But Kyle's place in my heart and in my world is so much more than sex. I want to be -- and am -- Kyle's errand boy, chore boy, comfort boy, personal shopper, kitchen cook, alarm clock, jogging partner, study buddy, ego booster, follower, disciple, court jester, entertainer, masseur, foot masseur, toenail clipper, foot worshipper, footstool, pet dog, punching bag, queer seat, doormat, bathmat, spittoon, urinal, toilet paper, fleshjack, plaything, substitute girl, cocksucker, cum guzzler, cunt, Cunty, bitch, faggot, and yes, slave and servant to this incredible soccer jock stud.
TO BE CONTINUED ...