by Mr. Jersey
Mark and I were always brotherly rivals.
From when we were little we always fought. I used to torture him. I used to throw sand in his eyes, trip him when he walked, throw things at him and and even step on him with my foot. He’s two years younger, and was too small to fight me back. Mother left us when we were that little, and so we only started to fight more often. Our dad’s girlfriends would all just watch, never really caring. Dad was a 6’5” very conservative-minded businessman. He felt that fighting was good for us, it built character and made us men.
Growing up we certainly became different people. I had social problems in school and quickly became more introverted. Mark on the other hand made many friends, many from his baseball team he loved to play on. He’d always have his friends over and go to their house. I started to hate for having so many friends, while I spent a lot of time in my room. My dad started to really give more attention to Mark, and less attention to me. Mark was the son Dad always talked about, I was the son who did more of the laundry and chores. “Because I was older,” dad would say. Mark used to smirk at me knowing he was the favorite, and it would infuriate me with rage.
By my senior year of high school, Mark and I were opposites as people. We barely even spoke to each other. I was a lanky, 6’1” kid with red, curly hair and glasses who spent most of his time playing music in his room with his occasional one friend. Mark, only a sophomore, 5’10”, was already such a personality, the class clown everyone loved, the class president therefore, a great baseball player, had a girlfriend, was very popular. Mark and my dad always spent time together, playing catch, going fishing, they were friends. My dad never acknowledged me. That fall I was given the Senior Award of Best Musician in my graduating class. I was ecstatic because I knew it would help my chances of getting into the music school in New York I had always dreamed of going to, and that it was an opportunity to my dad to acknowledge me. When dad came home I went up to him and showed him the award. “Oh that’s great son,” he briefly looked at it.
Immediately Mark had come back, winning his baseball game. Dad got out of his chair ecstatic. I was forgotten again.
The winter came around and I began to become more depressed. Sick of school, sick of my family, I was so ready to just go to college and restart my life. I was done being the second child, the chore-doer. Dad saw my change, and thought that the best way to fix it was more discipline, so I only did more chores. He told me he hard work would change my attitude. Dad assigned me to do more housework, clean our house more often, do everyone’s laundry unless I wasn’t around for a while, even iron Dad’s shirts and polish his dress shoes. Mark had his share of chores, it was just a very small share.
My chores became a more daily routine, a structure Dad felt would help me keep occupied from negative thoughts. He would come home and I would put his coat and briefcase away. I would iron his shirt or polish his shoes depending on the day. He became so accustomed to it that he later would just sit on the couch as soon as he put his coat and briefcase down, and make me unlace and take off his dress shoes. I hated doing it because his feet usually smelled after the long day. I might normally find that hot, but it was a little weird since he was my Dad, and I knew better than to speak up about a smell, something I’m expected to ‘be a man’ about. There was even a day when he came home tired enough that he asked Mark, who was beside him, to rub his feet. I overheard Mark from far away, “ew, Dad.” “You’re right…” and then he proceeded to call me. Unlike Mark, I don’t have a choice to ever speak back to him. It was the first of a few times my hands would rub his sweaty black socked feet after work. Mark used to silently laugh to see me at my Dad’s 15s.
Mark became so cocky to me, seeing the way Dad treated me, he knew he was so much better. There was one weekend in the middle of the spring. He got back from baseball practice around two in the afternoon. He usually went to his girlfriends afterward, but she was away for the weekend. Mark was sitting on the couch with his sneakers up on a stool, watching TV. He took his t-shirt off, and showed off his toned body like he loved to do. I was doing the week’s laundry before Dad got back home.
“Hey bro,” Mark called out. He never called me ‘bro’. I just looked at him. “Throw this in there.” He tossed me the t-shirt he had to his side. It landed in the edge of the basket. As I came back toward the den I noticed he had been tapping his sneakers together, getting dirt on the floor I had just cleaned beforehand. I told him to stop it and take his sneakers off. He had the nerve to say he was too tired, and that I should do it. “But, you always take off Dad’s shoes.”
He kept kicking his shoes together, ignoring what I said. I realized that if I didn’t have that floor cleaned like Dad asked…I went over and knelt to take his shoes off. He wasn’t wearing socks. I don’t know how he was comfortable at practice with no socks. Then his feet, his feet, were so smelly and sweaty, almost as bad as Dad’s. He wiggled and crossed his feet. I hadn’t realized how big his feet were. For being shorter than me, his feet were definitely bigger. I looked in the shoe, ’13’. I only wore an 11.
He then kicked the back of my head with one of them, pushing me toward the ground. “Stop looking at my shoe, queer.” He then laughed in his class clown school-boy laugh that everyone just seemed to love. I threw his shoes towards the rack near the front door. I looked at him with anger for kicking me. He saw my anger, then he pushed his stool aside and got up. He nearly jumped on top of my face, pushing it to the ground with flat of his foot. The back of my head being crushed on the floor, I pleaded him to stop the trample, to stop the pain and from getting my face wet from his feet so sweaty and smelly from baseball practice without socks. “Yeah, big bro…” he taunted, “I know you like that. I know you’re a fag,” he laughed. He pushed harder.
“STOP!” It really really hurt, I was almost scared.
“Kiss it.” I hesitated. “KISS IT!” I kissed it and told him to please take it off in a soft cry. He took his foot off and laughed like it was all a comedy routine, then walked away, shaking his head in pity.
I couldn’t understand why. I couldn’t understand how that moment, combined with being increasingly familiar with my father’s feet, got me so hot. Later that night I got off to thinking about being at my dad and brother’s feet, and then felt immediately scared and guilty about it.
It was a few weeks later. A few weeks later of chores, a few weeks later of massaging Dad’s feet. We were out to a dinner with extended family. Mark hit a grand slam that won the game, sending the team into the playoffs. He became the MVP of the regular seasons for it. We were out to dinner. Everyone was saying the usual, how great Mark is, how smart and funny, good character, witty and a great ball player. I was quiet, hating it all, thinking so hard about the letter hearing back from NYU music that should come any day now. I told my family that I’d hear back soon. “Oh Good…” my aunt said, “Now Mark! Tell us about your girlfriend!”
I was doing laundry that night and had a really bad feeling just thinking about how I can never seem to live up to my brother. Sure, he’s smart. Sure, he’s a great player. Sure, he also applied to NYU, just for a summer program. But, I have my own worth? Do I not? I softly cried. I went up to Mark’s room to deliver his clothes. He wasn’t supposed to be home. He was at his desk, facing away from me, reading an email. He held a piece of mail up, “This is for you, I accidentally opened.” I was reading Mark’s email. He was accepted into the summer school program. I then looked at my letter, also from NYU. My heart dropped. I had to sit on his bed. I slowly took the letter out.
Dear Applicant,
We would like to thank you for your application and your interest in pursuing your future with NYU’s school of music! After reviewing your credentials and qualifications, we are sorry to inform you that we cannot admit you at this time. Please enjoy to apply again in the future!
I must have zombified.
“I’m sorry bro,” he then looked at me. “I’ll be happy to tell you all about New York.” he smirked.
I couldn’t even fight. I had such jealousy, envy and hate, but so, so much defeat. I felt a sense of melting. Then it actually happened. I slipped off the bed and fell into a kneel, hands to my face I softly cried. I only applied to this school. It was the only application I could afford. My only options now was community school, here at home.
“It’s alright. I’m sure there’s a purpose for you.”
I don’t know what came over me. I looked down, I couldn’t bare to look at his face, it hurt too much. All I could look at was his feet. He sat in his chair, his strong legs leading down his big feet, black socks, their soles pressed against the legs of the chair. All I saw was him wiggling and moving his feet, his feet, my brothers feet, the feet of my brother who has always been so much better than me, the real man of this family. I don’t know what came over me, I bowed my head into feet. He then moved his feet, softly rubbing them against my face. I kissed each one. “That a boy,” he told me. I lowered m head down against the floor. He continued to rub his feet all around my face like some serpentine claiming his prey. I looked my nose into his nose and began to smell them. They smelled like hot boy feet after a long day. I smelled, I smelled some more. I could hear myself smelling. The louder I got, the harder Mark put pressure onto my face. This happened for a few more minutres.
Mark got up from his rolling desk chair and moved over to a still chair. He pulled over a stool and placed his feet on. He looked at me. I crawled over to his feet, held up before me like something I needed to respect. He took his socks off, and I dug my face in his sweaty bare feet as he mushed them on my face. “Good boy,” he started to laugh. “Hahahaha” he lost it. The class clown laugh he was so famous for. “Hahahaha,” he went on, “look at this, my brother at my feet,” as he mushed them around my face. I could feel the sweat making damp, smelly marks on my face. “Tell me you love my feet.”
“I love your feet.” He started cracking up, losing the grip he had on my face from his laughter. I knelt in to keep as close to his feet as I can. He calmed down with a long sigh, returning to look at me. He held one foot in front of my face, arching it back to see me push my nose up and in his toes. He just looked at me, his failure of a rival brother at his feet. I kissed the foot, I wanted to. “Such a good fag,” he told me calmly. He had a fixed gaze on me, a fixed gaze of satisfaction, not quite a face of ‘I win’, but a face of ‘finally.’ He brought his other feet back up onto the stool, holding them together and pushing into my face, grabbing my forehead with his toes. They were still sweaty enough to feel the hot dampness on my face. I was silent and motionless buried in my brother’s feet.
“Lick my feet.” he told me. I nuzzled my nose up, saw his face through his toes, saw him smirk. Now he felt victorious. Now he knew he was king. Afraid to look at him dead and the eye, I ducked my head down and took out my tongue and slabbed up his feet, licking up and down in rows across his two feet. He fed me his toes, feeding some of the sock lint and other grime he picked up during the day. I tasted the dead skin between his toes, cleaning it up. He wiggled his toes on my tongue, trying to get my tongue in and out of as many toes as he could.
“Yeah, lick my feet, bro.” He then started to stroke his cock, while feeding me his feet and toes.
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It was about a week later. We hadn’t spoken about that moment again. It almost felt like it didn’t happen. Dad was working late one night, which would mean that Mark would have some of his friends over.
I was hanging out in my room, I had played some music, thought about watching porn but wanted to really eat instead. I made my way toward the kitchen.
“Come here.” Mark was in the living room with two of his friends. I walked into the den. They were all sitting on the couch, their feet up on stools. They all had their sneakers on. You already know what happens next. Mark leaned in and spoke to me “So, I’ve been telling my teammates how we’ve gotten a little closer recently. They thought it was a really nice thing so they want to hang out with us too.” Mark leaned back, arms behind his head. He wiggled his sneakers and glared at me, then at his sneakers to point to them.
I was humiliated beyond my life. I slowly came, full of embarrassment, to kneel before the stool my brother had his sneakers on. He continued to softly smirk, chew his gum, and watch me unlace his sneakers.He held each sneaker up after I untied them to direct me to pull it off. His sneakers fell to the side when he firmly held his heels onto the stool. He was wearing long, black, athletic socks, the ones that reach up your calves. His big feet had a nice stench, his toes popped from the tightness of the socks. He wasn’t waiting anymore. I lowered my head into his feet. He angled them into my face, clenching me in as I took a large inhale, and proceeded to continue to smell his feet.
His bros burst into laughter in such disbelief that some faggot of a brother would dig himself in his little brother’s feet.
“C’mon, kiss ‘em boy,” he told me. I started to kiss around his feet as he moved them around, sure to feet all parts of his feet to my lips.”Yup, he’s a great brother,” he told his friends.
“Yo, I wanna give it a try!”
“Go at it! Go over to Jack,” Mark gave me up to his friend beside him. He must’ve been about 6’4 and at least 250 pounds. He was a big dude, deep voice, the type that would beat up anyone.
“Yeah dude!” he didn’t even wait for me to take them off for him. He kicked off his vans and I got a great view of these massively wide, flat feet, also in long black socks.
“Show him what you do.” Mark ordered me. He clearly expected to show his friends something. I looked into the new big feet in front of me and was fast to dig in. I even used my hands to hold his feet against my face. Jack then took control and rubbed his massive feet up and down my cheeks.
“Oh yeah.” Jack moaned. I smelled his feet, raunchy like some fish. He seemed like he could’ve been this fat smelly guy in general. His feet were just so big. They quickly started to smell so good, it was so hot to have this Titan rub his feet up on me. I started to lick his socked feet. ‘OH yeah, man,” he moaned as I made tongue contact. They all started to crack up. My brother losing it to see his big brother a foot-licker for him and his friends.
“That’s so hot, dude!” The last friend, Andrew, said. I’d met Andrew before.
“Yo, go lick Andrew’s feet,” Mark commanded as he chuckled, “he actually’s been working those today.”
“Yeah man, I’ve been on the diamond all day,” Andrew even still had his cleats on. He had me undo his laces and shoes put then took his socks off. Leaned in after taking them off, he grabbed for the back of my head and shoved them into his feet. Andrew was about my height with bigger feet, maybe about 13s like Mark. They were dirty and crusty. This long, shaggy haired blonde boy was like a skater boy blessed with baseball talent, with really mean feet that could really use a routine licking. He leaned back in a quiet content, watching me eat his dead skin as Mark and Jack laugher their heads off. “Oh yeah, bite my heels boy, eat those feet.” I started to bite and eat the dead skin. He had a lot.
Mark and Jack continuing to lean over and laugh, Andrew held his hands to his face, overwhelmed by the feeling of tongue and soft teeth on his rough skater boy-baseball jock feet. “Yeah guys, my feet are bad, I really need someone like this in my life. I’m so jealous of you, dude”
Mark was still cracking up, “Yeah he’s pretty good, just as good with the feet if not better than Melinda. Come over whenever you want bro, we’ll watch baseball and porn while he takes care of them,” Mark offered.
“Maybe melinda licks your feet and he’ll lick my feet.”
“Nah man, Melinda only licks her master’s feet when we’re alone, I’m like her God that can’t be distracted from, that dumb bitch. God, I soooo need to fuck her soon,” they all cracked up. Andrew started to really get the hang of holding my face tight to his feet as I licked it.
I was doing a good job. It was so humiliating but so hot. I then was to take off Mark and Jack’s socks and I went down the line giving time to lick everybody’s big feet as they sat back and watched TV. I learned Jack was a size 15EE, and used to intimidate people with his feet. After a TV-show worth of time they moved the stools aside, pushed me on the floor and took their turn stomping on me, holding their feet to my face as I smelled, kissed or licked. Mark and Andrew were cool, but Jack was so hard from it all he said he wouldn’t leave until he would get off. Mark told us to go into the guest room. Jack leaned back on the bed and I licked his feet until he came all over himself.
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More weeks had passed by. I more regularly licked my brother’s feet, on a regular basis actually. Andrew did come by once and a while two, and the two together would lock their feet together as I would lick them all together. Mark was careful never to show any weirdness in front of Dad. I still continued to take Dad’s shoes off for him everyday, and occasionally massage his feet.
It must’ve been a month since I first submitted to Mark’s feet. It was after school and I was licking Mark’s feet under the couch as held them over my face. Dad got home earlier than usual. He walked in and put his stuff down. I froze. “Hey, dad.” Mark said. “Hey.” and he walked into the kitchen. I had no idea what he saw or thought. Mark put his feet back up on the stool.
Dad came back into the den, sitting on the reclining chair, his dress shoes firm on the floor. I moved over to take them off. “I’m glad you got him started for me.”
“No problem, Dad.”
Both his shoes were off and to the side like I’d been practicing. I saw both of his big feet flat on floor in shear socks. I could smell the sweat. “Fag,” he addressed me. I looked down at this feet. “You know what do to.” He arched his toes up from the ground and I nudged my face into underneath them. I then opened my mouth and tried to suck as many toes as I could. He moved his other foot to the top of my head, pushing down so that I swallow more of his toes. He angled more of his feet up so I’d lick his soles in his sheer socks. I never spoke as this went on. Mark was texting on his phone, taking some pictures.
After some licking Dad told me to lay flat, face up. He then planted his still steamy feet on my face and told me just to stay there, smell them, lightly kiss, worship his feet.I did exactly that, smell and kiss them as he wiggled and rubbed my face.I kissed his feet for what felt like hours, smelling the slow fading man-scent of my hardworking father’s feet. Finally he bent down and removed his socks. I saw these giant, mammoth, wide size 15s come down on my face.
They closed in on my face. “Lick.” he told me.
