« Back To Free Stories Archive
The blade slashed furiously.
Grunts and sweats followed, dead vines littering his path. Michael slashed again and again, each swish of the blade reflecting off coins of sunlight for split seconds. Michael wiped his sweaty brow, his deep breaths mixing in with the hot jungle air. He had never felt more exhausted in his life, but knew he had to keep on moving. He had come half way across the world for this hunt, and he wasn't going to stop now.
Michael wasn't one for detours, excuses, or giving up easily. It was mixed into his Swedish heritage (and at age 26, it was more prominent than ever, he felt), which explained his no-bullshit approach to just about everything. He stood there shining like the reedy hero he was: circular explorer hat on, leather backpack strapped across his tan-shirted back, thick brown hiking shorts firmly fitted and his size 11s fit nicely in a pair of gray wool socks and industrial-strength dark brown hiking boots -- nothing was going to stop him. His exposed appendages were coated with sunscreen, as his pale-white skin burned quite easily when left unattended. With each wipe of his brow, however, he felt that he was losing sense of what, exactly what he was after. All he knew about now was one thing and one thing only: the hunt. That's what he lived for, and right now, he was completely in his element.
Another slash from his machete sent shards of green everywhere; vines became confetti. After walking through the thick of the jungle for what seemed like hours, Michael finally came to an open clearing, grass barely rising up to his knees as his eyes caught a glimpse of the setting sun, making the tops of the trees glow a distinct orange. It was a glorious sight to see, and standing there, drinking it all in, Michael felt at rest, at peace. This was a moment he didn't even know he was craving, but relished it none-the-less. He let out a pleasant sigh. Everything, right now, felt right.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something. His eyes darted, his body tensed. He was afraid he had been spotted by some sort of animal. He turned around sharply -- nothing in his sight. He turned back towards the clearing, and jumped: it was staring at him. His grip on the machete slipped ever so slightly upon seeing it. It was ... a vine. A large, green vine that was pointed directly at him. The end of it wasn't a thin tip, though: it was rounded, like the end of a thick sausage, the whole vine itself having the thickness of a human arm. It was a big, big vine -- and it was ... well, looking at him. It was like a snake had descended from the trees, but no, it was very clearly a vine. It wavered in the air, slithering, almost, cautiously eyeing the human in front of it. Michael ... didn't know what to think. Although he was initially quite scared, he sensed that this very much was something that was ... living. He took a step to the left, and the vine followed him. He took a step to the right, and it followed him again. Michael's face scrunched -- he wasn't sure what to do.
Moments passed as the two life forms stared at each other. Neither was moving -- just staring at the mystery that was the other. Michael then did a very diplomatic move -- he slowly put his machete down on the jungle floor. He stood up again. The vine "looked" at the machete on the ground and then placed its gaze right back on Michael. Once again, Michael went the diplomatic route and slowly extended his hand towards the vine-thing. At first, looking at the fingertips, the vine recoiled a bit, and then, cautiously, seemed to almost "sniff" his hand. It very lightly brushed against it -- and nothing happened. The vine (which Michael still couldn't figure out where exactly it was coming from) then rubbed up against his hand, and did so again. It was almost like a cat looking for chin scratches -- the vine was enjoying this contact. It slowly got closer to Michael's body, and was now genuinely, almost playfully interested in him. It swirled around his face, eyed his clothing, his boots, his hat -- everything. "Um ... OK" was pretty much the only thought that was going through Michael's mind at the moment. If this was first contact with some otherworldly thing, well, it certainly could've gone worse.
Even as the vine began eyeing him, the "face" of the vine, as indistinct as it was, began playfully poking him at times, seeing what was in a front pocket of his shirt, nudging his backpack -- it was getting a feel for whatever this two-legged thing was. What was odd, however, was when it looked at Michael's shorts. It seemed to take a rather strong interest in them, waving around left to right to get a view at them from all sides. It then playfully poked Michael in the crotch a bit. Michael, being Michael, stepped back. "OK ... that's ... a bit too far," he said out loud. Yet the vine was undeterred: it poked him again, this time on the inner thigh. It didn't hurt at all (it was a vine after all), but it did kind of tickle a bit. Michael again stepped back and said "OK, no. That's a no-no place." The vine, however, didn't seem to care.
In a lightning fast move, the vine suddenly went up Michael's left pant leg and underneath his boxers. It was so quick Michael barely had time to react, much less let out the yelp that he did. The soft face of the vine was suddenly touching his balls, and jumping away as best as he could, Michael fell to the ground, but didn't shake the vine. He felt something moist underneath his boxers all of a sudden, and panicked: the thing was going to eat him! Sadly, that wasn't true, however, but the "mouth" of the vine opened up, and immediately swallowed Michael's balls and cock in one foul swoop. What was weird, however, was that whatever liquids were inside the mouth of this thing, the second they touched his balls and cock, he became instantaneously horny. His arms were holding onto the vine entering his pantleg, desperately trying to get it out, but right now, his cock was filled with what felt like a year's worth of pent-up horny tingles (which was weird -- he jerked off just two nights ago without a problem). This moist mouth suddenly did a "suck" on his member, and holy shit, Michael had never felt anything like it. It was like liquid electricity. His cock, his balls, his entire sexual being shot to life, awakened like a thunderbolt. Another suck occurred, and Michael's dick was already beet-red. While his brain did everything it could to still fight off this intruder, he was receiving signals unlike anything he had ever encountered before, signals that coded the words "tingle", "fuck", "tickle", and "cum". This was all happening so quickly. Too quickly. There is no kind of panic like a horny panic.
The ripping sound was insanely loud: the leg of Michael's shorts was ripping, the large vine seemingly wanting to rip the things off just by flexing. Even with both hands around the green sexual menace attacking him, he couldn't get the vine out. Another suck occurred, and Michael practically moaned. Suddenly there was a playful bump in his ribs. Michael laughed a bit, then panicked: there was another vine staring at him! He did a quick double take, but suddenly there was another ticklish bump on the other side of his ribs. Michael looked and saw yet another vine. Two other vines were now eyeing their prey. Michael was about to scream or punch or do something, but before he could: SUUUUUUUCK. A deep throb was felt again on his steel-hard cock, and Michael almost had to close his eyes -- it was that intense. Even with the main vine wrapped around his cock and balls, some of that horny liquid it was emanating began dripping down underneath Michael's balls, slowly into his gooch, and everything that liquid touched made those areas get all the hornier. Michael didn't have much time to enjoy it though: the other two vines began poking his chest and ribs again, really tickling him. Michael fucking HATED being tickled, but the two other vines seemed to really be loving it. Even as he vainly tried to fight the ticklevines off, he felt yet another vine ease its way into his left sock, pulling both the sock and tightly-tied boot off his left foot. Michael let out a "No!" in-between chortled laughs, but before he could finish, another vine was working his right foot. Two more vines wrapped around his wrists and pulled the boy taught. The tickling of his ribs continued, one of the vines going in through his shirt sleeve to try and play with his pits and hard nipples. The shoes were now off, and Michael was barefoot on the floor of the jungle, his pale white feet flailing for just a few moments before those vines near his feet just swallowed his feet whole. Much like the vine around cock, his feet were plunged into a moist, sensual place, that horny goo now sliding in-between his toes, tickling him and teasing him and sending him into ecstasy. Another suck came on the one on his cock, and Michael couldn't take it anymore. He arched his back, lost complete control of his body, precum oozing out his red cockhead, his curved cock trembling, trembling, trembling...
+++
“AHhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!” Michael screamed, sitting straight up to attention, panting. Cool air blew across his sweaty face. Michael looked around: he was in his bedroom in his apartment. It was the dead of night. He took a few panicked breaths, and then slowly realized what had just happened: he awoke from a dream. A very, very strange dream. He heard the dull hum of his air conditioner permeate the air. Michael's shoulders loosened just a bit: it was all a dream. That's all it was. His pants turned into simple sighs -- but something didn't feel right. His eyebrow arched. He lifted up his bed sheets, and saw ... what looked like a weeks worth of cum staining them. Holy shit, he must've shot rockets of cum, as his sheets were drenched, his crotch caked with dry sperm. Did ... did he just cum from having a dream where vines were sucking his dick, toes, and nipples? What the fuck kind of dream was this? Michael couldn't even begin to figure out what just happened. He slowly got out of bed, almost as if on autopilot, his bare feet touching the chilled hard-paneled floor of his apartment. He walked to the bathroom, cleaned himself off, and went back into bed (sleeping over his cum-stained sheet for the time being). His mind was still racing around, doing its best to figure out what the hell just happened, but more importantly, his eyes were droopy and heavy. Confused and perplexed, his mind slowly shut down and Michael drifted off to sleep once again.
The next morning, Michael went about his daily routine at a somewhat slower pace, his mind trying to decipher what last night meant. It all felt very surreal, very strange, and very much not in his usual "routine" at all. Why the fuck would he have a dream about a giant pair of vines getting him off? As he stood there by the kitchen counter waiting for his coffee to finish, T-shirt and red pajama pants on, his raw toes doing all that they could to ignore the cold that was seeping up from the morning floor, his mind kept drifting back to those too-vivid images that plagued his mind from last night. Often with dreams, he would try to piece things together, remember elements or themes but never fully grasping a full narrative of what transpired. Here, however, he remembered every detail clear as day. For some reason, he kept going back to that feeling of the vines swallowing his feet, that moisture running down between his toes, tingling and exciting his skin whilst tickling the whole way through.
Michael snapped his head back to attention -- he wasn't going to keep daydreaming like he was, especially about that. His coffee finished, but as he went to grab a mug, he stopped moving, shocked at what he saw: he was tenting in his pajama pants. He was unbelievably rock hard and didn't even realize it. Was it from thinking of the dream too much? Michael shook it off. Today was a day for no distractions. Especially one as "private" as that.
Some 12 hours later, Michael came back to his apartment. Wearing nothing but a T-shirt, tan cargo shorts, and sneakers without socks, he was beat, having just done a 9-hour light hang for a local school's assembly tomorrow, along with programming and cue-to-cueing everything that needed to be done before Friday. He broke out a Hot Pocket, grabbed himself a beer, and sat down in front of his computer, loading up World of Warcraft for the umpteenth time, using it to cool down after a long an grueling day. Some e-mails were sent, more drinks were had, and before long, Michael was in bed, dozing away before tomorrow's workload weighed down on him.
What Michael didn't know, however, was what devious thing I had in store for him tonight.
+++
The air smelled of hot jazz. The nighttime city skyline didn't look real: it was all dark blue paint strokes, Van Gogh auras and artistic splashes. It was like walking through a painting, except the whole world was a painting. People moved along -- the people looked like real flesh-and-blood people -- but everything else took on a post-bop hue, looking like pastels but smelling like the best parts of a 2AM jazz club. Michael wasn't as much walking as floating. He felt the air move around him, and began to notice his dress: he was completely bare-chested, wearing dark blue jeans, and flip-flops as well. This is a look that Michael would probably never have pulled off in real life, but here, in this world, it made perfect sense. He floated along into a nearby bar, filled with pool tables and overhanging lights. He went up to the bar and raised his hand, not saying a word -- a beer was instantly handed to him. He sat there at the barstool, chest naked to the world, and no one seemed to mind. There seemed to be only one or two people in the club anyways, but they seemed to be always in shadows, paying no mind to anyone but themselves. So there was Michael drinking at the bar, flip-flops dangling off his feet as he sat on a barstool. Despite his lack of a shirt, he felt weirdly ... comfortable. It was a surrealistic sight to behold.
The bar's front door swung open. Michael's head swung around and saw that it was ... me. His friend from all the way back in college. I walked in fully clothed, my 6' stature almost matching his. I had on no jacket or cap like some of the other bar inhabitants had, just myself looking casual. Michael instantly recognized me as I walked up to the bar, gesturing to the bartender to get me a drink as well.
"Hey there Mikey Mike."
"Hey," he responded, surprised to see me there.
"How goes things?"
"Um, well ... I seem to be missing a shirt."
"I've noticed," I quipped.
"Um ... where are we?"
"Only the coolest part of town," I started, "where dreams come true and lives are changed."
"... are you working for this bar?" asked Michael, dead serious.
"Heh, no I'm not, Michael. But you know what sounds good right about now?"
"What?" he inquired.
"A game of pool," I said.
"Um ... OK." He got up with me, both carrying beers in our hand, as we got to the pool table underneath a single hanging bulb, and it looked paint stroke blue just like everything else in this place. Michael started looking for a pool cue, but I stopped him: "No need for that, Michael. All you'll need are these ..." I held up a pair of jet-black bracelets for him.
"Um ... what are these?"
"Try 'em on!"
Without hesitating, Michael put the bracelets on and ... well, they were snug.
"How they fit?" I asked, smiling.
"Um, good," he started. "I just ... don't know what they're for."
I laughed a bit. "Heh ... let me show ya. Lie down on the table for me."
Being dream logic, any pretense about a pool game was immediately forgotten. Michael hopped up on the table and laid himself down, his ankles overhanging on one end while his eyes stared up at the bare lightbulb directly above him (it didn't blind him however -- it seemed to be quite diffused). I leaned over his bare-chested, sandal-clad body and simply said "Move."
Michael tried -- yet he couldn't. He tried lifting up his arms, but those bracelets suddenly felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds. Michael tried lifting his legs up, but suddenly its like his jeans were attached to the table -- all he could do was simply wiggles his toes, causing his flip-flops to slap against his bare heels a bit. If this were real life, he'd be furious right now, but being a dream, he seemed to feel indifferent to the whole thing. I reached over and placed both of his nipples between my thumb and index finger, and began lightly rubbing, flicking his niptips ever so softly just to see what kind of response I could get out of him. Although his body tensed at first, it soon recognized that all my fingers were trying to do was pleasure him, and suddenly each nip-flick felt like an erotic little spark, like a flint misfire on a cigarette lighter, teasing him oh so wonderfully. Flick, flick, flick it went on. Michael, still confused on what exactly was happening, started giving in to the feeling a bit, his nipples starting to harden up and protrude out of his chest as the flicking continued, each erotic little spark adding to the stirrings that were going on in his crotch. It felt like a dull firework went off in the base of his cock, his hardon slowly coming into fruition. It was perhaps even more sensational for him due to the fact that only his nipples were being touched -- not even his chest or stomach or pits were getting the slightest sensation of feeling. Those dull fireworks felt more and more colorful with each burst, his cock already at standing attention, pulsing underneath that blue denim fabric. Whatever was happening, Michael was assuredly enjoying it.
I stopped playing with my mantoy and proceeded to walk down the end of the pool table where his sandaled feet dangled over the edge, cute and helpless. I began tapping and flicking the sandals, occasionally poking his bared soles while I talked:
"You got some nice feet there, Michael."
"And you have a male foot fetish if I'm not mistaken, yes?", he inquired, no anger anywhere in his voice.
"Yes I do, Michael," I started. "You remember college so well."
"Well, it's kind of a hard thing to forget."
"Oh I know, but, allow me to toss a theory out there: you have never been one to think of feet as being sexy, correct?"
I fondled his flips a bit more. "Um, yes, that would be correct," he replied.
"Well that I understand. From the outside, having a foot fetish must seem like the strangest, damndest thing. Someone getting turned on by the mere sight of someone else's exposed toes? Doesn't make sense. Then again, if people like you get turned on by a nice show of cleavage, an exposed pair of breasts, a nice pair of legs -- it's really not all that different deep down, just not as commonly accepted. However, what people don't know is that much like those other coveted areas, feet can be pleasured in ways that are highly, highly erotic."
"Oh?" the immobile boy asked.
"Oh yes," I continued, slowly removing his flimsy flip-flops from his pale, hairless feet. "Yes. Mind if I demonstrate?"
"Well ... I'm not going anywhere," he said.
I grinned. Two soft slaps were heard as the sandals landed on the floor. I kneeled down, and immediately inserted my tongue in-between his toes, slathering in-between them, licking their undersides, sucking on them, occasionally licking his sensitive arches just for the hell of it. Immobile Michael flinched, twitched, and let out light gasps -- this was a completely new experience for him. Sometimes my tongue waggled about the base of his toes just so that tickles radiated through him, adding to those tingles he was undoubtedly feeling. Sometimes I would do a slow lick of his heel, dragging that tongue across those arches and up to the those toes so that every groove and tastebud bump on my tongue could be felt by his too-soft skin, tickling and pleasuring him in equal measure. My tongue lapped up the tops of his feet, gliding all over, and then I went back to lightly sucking on each toe, going out of my way to make sure each and every one was properly serviced, no inch of his feet left without moisture by the time I was done.
The best part of the whole thing, though, was his reactions. The toes involuntarily flexing, the occasional quick-pant, the random groan of pleasure that would emerge -- it was all new, terrifyingly sexy territory for Michael. And then he felt it -- the first fingernail scratch across his left heel. He flinched a bit, I laughed a little, and then the attack began: ten fingernails sliding, grooving, flicking, poking and tickling his heels. Michael laughed in surprise, his toes flexed, curled, and drew circles in the air as they tried to escape their torment, but it was no use: the rapid, teasing scratches continued. Slowly, the fingernails tickling his heels went up his feet, across the tender arches, to the balls of his feet, the base of his toes, the tips of his toes -- a thousand ticklish slashes all hitting him at once. Michael's ribcage jolted, popped, and tried to escape, but the tickles kept coming. His bare fleshy soles were a delivery system for devious, teasing tickles, and the rest of his body could only contort and twist to try and escape it, even if the results amounted to nothing more than constant, unwilling laughs launching out of from his mouth. I loved taking my index finger and poking in-between each pair of toes, swirling it around before moving on to the next toeslot. I was fucking loving this.
"Your toes are sexy when they wiggle, Michael," I said in a teasing voice. All that Michael responded with was more unbridled laughter. I next cradled his heels in my hand, fingers along the sides as my thumbs scratched his heels and the base of his arches -- oh man did he hate this! His toes scrunched in a much as they could as if they somehow could bend down far enough to stop my fingers -- but they couldn't. It was really cute seeing how hard his body was trying to avoid the tickles, flashes of ticklish lightning setting his feet ablaze with tingles and tickles. I continued scratching his soles with my thumbnails for about 20 minutes -- there wasn't a moment when he wasn't laughing hysterically during it.
I stopped, and Michael panted, those occasional aftershocks of laughter coming out in bits and waves. I walked over to where Michael could clearly see me.
"So ... ticklish much?"
"Fuck you," me panted out.
My fingers traced across his chest and down to his belt buckle, then slowly, forcefully traced his zipperline, feeling his still-hard manhood inside. "I think you like it when I tickle your feet, Michael." I scratched his shaft through the jeans, and his whole body tensed again, those half-moans coming out of his mouth seemingly against his will. I then stopped and looked at his bare chest, soaked in sweat. I grinned again.
"Michael, answer me this question honestly: do you LIKE it when I play with your feet?"
"Um ..." he panted, "I um ... I don't ..."
I started scratching his shaft and cockhead through the jeans.
"Michael, do you LIKE IT when I play with your feet?"
"Um ... I mean ... god keep doing that ... I ... kind of ... I ..."
"Michael, do you want me to really, really play with your big bare feet one more time?
The scratching was causing his shaft to pump and twitch inside its denim prison.
"I ... yes."
"What part do you like the most, Michael?"
"I ... I liked it when ... fuck yes ... when you were licking my toes ..."
"Good boy, Michael," I said as I stopped the scratching and went down to his feet. "Then you're going to really like this."
With feverish, horny relish, I began tonguing the tips of his toes. Michael shuddered a bit, but his toes didn't clench -- they seemed to almost lean into it. I began licking his entire foot from sole to toes again, lapping it over and over, and slowly, his feet began to grow. Michael barely even noticed however, as his feet slowly growing in size was about equivalent to how horny he was feeling. They were now size 12s, then 14s, then 17s ... they kept on growing with each lick. "Fuck yes," he mumbled, my tongue now resting in-between his big toe and his index toe, slathering back and forth and back and forth in that big sexy toeslot, tickling and teasing and moistening all along. The tickles felt good, the warm, wet tongue felt good, his raging hardon felt great. Slowly his feet got bigger and bigger, his toes plumper, my licking all the hornier and furiouser. "Yes," he moaned, practically dry humping the air above him, "keep playing with my feet. Keep licking my feet. I love it when you play with my big, bare feet." The humping was intensifying. "Keep going," I shouted. He closed his eyes and moaned some more: "I love it when you lick my feet! KEEP PLAYING WITH MY ... "
+++
"... FEET!" he shouted as he sprung to attention, bolt upright in his bed. Michael was sweating, panting, and ... awake. He looked around his darkened room and ... saw nothing. His body was heaving and heaving, his chest taking in bucket breaths, but ... it was all a dream as far as he was concerned. He closed his eyes and took a breath ... and then he felt it. His crotch was sticky again. He must've cum even worse than the night previous. He didn't even need to look -- he already knew he was going to have to take this sheets and put them on a double-cycle to get them properly clean. Again, it felt like he had just unloaded a month's worth of seed -- but how could this happen two nights in a row? What was wrong? He went to the bathroom to clean himself up, but did so with a strange, nagging doubt floating over him.
The next morning, he sat at his breakfast table, T-shirt, pajama pants, and barefeet, eating his cereal while staring at the back of his cereal box, but not actually looking at anything. His mind was adrift, that surrealistic pool table dream just as vivid as the vine one. While he was disturbed by the fact that he seemed to launch a boatload of cum while in his sleep, he was more disturbed by the fact that I was in that most recent dream, so prominent and realistic, unlike the rest of it. He stopped chewing for a moment and decided to take a risk: he pulled out his cell phone and decided to text me: "Man, you appeared in a very, very weird dream I had last night."
He chewed a few more bites. His phone vibrated there on the table. He looked at my response and his eyes went wide with terror:
"I thought you'd like it ;-)"
