Chapter 1:
It was always Harry’s dream to be under the disgusting feet of an attractive guy, but up until recently, fate deemed it not to be. He fantasised about licking the smelly soles of a sexy man, tasting, and gulping down the salty sweat. He lived in a small-town, and to his knowledge, no-one could provide that ‘service’ to him. Because of that sad truth, he let that part of himself slowly wither away like winter leaves. He fell in love with his partner Sam, and together they moved into a small flat at the far end of the town, by the escarpment.
However, luck was upon him. Despite giving up his fetish when he got into a relationship, and was steadfast that he wouldn’t even think about another person’s foot – making sure to keep his head facing the clouds during sandal season, he still took leisurely strolls through ‘footdom’ twitter. In his mind, he spent hours there, eyeing up feet, licking them in his head, smelling them, and before he knew it, he was another tissue down in the dwindling box and five minutes had barely passed. On one of his ‘timely’ excursions to that side of the internet, he found something really interesting afoot, and a lightbulb shot up in his head…and somewhere else. He saw that a new Foot Master had pitched up in his neck of the woods. Well not in his neck of the woods, more like on the far end of the province, but still not too far away. His username was AlphaRickyXXX – an expat master from the UK, who’s arrived in Canada to ‘take what was his.’
Harry immediately pinged him a message, and within a few hours so did Ricky. They had a swift, but hot (for Harry) conversation that transpired similarly to this:
*Harry: Hey Sir, your feet are really hot. Dying to lick them ngl They stinky?
Ricky: Fucking reek CA$$HAP?
Harry: On it now Master.
Ricky: Good.
Harry: Sent Sir.
Ricky: It’s enough, but you could send another 100 next time.*
Harry realized the opportunity on his hands and took a few minutes before thinking of a reply.
*Ricky: Where R U?
Harry: Sorry Sir. I saw that were in the same Province. Would you be up for a real time meet?
Harry: I can hand you the cash irl.*
The mention of cold hard cash made Ricky smile and they organized a meet up. It was meticulously planned – Sam would be away on business, Harry wouldn’t have work that week, and Ricky was getting paid so that meant he was available.
(That's Ricky)
Harry practically gleamed with glee and delight after setting up this sojourn with an attractive member of the stinky footed sex. His poor partner Sam thought it had something to do with them. Ever since they got together, the relationship was hardly tender, eating a bargain bucket was more passionate for them than sex with the lights on. But Sam thought change was afoot in the relationship (they weren’t wrong!)
Thinking a spark was being reignited, Sam decided to rearrange the business trip and surprise Harry with a romantic getaway. On the downstairs computer, tickets to San Francisco was being booked. Meanwhile, in the upstairs room, Harry was booking his own holiday.
The day had finally come, and so did Harry. He re-read the short back-and-forth between him and Ricky constantly, finding it hotter each and every time.
He came out of his hovel to see Sam smiling at him. Sam was ready to leave (wink wink) and Harry kissed them goodbye. Little did Harry know that Sam was going to arrive home at a time of climatic action.
Once Sam was gone, Harry texted Ricky, and he was on his way. The moment he had been waiting for felt ever so close.
A thunderous knock on the door and there he was. Ricky bulldozed his way in like a bull in a China Shop. The door was slammed off its hinges behind him.
“On your knees!” He half-shouted. Harry collapsed to the floor and was ordered to take off his thick work boots. “Been wearing these for 3 and a half weeks mate, they fucking stink! Go on, take them off and have a nice deep whiff.”
Harry pulled them off like he was coveting the holy grail, but once the work boots were off, and they plopped to the floor, he had just realized that Pandora’s box was open. And it would never close again.
The smell of Ricky’s feet trapped in thick black socks filled the room, and the stench travelled out of his boots like a haze of green mist that was thick as starch and humid as a swamp. The smell emanating from his feet was reminiscent of the strongest malt vinegar that was used to pickle boiled eggs and to curdle cheese and sour cream. It was bitter and had foul overtones. Harry gagged and could feel his nose shrivelling inwards. Talk about an anti-climax. His fetish dissipated like a footprint in heavy snow.
(Ricky's smelly socks)
“Well go on, take the other off and give them a sniff.” Ricky ordered, bemused as to why Harry was stunned. All he could think was that his feet must’ve hypnotised him.
After a few minutes, Harry stood up, and profusely apologised to Ricky. He just realized that he lacked a foot fetish and thanked Ricky for his time, and asked him to leave.
“You what mate?” Ricky asked. “You’re saying that my feet are that bad that they have destroyed your kink? God that’s hilarious. I’m sorry about that!” He laughed, finding this whole charade hilarious. He knew that once he had left, he was going to trademark that. He’d have a notice on his twitter bio declaring that his feet are so smelly, that they are even toxic to foot fetishists. Dm at your own risk.
Ricky was going to get the 100 he was paid for and leave. However, Harry wasn’t having it. In his opinion, because as a client, he wasn’t happy, he shouldn’t have to pay. He likened it to being a customer at a restaurant, getting a refund because he didn’t like the food.
“It’s not fucking Tim Hortons mate. You don’t just dip in and out because you don’t fancy the chips. We agreed on the money. I spent hours getting here. You can’t just back out cos you can’t handle the stench of a real man.” Ricky yelled at the top of his lungs, enraged, and confounded in equal measure.
Harry wouldn’t budge and Ricky realized. He declared that he won’t be leaving till he has his money.
“If you don’t leave within 10 seconds, I’ll call the cops. Say you blackmailed me.” Harry retorted. By saying this, he could feel himself growing a couple of inches, but from Ricky’s point of view, poor Harry looked even smaller and pitiful than before.
Ricky spent the next 10 seconds laughing in his face, drops of spittle hitting Harry.
Harry ran over to the landline and began to dial. Ricky jumped after him and caught up – the call had already gone through. Before Harry could plead his case to the operator, Ricky clamped his massive clammy hand over Harry’s mouth, pressing down tightly, not a breath could get past his grip. Ricky smiled and put on a sort of customer service style contralto before speaking.
(Ricky handgagging Harry)
“Oh sorry love. I dialled the wrong number. I’m new to Canada, and I’m still figuring out how the numbers work, haha yeah….I was actually…umm…trying to phone up The local Chinese. You know the one – …’Wok’s for Dinner’? Yeah I’m starving…jetlag and everything (mpghhh!!!) Oh sorry that was my stomach. I know, it’s grumbling to high heaven. I should go. Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Bye!” Ricky hanged up the phone and threw it into the wall, smashing it into smithereens. “Don’t try that shit with me,” He shouted at Harry who could only garble words into the tight embrace of Ricky’s hand.
Ricky walked Harry to the kitchen, one hand over his pathetic mouth, the other twisting his arm till it burned. Harry tried to use his free arm to claw Ricky away, but Ricky used his elbow to push him off.
“Inside the kitchen,” Ricky threatened him to not scream. But as soon as the hand was moved off his mouth, Harry’s voice shot out like a gatling gun.
“HELPPPP!” He shouted out as if Ricky was about to murder him. He suddenly got himself loose and tried to escape. Ricky chased him down till they met at a junction between Harry and the door: the sofa. The two men paced around it like they were in Scooby Do, going round in circles like dogs in heat. Eventually, Ricky thought fuck this. He picked up one of his steel capped boots, and flung it at Harry’s face.
Harry saw a flying saucer hit him in the face, then black, then the sound of static. He woke up duct taped to a chair, practically sewn into it. Before he could scream, he realised that rolls and rolls and rolls of black duct tape was attached to his face, mummifying his mouth into a permanent state of silence. He looked around the room, still shaky from the assault. Where was Ricky?
(Harry bound and gagged)
Ricky faded into view, coming into the living room from the kitchen, doing a sarcastic dance whilst holding a plate of cereal. “Ohh look who’s awakkeee!” He clattered his jeering tone at Harry. “If only you paid me, you wouldn’t be in this mess. Aww, Anything to say?” He asked with a mock sad face and slapped on sympathy.
(Ricky's mocking face)
Ricky slumped down on to the sofa, pressing the TV remote, as if nothing was wrong.
“MPGHHHHHHHHH!” Harry began to protest. Before he could attempt to get out another syllable, Ricky shushed him. Ricky wanted to watch the TV in silence, and that was what he was going to do.
If anything couldn’t get any worse, the doorbell rang, and both men felt a feeling of ‘Oh Shit’ sink into their faces…
(Hey I hope you all liked this. This is a spin off to the story 'A Birthday to Remember' but can be read as a standalone. Chapter 2 coming soon!)
@bondagefreak @socjuc @Sockgaggedman @squirrel @Socksbound @Msueta@2 @Pup Wingletang @sock slave boy @4toes @thespy @Red86 @that1kid13 @Guardianbound @Tomat0skins @Pup @Stormee @OrdinaryWorld @Wedgieboy69 @Bradstick
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