<Authoritarian, m/m, high school, feet>
SERVANT TO A SOCCER STUD - THE REBOOT
This is the author's endeavor to improve upon Servant to a Soccer Stud, adding detail, revising, and correcting. Some chapters in the Reboot will change more than others. For big fans of this series, I know you are already getting hard . . . .
CHAPTER 1
Soccer. That sport that no one in America cares about except in a lot of high schools. I am a junior at one of those high schools. But I care about soccer in a very unique way. You see, I am gay. I am so far on the homo end of the Kinsey scale that I am teetering on the verge of falling right off. I also have a huge, a monumentally huge foot fetish. And soccer? Well, soccer is the sport of the foot. When I think about young, virile men heroically using their sweaty, smelly cleat-covered feet to score goal after goal, I simply melt. I get hard just hearing the words "boys' varsity soccer". So that's my DNA, and that DNA, so built into me that it overrides my brain over and over and over again, explains how I have become, and will remain until the end of my high school career, an insatiable servant to a soccer stud.
Unsurprisingly, the boys' varsity soccer team is filled with good-looking jocks. But even within that elevated pool of fine specimens, Kyle Peterson is a stand-out. He is 5'11" of lean muscle, light brown hair, blue eyes, and a face that can only be described as gorgeous. Cute and masculine wrapped up into a ball of desire. And boy did I desire him. But I kept my secret well, or so I thought. Although my DNA screams "gay", my outward appearance and demeanor do not give me away. I am 5'10", run track (it's not soccer, but I am by no means a geek), and not unattractive. True, my intimate experiences with girls are limited given my orientation, but I "go out" with enough of them that no one would suspect otherwise. And they think I'm cute, have made out with me, and have even given me blow jobs more than once. In the high school pecking order, I am near the top. After all, I am a varsity-jacket-wearing jock myself and hang out with other jocks. I even bullied my share of nerds and dorks back in the day.
It was the year 2018, junior year of high school, so by then I could have safely come out of the closet. But I didn't want to; there was enough ease to keep doing what I was doing, being popular and sporty and all, that I intended to save the whole coming out thing to maybe college or later when my maturity level could better handle the event. My life didn't need to change at this point. Plus, the boys in school who had come out have not really interested me.
But as I said, DNA being what it is, it doesn't always work out as the brain plans. It didn't help that I am popular enough to be in Kyle's circle of friends. Exactly two weeks ago today, shortly after the school year and soccer season started, a group of us were at the local diner on a Friday night. As usual, when Kyle was present, my focus inevitably drifted onto him alone. I suspect that over the years, Kyle had probably sensed my attention, and while that should have worried me somewhat, my pounding heart told me to ignore my reason-based concerns. So my slightly longer stares at him, my unconditional laughter at his jokes, my near-instant agreement with virtually everything he said -- those were things that I knew I should have dialed back but didn't, and Kyle had apparently noticed.
"Hey buddy," Kyle said to me as we were leaving the diner. "Let me hitch a ride with you."
"OK," I said. The request for a ride home was hardly unusual, as it was a five-minute walk between our houses.
The car ride was uneventful. In hindsight, I now know Kyle had a grander plan in mind, and didn't want to dive into any heavy conversation until we were in the privacy of his less-escapable bedroom. When we got to his house, Kyle said, "Hey, wanna come in for a sec? I wanna show you something."
It was a Friday night, my curfew was still 2 hours away, and an invitation to hang out one-on-one with my number one crush was obviously irresistible.
"Sure," I replied. I parked the call and we both got out.
The house was empty and we went upstairs to his room. Nonetheless, he closed the door. For a teenager's bedroom, Kyle's room was definitely larger than average. He kept it basically neat, but the room smelled deliciously of him. My heart started pounding again.
My mind thought about the handful of other times I had been in his room.
Each time I wish it was a sleepover so I could forage unnoticed. But that never happened. A few times his socks were on the floor, in various states of crumpling. Every time my mind would start racing, how can I just bend down while he wasn't watching and scoop them up for my later enjoyment? But I always snapped myself out of it, so fearful of the risk. Even if he didn't catch me in the act, he could wonder how his socks went missing. For all I know he could have a cam in his room.
Yes, too risky. That didn't mean I didn't play the possibility a million times in my mind before.
"Sit," he said, pointing to the floor. There was a desk chair that he could've offered, but he didn't, and I obediently sat on the floor.
For his part, Kyle kicked off his size 11 shoes (I tried to breathe in hard) and sat back on his queen-size bed, lounging against his pillow. He crossed his socked feet, and like clockwork, my eyes wandered to stare at those socks.
Kyle's sexy-as-hell, masculine-as-hell voice snapped me out of my trance. "So listen, you and I are friends, right?"
I looked up at his hot face. "Of course, Kyle. Why?"
"Well," he paused for a moment. "You haven't been honest with me."
"Honest about what?"
"About yourself."
Long silence. Deep down, I knew what he was talking about, and all of a sudden, I was desperate to come out to him. All of a sudden, I felt I was in a zone of complete safety. What a charming, charismatic, unbelievably handsome guy talks to you, even with the very perceptible risk of things going terribly wrong hanging over my head, you feel, however irrationally, like everything's going to be all right. Plus, I thought about our friendship. All of a sudden, this flood of trust filled me, and I internally elevated the status of my friendship with Kyle to a degree where it obviously was not. And finally, there was the fact that it was 2018, same-sex marriage is the law of the land, gay celebrities are indeed celebrated, we both knew and were even friendly with other gay dudes in school, etc., so what could go wrong?
So I cut to the chase. "Yes, Kyle, I'm gay."
Kyle's response, though, surprised me. "Ha! I fuckin' knew it." Instead of supporting me, much less comforting me, he focused on himself being right and his happiness at being right. He proceeded to immediately turn it back around on me as if to blame me. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I was puzzled and frankly, a bit offended; he was making this all about him. "I haven't told anyone, not even my parents, Kyle." I used as irritated a tone as I could muster, and that I had ever used (or as it turned out, will after that night ever use again) with Kyle.
Kyle ignored my answer and continued self-assuredly, "So you have the hots for me or what?" I frowned and didn't answer right away and just sort of stared off into space. I was now too embarrassed and annoyed to look directly at him. In hindsight, given Kyle's experiences with how the rest of the world viewed him (and the degree to which he already knew about my inclinations), his question was not all that strange.
Still, in that moment, it was strange. Something about this conversation was deeply abnormal. Outing myself to Kyle and getting this reaction from him should have rang all sorts of alarm bells. Yes, I treated Kyle like my superior for years but that was still well within the range of outwardly acceptable social interaction. And, as I wrote already, I was probably in a bit of denial the degree to which I was being too deferential to Kyle. So, "having the hots for him?" No, out of preservation of both my dignity and the status quo, I refused, for the moment, to admit that to his face.
So I replied, trying to show some of my indignation by making full eye contact with him again but somehow giving myself away when the words came out more hoarsely than I intended, "Well yeah, you are very hot."
I regretted those words instantly. In my conflicted (wanting to show offense but deep-seatedly and maybe subconsciously not wanting to offend Kyle, ever), I must have thought saying he was very hot was somehow less of an admission than I had the "hots" for him. And I intended to say it in a way like, "yeah you're hot, get over yourself, ok?" (I doubt he heard it that way though, in large part because I probably ended up saying it more sounding like, "you are so hot I can't stop looking at you, thinking about you, dreaming about you day and night....") And however the tone sounded, the substance of what I said was worse, since I was basically repeating the universal objective truth that Kyle Peterson was not just my type, but everyone's type -- an extremely attractive, desirable bundle of sex, which doubled down on the acceleration of my dis-inhibition right before his eyes. More importantly, the indignation and offense I had only moments ago been feeling were already beginning to melt away, submitting to the questioning of this jock stud.
Kyle did not miss a beat. "Oh yeah? How so?"
Having already said this much (which turned out to be not that many words but was profoundly revealing nonetheless), I was once again fixed on my path of not deviating from the truth in exposing myself to my perceived "confidant". I had outed myself, and now had admitted how hot Kyle was.
Pretty revealing stuff. Yes, I was momentarily annoyed (and probably more hurt since he carried so much weight in my feelings) at how he was reacting, but as I had treated Kyle since forever, I had already forgiven him without him ever even realizing he needed forgiving, much less actually giving an apology to earn my forgiveness. So my torrent of unabashed admission continued to my, yes, good friend, this time in a much more sincere and polite, frankly bordering on lecherous, tone. "Um, you are extremely good looking, like, you're the most good looking guy I've ever been in the presence of. I think you know that." Wow. I meant every word, but what the fuck was I doing?
"Yeah, I do know that. What else?" His tone was far from nice. It was mocking, it was disdain. My naive bubble had not yet burst, but it was about to.
I gulped again. It only wet my dry throat but a little. My obsession was his feet of course but I still felt like I could preserve the last bit of my dignity not admitting that most humiliating truth. "You're very talented at soccer. I really like your hairy legs when you're in your soccer shorts."
"My legs? Anything else?"
I felt dizzy. Somehow this highly accelerated connection of dots from me being gay to me lusting after Kyle was one I now felt compelled to latch onto. In my numerous fantasies of Kyle to date, some seemed attainable (like stealing his socks for masturbatory sessions without him discovering the theft), others seemed unattainable (like secretly sniffing his bare feet at the foot of his bed while he took a nap), still others were downright impossible (like actually worshipping his feet with him wide awake and letting me do it). All of a sudden, Kyle's questioning was like an invitation to skip all the lesser fantasies straight to the ultimate dream come true. Kyle was maybe making the impossible, possible. I swallowed hard, my previously conflicted feelings now firmly rooted in dangerous desire.
Moreover, I felt in that brief moment such blissful naïveté that I thought I could both completely trust Kyle to be nice to me, his fellow jock friend, and also let me kiss his feet. Like, all of my dreams come true and on my terms. Like, "oh you're gay and you're into me and you like feet, too?" "No problem, bro, go to town on my feet for half an hour and then we can chill and play X-box after! How does that sound?"
And then we'd bro it out as usual at school and everywhere else, until the next time I'm like, "hey Kyle I want your feet again," and Kyle would simply comply, "got it my man! C'mon over, I have snacks and drinks all ready to go!" It was all happening so fast I didn't have time to think, "um, no no dum-dum", why would you ever believe that's how things would turn out?
So I blurted out, "Well, sometimes I stare at your feet, too."
"My feet?" Kyle wiggled his toes, his feet still crossed right over left. "That's kind of ridiculous, don't you think?" His words sounded mean, and he meant them to be. He has bullied plenty of kids over the years, and now I was his target.
"Yeah, I guess so." As much as I lusted after Kyle and wanted some sort of real opportunity to have a sexual experience with him, reality had to set in. Plus his responses sounding more hostile by the minute, I realized this was not going to go in my fantasized way. I had already said way too much. So in one last cerebral attempt at the status quo of no more than 5 minutes ago, I pivoted, "Look, we're friends and you asked me some stuff, and I was honest with you. Sorry I wasn't honest with you before, but now you know. I think I should head home now." For whatever reason, even though I said those words, I did not move. Whether it was because deep down inside I didn't want to leave, or because somehow I needed permission from him to leave, or most likely both, I remained frozen on the floor.
Kyle chuckled. "C'mon, man. It's not a school night and I had a feeling you had a huge crush on me the way you stare at me all the goddamn time. If you could hang out with your crush some more, why wouldn't you?"
This time I didn't even hesitate. He was so smart and making so much sense. "OK," I replied. "Anyway, you said you wanted to show me something?"
"Maybe later. At this point I just want to relax. I've had a long day and practice was a bitch. Since you like my feet so much, why don't you give them a massage?"
So here it was. An express invitation. I wanted so bad to touch his feet with my feeble hands. I very nearly did just lunge at those size 11 beauties (even with the grungy socks on, they were beautiful). But my brain knew better and tried one last time to override everything else I was feeling (including down by my groin). I thought about the lots of people at school looked up to me, my own reputation as a jock. Sure, even if no one else found out, there would be truly no turning back after this. No way Kyle would actually be that idealized version of nice bro I dreamed about, based on how he spoke to me just in the last 5 minutes (and honestly, in the entire time I had known him). I really wanted to spend quality time with Kyle's feet, but no way I was actually going to do it knowing the real Kyle. "Uh, no, man. I'm not going near your smelly feet. You and I are friends and classmates. I'm not actually going to turn into some sort of servant for you."
Kyle's gaze hardened and he looked straight into my eyes. "No, actually a servant is exactly what you're going to become for me. You see, I've been giving you and me a lot of thought lately. And 'gay' doesn't begin to describe you. You want me, you want me bad, and you want my feet real bad. I have no problem with you being gay, but the sooner you succumb to what you really want, the happier we'll both be. You say 'no" to me now, and you'll never, ever have the chance to experience all the things you want so bad that are only on ... me. But letting you get access to me comes with a price. What I say goes. I'm no faggot. The only way I'm going to enjoy this is you doing what I want, whenever I want it. I figure, when again might I have the opportunity again to totally control another human being, who wants me so damn much that he will gladly wait on me hand and foot."
I couldn't believe the words coming out of Kyle's mouth. This wasn't just hostile, it wasn't just bullying, it was transforming his and my "relationship." And he said it so matter-of-factly, like he really had known the truth for years. He was describing the role he knew I was capable of performing for him (and on him) even better than I had ever admitted it to myself at that point. The idea of worshipping him on my terms got me all hot and bothered. The idea of worshipping him on purely his terms struck me to my core.
I could still say "no", but I now really, really didn't want to. I suddenly really, really wanted to succumb to Kyle. I really, really wanted him to have his way with me, to have him control me, to have him use me. I thought about him, his sexual needs, his superiority, and his pleasure--and my heart now racing faster than it had all night (and my dick now rock hard) thinking about how he could make me serve, service, and satisfy all of that. My DNA was taking over again. If this arrangement meant I got to spend tons more one-on-one time with Kyle, not only did I simply not care what he made me do, I wanted to let him tell me what to do. In any event, this was just one night, and no doubt I had never been hornier my entire life. In a worst case scenario, I could still get out of it any time I wanted to later on, or so I thought.
"OK, Kyle," and I started to reach for his socked feet. He kicked my hand away.
"Oh no, you don't. You didn't jump at the chance of massaging my feet like a good little bitch. Now you're gonna have to beg for it. Beg me to let you massage my feet."
"Kyle, please let me massage your feet," I said blankly.
"No, dumbass," Kyle chided. "I want you to really beg. You want my feet more than anything, right? Then beg like you mean it."
With more enthusiasm, I now got on my knees facing his feet and mustered, "Kyle, I've been dreaming about your amazing feet since the day I met you. I am begging you to let me massage them."
"Even more!" Kyle yelled, looking visibly annoyed.
"Kyle, Master Kyle I mean, you now know I like your feet, please let me show you just how much. I think about how they smell. I also think about how I can make them feel good. To be able to worship your feet now would be my dream come true. So please, Master Kyle, please give me permission to massage your precious feet."
"Better," Kyle said. "But you better be this eager every time you beg me, and you better beg a lot, with lots of variation and creativity. I'm gonna want you to think of more and more ways of pleasing me and maximizing my pleasure, on top of all the ways I am going to instruct you. Now go for it, faggot."
A pause on the word "faggot". Kyle would never call some random gay person by that word. But it's a word that perfectly describes my new relationship to him, and Kyle knew it. Not that it mattered even if I objected. Kyle was going to start calling me whatever he wanted. And at this point I was as hard as a rock and being called a "faggot" was only getting me harder.
My hands were trembling. What I had been dreaming about for years was actually happening. I wanted to remember, no cherish, this moment forever. I carefully wrapped my thumb and fingers around his socked right foot. I had never gotten to touch Kyle before, and certainly not his treasured feet, plus the smell wafting into my nose was making me all of a sudden very, very glad I was agreeing to do this. I dared not actually plant my nose directly on his feet without his permission, however, so I just did my darndest to be close enough to inhale Kyle's musky foot aroma. This wasn't just stealing Kyle's socks or even sniffing his feet in secret; this was a full-on Kyle-endorsed foot massage! My hands soon stopped trembling, and I was beginning to apply pressure with more gusto.
Kyle sighed, not only at the sensation of the foot massage, but at his very sure knowledge that a foot massage was only the beginning of all the pleasurable things he would experience from his new servant. Even this night was only beginning, and the power trip Kyle was feeling now was only a small fraction of what was to come. For my part, a million thoughts were running through my head, a good dose of fear, maybe even bordering on dread, but also a lot of gratitude--toward Kyle of course.
He was allowing me to massage his feet without beating the shit out of me! (Of course, he would end up beating the shit out of me, many many times, but he was right, I took it all, maybe because I wanted to take it all, simply because it came from him. More on all that as the story progresses.)
After about ten minutes of silence (silent worship would never happen again after that night), Kyle commanded, "Take my socks off now, fag."
"Yes, Master," I replied. For good measure, I added per his earlier instruction, "Thank you, Master Kyle, for giving my worthless hands permission to touch your beautiful feet bare."
"Shut the fuck up, fag."
TO BE CONTINUED...