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I was having a wonderful time with my black-haired, green-eyed Irish-Italian Army officer. He reclined comfortably while I rubbed and kneaded his damp feet, paying special attention to the pink impressions left by the wrinkles in his black Army socks, figuring it would feel especially good to have those sore-looking places caressed and smoothed. I think he was almost asleep, though we talked about why I liked to rub his feet . . . and about not rubbing my father's when he'd asked me to, for example, and that this attention to another man in some way made up for it.
We also talked about our families and similar backgrounds. (We had attended the same college just a year apart, though we'd never met there
Suddenly, though, the Colonel sat up, saying his back hurt and he had to either stand up or lie down. He reached for one of his socks and started to put it on. But I took it from him, scrunched it up to the toe, then gently pulled it up on his right foot, over the heel and ankle, and up his calf. I tugged it tight and smoothed it on his foot, enjoying the sensation of the still slightly damp fabric on my fingers and liking that I got to caress a little bit up his leg, even brushing up against his leg hair. Then I picked up his shoe and slipped it on and tied the laces tight.
Somehow serving him this way, putting his socks and shoes back ON, was as exciting to me as taking them off. It felt so gratifyingly humiliating to be his foot slave in this new manner too. Though the experience would have been even richer for me if I had gotten on my knees before him, I settled for putting the other shoe on while he rested his leg on my thigh. And boy did I love the heft of that green-uniformed leg on mine. When I had completed my slave work of redressing his left foot, he stood up and we went out to lunch (my treat), and we just enjoyed ourselves enormously eating and laughing, and relishing each other's company.
A few days later, I managed to get him to come for lunch again. This time I had prepared a delicious chicken salad, but that was not the only treat I had for him. He had come to school that day in civvies-a privilege allowed the uniformed students at this school. He had on a jacket and tie, and, to my delight, the same heavy orange-brown Docker shoes he had worn that night in Italy.
I got him to sit down on the couch with a Coke and some books and articles I had found to interest him, and he sat a little aslant, almost inviting me to sit at the other end and attend to his feet.
When I said, "Okay, give me your feet," he hesitated for a second, then shrugged and lifted them obligingly into my lap.
While he browsed at the reading materials, I unlaced and removed his shoes, this time making sure that I lowered my face close enough to the shoes and socks to smell that distinctive stink of shoe leather and male foot sweat. Like everyone's, his was the same but slightly different-tinged with his own musky smell, which I knew pretty well from traveling and rooming with him. My cock was about as hard as it could get, and I tried to keep it out of his sight.
I massaged those by now familiar feet with the same loving attention, just sighing over them and brushing at the few black hairs on his instep and the tops of his toes. I massaged each whole foot, sole and top, ball and heel with my hands, and each toe with my fingers, just letting him know by my touch how much I cherished him. Finally, I said, "Want to eat?"
"Yeah."
"Want your shoes back on first?"
"Yeah," he answered, agreeing implicitly to my providing this service again, too.
"Just a second," I then said, having gotten his agreement, and I dashed upstairs and grabbed a brand-new pair of brown Norm Thompson socks-the fluffy texture of which I knew he liked-and ran down with them. I snatched up the worn gray ones I had taken off his feet and nestled inside his shoes (to conserve their smell), and pulled the new ones on.
"Brown socks, brown socks!" he exclaimed in a delighted tone of voice.
"Yes, and brand new, just for you," I answered.
"But I need those other socks back," he said, probably remembering that I had made off with the red nylon ones I had taken off him in Italy.
"Okay, sure, " I answered thinking quickly, and not wanting to be frustrated in my intention to jack off with them in my face that evening. "I'll wash them for you and return them."
This answer, offering as it did more servitude, made my gut churn with even greater pleasure, and seemed to please him too.
I opened his shoes wide to receive his size 11 feet, and with great care and satisfaction performed the demeaning task of replacing his shoes and lacing them tight. I then fed him a delicious lunch, during which he ate four sandwiches, and I rubbed and scratched his broad back. It was all I could do not to kiss his thinning hair and the back of his neck.
Instead, we finished eating and went back to school. When I got home that night, I sniffed every molecule of his foot scent out of those socks, jerking off time and again as I enjoyed both the smell and the memories of the many ways I was now his slave . . . and his enjoyment of it.
Because I had promised, I washed out his socks a day or two later. But I made sure I got my measure of slave-pleasure then, too, lovingly hand washing them in my underwear, my boner poking out of my boxers' fly while the bathroom mirror reflected still another aspect of my slavery to my Lord and Master.
To be continued...
