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<Authoritarian, m/m, high school, feet>
SERVANT TO A SOCCER STUD CHAPTER 30
The coronavirus pandemic has affected the world, as it has affected our teenage lives in my Virginia suburb. You may have read stories about high school seniors missing out on a ton of things as a result. Well, we are one of those high schools. No classes, no prom, no senior-year parties, and maybe not even graduation. And yes, at this point, both Kyle and I know where we will each be headed for college, but let me save that revelation for a later chapter....
For now, it is a new world. Never in a million years did I think our senior year would end like this. In the last chapter, I was writing about Tommy's and my last worship session of Master Kyle before his big soccer championship, and I had planned to write what happened the day of the game and the night that followed. That was in November -- truly feels like a million years ago.
Long story short, Kyle concocted this big scheme to make Tommy think they had lost the game, and I had to pretend they lost even after I found out they won. That night, Kyle beat the shit out of both of us, claiming that we were the ones that fucked up his soccer season. Our mouths didn't suck his cock passionately enough, our lips didn't kiss his feet tenderly enough, our tongues didn't rim his hole eagerly enough. We were made to apologize for our fuck up, beg profusely for forgiveness, take his kicks and beatings (sneaker bottom to the head, damp and stinky soccer sock across the face, belt as a whip pretty much everywhere else, and hard punches from Kyle's beautifully masculine jock fist), on top of us being ordered to slap ourselves and each other repeatedly in the face as punishment. (The idea with the self-slap was, when Kyle's own fists or soles got tired of making contact with our useless heads and faces, then we would exert the energy to keep up our punishments.) Kyle was drunk the entire time he punished us (since he had already spent the evening celebrating with his buddies on the big win, and I drove him home), and drunk Kyle let out his pretend-anger even more harshly.
"You stupid fuckin' faggots", Kyle would spew. "You worthless pieces of shit cost us the game!" All the while, I knew that Kyle and his team dominated, that this was all a charade Kyle used to boost his own amusement, but I obviously played along. Tommy was genuinely scared, but had no trouble keeping up, either, given the frequency and intensity of the beatings he had long been receiving from Brad.
After an hour of this post-game game, Gemma showed up. Kyle sat back, still drunk and hard as a rock. As you can expect, the beatings were intertwined with Kyle playing with himself, one or both of Tommy and me making mouth love to some body part of Kyle's while some hard, pain-inducing object forcefully struck our head, neck, back, face, or wherever else Kyle decided was appropriate. Kyle's hard cock was quite wet at this point, with both our saliva and his pre-jizz. (Unsurprisingly, we were hard as well. Our submissive homo lust for this stud made our dicks scream to please him, perhaps even more so when the source of his pleasure was the exercise of his unlimited power and abuse over us.) Kyle had long shed all this clothes (it was warm in the house, and the alcohol made Kyle warmer).
"Hey baby," Gemma cooed. "Looks like you're having a good time with the boys."
"Yeah, I'm having a good time," Kyle replied absent-mindedly. "The 'boys' -- you mean these two creampuffs? Don't think they're having much fun, are ya, cumwads?"
"Being beaten by you is very fun for us, as long as it's fun for you, God," I quickly replied.
"Aww," Gemma said. "Why you beatin' on them, huh, babe? Did they make you mad? Connor, you must've done somethin' real stupid to make Kyle mad after they won their big game!"
I figured with Gemma saying that, I could let the cat out of the bag, but please pay close attention to how I did it. A normal person, even in my state, would reflexively defend himself with something like, "I know, but Kyle wanted me to pretend that they lost the game, and Kyle's just pretending to be mad." But Kyle had literally beaten all the defensiveness out of me. Instead, I replied, "You're right, Gemma, I fucked up. I'm a dumb faggot. I ruined Kyle's mood which you would think impossible after his big, studly, dominating victory today. See what a fuck up I am? Master Kyle, I am so sorry for upsetting you." As I said those words, I rushed to plant deep, worshipful kisses all over Kyle's still very smelly feet. Kyle didn't miss a beat, and kicked my face to the side like trash.
"Yeah, fuckface. Anyway, Gemma, good thing you're here now, cause you'll make it all better. Get over here." All the meanwhile, no one gave a thought to what Tommy must have been thinking. This whole time, he was being punished for nothing. Kyle had won the game. Everything Kyle said about our deficient worshipping causing him to lose was total BS. Instead of getting rewarded for giving Kyle so much sexual pleasure, heaping onto him so much endless praise to boost his ego, waiting on him hand and foot for the past two days, etc., Kyle slapped, kicked and beat us to his heart's content based on totally false pretenses. And yes, of course Kyle could have done all those things anyway, but the point is: it's all about Kyle and whatever Kyle wants. He couldn't control my knowledge of whether his soccer team actually won the game because I was his classmate with the same group of friends. But dishing out only physical pain on Tommy was not sufficiently fun; making Tommy feel doubly bad and guilty for Kyle's (pretend) loss added a level of psychological torture. And with the announcement of the truth, why would anyone -- me, Gemma, much less Kyle himself -- offer one word of additional explanation to Tommy? No, Tommy was expected to immediately understand the trick Kyle played on him, accept it, be glad to receive it, and move on.
Except Kyle was not done and decided to surprise Tommy even more with just how clever Kyle is. "Well, faggot?" he said glaring at the poor guy while Gemma was taking off all her clothes. "You're not gonna congratulate me for tricking the hell out of you?"
It was an impossible situation for Tommy. The way I answered Gemma's question was to avoid telling Gemma the truth. It was the proper response because it avoided blaming Kyle for anything, and gave me an opening to pour more heartfelt apologies toward Kyle. So Tommy could reasonably assume that he should simply keep his own mouth shut to keep Gemma in the dark about the plan Kyle executed to perfection. But just because I did the right thing did not mean Kyle had to stick with the same story. After all, he was in charge; it's not like he could get in any kind of trouble with Gemma. Tommy should have known that, and probably would have had his entire body not been battered and bruised for the past hour. Tommy should have immediately, upon realizing the ingenuity of Kyle's scheme, said some string of glorification to boost Kyle's ego even more.
It was probably too late, now that Kyle had to remind Tommy, but Tommy obviously tried to mend his error, stuttering and stammering the following: "Oh yes, God, of course. I was too stunned, um, speechless by your creativity, your brilliance, your absolute GENIUS . . . to say anything right away. Plus, I'm a gay retard, so I am slow. Please forgive me, Master. I get it now. Your team won the game under your glorious leadership, of course. I should have known. I'm so sorry for ever doubting you. Duh! Of course your team won. You were their captain. All your teammates should be kissing your feet, but Connor and I are the only ones lucky enough to do it. So thank you for getting amusement out of punishing me by pretending you had lost. Thank you so, so, so much, God." Throughout that extended congratulations and apology, Tommy planted deep French kisses on Kyle's size 11.5 left foot while I continued to lavish mouth love on Kyle's right foot.
Kyle would surprise us again: he didn't extend his punishment of Tommy, for two reasons. One, he was ready to fuck Gemma. Two, Tommy more than made up for not verbalizing instantly. Tommy's unanticipated addition of why he should not have fallen for the trick all along -- because there was no way Kyle's team could have lost -- was solid. Kyle was satisfied with that answer enough to forgive Tommy's initial transgression. For her part, Gemma probably understand what happened, but she and we could all tell that Kyle was ready to move on.
Hard wet cock into soft wet pussy. The way God intended. And this sex God named Kyle Peterson was ready to make it happen. No condom this time; let's hope his confidence about her birth control pills was warranted. Doggy style. Gemma on bed, Kyle standing at foot of bed, sometimes with one foot on the bed to better position his pussy piston. Tommy lay on his back on the bed beneath Gemma, with his arms wrapped around her bent legs and more importantly with his face right under Kyle's crotch and his tongue licking Kyle's balls or shaft. As Master Kyle pulled in and out of Gemma, Tommy's tongue added sensation and lubrication. Master Kyle also alternated between Gemma's pussy and Tommy's mouth, pointing up when he wanted pussy and pointed down when he wanted blow job. And me? You know where I was. Buried deep in the crevice of Kyle's ass.
Two guys, a girl, and a soccer stud. That's how we and Gemma -- three live human beings -- provided another 20 minutes of prolonged maximum pleasure to this unbelievably hot jock God after he was already on an emotional high winning the County Championships with his jock buds who all looked up to him. Kyle's cum that night ended up in Gemma because he wanted that night to be special. Neither Tommy nor I guzzled it back out of her that night. She also stayed the night, with Tommy and me at our usual position making out with Kyle's feet. Since he was obviously taller than she was, her feet did not get in the way. So while he made out with her to sleep, we made out with his feet before we also fell asleep. The next morning, Tommy went back to school, with Brad waiting "patiently" for his slave to return.
By Christmas, Gemma and Kyle had broken up. Brad and Tommy returned home for Christmas break, with Tommy and I ordered to "console" Kyle over the break-up. In truth, Kyle needed no consolation (he dumped her, of course). Tommy paid for another ski trip, and Brad and Kyle again had their fun with us.
January and February were uneventful, meaning that with soccer season over and Gemma out of the picture, Master Kyle and I entered into a familiar, almost comfortable pattern of servitude by me of him. Plenty of sexual services, of course, but Kyle also made me do more non-sexual chores, from laundry and room cleaning to shopping and cooking. Kyle asked for back massages more often, too, and he didn't stop me when I would sneak in some kisses of his back -- the first time I was ever allowed to touch him above the waist, much less with my mouth. It was quite an accomplishment for me, since it took almost two years for him to let me do that. And, as I alluded to earlier, we both found out which colleges we were going to attend. Obviously, we had many discussions about how our lives would move forward after graduation. As I said, I will write about that weighty topic soon enough.
March changed everything. Since he and I were basically "together" at this point, we decided social distancing would not apply to the two of us. So with the both of us home all day long, I was only getting to guzzle down more and more buckets and buckets of Kyle's precious, delicious, creamy cum. More on those fun times in the next chapter.
TO BE CONTINUED ...