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My current Master has ordered me to write for you a brief synopsis of how I first learned to be a good slave, happiest at the feet of my superiors.
As a fraternity pledge, we all had to perform menial tasks for the brothers. Having washed more than my share of jock straps, cars and laundry for the brothers during my pledge period, the brothers found that I was especially adept at spit polishing shoes and boots. This being a Texas university, boots were extremely popular. I soon found that I was constantly being summoned to the guys' rooms to pick up yet another pair of cowboy boots to make them gleam. One day, nearing the end of my pledge time, I was summoned to the spacious corner room of the fraternity president, the best looking stud jock on campus. He was talking on the phone when I arrived and signaled for me to remove his boots to take for cleaning while he continued his conversation. Startled but obedient, I knelt in front of him and held on to his right boot as he pushed against my chest with his left foot. Not missing a beat in his phone dialogue, he then put his sweat sox-clad foot against my chest to push for the removal of the other boot. Whether by accident or design, his foot slipped and brushed across my face. I knelt there frozen, a strange and pleasurable tingling sweeping over me. Removing the other one, I started to withdraw from his room with his boots for cleaning, leaving the house boss to his phone call.
As I neared the door, he terminated his conversation and, without even looking in my direction, said matter-of-factly, “You might as well take these damp sweat sox and wash them out too.”
He had never before deigned to speak to a lowly pledge like me and his voice sounded as if it came from Mount Olympus. I stood there for a few seconds, assuming he would remove them and hand them to me. He did no such thing, only continuing to write at his desk. Hesitantly, I again knelt and crawled under his desk and gently removed each sock. His large and perfectly shaped feet, hardened by his renowned athletic activities, were slightly slick with the sweat of having been encased in those boots that would soon be my pleasure to polish.
As I crawled back out, the god spoke again. “You can use those sox for chewing gum while you shine my boots, shithead.”
My mouth and throat were now dry from astonishment and excitement and I could only croak out, “Thank you, Sir” as I withdrew from his magnetic presence. He didn’t answer nor did he even cast a glance in my direction. It was to him as if a piece of furniture had spoken.
Back in my own tiny room, already crowded with boots awaiting service, the air redolent with the smell of leather and healthy young feet, I lovingly arranged my cleaning materials in preparation for work on the footgear of The Boss. Taking a deep breath of the air inside his boots, I started the cleaning and then remembered his comment about my use of his sweat sox. I jammed one in my mouth and happily chomped on it as I worked. The salty flavor tasted so grungily delicious that my cock stayed erect throughout my labors. I cleaned the soles and gutters with my personal toothbrush and dreamed how pleasurable brushing my teeth would now be. When I finished, the boots sparkling like mirrors, I relaxed and treated myself to the boss man’s other sock, now dried and stiff. The flavor released itself slowly as I chewed. Not being able to bear the thought of washing away that elixir with soap and water, I took a new, never worn, pair of my own sweat sox from my drawer and, with boots and new sox in hand, went to Boss Stud’s room.
Softly knocking on his door and hearing a gruff, “Its open,” I slipped in and was chagrined to find he wasn’t alone but was sitting talking with the house pledgemaster, his best friend and a fellow jock god. The Boss was still barefoot, his legs propped up on an ottoman.
Barely glancing at me and at my offerings, he motioned me to his feet and uttered one gruff word, “Massage.” I nervously looked toward the pledgemaster who acted as though all of this was the most ordinary thing in the world and in which he had little interest. They continued discussing house business as I silently massaged my new Master’s feet, praying that this would become a common occurrence.
After a while, Boss said, “OK, now lick them clean and dry them with your hair before putting the sox on my feet.”
I again looked involuntarily toward the pledgemaster but the Boss said, amazingly gently, “Its OK, we both know what you are.” Those words would forever change the remainder of my college days and the years that lay ahead. Not only the two magnificent studs knew what I was, I knew it now! The insight that I was a natural slave who would find my happiness only in serving and groveling to men and my rewards only at their feet exploded in my mind, bringing relief and joy.
Neither of my Masters (oh, yeah, the pledgemaster decided to use me too) told the other brothers about me. I was voted in to the fraternity and had to keep my labors for my two Bosses quietly discrete but work for them I did. Throughout my freshman year, as I joyously took the humiliations that they enjoyed heaping upon me in private, I worried about June commencement when they, as seniors, would graduate. It never occurred to me that valuable property is not abandoned just because the current owner can no longer use it. The details of the remainder of my college days are fresh in my memory but perhaps you believe that I have talked far too long as it is.
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