Foot Fetish Hell
by Medak

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Sam awoke, a tussle of his stringy blond hair sagging in front of him.

His eyelid were having a hell of a time trying to lift open, but they eventually got there. Sam felt groggy, like he got slammed around pretty badly, his body probably bruised. His mind was hazy, his memory wildly unfocused and largely inaccessible -- what the hell happened?

It was at this moment that Sam realized he couldn't move his arms. He looked up: both of his wrists were strapped into those large leather restraints they use at insane asylums, and the straps for each wrist were attached to the ceiling above him. Sam fidgeted a bit, but no, he was tied up good. Gradually, Sam began to realize things: mainly that he was completely naked and that his feet weren't touching the ground. He craned his neck around as best as he could, and from the strained glimpses that he could muster, Sam's feet were in similar restraints but were tied back to a mid-point on the wall behind him, causing Sam to simply be suspended there, his body arced like a crescent moon of pasty flesh. The strangest thing about this, though, was that Sam didn't exactly feel panicked or in danger. Admittedly, he wasn't in a state of harmonious peace either, but he wasn't deeply terrified -- just very aware of his state of being, almost as if he subconsciously expected to be here.

Sam begin drinking in the rest of the room: it was very small, very dark. He could see the room was barely wider than your average double-doorway and about as long as your average house kitchen. A single bare lightbulb hang down a foot or two in front of his face while the walls, ceiling, and floor was all painted black. There was a door on the far end of the longwall on Sam's left, but it looked like it had been boarded up and then painted over -- all ink black, just like everything else. Directly in front of him was a mounted table on an angle, leaning so it was almost perpendicular to Sam's very vulnerable tummy. There weren't any straps near the head nor foot of the table, but at the base there was a small iron lip -- perhaps to prevent people from sliding off it if they felt inclined to get on it. In any other context, someone could mistake this for a medieval-styled torture rack, but it seemed to be modified for ... some unknown purpose. Sam's arms unconsciously tensed thinking about it, but they soon sagged back into the submissive state they were in. The fight in Sam never even appeared: he was just existing while restrained.

Sam waited.

Some 20 minutes had passed with nothing happening, Sam's mind only marginally worried about what was going to step through that boarded-up door on the other side of the room, instead far more intrigued by how the person was going to enter the room what with the door all boarded up and painted over. Sam also noticed something about the room that was legitimately concerning: the complete and total lack of sound. Not just inside the room, but also outside: no sounds of trucks passing over highways, no other doors being opened from adjacent hallways -- just nothing. Sam suddenly had a bit of a tickle in his throat and turned to cough, pressing his mouth into his left bicep as he did so. When he turned back, someone was sitting on the table directly in front of him.

"The FUCK?!" he screamed in a moment of terror, his body jerking by the fright and causing his suspended frame to sway ever-so-slightly.

"Hello Sam," the person said back to him.

Sam took a moment to get his barrings: what the fuck just happened? Sam's brain quickly scanned up and down the shape of the person in front of him and -- he realized that he knew who it was. It was Pat. His co-worker Pat. Sam's head involuntarily shook a bit, trying to piece together exactly why he was suspended naked in a room with Pat all of a sudden. He looked up and down at Pat's frame: about six feet tall, slight bit of a burly build, kind face, ink-dark hair with a well-trimmed goatee, glasses for reading -- yeah, this was Pat from work, decked out in a casual green button-up shirt, blue jeans, and his teal felt sneakers pressed up against that metal lip at the foot of the table. Pat's knees were bent, almost touching Sam's chest, Pat's arms leaning on their elbows as Pat was leaning back, Pat's face smiling at Sam, very calm.

"Pat!" Sam shouted. "Holy shit, what are you doing here?"

Pat continued to smile at him, unmoving. "Hello?" Sam shouted, but Pat again didn't move. He blinked, but didn't move any other muscles. "Pat," Sam continued, "what's going on? What are we doing in a place like this? Can you help me get out of these things?"

More silence. Pat then cleared his throat and began to speak: "Sam, I am going to tell you something right now that you're not going to believe. What I ask is that you trust me, OK?"

"Um ... OK?" Sam intoned, unsure of what to make of such a lead-in.

"There are two things you need to know, Sam," Pat started, "one of which is that you are dead."

Sam's head shook involuntarily, this time rejected what it just heard. "No I'm not," he retorted. "I'm alive. I'm right here. Suspended in a weird way for some reason, but very much alive, thank you."

"Think back," Pat said, calmly.

Sam's forehead scrunched in, as if digging for memories. Then, like a sledgehammer to the face, there was an instant shock in Sam's brain. The memories starting flooding back, clear as day: his time in college, in his Frat house, still half-way through his year of being the official Secretary/Treasurer for his brothers, happy, content. The flashes continued: that foot fetish of his. That uncontainable, uncontrollable male foot fetish. Seducing straight and gay guys all across campus to bend to this whim, to let him suck on their toes, tie them up, get them off, buying their used socks and their worn flip-flops for private masturbatory sessions later on -- it was bliss. He had a reputation that he was beyond happy to maintain, even if he was dismissed as "that foot freak" by some outsiders. People in the know didn't think of Sam in such a way, however: he was charming, charismatic, and probably hornier than half the people on campus, his fetish close to insatiable.

Then, Sam's mind focused on that night: two years out of college, living on his own, a high-end sales rep job paying for his studio apartment as well as allowing him to indulge his most base of urges. In fact, that's the last thing Sam remembers: being in his apartment, some sweet young thing named Brian over, dressed like he had a fancy job like Sam did, wingtips kicked off in front of Sam's island fireplace, Sam in the kitchen, making drinks. Sam wasn't opposed to sometimes aiding his evening every once in a while, and proceeded to mix the two Jack & Cokes that he and his guest were about to consume. Sam reached for one of his counter drawers, pulled out an extremely small vial that contained a very fine, white powder. Sam knew it was safe unless mixed with certain medications like the kinds that he had to take. Sam remembers placing the powder in one of the glasses and stirring it so it was undetectable, and -- what happened after that? Did he drink the wrong one? If so, that'd be fatal, which ... oh.

"That's right," Pat said, as if reading Sam's thoughts, "and because of that one poorly-planned act of indiscretion, congratulations: you're here now."

Sam's arms pulled on the restraints one more time. "What do you mean? Where am I?"

"In Hell," Pat said.

A stern silence filled the room as Sam's mind started reeling.

"I'm ... I'm ... I'm in Hell?" he stuttered.

"Yes," said Pat, smiling, "and it's my job to get you to agree to stay."

Sam's face contorted in surprise. "Why -- what ... why would I ever agree to that?"

"Well," Pat started, still barely moving, "remember how I said there were two things that you need to know? Here's the second one: if I can't get you to agree to stay in 24 hours -- well, 23 by this point -- then you are free to go, Sam. You will go back to Heaven or the Hereafter or whatever you believe in. Hell, however, is kind of universal, and the rules are the same for all: everyone who comes in is set aside in a room with a Demon for 24 hours. The Demon gets to research every second of the Punished's life and gets to use that information against them, devising the single most devious torture that they can imagine to get someone to agree to stay.

"For example," Pat noted, "I'm not really Pat. I'm a Demon that's taking Pat's form, and boy am I going to exploit your relationship to Pat to the nth degree."

Sam was starting to feel genuinely frightened by what was happening. "What are you talking about?"

"Well," Pat continued, "for some people that come here, it's easy to get them to submit to eternal damnation. Sometimes you just have to flood the Punished's head with all the memories of all the bad things they've done and 'lo and behold: they agree to stay here in Hell til the end of time. Self-doubt is a wonderful thing, let me tell you. They think that they deserve to be kept down here, as punishment. For some people, you simply have to exploit their greatest fear until their soul snaps and breaks. Some Demons just use pain and torture to get them to submit, but I find it too messy. In truth, those guys are more cut out for everything that happens after eternal damnation: just an endless, boring routine of what everyone hates the most, over and over and over again. Here, Demons like me get a new victim on a regular basis, we have 24 hours to find whatever it is that makes them tick, and get them to submit in that time. The variety is a treat for the senses, and let me assure you of one thing Sam: I fucking love my job."

Sam then saw Pat sport the most evil and wicked of grins, his eyes burning with foul intent.

"And now," Pat continued, "I get to make you submit. I can definitely do it within the hour but some of us really relish these moments, often going a full 22, 23 hours before making the Punished submit because it can be just so much fun. Thus, when I started reading up on you Sam, I got really excited. The more I dug up on your, the more devious and twisted I saw you to be. Hell, if you weren't a fucking idiot and drank the right cup, you wouldn't even be here right now. But no, all your scheming ways, all your boundless lust -- it's all here in Hell now, never to be seen by the surface world again."

Sam's eyes had grown wide as Pat spoke, and before long he could even feel the panicked sweat that was forming in his hairy, exposed armpits, slowly dripping out and sliding down his chest. Every word that was coming out of Pat's mouth was terrifying to him.

"Part of me thinks you could score a job here," Pat continued, casually, "what with the way you've manipulated those multitudes of men to take their shoes and socks off for you. You got a way with finding people's weaknesses and exploiting them -- which is exactly what I'm going to do to you right now, Sam."

"What ... what are you going to do to me?" Sam whimpered.

"Well," Pat said as he started unlacing the felt sneakers that were containing his massive size 12 feet, "I had a tough decision to make when deciding how we were going to spend our 24 hours together. My research showed me that you were never a fan of pain, and just a few hours on the rack would surely make you break and submit -- but the more and more I dug up about your gigantic sexual attraction to the bare feet of other men, the more I realized just how perfect a tool I had on my hands here. When you get foot-horny, Sam, you don't just turn into an unquenchable lust monster, you become totally helpless to your fetish. It's like it takes over your entire being and starts to run your every thought."

Pat peeled off one of his sneakers and tossed it on the floor, followed by the other, each landing with a soft, dull thud. A pair of new-but-sweaty white ankle socks were all that was covering Pat's wide feet right now, and Sam would be lying if he didn't feel some of those horny tingles start to form in his balls. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he was fascinated by what he saw.

"Thus," Pat continued, "my goal today is to get you hornier than you've ever been before. To get you close to a climax so explosive it will positively rearrange your brain cells. Why else would I decide to take the form of Pat, a man who possesses feet you've long, long fantasized about, jerking off a nearly uncountable number of loads to the simple fantasy of being able to lick his exposed, sweaty soles, to put each one of these plump, hairy toes in your mouth and being able to feel that foot flavor swirl around in your mouth until it's all you can taste ..."

Sam felt his half-mast cock twitch slightly.

"Well it looks like I'm having an effect, aren't I?" Pat coyly quipped. "You like this, don't you?"

In Sam's mind, there was a very strong feeling implying that yes, in fact, he did like what he was seeing. Yet he took a step back, realized he was still in Hell, and this is exactly what the Demon wanted him to feel: helpless to his fetish.

"No!" Sam shouted, "I'm not playing your game! I refuse to indulge in my fetish because that's all you need to keep me here forever."

"I know," Pat said, wiggling his toes visibly through his socks. "After all my research, I found that your co-worker Pat was the one person's feet whom you craved the most at your time of death, more than anything else in the known universe. You have gallons of your own seed stored up just for him, and my whole goal is to get you hornier than you've ever imagined, until you're begging for four consecutive eternities of torment just so you can shoot ropes of sticky sperm all over Pat's naked toes."

Another twitch.

It was at this moment that Sam realized that Pat's feet were actually quite close to his exposed, semi-engorged member, those socked feet just had to be lifted up just a bit in order to touch his shaft. Sam suddenly felt a flash of panic, as if the sudden reality of his situation had just clicked with him and he realized he was in no place to move, protest, or do anything to prevent his torment from starting. It was simply going to be a battle against himself, and one he already was uncertain of how it would turn out.

"So," Pat said, "should I take my socks off?"

Sam's cock twitched against his will once again. "No!" he said, knowing that would be one step further to his undoing. "Please just keep them on."

"Oh, but it isn't that what you envisioned?" Pat started, slyly describing the situation. "Isn't the first part of all of your deliriously horny fantasies is to see that elastic rim of the sock slowly come off, exposing just a bit more flesh with each passing second, teasing you, leading you towards your inevitable climax?" Pat's socked left toes tried hooking the rim of the right sock in a grip so it could start pulling them off. They fidgeted a bit more with each attempt, and as clumsy as it looked, it was a very calculated maneuver: the Demon was fully aware of the fact that this actually turned on poor Sam.

Eventually Pat's big left to managed to get a hold on the rim of his right sock, and awkwardly, it started pulling it down, over the hell. Sam's eyes, wide open and drinking in every detail, noticed the small things: the leg hairs now visible right underneath the cuff of the jeans, the lightly grayed impression of Pat's foot on the underside of the sock, even the very way the sock fabric bunched together the loser and closer it got to his toes. Sam now had an erection, and his will to fight it was diminishing: he was enjoying the sight far too much. Now the sock was past the instep, right above the toe base, and ... off the balled up sock tumbled, right onto the slanted table before rolling slightly to that metal lip, now right next to Pat's bare, exposed right foot.

Sam couldn't believe how clear a view he got of that bare foot. Pat's toes were long, plump, that perfect shade of pink. Pat's ink-dark natural hair color just made the hair on his feet pop all the more, a little bit on the tops, a healthy sprinkling along his toes. Fuck, it was sexy. Just looking at it made Sam fall in love with it, and he could feel his cock starting to strain: it was trying desperately hard to stretch out even farther than it already was, as if hoping that in and of itself would increase the amount of horny pleasure it was getting out of it. His cock was already tingling from base to tip, and he knew that if it got even remotely closer to Pat's foot, it would increase to the point where he couldn't take it anymore.

So hypnotized Sam was by Pat's up-close, bare, exposed right foot he literally didn't even notice that Pat had pulled off the sock to the other one. When Sam realized that Sam's pair of perfectly manly, dominant, sexy feet were in front of him, not that far away from his cock, his member twitched intently. It lifted up three times on its own, pulsing, nodding in agreement to what it was seeing. The Demon could see Sam's cock already reddening, engorging itself with blood, and right in Sam's slit, the Demon could see moisture forming. He knew he had him now.

The Demon, being a playful creature, was somewhat bemused by the fact that Sam wasn't even conscious to the fact that his mouth was agape, and before long, he'd catch himself drooling. Thus, just to take the boy's torture to the next level, he slowly curled his toes tightly. Sam's magic wand twitched again, reacting to the sight instantaneously, its fate intrinsically tied to every single movement of Pat's feet now. Pat then flexed his strong feet as much as he could, those toes spreading so beautifully, the underside of each toe visible to Sam, and in reaction Sam twitched some more and clenched his bound fists as tight as they could. The Demon grinned in approval. He moved his feet up a bit, placing his heels directly on the metal lip, elevating them slightly, and oh, look at that: his big toes now were touching either side of Sam's shaft, causing the boy to gasp.

"Oh, you like that don't you?"

Sam didn't even catch his voice speaking in a higher octave than he was used to, his body almost refusing to release the breath it just took in, his whole body hotwired with sexual tension.

Then, Sam felt the toes move. He could feel the shape of Pat's toes press in to that mighty cock base, and slowly, the moved up to about the half way point of Sam's radiant member, and then went back to the base. Then up to the half-way point again, then back to the base. Sam emitted a whimper of pleasure, his eyes daring up to the black ceiling, overflowing with pleasure. Sam was receiving an honest-to-goodness footjob from Pat's perfect feet right now. He could tell that if the tempo increased only slightly, he was going to completely explode.

Yet having done his research, the Demon knew that already. The tempo right now was deliberately slow, enough to get Sam blasted horny out of his mind. At this point, the Demon remembered yet another aspect about Sam's life that could be very useful here: just how much he absolutely loved to be humiliated with his fetish.

"Sam," Pat said, still slowly jacking the boy's cock with his firm, meaty toes, "you love feet, don't you?"

With a deep, guttural moan of pleasure, Sam's words slowly, haltingly came out of his mouth: "I ... I fucking love feet."

"How much, Sam?" Pat asked matter-of-factly.

"They are my world. They are the ... the whole of my sexual being. Bare male feet are just instant sex for me. They -- ahhhh -- they get me so ... fucking hard. The second I see them, my cock falls under their control."

"What do you want to my bare feet, Sam?"

More moans followed. "I want to sniff the base of your toes and fucking cum all over them. I want to coat your bare soles with cum."

"You want to submit to them, yes?"

"YES!" Sam shouted as his body tensed a bit, snakes of pure orgasmic pleasure winding through his body.

"You like thinking about your friends being barefoot don't you?" Sam asked, still jacking.

"So much," Sam confessed, eyes closed now, focusing on the feeling. "I lick their flip-flops for the flavor. I sniff their used socks 'cos they make me cum so hard."

Pat stopped jacking Sam with his toes, causing the boy to whimper: "What? No. Please. Please don't stop. Please, I need your feet."

The Demon analyzed Sam's cock closely: it was beet-red. He could see veins visible all over the shaft. A steady stream of precum was drizzling out to the floor. Oh, this boy was horny. Hornier than he had ever been in his life. The Demon grinned, loving every goddamn second of this.

"Ya know, Sam," Pat started, wiggling his toes a bit, "one thing you didn't count on in this whole scenario is that we are in Hell."

"So?" Sam moaned out, still high on pleasure.

"That means we can bend the rules a bit here," Pat smirked. "You like it when I say the words 'bare feet' don't you?"

Sam didn't even respond, except for with a double cock-twitch.

"You want to submit and obey my powerful bare feet, don't you, Sam?"

"More than anything," Sam whispered out, eyes firmly closed, focusing on his pleasure.

"Then watch this."

Pat's feet were now on the lip as normal, not resting on the edge. His feet were just in a regular relaxed position, but Sam couldn't believe what he was seeing: Pat's black toehairs were slowly starting to ... grow in length. Longer and longer and longer they grew, floating in the air, as if they were tentacles. They drifted up like wisps of smoke, slowly getting closer and closer to Sam's raging erection.

"No," Sam muttered.

"Yes," Pat retorted.

The hairs at first stroked the underside of Sam's shaft, but then they slowly twisted around his member, never hurting it, but keep it firmly in place. There hairs connecting Sam's cock and Pat's toes was rather taught. Pat grinned again.

"And now," the Demon started, "you're going to dance for me."

Sam wasn't sure what was going on, but then looked down and saw it: Pat crunched his toes, and it pulled his cock with him. Not a severe angle, but just enough make Sam pulsate with pleasure. He couldn't believe it, his cock was now going to move whenever Pat flexed or curled his toes, making his cock wiggle and twitch against his own will. Pat's bare feet were his erection's puppetmaster right now -- and it was hot as fuck.

"Twitch twitch twitch!" Pat said, doing three quick toe curls, tugging on Sam's engorged member, making the tingles bottle-necking at his cockhead just swirl around and go crazy.

"AHHH!" Sam screamed. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I'm gonna cum."

"Not yet you aren't," Pat said. Without even touching them, the two balled up, sweaty Patsocks floated up in the air, slowly. "Why don't you take a sniff, boy?" The cotton balls of footsweat inched closer and closer to Sam's face until they were right up against his nostrils. Pat curled his toes slowly this time, tugging Sam's erection slightly downward, holding it there for a few moments, and then releasing until they were back to normal. They curled again, slowly, keeping Sam's cock at an angle, tense, ready to cum at the drop of a hat.

"Now sniff," Pat ordered.

Sam inhaled the footscent from the two socks, and his body shuddered. Sam's eyes went wide. He could almost see through time. Pat's footscent was 100% grade-A boner fuel. The tingles in his cock were on fire, his base started pumping, and then ...

... Pat's toehairs squeezed a bit around the rim of Sam's cockhead, preventing the orgasm from going through. The rest of his cock was visibly, forcibly pumping, but nothing was coming out.

"FUCK LET ME CUM LET ME CUM I NEED TO CUM!" Sam shouted at the top of his lungs.

"First," Pat said, "you need to agree--"

"I'LL STAY I'LL STAY LET ME FUCKING CUM!!"

Pat paused for a second, smiling. He tugged the toe hairs quickly twice, teasing the horny boy, and then the toe-hairs released.

GUSH went the first, massive onslaught of milk-white cum. Sam actually screamed: to have that much backed-up semen start shooting out of him at once, it almost hurt (hurting in the good way, admittedly, but he knew he was going to feel this tingle for days afterward). Then, the second wave came, and it was just as massive as the first. Then another one. Then another one. Then Sam started to really feel the post-orgasmic sensitivity of his cock kick in.

"Please!" he shouted to Pat, "Make it stop cumming!"

"You wanted to submit to my feet," Pat said, tops of his feet and the front of his jeans now caked with loads of Sam's seed. "This is just the start of it."

Another load came out. Then another. Sam actually started crying, whimpering pathetically. "Please!" he pleaded. "It's not stopping!"

"You love feet don't you?" Pat shot back.

Even with the horny pain he was feeling in his cock, tears streaming down his face, Sam shouted out his confession: "I still love feet. I love feet. Feet. Feet. Bare. Bare feet."

Finally, the waves of horniness were reducing in intensity. One more pump. Then another. Then ... it stopped. Sam's body absolutely sagged in his restraints. Desperate bodysweat was now pooling on the floor. Sam had never, ever, ever experienced anything quite like that, and his cock felt like it was positively beat-up. There was literally no energy left in him. All his brain could focus on was his exhaustion and feet. He couldn't even comprehend that he actually just agreed to spend an eternity in Hell.

"Sam," Pat ordered, "look at my toes."

Sam slowly craned his neck to see: and there were Pat's perfect feet, gobs of his white, sticky cum mixed in with his flesh and black toe hairs.

"Is that hot as hell?" Pat asked, knowing full well the answer.

"Yes," Sam said, meekly. "That's ... actually really, really hot."

"Good," Pat said.

A pause filled the room.

"Pat?" Sam said, still weak as a bean.

"Yes, Sam?" Pat said, still unmoving.

"Am I going to eternal damnation now?"

"Well," Pat said, "not yet. You see, there was one little thing I didn't tell you about: those 24 hours? Those are my 24 hours. You can submit during it at any time, but even after you do, I get the rest to do what I want with you."

Sam's eyes opened wide, anew with the energy that's derived from fear.

"Pat," Sam said, even in tone, "how long did that last?"

"One hour," Pat said, bluntly.

"Does that mean ..."

"Look at how well I can wiggle my toes for you, Sam," Pat said.

Pat could hear those joints moving. That flesh contorting just for him. Sam knew full well he couldn't go through that again. Not ever again. Especially not 22 more times in a row. He looked at the ceiling in defiance. He refused to look at Pat's toes. He refused. He couldn't.

"Hey Sam," he heard Pat say, "you're missing out on looking at my big, bare ... feet."

It was hopeless. It was too hardwired into his system. Sam's eyes dragged his gaze downward, right to Pat's cum-covered toes, and as much as he hated it, the process started all over again ...