<Authoritarian, m/m, high school, feet>
SERVANT TO A SOCCER STUD - THE REBOOT CHAPTER 2
"Shut the fuck up, fag."
I am a very intuitive person. I knew full well that Kyle telling me to shut up even though he had previously told me to heap verbal praise and gratitude onto him was not a matter to debate with him. He was being arbitrary and unfair because he knew he could be. At the same time, I knew, and Kyle expected me to know, that I was to continue glorifying him verbally and effusively even if his retort to me every time was a variation of "Shut the fuck up, fag."
More importantly, I felt myself lunging to remove Kyle's now crusty, off-white ankle sock on his right foot. The socks hadn't started out crusty ten minutes ago. When I started massaging, the socks hugged Kyle's feet cozily, with just a tad of moisture remaining from having been encased in sneakers for the past few hours between practice time, the diner, and the drive home. These were not his long black soccer practice socks -- those rank delicacies were still in his gym bag unopened. And the rockin' Nike sneakers he kicked off earlier (how pathetic I was, even with all the momentous things happening, to think about how the stink from those sneakers was wasted dissipating into the air before I had a chance to huff it in it's concentrated form; nothing more than footwear Kyle didn't think twice about leaving carelessly on his bedroom floor was my obsession) were not his dirt-covered soccer cleats. Those too were in the stenchy gym bag. So the sweat and the stink were not nearly at their maximum Kyle potency during this inaugural foot massage. But at least the socks themselves had lost their detergent scent (thank God) because they were the same socks Kyle had worn to school since early in the morning, sitting through chemistry and pre-calc, US history and AP English--and yes, gym class! No, regular gym class wasn't like soccer practice (average kids don't "play hard" or compete hard like varsity soccer jocks) but it was still magical for me in terms of foot sweat production. So although Kyle had showered after practice, these socks still smelled more like Kyle than like the soap from the shower (again, thank God). Hell yeah!
But during our short (but life-altering) conversation prior to the foot rub, Kyle's foot sweat had started to evaporate, so by the time my hands finally were granted permission to touch his socked feet, only a bit of moisture could be felt by my hands, but not so dry as to be crusty yet.
I made the most of it, rubbing that lingering Kyle-generated juice into my skin as much as I could, because even doing that made me feel closer to him. It felt so raw. That rawness was only amplified by the smell of Kyle. No, as I said my nose did not make direct contact with his socked feet during the massage, but if I breathed in hard just entering the dude's bedroom, can you imagine what my nasal passages were doing inches away from Kyle's feet? If you've ever fetishized a teenage male athlete's feet, you know there are varying degrees of smell, from almost odorless right after a wash to intense pungent reek right out of socks and sneakers after a lengthy sporting event or workout. Kyle's showered feet in these day-old socks having spent the day in 3-month-old sneakers (but having been out of the sneakers for almost 10 minutes now) was in the middle of the stink meter, emanating a kind of grimy cheesy musk.
Breathing in that funk now up close was rocking my world. That which had been so forbidden for so long was now within reach.
My desire to breathe Kyle into my lungs meant I instinctively put my face very close to his feet. Kyle didn't tell me to do that, I just did it.
Selfishly more than anything. Someone forced to massage feet against their will would keep their face distantly away. But my face was maybe only an inch away, as I looked, gazed upon, studied Kyle's yucky sock fabric with my eyes, inhaled what foot fragrance I could being up close, and worked my thumbs, fingers, palms, and fists all over these works of art to soothe and relax and please my #1 crush. And even then, I was delusional enough to think I was doing this favor for a friend, a mean friend who's been an asshole to me before and is being an asshole to me now, but yeah, like he'd still high-five me afterwards for a job well done. I got excited submitting myself to Kyle's will but still wanted to hold onto jock buddy Kyle--because I wanted all of Kyle. I wanted to experience him in all ways.
I had so sexualized him during my years-long infatuation, that I felt like I was pleasuring myself using my friend's feet. After all, that had been my fantasy for so long. It was such an intense feeling of "now I get to be sexual with my friend". Even with me blurting out "Master Kyle" and him calling me a "faggot", that was just role playing, right? Him saying he was in charge was part of it, too. I can ask him to turn that off, and he would. How delusional. As I would soon come to learn, I was his servant, the servitude was 24/7, and our relationship would never be anything else ever again.
Through the foot rub, I wanted so badly to bring my fingers to my nose to sniff. But I was too afraid. So I kept up my careful and attentive efforts, studying Kyle's toes imprinting through the fabric of the socks, dreaming about burying my nose in that heavenly crevice soon.
With each passing minute, more of the remaining moisture in the socks evaporated, leaving just a trace of a tantalizing crust meant for a mouth, my mouth, to "suck soft" again. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Other than the occasional sigh of pleasure, Kyle silently looked at me and what I was doing. How his heart must have soared seeing anyone, much less a fellow 16-year-old popular jock, giving him a foot rub and would have grinded his whole face into those feet but for the lack of permission from his new master. But Kyle did not let that inner excitement show. Kyle wanted me to think he was doing me the favor letting me massage his dirty feet. He was right. I was the lucky one.
While I dutifully massaged Kyle's socked feet, he didn't say anything, and I didn't either. The full verbalization of his teasing, name-calling, gay bashing, etc., and my flattery, begging, appreciation, etc. hadn't kicked into high gear yet. As brilliant as Kyle was anticipating my rapid assent (more like descent) into submission, seeing me on my knees earnestly kneading every inch of his tired feet and toes, rubbing the tension out of his tendons and joints, and voluntarily pinning my face so close to his jock stench, was eye-opening, even for him. Here he was, a sixteen-year-old boy, a very privileged one no doubt being a good-looking and popular straight white one, but never up to that point the recipient of a foot massage. And he was receiving one not from a Korean woman paid to do pedicures, he was receiving one from a fellow sixteen-year-old boy, who was his friend, who theoretically could give him shit, tell him to "fuck off", but who was instead on his knees, on his knees, at the foot of his bed, focusing on giving the best (and very first ever) foot massage in his life. This also popular jock on the varsity track team who also did well in school and seemingly with the girls had now addressed him as "Master Kyle" without being told to do so. Kyle thought to himself, "yeah I told the kid to beg better but calling me `Master' that naturally and quickly? This queer's got it bad!" In the future Kyle would cruelly degrade me as I worshipped him, but that very first foot massage, even he was too focused on taking it all in, and thinking about all the ways his life was going to become way more fun and enjoyable.
Now after ordering his new "fag" to shut the fuck up, Kyle uncrossed his ankles and I gingerly removed Kyle's right sock. Now his right foot was simply jutting forward in all its glory. Before I could put my hands on that beautiful bare foot or remove Kyle's left sock, Kyle issued his next command: "Take that nasty sock in your hand and let's hear what you have to say to it."
"To it?" I thought to myself. I guess I was going to start talking directly to Kyle's clothing now. Another mental check in my head to remember to do affirmatively and voluntarily in the future.
My hands were trembling again, heart racing, throat dry. I couldn't even take in the beauty of Kyle's beautiful bare right foot because I had Kyle's command to perform. But the sight was breathtaking. More on that later. And the one bare foot next to the other socked foot, God, my dreams were coming true.
"Kyle's sock," I said as I held it in my hands like some sort of live and precious organism, staring lovingly right at the sock, "Thank you for being worn by such a stud as Master Kyle. Because you were worn by Master Kyle, you are automatically worth a hundred times more than my entire existence. I love you, Master Kyle's sock, because you were worn by Master Kyle all day long and carry his scent and sweat on you. You, like the total god that wore you, are perfect." Those words came out of me so swiftly and naturally that I surprised myself. It's like, just minutes earlier when he ordered me to beg, I didn't quite get it right initially because a part of me was still holding back. But it wasn't because I was incapable. Having been infatuated the way I was about Kyle and Kyle's feet for as long as I did, I was finally saying out loud my unwavering internal truth. I was already in love with Kyle's feet from afar, so I easily redoubled my love for Kyle's socks up close. I was spilling out the adoring feelings I had all along.
Even Kyle seemed a bit taken aback by how effusive I was -- though quickly laughed over just how dumb and stupid I looked "doing fuckin' pillow talk with my dirty sock." "Look at you, you stupid sock faggot." The way he barked "faggot" was every bit how a straight man from 30 years ago would call a homo just before maybe getting violent, what TV shows now condemn as shameful American history. And here it was 2018 and a Gen Z teenager was using that word and using that tone on me.
Seething with toxicity and contempt. Saying "faggot" to make me feel less than him, maybe less than human.
And I wasn't just any faggot, I was a sock faggot, his sock faggot. My feelings toward Kyle's socks were equal to feelings girls in schools have toward Kyle the person. And I must have indeed looked very stupid, not just to Kyle but to any normal person who walked into the room in that moment. Little did I know, or would they know, just how many ridiculous and humiliating things Kyle was going to make me do in the years ahead. And the "faggot" part? It's like all the straight white privilege lay dormant in Kyle; he was waiting for a victim who wouldn't tell on him. This wasn't Kyle play acting. This is who Kyle was.
Treating a gay boy this way made him happy.
My intense feelings now prompted me to action. Although Kyle had not given me permission to do so, I could not wait any longer and decided to take a chance and finally put the funky sock to my nose, inhaling deeply. I was now leaking pre.
Kyle laughed mockingly and chimes in, "Now kiss it bitch." He has a very deep voice for a sixteen-year-old, not like an old man's voice. You know he's a kid, but a kid who is strong and athletic and means business. A boy filled to the brim with testosterone and toxic masculinity. That's the kind of youthful and manly at the same time voice I'm trying to describe. Yet another part of him that was perfect.
Again, I was intuitive and knew what he wanted. Not just a couple of dry smooches, but a full-on worship mini-session devoted to this divine article of clothing. I dove in, as if the rest of the world did not exist, and lavished mouth love on Kyle's right sock. There was French kissing, there was caressing, there was nibbling. Every thirty seconds or so, I would pause and thank the sock some more, "Thank you, Master Kyle's sock, for letting me kiss you. It is such an honor."
Kyle wanted to draw this out, and I was going to obey, obviously. One might wonder why I so quickly and unabashedly jumped into this mindset. I think because it was Kyle, and because my fantasies had resembled this kind of interaction with him for years. When you have this much pent up lust and, frankly, love for someone, even the idea of someone, you just sort of go for it. After all, Kyle already knew the core of my secret. Throwing caution to the wind didn't seem like a far next step at all. And debasing myself before him just seemed right. Yes, he commanded it, but I so willingly complied because I wanted it, too. This wasn't about being gay, though of course that is a part of it. Rather, this was about how much I wanted him and only him. He couldn't have done this with some random homo, and I wouldn't have done this with anyone else even if they were on the boys' varsity soccer team. This, and precisely this, felt so natural, like I was meant to do it, like my mind and heart had been practicing to do it all this time. And all the while, I thought, I can trust him to be in charge, I can still back out if things get too crazy....
Kyle sighed contently, realizing that his objectives were manifesting even faster than he anticipated, "Now turn that sock inside out and suck on it." I immediately complied. I wanted to comply. My mouth had been dying to "suck soft" Kyle's rank sock crust.
Kyle continued, "Too bad I showered after practice so that sock is not at its maximum level of deliciousness for you. But I kept wearing the socks I wore at school all day 'cause I knew you'd be pretty much where you are right now within 30 minutes of entering my room." He drew out the words "all day", again in the most mocking tone he could, knowing (even on that first night) that foot homos like me are all about the "all day" encased sock stink.
"Thank you, Master Kyle," I cooed. "Your thoughtfulness and brilliance have no equal." I then went back to greedily sucking the juice remnants out of Kyle's one sock. The thought that next time, I might get to taste the sock right off of Kyle's unwashed soccer practice or game feet cause another ample serving of pre-jizz to dribble out of my rock hard dick.
Kyle then ordered me to repeat the process with his left sock, which I was in the middle of performing, when Kyle asked in the most teasing and degrading way possible:
"Ready for my bare feet, faggot?"
I nearly died right there. Words that even though I would hear barked at me thousands of times since, I still replay that first time over and over again.
Still on my knees this whole time but not feeling any pain (whether because of my own athleticism or my eagerness for being there, or likely both reasons), I nodded hungrily, "Yes, Master, I have been waiting my whole life for this moment." But I did have another thought. How did I go so fast from only a hand massage to having not a shadow of doubt that my mouth was imminently going to make contact with Kyle's bare feet? Oh right, because my mouth did not hesitate one second to chew all over Kyle's socks. And because, well, Kyle and I both knew that's where this was going, right? This was not going to end with a mere foot rub. I was always going to make mouth love to, yes, make out with, Kyle's bare feet, no? He knew, and I knew, that "Ready for my bare feet, faggot?" meant it was time for my new #1 sex organ -- my mouth -- to get to work.
"Here's what I want you to do. Now that you've sucked the sweat out of my regular socks, I want you to fetch my soccer socks out of my gym bag, turn one of them inside out, stick the toe end into your mouth, and then scoot your face to within an inch of my bare foot." I obediently crawled over to his gym bag, unzipped it, immediately got a hit of jock stench, took a deep whiff (did not cough, both because it would have been disrespectful to do so and also because I love precisely that potent odor), looked longingly at the cleats, jock straps, and boxer briefs still inside, and complied with Kyle's instruction. The salty sweet taste of the inside of these socks, which had wrapped Kyle's varsity feet at practice in the hot sun running up and down the soccer field, now flooding my mouth, was like nothing I could have imagined and was driving me crazy. And I sucked on it like crazy.
I proceeded to stare at the bottom of Kyle's left foot close-up. How funny (to say the least) I looked, on my knees at the foot of this teenager's bed, with the toe end of a long sock in my mouth being sucked on, the rest of the sock hanging out of it like I was some dog, and my eyes fixed and transfixed on the bottoms of that teenager's bare feet.
Like the rest of him, his feet were beautiful. Size 11. Tanned. Sleek and masculine. Enough fleshiness not to be bony, but not too fleshy to be fat. High arches and long toes. I couldn't see the veins from this position, but I knew from staring at the tops of his feet in flip flops before that there were bluish veins adding even more masculinity to his feet. And hairs on the toes, with the second toe ever so slightly longer than the big toe. And toes that were very jointed like you find on a lot of jock feet, with the joints angling more upward adding to toe length and sexiness. Must also improve athleticism or something. Being that close, my face could also feel the warmth radiating from them. I desperately wanted to kiss his feet.
I was about to get my wish. But first I had to keep studying his feet, during which he extended his toes onto my nose, with his sock still hanging out of my mouth, and said, "Sniff." And I did. Hard.
Noisily. This was that heavenly crevice between toes and sole that foot freaks live for. And this was Kyle's crevice. The smell was incredible. Warm and inviting. I craved it. It was so Kyle. It's like how I smell the air near Kyle whenever I'm close enough to him, or in his room, but magnified 100x. I felt like I belonged. I felt like I was finally where I had always wanted to be, where I was meant to be. I nearly shot my load right there.
"You like that, bitch?" All I could say in response was mumbled gibberish with his sock still filling up my mouth. Kyle kicked me swift in the face. "Useless faggot," he scolded. My apology was unintelligible. He kicked me again, "Shut the fuck up, homo." It's like my name "Connor" had already disappeared. He was giving me new names, names that he would get into serious trouble if he said them to anyone else. He was dehumanizing me and we were still only in the first hour of my new position. Kyle then generously made me sniff his right foot using much the same process. Loud and hard huffs. Loud. Deep.
That's the thing with feet, a foot fetishist can improve upon his work the second time around.
When Kyle was satisfied with my sniffing, he extended his right foot into my mouth, pinched the sock in between his toes, and pulled it out now drenched with my saliva. He started to say something, but in my eagerness to speak as he had instructed, I talked over him, "Master Kyle, I thoroughly enjoyed chewing your magnificent sock." What did I get for that? Another swift kick in the face, harder than the ones I had already received, hard enough to know that the boss was displeased (or not, and he just felt like kicking me in the face), and that he would be making a habit of using my head as a human soccer ball.
"Don't fuckin' interrupt me, cunt." "Cunt." The word choice just kept getting better. Again, the fact that I was showing him respect while inadvertently interrupting him made no difference. All rules were going to be enforced, even if they're rules I had never heard of, and even if the rules can often contradict each other. I was going to be on the losing end every time.
And just like that, another kick to the face. "What the fuck are you waiting for, slut?" Again, totally arbitrary and unfair. Without his express permission to actually plant my lips on his feet, I'm sure if I had done that, he would've foot slapped me for that violation. But then not doing it was still my fault for keeping him waiting. And his tone, on my God did he sound different now. Before he could be an asshole to me in a "bro" sort of way, but now, he spoke to me with every breath like I was truly the bitch he owned. And it only took an hour for the transformation to near completion.
For now, I put all that out of my mind because for the first time in my life, I was going to get to kiss Kyle Peterson's soccer stud feet. So I did. And did some more, and more still, making mouth love to the bottoms of both feet with wanton passion. As completely degrading and low as this was, I was having the time of my life. There's that DNA again. And unlike the silent foot massage of a short while ago, now I threw in verbal praises with frequency. For the next hour (only hour 2 of transitioning into my new position as Kyle's servant), I implemented every fantasy I ever had with respect to these feet: deep sniffing, French kissing, licking, toe sucking, heel biting, tonguing in between the toes, toe jam eating, digging my teeth underneath his toenails, face massaging (meaning I used my cheeks and forehead to massage his feet), fitting large swaths of his foot and toes into my mouth. I had to use my mouth both to service and to speak, so whenever my mouth was speaking, my nose would focus on sniffing. Every so often, he would kick me in the face, telling me I wasn't being verbal enough, or was being too repetitious with my worship style, that I needed to apply more pressure here or less pressure there, that I was a "dumb faggot who deserved to get foot slapped", etc. He also enjoyed using my head as a foot rest for whichever foot I was not then worshipping. If I got carried away with my worshipping, and his foot fell off my head, I would get foot slapped for that violation, and I would immediately apologize profusely to the foot that my faggot head had so clumsily dropped.
At about the half-hour mark, Kyle could sense I was probably gonna cum, and he said flatly, "By the way, bitch, if you ever cum in my presence without my permission, you are gonna be very, very sorry. A hard faggot delivers better service." He was right, of course. It was my duty to remain unsatisfied at all times while worshipping him, and that translates into more exciting, passionate and desperate service of him.
And since his command did not prohibit me from cumming in the privacy of my own bedroom, I had no reason to object. Any time I could spend with him, especially living these new experiences I craved, I accepted his terms, his restrictions.
So entranced was I with his feet that I did not notice he had unbuttoned his shorts and was playing with himself. Once I realized, this brought a new level of excitement and anticipation into the equation. Was I actually gonna get to suck this stud's cock that first night? I soon got my answer.
"First text your parents to say you're at my house and you won't make curfew. Then take your clothes off, homo, and then pull my shorts and underwear off," Kyle ordered. "But don't you dare touch my cock."
I did as told. I was now completely naked in front of him, but all pretense of embarrassment and awkwardness were gone. Guys see each other naked all the time in the locker room. I had already spent two hours worshipping Kyle's feet and socks. Did I think about how my being naked in front of him now was not the same, that it was as his soon-to-be sex slave and not as his fellow jock bud? Maybe? But the nakedness in and of itself was nothing. I had already performed far more degrading, debasing, taboo, and impossible-to-make-public acts on the lowest parts of his body.
My dick was not small, and I had ample size balls, but no doubt he would beat me in both departments. And he did. His cock was a magnificent 8-inch beauty. His balls were luscious, hairy orbs of baby-making machinery. More on that when my face actually gets up close.
"Your pussy dick getting all wet for my manhood?" Kyle asked. He could see my dick was covered in pre-cum.
"Of course, Master." I replied. "I cannot wait to suck it, sir."
"Come here." I approached his cock, but he kicked me backward. "No, fucktard. Come put your face up against my feet." I did so, with sadness, not so much that I was gonna get kicked, but because I evidently had displeased him again. He kicked me in the face three times in succession, harder than ever before. "Who the fuck said you were gonna get to suck my dick, huh?" He added one more kick for good measure.
For the next five minutes, I apologized to him in every which manner, kissing and sucking his feet while I did so. My apologies were not just dry "sorrys" and "apologies". I repeatedly debased and degraded myself to evidence just how sincerely sorry I was. I called myself a "stupid, desperate queer" for ever presuming that "my faggot mouth" could be allowed to worship Kyle's "divine, drool-inducing cock." I was mid-sentence when he kicked me in the face again, which I took to be another way of saying, "Shut the fuck up, fag." So I did.
I think at this point, Kyle did not feel like drawing it out further. His plan tonight was to shoot his cum down my throat after a nice, long foot worship session. Sounds presumptuous, but his prediction was spot on. Even when he was dead wrong, I would soon learn that's not possible. Master is always right.
All the foot worshipping (by me) and humiliation (by him) had gotten even a stud like him very close. Plus, he was in control. If he wanted to cum now, he could. If he wanted to draw it out more, he could, too. Most importantly, Kyle was now confident he had another two full years to explore his new power and torment and tease me mercilessly in a near infinite number of ways. But now, at this moment, his cock wanted release, and that was going to happen.
"Get up here, fag, and start sucking," he sneered with disdain.
I obeyed with a "thank you, Master."
I only was really "in control" for a couple of minutes before Kyle started fucking my face. While I was not at that point an experienced cocksucker (before Kyle, I had never sucked anyone), I had seen enough gay porn to know basically what to do and how to take it. I'm sure Kyle realized my inexperience and didn't push as far in as he could have. Even though he was still lying on his bed with gravity helping my head go down, my nose never touched his pubes that first time. Kyle would train me in the art of deep-throating soon enough; for now he just wanted a cum dump. For my part, there was no doubt that if Kyle was going to cum in my mouth, I was going to swallow every drop.
Soon enough, Kyle proclaimed, "I'm gonna cum now, bitch."
And he did. I counted five main spurts, followed by shorter ones. Even that first time, I learned that Kyle's orgasms last a bit longer. Fifteen seconds into it, he was still shuddering and thrusting the last bits of his semen into my waiting stomach. And I was gonna keep my mouth firmly in place until he said or did otherwise. More will have to be written about the whole ritual of me tasting and swallowing his cum for the first time. I just don't have time in this chapter to give it justice. It was Kyle's cum for God sakes, and now it was in me. Trust me though, the fact I was lucky enough to swallow Kyle's cum that night when earlier in the day, this fantasy come true seemed a million miles away, that was life-changing.
About a full minute after his first shot of cum, Kyle pushed my head away with his hand. If I could have nursed his cock with my mouth, hard or soft, for the rest of my life, I would have. I already never wanted to spend time away from Kyle's cock and Kyle's cum.
I was a quick learner. Looking directly at his cock, I said, "Thank you so much, Master Kyle's cock, for depositing your precious baby batter into my throat, which of course I swallowed gladly and appreciatively. You now know I have lusted after you, and your owner, for many years now, and to actually be here doing this is such a fulfillment of my deepest fantasies. I would only be so lucky if I got to do this again, hopefully all the time, if your owner Master Kyle would show me just enough mercy to use my mouth again for his sole pleasure whenever he wants to."
"Shut the fuck up, fag. And get the fuck out of my house."
TO BE CONTINUED...