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<Authoritarian, m/m, high school, feet>
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I have a sort of warning note at the beginning of Chapter 20 regarding the contents of this series.
SERVANT TO A SOCCER STUD CHAPTER 21
Time flies when you're having "fun". Chapter 20 left off with the beginning of a ski trip that I've decided not to write more about since it happened so long ago. Needless to say, Brad and Kyle had the time of their lives at Tommy's and my expense -- mine in the form of sexual and servile labor, Tommy's in the form of both labor and money. So much has happened since then, and yet for the most part, the routine between Kyle and me now that Brad and Tommy are back at university has resembled what I've written about in prior chapters. The big news is that Kyle made varsity tennis in the spring to complement his fall varsity soccer jock status.
Not a huge surprise. Brad made varsity baseball by his junior year; Kyle was always better at the more suave tennis. Not that the funk on Kyle's feet was any less potent. You run around a tennis court for 2-3 hours in the sun, and this foot fag is still going to go nuts. I would've cleaned the dirt off baseball cleats, no doubt, the way I clean the dirt off soccer cleats, but the tennis shoes provided more variety and were, in a sense, even sexier. No dirt, no mud, and colorful -- Kyle's current pair was the Yonex Men's Power Cushion Eclipsion 2 tennis shoe in navy and yellow (https://www.tennisexpress.com/YONEX-Mens-Power-Cushion-Eclipsion-2-Tennis-Shoes-Navy-and-Yellow-70843?gclid=EAIaIQobChMIhZTL462K4gIVR0SGCh0t5gpVEAQYAyABEgKUB_D_BwE). When my face gets close to those shoes right after a match, I can feel the pure, unadulterated heat and smell just radiating outward, transferring the intoxicating pheromones right into my brain, heart, and throbbing dick.
I hate it whenever Kyle buys (or, more typical now, when he orders me to buy him) new shoes, because that means for a while I'm smelling new shoe smell more than Jock Kyle smell. The silver lining? Kyle usually let me take home and keep the old pair being replaced. Now, there's nothing like the warmth inside a shoe when a jock first kicks them off. I live for that stinky warmth. It's like a hug from a good friend. But even an old pair retains their funk for quite a while (more so than socks I have found), and alone in the complete privacy of my room, I truly get to make out with those shoes like they were my boyfriend. I mean, picture it, the writhing, the yearning, the lust I have for Kyle's stinky shoes. I'm sniffing, I'm kissing, I'm licking, I'm sucking every inch of those shoes, with the knowledge that since Kyle is not there, I am allowed to get to climax.
We're now approaching Mother's Day, a whole eight months since I became the servant to this soccer stud. I thought about the upcoming celebrations for Mother's Day, then Father's Day. Those celebrations seemed fake at this point. Kyle Peterson was my Daddy, Mommy, Parent, and Guardian. As my sister and I brought our mom breakfast in bed and a card, my mind would be wandering thinking about Kyle and the countless breakfasts in bed I had served him by this point. Of course, breakfasts in bed for Kyle involved far more than breakfast. I would always be eating, too, eating and drinking cock snot, toe jam, pubic hairs, or piss, sometimes all four. Or sucking jock strap juices, soccer sock sweat and lint, or whatever Godly deposits clung to Kyle's glorious underwear. When you're celebrating "Kyle's Day" every fuckin' day like that, "Mother's Day", as I mentioned, seemed pointless.
Ditto for Father's Day. At best we'd get Dad yet another tie, then pretty much forget about the day afterwards. Nothing remotely close to the worship that I bestow upon my real Daddy these days when he comes home from school, a workout, a run, or a night out with his buddies. Nothing remotely close to the ritual I eagerly undertake removing Master Kyle's footwear, then socks, then whatever other article of clothing Kyle was generous enough to let me remove. Each removed article of clothing was lavished by my mouth and nose with an indescribable amount of adoration. And then multiply that by at least 10 and you get to the intensity, effort, passion and desire I devote to the body part of Kyle's from which I had luckily removed said article of clothing. "Father's Day", too, seemed a farce by comparison.
Eight months later, not a single part of me wanted to stop my servitude to Kyle, or any aspect thereof. The verbal insults, the slaps, the kicks, the farts right up my nose -- I continued to crave all of it. Kyle looked hotter than ever, his muscles firmer, his masculinity deeper. Indeed, the only piece of sadness I felt from this state of affairs was that we were already almost done with the school year. With each passing day, the days left for me to worship Kyle became fewer. We'd both be applying to colleges in a few months, and I couldn't imagine being close enough to Kyle then to keep this going. What I didn't realize was that the first major potential hurdle to my servitude wasn't college at all; rather, it was Kyle trying to get a girlfriend.
Gemma Carter was her name. A blonde bombshell. One of the few girls in our school who was at Kyle's level in terms of looks and popularity. Many girls over the past year have tried to get in Kyle's pants, but Kyle usually scoffed. Plus, he had my mouth and hole -- which he could use whenever he wanted with no strings attached. Why put in the effort to get sex when you already get all the sexual pleasure you want from an eager fag? Gemma was not one of the girls who tried to get close to Kyle. But she did notice him, and he her. Kyle didn't want to give up part of the high school experience, especially for someone like him. He should have a high school sweetheart. He felt his rep would be on the line otherwise.
So a few weeks ago, he approached her by her locker. "Hey Gemma," Kyle started. "Oh hey, Kyle," Gemma replied.
"How's cheerleading going?"
"Oh, it's going fine. Too bad we don't cheer at the tennis matches."
Kyle smiled. Gemma knew enough to know Kyle played tennis. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean you can't come see me play sometime...."
Gemma paused. "We'll see. Maybe on one of my off days."
Kyle pressed, "Ok. Let me get your number. Maybe we can hang out sometime."
Kyle was charming enough. Even the un-desperate Gemma couldn't say no to that. So she gave him her number.
A few days passed, and Kyle had a grueling tennis match (but which he still won). The long soccer socks were replaced by sexy-as-hell ankle socks. We were in Kyle's bedroom. He had already made me beg to take off his Yonex tennies while he teased me mercilessly. "Yeah, homo?" he would say, "Why should my perfect feet give your faggot mouth permission to worship them?" Only after repeated variations of me enthusiastically pleading with my Master (to the point of tears in my eyes which, frankly, were genuine) to let me service his unencumbered jock feet did Kyle use the back of my head as the leverage to remove first his right shoe, then his left.
Now that the shoes were off, it was on to begging Kyle to let me remove his socks. Of course, the begging was accompanied by my unabashed inhalation of every molecule of stench on those socks. Only after he was satisfied with the degree of my groveling and effort did he remove his socks. Then Kyle duct taped one sock to cover my eyes. He stuffed the other sock turned inside-out into my mouth and duct taped that. Then at long last, hallelujah, he ordered me to sniff his feet bare. I, as usual, went to town, almost giving myself a nosebleed I was breathing in so hard, loudly and deeply. At the same time, I rolled my tongue thoroughly around the parts of Kyle's sock that it could reach, and sucked and sucked as much of the foot funk out. 45 minutes later, Kyle removed the duct tape over my mouth, pulled out his no-longer-crusty sock, and told me to start "making out" with his bare feet, "you stupid fuckin' faggot".
Again, I dove in and kissed, licked, sucked, massaged, and made mouth love to those size 11.5 beauties. Kyle's teasing did not stop. He'd periodically move the foot I was kissing away just out of my reach. I learned that my response to that move was decidedly not to start worshipping the other foot which was still well within reach. Rather, my job was to help Kyle get a kick out of his teasing, so I would have to beg to have the first foot back in my mouth, while I tried to reach for it (but purposely not far enough to actually make contact). Think about how many hours I have now been at Kyle's feet. I had long figured out the ways to maximize Kyle's pleasure -- not only in the purely physical ways, but also in a deep-seated psychological way. Again, only after Kyle was satisfied (or if his foot got tired) did he re-extend it back to place, not without first kicking my head or rubbing it against my face. I would then thank the returning foot directly and profusely for its generosity in letting me French kiss it again.
"So, cumwad," Kyle resumed as I was mid-slurp on his left sole, "You know Gemma Carter in our grade? Of course you do. Anyway, I texted her yesterday to hang out and she hasn't texted me back."
I got instantly jealous but mustered, "It's her loss, Master Kyle. She should be tripping over herself to spend time with you."
"I guess so. Most girls do that with me. But they're not in Gemma's league, ya know? A stud like me should have a worthy babe, don't ya think, fag?"
"Maybe she's not worthy...."
That caused Master Kyle to give me a swift kick to the face.
"What did you say, you dumb fuck?" Kyle roared.
I cowered in fear but rushed to apologize to the kicking foot. "I'm so sorry for hurting you with my face, Master Kyle's foot. Please forgive me, Master. All I meant was you are a God to me, and so no one can ever be worthy of you, Master."
Kyle replied, "Don't project your status onto other people, fuckface. Yes, you're obviously not worthy of even my sock lint. But most of my soccer and tennis teammates have girlfriends, and the only reason I don't have one is because I have you to serve all my sexual needs. But that's affecting my rep. Obviously you don't understand, bitch."
Even though I feared this might upset him more, my desire to have Kyle all to myself overpowered my rational mind, and I said, "But why go through all that, Master? I'm here to suck your cock, eat your cum, stick my tongue up your ass to make you feel good, kiss your stud feet over and over and over again -- all for nothing in return. Everyone in school already knows you can get any girl you want. You don't have anything to prove, Master."
Kyle glared at me and ordered, "Get your face up here, fag." I knew what was coming. Kyle sat up and slapped me hard on the face and upside the head for the next 5 minutes. Then he kicked me backwards so that I fell right off his bed.
"That's for contradicting me, shit stain. And for thinking I give a shit about a foot fag's opinion. You're here to be a sexual object, not to use your brain. You have no brain, fuck wad."
"Yes, Master," I answered as I returned to worshipping Kyle's feet.
As if Kyle could control the world, all of a sudden his phone got an incoming text. It was Gemma. She said she could go to the mall in about an hour. Kyle cheered out loud, while I groaned on the inside.
"Blow me now, faggot," Kyle ordered. "Make it quick. I gotta shower and meet Gemma."
I crawled upwards on Kyle's bed as I had done countless times now, wrapped my lips around Master Kyle's beautiful eight inches, and did my usual yeoman's work. When Kyle was in a rush, his hands gripped my head and pushed me down at whatever pace he wanted. After all these months, I had pretty much lost my gag reflex. However intensely Kyle thrust his hard pole, however fast or slow he was doing it, I handled expertly at this point. After all, my mouth and throat didn't belong to me; they belonged to Kyle. And, Kyle was going to cum whenever he wanted to, often without prior warning. If he came in my mouth, I was to hold it in my mouth until he gave me permission to swallow. If he came down my throat, then, well, the swallowing happened automatically. Today, it was the latter. All of a sudden, without warning, the back of my throat could feel a torrent of warm goo coating it thoroughly, flooding my taste buds with the deliciousness of Kyle's man juice. I counted seven cum shots while Kyle grunted in pleasure. I figured Kyle knew he wasn't going to get into Gemma's pants today, so he wanted to relieve his pent up sex drive. Relaxed and cool Kyle would have a better shot of charming Gemma into submission.
When Master was finished, he ordered me to "get the fuck out of" his house, "you stupid piece of shit".
My afternoon with Kyle cut short, I sadly exited his bedroom. Was I going to see Kyle less now? Would Gemma find out about me? (To this point, Brad and Tommy were still the only other people "in the know".) Tommy had told me about servicing Brad while a girl was there. I had long prayed that that would never happen with me and Kyle. Was that going to change now? Was I going to be sucking Kyle's cock while he was kissing Gemma? Was I going to be kissing Kyle's feet while he fucked Gemma? Would I have to suck Kyle's cum out of Gemma's pussy the way Tommy had to do with one of Brad's girls? I shuddered in disgust. I did not like where any of these thoughts were going.
For now though, I rushed home and came almost immediately with Kyle's foot sweat still on my face, his foot stink still in my nostrils, and remnants of his cum still tasty in my mouth. God, I am so fuckin' in love with this perfect hottie.
TO BE CONTINUED ...