At the Conference - Part 1
by Bradley Tucker
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The swish of the sliding front door of the Hotel Norwalk prepared me for the rush of hot air from outside.
I was waiting for the clerk to complete my check-in and was about to loosen my tie as I turned to the door and saw young Jack Turner stride in. Jack was not so young anymore – probably about 35, but since I had taught him in graduate school years ago, and he is about 5 years younger than me, I still thought of him as young.
“Jack!” I said. “Are you staying here?” It was a pleasure to see him. The conference had been its usual tedious self, and I had always liked Jack. He was bright and polite and very handsome. About my height of 5’10”, he was clearly still fit. His light-brown hair showed a little gray, but his thick-lashed dark-blue eyes were the same, as was his shy but winning smile. The Arizona heat radiated from his suit and his face glowed a bit, very attractively.
“Mr. D.! Yes, you are too? So good to see you.” He stuck out his hand and we shook, pulling close to pat each other’s backs. “You are just checking in?”
The embrace released an old sensation of attraction to Jack in me. My gut stirred a little – as did my genitals. The soft-scrape of six-o’clock shadows on our cheeks increased the intimate feel. And I got a stimulating whiff of his slightly sweaty neck.
“Yeah, been at sessions all day. You are already here?”
“Yep, on the sixth floor.”
“Looks like I am on the fifth,” I said as the clerk handed me my key.
I finally loosened my tie as we waited for the elevator. Jack did the same.
“Wow, it is warm, huh?”
“Yes, and the formality of these events makes it worse,” Jack added. I noticed his well-shined black lace-up shoes.
“No joke. Why don’t you come to my room and relax a little? It would be nice to catch up. I bet there is mini bar in a place like this.”
“Sure, thanks. The rooms are pretty nice, even have a little sitting area with armchairs.”
As we walked down the corridor, I felt a little shiver of anticipation. I had been a good friend to Jack, helped him get his first job, and we had kept in touch a bit, keeping up with each other, but family and professional limitations on our time had kept us from more than a fleeting hello over most of the years. But I had always felt a strong attraction to him, a little protective, drawing on my masochistic desires to serve, even be servile to, appealing men.
As we entered the room, I took off my jacket and hung it up, and slid my suitcase against the wall. It was a little warm in the room, not uncomfortable, but not cool enough to dry up the sweat in our clothes. When Jack slipped off his jacket, I took it from him to hang up, and felt and smelled faintly his body odor coming off its underarms.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I said, gesturing to one of the two armchairs positioned toward the window at the back of the room. A small oblong coffee table was in front of the chairs.
I opened the mini-bar. “Ah, a little bit of Jack Daniels here. Want some?”
“Sure.”
“I will go get some ice.”
Careful to prop the door open with the safety lock, I walked halfway down the corridor and filled the bucket with ice.
When I got back, I was pleased to see Jack stretched out, his feet propped up on the table. I was more than pleased. The pose got me fantasizing powerfully about releasing his blue-socked feet from those shoes and giving him a serious foot massage. The fantasy was so strong that I thought I could smell those socks even while in his shoes.
I fixed us each a bourbon and branch as calmly as I could. As I handed Jack his drink, I realized that I could really smell the band of his wristwatch. It had that sweaty-leather smell so akin to warm shoes and socks.
Spontaneously, I kept hold of his drink for a second, dipped my head down to his wrist, sniffed, and then, with unaccustomed deftness, unbuckled his watch.
“Hey, what. . . ?”
“Oh, I am not stealing your watch, Jack. Just noticed it is pretty sweaty, and thought you would like to have it off. I will just leave it right here.” I sniffed it and then placed it beside his feet, which were crossed at the ankles.
I fetched my own drink, then sat in the other armchair.
“That makes me realize how sweaty my feet are,” I said casually as I could. “Mind if I take off my shoes?”
“Of course not. This is your bedroom.”
As I unlaced my shoes I made a point of leaning down toward his. They were right in front of my face.
I pushed my shoes aside, and, kneeling at Jack’s feet, I said, “Your feet are sweating, too. I can smell them even in your shoes. Let me make them feel better.”
Jack spluttered into his drink a bit, but he left his feet in front of me. I slowly undid the laces of the first shoe, and eased it off. The funnel of sweaty-foot smell that rose from the shoe’s inside caressed my cheek and sank into my nose. I sniffed the inside of that shoe. I met Jack’s surprised glance.
“You like that?”
“Sure do, and this even more.” I gripped his socked foot, damp and warm, stained with foot sweat, rubbed the arch and ball, then sank my face flush against the sole, my nose pressed against the space under his toes, and inhaled deeply. The rank odor of manly footsweat was intense and intensely sastifying. My dick swelled in my pants.
I looked up at Jack again, who was now wide-eyed. I moved his crossed foot off the other ankle, and addressed the other shoe. This time, though, I kissed the shoe – the laces and the toe, then kissed his socked ankle. I kept glancing at Jack, who seemed to be not just okay with this, but enjoying it.
“Uh, go ahead and kiss my feet, but I want to make sure you know who is in charge here.”
I paused and said, “You are, Jack – I mean, Sir. I am your very willing slave. I want to make you comfortable.”
I tugged at the laces with my teeth, loosened them with my tongue, then gripped the shoe’s tongue in my lips, and pried the shoe slowly off. Again, a warm rush of sweaty air filled my nose.
When I stuck my face into his shoe, and then started the foot massage on that foot, Jack sighed, but then said, “Wait a minute now. Are you going to take my socks off?”
“I was hoping to. Okay with you?”
“And kiss my bare feet with your tongue?”
“Only with your approval, Sir.”
“First you have to be barefoot.”
“Can do.”
“And pantsless.”
“Really? I mean, that would be humiliating.”
“You don’t feel humiliated already? Kneeling at my feet, taking off my stinking shoes and sniffing my sweaty socks?”
“I do. It is true. I am abasing myself to you. I want to be your footslave. It excites me.”
“That’s right – and that’s wrong. Get those pants off now, and kneel on your bare knees before me.”
Shaking now, I undid my belt, unzipped, and began to stand, but Jack pressed his foot on my shoulder. “Stay on your fucking knees, slave.”
Man was it hard to obey. As I slid the seat of my pants off my ass, my erection shot out of my boxers’ fly. I looked in Jack’s eyes and he said, “So wrong. Kiss the soles of my socks while you get those pants off.” I leaned in, my nose and lips on the socks, the smell making me even harder and lifted my knees one at a time, pushing the pants down, over my calves and ankles, and off, crumpled on the floor.
“Now get your fucking socks off before you touch mine again.”
As I peeled off my own sweaty socks, one awkward effort after the other, my knees really pressed on the floor, hurting like hell, and I realized what Jack meant about kneeling on my bare knees before him. My erection was practically pulsing now, as my total degradation made itself felt in my body as well as my mind.
“Okay, you now have my permission to peel my socks off.”
I leaned in, sniffing deeply again at the sole of his left sock. Suddenly, Jack pulled his foot back.
“But you know what? I have not heard how you feel about this. I want to hear it.”
“What, humiliated? That’s for sure.”
“And what else? I mean, I am doing you a huge favor here – letting you worship my feet.”
“Ah, you mean grateful. Yes, Sir, I am grateful.”
“So, how do you express it?”
“By doing a great job of worshipping you?”
“Uh, yes, but what do you say?”
“Thank you? Oh, god, yes, thank you,” I said loudly and pressed my lips to his sock again, kissing with real feeling. And feeling my complete submission to him.
“Thank you, what? How do you address your Lord, your Master, your Boss, slave?
“Thank you, SIR?”
“That is right. Never address me without adding Sir, slave. So go ahead and peel. But use only your mouth.”
Use my mouth? Jack was clearly getting into the role of master to my slave. But the command just made my gut churn with even greater, more primitive pleasure – that feeling of giving my deepest self as a slave to a vital and attractive, younger and presumably less powerful man. And here I was, on my knees before him, enjoying the smell of his sweaty socks, eager to serve him, yearning to confirm my total submission to him.
I held my hands behind my back -- and peel, it turned out, was the right word for my next task. His footsweat had plastered the socks to his sticky flesh, so the socks turned inside out as my face slid along his calf, ankle, and sole.
“Now stretch the toe of that sock across your nose and sniff it, boy.”
I inhaled deeply of Jack’s sweaty maleness, feeling every inch of myself – every inch of my straining cock – become more and more his boy.
“Now rub its sweat off on your hair and face.” I did. “And on your chest and six-pack.” I did. “And now up and down on your hard-on.” I did. “Go ahead, feel that warm, damp foot sweat – my foot sweat – on that boner. Oh yeah.” Oh, yeah, I did and felt like I was going to shoot a huge load. But he grabbed the sock from me, and it slid up my upstanding penis and across the glans. It was pure torture, pure pleasure.
“Get the other,” he growled.
I repeated the humiliating task with the other sock. My teeth and lips gripped the hem, and I had to shift around a little bit on my knees to tug this one over his heel, up the sticky sole, finally freeing his toes to the air. The sock was so wet with footsweat that it dangled heavily from my lips. Its smell was pungent and rich, sour and salty. I took it reverently in my hands, and then smeared that whole additional damp sock’s worth of his foot sweat into my hair, face, armpits, pubic hair, and along my pulsing penis. I could tell that I now smelled like Jack’s socks.
“Now tie one of those socks around your neck. Lick the other one and put it deep in your mouth. Slide it back so the toe is at your throat and the sole is flat on your tongue.”
I obeyed, and the taste of salty male footsweat was incredibly strong. It made me gag just a little, but my mouth started salivating, dissolving more of the sock sweat. I had to start chewing and swallowing. The salty fluid scratched my throat.
Jack laughed a little at my struggle before issuing his next order.
“Take off those ridiculous boxers. They are not hiding your pathetic boner, and I want you bareassed when you worship my feet.”
I dribbled as I tugged the sock out of my mouth to protest, stupidly, “But then I will be practically naked.”
“No,” Jack answered sarcastically. “You are wearing my sock as your fancy tie. Now get those shorts off.”
Of course, I submitted, staying on my knees, and in a minute, I caught a glimpse of my true self in the wall mirror: kneeling bareassed at Jack’s feet, still, ridiculously, wearing my dress shirt and tie, one of his smelly socks around my neck, the other dangling from my mouth, with my hard-as-iron dick sticking out of the shirt tails, waving at my Master’s bare feet.
“The shirt and tie, too.” So, it turned out, I actually could get more naked. I took them off, and started to throw them on the floor, when Jack snatched my tie.
“Here: Tie this around your dick. Like it’s your neck. ‘Cause now you are a real dickhead.”
Beside myself with pleasure at this new degradation, I used a made a four-in-hand to dress my hard on.
“Now lick my feet, boy.”
I leaned forward, but just as I got close enough to smell his barefeet, he kicked out at my chin, and said, “But you know what? The ice is melted in my drink. Go get me some more ice, boy.”
“Huh?”
I was really disappointed, picturing the delay to licking the sweat off his feet while I dressed, went out and got the ice, made him another drink, got naked again, all before I could press my lips to his sweaty bare feet. They might not even be sweaty by the time I got back.
As if reading my mind, Master clarified: “You don’t have to get dressed, go as you are. Bareass naked, sock in mouth, tie tied over boner. If you encounter anyone, all the better for understanding your complete descent, Mr. D.” (he pronounced my former title with a sarcastic lilt) “to your truest self – as my slave. In fact, given the hour, chances are strong that you will come face to face with at least one of our colleagues. If you do, just savor it as another aspect of your debasement. Smile and wave, and do not hide your boner behind the ice bucket! In fact, carry the ice bucket behind your back, letting that little decorated organ wave like a flagpole in front of you.
“First, though, so my foot sweat is still ready for you after you have run your errand and fixed me another drink, dress my feet in your socks and put my shoes back on.”
You will not be surprised, having gotten so much into my head by now, to read that this little speech made my cock – if possible – even harder. To have to venture out in public as I was, proving even more how submissive I was to Jack, fed my masochistic id massively.
And putting my socks on his feet was so powerfully symbolic an act that I would not even have thought it up, much less imagined that Jack would allow it.
Eager to please, trembling with that weird mix of fear and anticipation great pleasures
induce as I foresaw my corridor race, I picked up my crumpled and now crusty-with-dried-footsweat socks, shook them, turned them inside out over my hands, showing my abject willingness to perform this task with the care and humility it deserved. I clasped Master’s toes, and eased the still damp and warm cashmere argyles along his insteps and ankles and up his calves. I smoothed them carefully, then opened his shoes wide, pulling back the tongues, to receive his feet.
“Lace them up, boy,” Master commanded. I of course obeyed with care.
I started to rise to run my errand, but Master stopped me.
“Hey, you stay on your knees in my presence, slave. And don’t you ever leave my feet without kissing them.”
With alacrity, I bowed down, took his sock out of my mouth, kissed the socked ankles, shoelaces, and captoes of both feet before reinserting the sock, now really sodden with his footsweat mingled with my saliva. I turned on my knees and started to crawl on hands and knees toward the minibar where the ice bucket sat on top.
“No hands, slave. You walk on your knees at attention in my presence.”
Wow did that hurt. The hard nap of the hotel carpet really bit, almost burned, on my now sore knees. But of course, I got right up and obeyed. It was about ten steps on my knees toward the minibar. The boner flagged a little with the pain, but as I passed the mirror and saw my degraded state, it sprang upright all over again, stiffer than ever.
I reached up for the bucket, eager to get out of the room so I could stand, but Master said, “Wait a second. First bring me that Around Phoenix book.” The book was on the dresser beside the bucket.
I picked up the book, turned around and kneed my way back, really feeling the pain on my knees. I grimaced, and looked up to see Jack smiling widely, almost laughing. “Hurt?” he said lightly. I nodded glumly. “Good. That’s the boy.”
“Please let me get off my knees, Sir,” I begged.
“Absolutely not, slave. You belong there, hurting to show your respect for me.”
“It hurts.”
“Not as bad as your condescending attitude when you were my adviser. What a prick you were!”
I hung my slave head.
“Yes, Sir. I was a stupid, arrogant prick. I wanted to kiss your feet even then. I knew I was really only worthy of smelling and worshipping your feet. But. . .”
“But you were too proud to show it.”
“Yes, Sir. You understand me Sir. I deserve nothing but to be your footslave, and now you know it.”
“Hello? I always knew it. But you were such a dick I decided not to let you show your genuine place – your inferiority and well-deserved servility – to me. I was a little mean, and now I have mellowed, married and a father. I have a little compassion for even the dickheads in the world. So count your blessings of this evening, my letting you be your true self, and stop whining. This is your job, your condition, now, the way you were always meant to be.”
“Yes, Sir, you are right. I am dirt beneath your feet.”
“That is one stupid cliché, professor.” Again the sarcastic edge. “You are not dirt, you are a living, breathing, conscious slave performing the role you were created to act. As my slave – the footslave of a straight, dominant, man, who recognizes your inherent slave mentality.”
“Right again, Sir. Thank you, Sir. I am totally your slave, Sir, and deserve to be.”
His voice and features hardened.
“So stay on your goddam knees and get the ice and fix me another drink. Right now!”
I realized that I was slumping in a bow to Jack, my body expressing my gratitude to him and understanding of my true state. Of course I would stay on my knees. I leaned forward to kiss his shoes one more time before I turned and proceeded with my task.
I gathered up the ice bucket, held it behind my back and kneed the ten additional steps to the door. I opened it and stayed on my knees as I left the room.
I stood up, sighing with relief as the pain eased, and it was only when the door slammed shut that I fully understood the latest humiliation Jack had devised for me. I was naked, wearing my tie on my hard-on, one of his socks around my neck and the other dangling from my mouth, carrying the bucket behind my back (yes, I adhered to his order even in his absence, because a true slave does that), my engorged penis waving in front of me. (To be continued.)
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