At the Theater
by Bradley Tucker
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I.
The show began before the show. While the audience assembled in the theater, members of the cast ranged up and down the aisles, even squeezing along the rows, bantering and teasing their willing victims. One cast member accosted a man by pulling on his tie and saying, “You’re a little overdressed for our show.”
What made the moment very odd indeed was that the speaker was pretty much naked. Let’s call him David, because he greatly resembled Michelangelo’s icon – though darkly tanned rather than marble pale. He was in extraordinarily good shape: nicely muscled arms and legs; a visible but not overdone six-pack; firm, hairless pecs with unobtrusive nipples. Smooth as most of his body was, his hands were a little rough. They were big – a little outsize, like the Michelangelo’s – and the skin looked a little wrinkled and toughened on the backs, as if he was employed as a bricklayer or carpenter as his day job.
All he was wearing was a satiny black jockstrap (which was more of a thong, since, as I observed later, a thin strap attached to the bottom of the pouch ran up between his ass cheeks to the back of the waist strap), a couple of tattoos (one in the Hebrew alphabet just above the left pec, the other an abstract that emphasized the ropiness of his right bicep), and, of greatest interest to me, black lace-up engineer’s boots and blue-gray dress socks that showed two or three inches out of the tops of the boots. His smallish ass was lifted a bit by the jock’s ass straps, making the glutes look softer and more vulnerable than his other muscles.
The softness there was emphasized when other members of the company – male and female – walked past and smacked those tempting targets, sometimes one right after the other. That happened several times. The most provocative contact, however, came with another bare-assed male, who wore an empty frame skirt along with a similar jock, metallic mesh shirt, a leather-slave mask covering his head and half his face – the other half showing a quarter-inch of aggressive salt-and-pepper stubble. After pinching David’s ass cheeks, he turned around and caressed the yielding hemispheres with his own, sweeping his naked rear end right across David’s and pressing in with a tender urgency. David, to disguise a stirring in his jock pouch (judging by his sudden move), turned to face his slightly more dressed comrade, and they embraced tightly for a moment.
David seemed to be about 30 and was also as handsome as the Michelangelo. He had regular, matinee-idol features. The nose was very Anglo, aquiline without being big, not a hint of Irish pug or semitic or Latin prominence. The light hazel eyes contrasted nicely with the subtle brown of his tan. The eyelashes were noticeable but not at all girly, the eyebrows smooth and dark with a normal arch. His ears were unremarkable – always a good thing in ears, in my book. His lips were normal – not cruelly thin, not pouty, not puffy. His smile revealed straight, naturally white teeth – a dreamboat’s smile. His hair, in contrast to the Michelangelo, was not curly. It was cut into an almost Marine-shortness on the back and sides, but on top was a little black pompadour, so glossy it may have been pomaded.
Pomade, if there was any, was all the artifice he wore. While the others had garish eye-make up (including the guy in the frame-skirt), and outlandish wigs and body stockings, David was just out there, a perfect male specimen that needed no embellishing.
David was the most active and visible – at least to me – of the six or seven company members who interacted with the audience. He hung around on my aisle. After making it up and chatting in a friendly way with the guy with the tie, he turned to the other side then stepped up onto my row. I was in the aisle seat, so had an up close and personal look at the thong and the flesh it ran between as David played with the hair of the woman across from me. She giggled, and he turned to me.
He lightly placed his large right hand on my shoulder, asking, “Are you familiar with our show?”
“No. Just came on a whim.”
“Really? Brave man,” he smiled, and as he gripped my shoulder a little more tightly, he hoisted his left boot onto my armrest, nudging my elbow off. Then he stretched, lifting his arms over his head, and I smelled him for the first time – a rich manly smell coming off his skin and out of his crotch, then a touch of deodorant and armpit coming down from his hairy pits. His hand pressed down on my shoulder as he did this, and, reveling in that touch, I moved my hand onto the instep of his boot and squeezed it.
His naked knee and inner thigh were level with my face. The stretch tensed all his muscles – pecs, six pack, pelvis, and thighs, which moved apart a bit. I turned a little, and could see the thickening of his jock strap where the bottom of the ball pouch was stitched to the ass straps – and not quite covering his perineum between his scrotum and anus. I could actually see – and, I swear, smell – the lower end of his ass crack. The smell wasn’t bad. My gut bucked and my cock stirred and started to harden.
As I sensed him relaxing from his stretch, I dared to bow my head and touch my lips to the toe of the boot. And. . . did I feel that? Did he? Yes, my beard stubble skimmed his shin as my face went down. I glanced up and beheld a half-smile and a quizzical lift of an eyebrow.
I was pretty sure I heard him whisper, “Ah!” as he looked me in the eye, lowered his foot and moved on to the next row of victims.
II.
Once the play got under way, it became clear pretty quickly why David was so active before the show. It had to be the high point of it for him and his exibitionism. He had what can only be described as functional and decorative parts in the play proper. His biggest moment came early on, when, establishing the depravity of the setting, one of the leather girls waltzed across the stage with David, now with a dog’s collar and leash added to his jock and boots, crawling on his hands and knees.
I kept an eye out for him throughout the performance, but didn’t see much of him. He reappeared periodically to move props and sets, danced a lot, sometimes in a niche on the wall, sometimes on stage. No lines or songs, but plenty of movement – more than enough to work up a heavy sweat.
At the end of the show, one of the lead actors made a pitch for the Actors’ Health Fund, a commendable effort to help actors in need of health care. He mentioned that the cast would be at the exit doors with yellow buckets to collect contributions.
I knew David would be one of those collectors. I waited till most of the audience had left, fished a twenty out of my pocket and sought out David and his bucket. Sure enough, pretty much everybody had left, and he was standing there alone, holding out the plastic pail. I walked up to him, with the twenty visible. Also no surprise, a sheen of sweat covered his hard-working body, with a few streams visible down his cheeks and torso. The air around him was permeated by a warm body heat and the aroma of male scent. It struck my lusty imagination that his socks would be soaked with foot sweat.
“Hey, thanks!” he exclaimed, as I held out the twenty.
“Sure. It is a good cause. Listen, if you let me come see you in your dressing room, I will double that contribution.”
He hardly paused, saying, “Mmm. Okay, except around here we call it the undressing room.” He laughed lightly.
“Please don’t do that,” I pleaded, also laughing a little but looking down at his boots so he had to notice.
“I get you. Don’t worry. But give it five or so minutes, so Frankie can get dressed and out.”
I knew it was customary for actors to share dressing rooms, so I wasn’t surprised.
I lingered in the lobby for a few minutes, then made my way backstage. Doors were mostly open and rooms vacant, so when I came to a closed door, I knocked.
“Yeah, come in.” By now I knew David’s voice. I swung open the door, and saw the usual mirrors and chairs, an open door to a darkened, smaller room with the usual toilet and sink, but had to peer around the door to see David and Frankie. They were seated on a small couch, David still in costume, Frankie – now revealed as frame-skirt, though devilishly handsome without the slave mask and ridiculous make up. The beard now looked elegant set off by a purple polo and black jeans.
“I am off,” he said, standing up. “See you later, Bob.”
So my David was ordinary Bob. Bob waved to Frankie, then waved me onto the couch.
I sat, a little trembly, not sure how to proceed, though I knew what I wanted.
While I dithered even about what to say, Bob swung his booted feet onto my lap. I looked at him.
“This okay with you?” he asked.
“Sure, just as you like.” And, emboldened, I squeezed his ankles and, again, lowered my face and kissed – both toes this time, and the laces at the ankles. I breathed in sweaty leather smells.
“Oh, yeah, it is more than okay, isn’t it? You like that, don’t you?” he said, “But what I would like is to have those boots off my hot and sweaty feet.”
I started babbling as I nodded vigorously and started to unlace the boots.
“Yes, sir. Wow, it is my privilege to take off your boots.”
I ran a hand up his leg, to just above the knee as the other undid the lace knots. I looked up and down his body, then in his eyes.
“You have a gorgeous body, you know. I mean, like really perfect, and you are so goodlooking. I mean, I can’t believe how lucky I am.”
“Yeah, I am flawless.” David smirked. “Just wait till you smell my feet.”
In a few minutes, I had undone the knots, loosened a good 10 rows of laces and finally pried the left boot off. A warm rush of air rose into the room and my nose. It was that gamy smell of a man’s sweaty socks and the inside of well-worn leather shoes. I put down the boot, and grasped the wet sock with both hands and massaged the damp fabric. It clung to David’s foot, only giving as I rubbed the stickiness off it and onto my hands. The foot smell started to fill the room.
David sighed, and said softly, “Come on. Get the other one.”
I quickly performed the same service, soon with both socked feet resting just in front of my hardening cock. The soles of the socks were really wet and sticky and I had to keep tugging them from under the toes, where they kept snapping back. Aerating them that way, of course, released more rankness into the now stuffy-seeming room.
“Oh, that feels good. . . What’s your name?”
“Drew.”
“As in Andrew?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll call you Andy.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Because Andy sounds like a boy’s name, and I am thinking you are my boy – my footboy, right?”
“Ummm. Guess that is right. It is embarrassing to admit, but as I said it is like a privilege to take off your boots. And I love this smell.” I bent over and sniffed loud and hard right under the toes. The smell was, to me, fabulous: ripe old leather and male foot sweat, embedded in the cottony sock. It was as wet as the armpits of a T-shirt after mowing the lawn on a hot day.
My nose got saturated with that sweat as it caressed his socks. The socks’ color gradually darkened from the hem to the soles, where they looked more a navy blue now, sodden as they were. I continued to massage his socked feet.
Bob laughed a little. “Yeah, that feels good. Keep on rubbing. A little more pressure there, with your thumbs on my sore arches there, Andy.” I blissfully complied.
“Look, you promised a bigger contribution. So, guess what, you can peel off my socks if you want.”
“Definitely want.” I tugged the socks free a little, where they continued to stick to his flesh, and reached up to the left one’s hem and started to peel it down.
As I got to the ankle, though, Bob, lifted his foot up and said, to my surprise, “Now get your teeth down there under the heel, and use them for the rest of the job. No more hands.”
I tried lowering my face far enough and twisting toward the heel. Awkward.
“Hard to do, sitting here like this,” I stupidly said.
I looked up to see my handsome Master, sweating and virtually naked, with simmering, narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw. He was not smiling. Suddenly this was serious.
“Well, then get down on your knees. That’s where a slave belongs anyway, you know.”
Happy to be more submissive, but a little scared, especially by the word “slave,” I lifted his feet off my lap and knelt facing his smelly socks. I bent my face to them and used my teeth, lips and tongue to gradually undress both his feet. The task required that my entire face slide along the bare skin of his moist sole, from heel to toe, encountering pockets of intense foot odor and sock lint that clung to my nose and lips.
I occasionally glanced up and observed what could only be described as a scornful look on his classic features.
As I got the second sock off, David ordered, in a kind of bark, “Now keep that sock in your mouth for a few minutes. That’s right, get a good grip on the toe of it, work it into your mouth a bit. Really taste it.”
I did. It was incredibly sour and salty. My saliva got going and started washing the salt that had started to dry out of it. I had to swallow what seemed like tablespoon after tablespoon of pure sock sweat.
By now, acknowledging my complete degradation – on my knees, massaging this godlike man’s feet, sucking the sweat out of his socks – my cock was stiff as a board.
“Keep massaging my feet, Andy. I didn’t say stop.”
I did for another ten minutes or so. Long enough that my knees began to ache.
“Now you are going to kiss my feet, Andy. And by kiss I mean long, loving tongue kisses. Got it?”
I nodded. “So take the sock out of your mouth. And take off your pants.”
“Huh?”
“I want to see how much you are enjoying this.”
Of course, I had to take off my shoes first, and I lowered my pants. As I stepped out of them, my raging hard-on uncontrollably popped through the fly of my boxers.
David laughed a little, clapped his hands, then said, kind of lilting, as if addressing a child or a pet, “That’s a good boy, knowing your place in life – takin’ off the sweaty boots, sniffin’ and kissin’ the socks and feet. But you really should cover up that boner in my presence. Use that sock you have been enjoying.”
It was incredibly humiliating to be exposed like this and then have to obey such an odd command, but both facts just made me harder. I scrunched up the sock, then stretched its damp warmth over my straining dick.
“Okay, back to work. On your knees and start kissing.”
I looked at his bare feet – feet worthy of his body. Well-shaped on the whole, nice insteps and arches, a sprinkling of hair on the instep and every toe. I kissed each instep and ran my tongue across the hairs.
Suddenly David spoke. “You know, my toes feel like they are stuck together. They usually are after a show. I have to pry them apart with my fingers. Today that’s your mouth’s job – ease those tootsies apart, slave.”
I leaned in, and yes, I could see lines of black toejam gluing each toe to its neighbor. I could smell it too – an intense version of the sock sweat. David moved both big toes, releasing a flaky black dust and a spike in the smell of foot sweat.
“Come on. Get going. Lick that stuff out of there, Andy. And from between the other toes. Suck ‘em clean so I can move ‘em.”
I knew I had to obey – and actually, I wanted to. I wanted to taste that essence of his body fluids. I lunged my tongue at the space between the big and second toe. The taste was like a kind of truffle – intense in a way nothing else is. The texture was gluey, jammy – hence, I concluded, the term – and not unpleasant, at least to me. I suspected that anyone without a male foot fetish would have found it totally disgusting. Actually, it was disgusting, but that is what gave me the kick – loving that I had to eat this man’s toejam for him. I licked, smelled and tasted, and swallowed. I went down the foot, inserting my tongue at the base of each toe, using my saliva to liquefy the pasty black stuff between each toe, sucking each as I got them apart.
David commented. “Oh, good work. Feels good.”
He flexed the toes as my slurping tongue freed them. I did not need an order to suck each one as it came free. They all shared that salty sour taste, but the length and shape of each one was unique. The big toes yielded a kind of foot juice – a more liquid version of the toejam, but the same essential flavor of sweaty foot.
“Yeah, slave, I like that warm tongue swirling between my toes. Feels great. But now work your way down the sole. Just stick that tongue out and lick down to the heel. Attaboy.”
The sole was, amazingly, still salty with his sweat, and littered with sock lint that my hungry tongue picked up along the way. Each little morsel made its presence – and its gritty taste – felt as I ate it. I licked up and down on each foot.
“Now get the top of your head on those soles, slave,” David ordered. “And dry ‘em with your hair.” It took some acrobatics, I had to kind of crawl onto the couch, but I managed as best I could.
“Yeah, feels nice and soft there, like a Teddy bear – Andy bear – under my feet.”
David decided to turn onto his stomach, and as he did so, his left sole slapped my face.
“Unh,” I involuntarily grunted.
“What’s that? You aren’t complaining, are you?”
As I glanced up to answer, I noticed that there was a little sheet or towel protecting the couch under David’s ass – now under his jock pouch. Made sense, but suddenly I longed to be that scrap of cotton – or at least to be able to plunge my nose into it, to wipe it all over my face and hair.
To be continued…
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