What follows on here is a piece of the continuing saga of my life, to read a section out of order is to lose the thread of my life story. If you have not read the earlier section, please do. I think you may enjoy it!

My dear dad, seared into my mind’s eye, always about 40 years old and sporting that playboy, devil-may-care  style reddish gold moustache. His hair the same colour and forever thick and lustrous. His eyes so blue and full of fun and life. I can still be there, at his socked feet, ready to work my hands all along those delicious size 11’s. Every blessed sculpture perfect inch!

The myriad of colours of those socks he wore was my rainbow of choice, not the one that hung in the sky after a storm. Dad’s feet were my rainbow and most truly my proverbial “pot of gold”. I had to keep my tremulous body shakes to a dull roar and not let on just how this moment each night made me feel. I dare say, losing this delightful bonding time each night, well; it would have left me heartbroken.

Dad, wiggling those worshipped socked toes before me, waited as he read the nightly paper.  My breath in little rasps escaped unnoticed, thank goodness. I moved and began. My head reeling and spinning as the two socked feet I loved melded in perfect harmony a scent of pure intoxication. Underage drinking I never did, underage socks sniffing...guilty as charged! And boy, did I love to get drunk on that vice!

The leather footstool was like an altar and I knelt there before these two “gods”. My knees quaking and my hands reaching out. The two feet were ready for my nightly veneration.

I began with his left foot. I loved all his socks but I think that a certain pair comes to mind more often than others. He had a few light charcoal ones with gold toes that seemed ever so endearing to me.

Why? Well, they were from one of his expensive men’s shops that dad loved and they fit like a second skin, no sags or wrinkles. They were not sheer yet ultra fine, very strong and blessedly...when sweaty, near see-thru. The very pinkness of dad’s feet almost shone thru. The smell of dad’s day at his office combined with this nearly sheer style; it remains a memory I can literally taste.

My small hands moved to the juicy ball of his socked foot. My fingers working at the base of those elegant, wiggling toes. Thumbs rubbing rhythmically, pressing circles around that most pronounced part of the human foot. Working into that little valley between two hills. That’s the way the ball of his foot felt to my young hands. I can still feel it now as I write.

The small sighs and little moans from dad behind his newspaper let me know I was doing well. My goal was to get the jubilant ejaculatory, “Oh, Tony, right there, yes!”

I worked that left foot, deeply inhaling, trying not to faint. Not easy. Moving up from the ball, gripping his lively, strong toes. His big toe, so vivacious and round, I was tempted to bite it. Innocently and playfully, but a primal need to bring mouth to foot was actually growing in me. It would not be born in me for a while yet but the thought, no matter how fleeting, a man’s foot is something one can put in ones mouth. I was not far off from that realisation. My own foot, alone and secretly, would be my first tentative exploratory taste. The salty taste mixed with other never dreamt of flavours, well, I knew if my own foot tasted so appetizing. Than my dear dad’s would be a form of exquisite caviar. But not yet, years to come before I ventured that root. Before I dined on that delicacy.

His toes yielded and moved to my strokes and rhythms. My hands slid down the silky, smooth, moist socked surface. My fingers riding along that high arch. My nose a few mere inches away. Inhaling all the while, growing more intoxicated. The arch and my small fingers had a very curious relationship. This could be relaxing for dad or torture. A little dad torture was pure heaven for me.

Finger nails now bared inward and a jump, a screech and giggles erupt from behind the now shaking newspaper.

“Tony, that tickles. Come on!” he beg.

Wicked me. How I loved to make him squirm. A bit more, the threat of the pulling away of my beloved feet. The promise to be good.

The inner devil smiles and imagines a possible fantasy “cops and robbers” scene with me the little robber and dad the big uniformed cop. Me, gun holding and all powerful. Put your hands up. Dad obeying, his own gun vanishing like mist. The magic of dreams!  Lay down, I snarl. Dad complies. I, the strong but slight robber ties dad’s feet with rope that magically appears in my hands, it always did in my fantasy. The gun pocketed and me in charge by other means. Dad’s shoes gone and me leering at two socked, trembling feet. Dad begging, no! Please no. I laugh and I begin. Dad’s torture has begun and his laughing makes me win. Every belly laugh is the robber winning and the cop succumbing to me and my evil fingers. The smell of dad’s sweaty feet making me tickle harder. Oh, I was such a little devil indeed!

But back to the footstool, my fingers leave the arch and move to the heel. The meaty heel. So much to pummel and work. Dig in and dig in deep. The deeper I worked, the better the, “Oh, yes...yes!”

Dad loved this. And I needed it!

The next foot awaited and I prayed mother would not call “dinner”. Not yet. Please not yet!

Dad relaxes, sips more of his drink, and sighs deeply.

The sound of the newspaper crinkling as he turned the pages echoes still in my head.

Moving to the other foot, leaving one love for another. I connect in the same pattern as earlier. The shapely ball is my first port of call. My fingers now drenched in dad’s manly aromas. The unforgettable scent curling into my nose and into soul where it always loves unto this very day!

Fingers moving sliding along that silky fabric, my eyes looking and seeing that beloved foot flesh peeping thru the thin, tight covering. Knowing who and what lay inside! Early visions of my heaven, my land of bliss!

The race was on. Would mum call or would day shout for joy? The odds were fifty-fifty. And mom won out just as much as dad.

When mum did call, dad dutifully pulled his socked wonders from the footstool and grabbed me playfully in a hug. We’d wander to the dining table in some sort of jumble and playfully wrestle with every step. Dad stepping proudly in those socked feet. No slippers really used. Just his feet striding through our home and christening every floor surface with his manly foot essence.

To say we acted more like to naughty monkeys was an understatement. Mother was always correcting us. We sat in a group. Mum and dad topping the table ends and me plopped dead centre on one side. The game of footsy under the table is seen as an adult seduction tactic. By no means is this correct fully!

I did wear slippers. Mother insisted. I always slipped them off under the dining table. My day before dad arrived home included a bath and change into what we called, “around the house clothes”. Fresh socks after my day in my world were always worn. They were not outdoor socks. They were house socks. An odd assortment of colours and always thin and father mid-calf in length.

My own sense of foot to carpet was ticklish and appealing. I loved to run my socked foot along mother’s various carpets. It was a sensory delight.

But at mealtimes I was the little devil again and risked my mother’s wrath. My socked foot always wormed its way to dad’s toes nearby. Pushing, prodding, nudging and gently exploring my nearby treasures. His warm socked foot and my warm small socked foot, each secretly communing beneath my mother’s nose. She blandly discussing her day, who she saw, who phoned. Boring!

Dad nodded, I ate. The game of foot fun never ceased. The meals were like this and it’s how I lived and how I surveyed the ups and downs of growing up. Feeling dad’s warm socked large toes working against my stubby smaller ones; toe to toe combat under the table. The occasional burst of giggles from me unexplained, mother unaware and wrapped up in her daily mundane recitations. 

Since I was bathed, all I needed for bed was a change to PJ’s. TV was on offer but I preferred a different venue of entertainment. Oh, sure, various 1960’s and 70’s favourites did win out from time to time. I loved enjoying all sorts of TV situations. Handsome men changing out of shoes, well, that always got my attentions. But that was rare and my dad’s after dinner routine was constant and very much inviting.

Mum, dinner over, cleared away plates and loaded the dishwasher. No, she did not want help. Her dishwasher, her way! Best stay elsewhere!

Dad, tired and needing rest, moved upstairs and prepared for his down time. A bath was in his future and I seemed to manage finding my way upstairs with him often. Dad, as in the morning routine, loved help and never discouraged. I was his right-hand guy. And I loved it.

The two men of the family, one behind the other, trudged nightly up the carpet stairway. Daddy first, his big socked feet stepping firmly and making lovely impressions in the nape of the plus carpet. Me, much smaller footed and trying to fit in each of his warm imprints; a game I loved and never tired of.

Once up dad would say, “Tony, no TV tonight?”

I’d nod gravely. “No, nothing good.”

We’d move to the master bedroom and begin the procedure of getting him ready for bath and bed. My eyes fixed on the man I adored and feeling the role of son, helper and friend. Innocent and pure and completely un-sexual. It was just where I wanted to be and felt most at home!

Dad would then begin to strip. My job was to ferry items, including his socks to the clothes basket. The socks were my job to pull off. Ready or not, here I come!

Much more soon!! TonyX