My life story continues...
The very real images of my dad are as crystal clear today as they were back in the 1960’s. Having the choice between TV or being with dad...well, dad normally won in that contest hands down.
Our evening routine did not change for years and remained part of who I was and most definitely who dad was. Comfort comes with routines as does a way of life and my desire to be a hungry voyeur and willing active participant in the world of male feet and socks takes root here following daddy up those stairs each evening after dinner. Having left mother behind to her chores, we had the next hour before my bedtime to ourselves. Just us, dad and me and his glorious feet!
He would flick the bedroom lamp on that sat on his bedside table in the comfortable and spacious master bedroom. I followed and loomed nearby...waiting. His next act was to pull free of his casual pullover top he’d sported for the evening and laid it on the nearby chair. The sight of his naked torso always impressed me with its genteelly built up musculature and artistic coating of rusty shaded man-fur all around his pert man-nipples. That reddish gold head of hair of his gave him a wonderful shade of body hair and creamy skin tones. I gazed up at him as he stood looking down at me, the bedroom lamp lighting him theatrically and searing him into my mind forever.
Dad’s twinkling blue eyes caught my attention as he sat down on the foot of the bed and he gave me that mock serious tone of voice.
“Now Tony, no more tickling!” He’d warn with that sexy moustache twitching as if he meant it, but I knew better.
“Yes, daddy. I’ll be good.” I lied. I was such a rascal!
Dad’s lean six foot form lay back on the mattress and he lifted up one leg off the floor; his elegantly sweaty dress sock clad foot presenting itself for me. My job was supposed to be sock removal, but I was such a little devil times and had other ideas.
With dad in this position up on the bed and my height being half his in those days, I found myself face to face with his lovely warm socked foot. Bliss! My lightheaded, heart pounding began again as I faced my beloved passion full on. Looking at his socked foot from toe to heel, seeing his perfect arch curve elegantly accented by the expensive thin sock material as it clung to his size 11’s was truly an awesome moment. I nearly passed out but held my ground, I had to!
The sheer-like dark sock material again looking slightly transparent to me in the lamp lit bedroom and allowing me a glimpse of my dad’s supple foot flesh within due to that lovely moist sweaty sheen of a day of life at his office was pure magic! His socks always seemed to take on a glow of perspiration and radiance; at least in my eyes. Others may have just seen a very sweaty, whiffy dark sock, and yet I saw treasure! But isn’t that was separates us from them, the foot lovers from all other humans? I think so.
I attacked his foot, pushing my face forward as if it were a person I wanted to kiss. I treated that big delicious man-foot as if it were a face, a face I adored. Dad would giggle and squeal. I’d wrap my hands around his whole socked foot and push my face against the whole length of it, my nose crashing into the ball of his foot at the base of his twitching toes. The aromatic scent rocketed up my nostrils and I breathed in deeply as many times as I could to capture the daily scents that lingered there and intoxicated me like nothing else. My dad’s feet smelled like nothing else!
I found my mouth inside the curve of his arch and would playfully kiss that space and mock bite the edge of his foot, the strong tang of foot sweat caught in the fabric now dancing on my tongue. My own giggles and elated whoops joining dads as carried on.
“OK, OK, enough tickling, I have a tub to take.” Daddy would gasp out as he lay rolling side to side on the bed.
I knew my job and I had to move on, pulling the long sleek OTC length sock down his muscular calf and yanking it free over his pink bare fleshed foot. I’d often, as the sock flew over the toes, give dad’s big toe one quick nip of a bite which made him quickly drop his foot away onto the carpet below. So salty and sweet was the taste of that big toe!
The second foot followed on with my face to face routine and the yanking off of the sock.
The trousers and underwear came next as dad stood up. He’d stand fully nude and fold the trousers and place them on the chair by the bed for mum to sort out later while I grabbed the socks and underwear and held them tightly. I needed to get them in the laundry hamper in the bathroom and that was a job I loved as well.
Dad’s underwear was a mix of briefs and boxers in various styles and colours. He seemed to have a selection of both in his wardrobe. He did have some very tight bikini-style ones as well as a few jock straps for sporting needs. The jock straps always made me laugh on a weekend when he sported one. Seeing his manly ass cheeks fully on display was a great source of enjoyment and fascination, I could not fathom why the genital area was covered so nicely and yet the ass all open...very strange to me back then but a visual delight none the less!
I’d walk proudly behind dad’s pale glowing sport-toned ass cheeks as we made our way to the main bathroom upstairs. My little bundle of undies and socks in my arms. Dad had his back to me and I always sniffed at my treasure bundle. Not in a sexual way at all, but just because the scents of his body thrilled me and I knew them by heart...call it instinctual. Dad was mine and I knew all his smells. The socks had their own unique man-scents, each area of the foot creating and capturing various delightful aromas. The underwear too held many unique scents depending on where one placed ones nose.
I hated parting with the bundle and placed it reluctantly into the wicker basket, closing the lid and missing his body smells already. Now readers here at MFF will guess the next line I shall write, YES, I did fetch them out when nobody was looking. I often wanted to cuddle up to dad’s used clothing items as a bit of a comforting mechanism. This became clear when dad needed to travel away or was very late home and our little routine got cancelled. If I knew dad was to be away on business for a few days, I’d kidnap some undies and socks and stow them away for my own private reveries. Mother would swear that something was amiss if the laundry day came while daddy was away and not enough undies and socks were accounted for.
“Tony, do you know where you daddy put his socks and underwear from the other day, I seem to be short a few pairs?” She’d quiz me as she held the washing in a heap destined for the dreaded basement washing machine.
I’d look all innocent and claim complete ignorance of any missing laundry items. She’d vanish down the stairs and I’d smile. The devil in me was naughty as hell. I’d race to my bedroom, close the door and look in the rear of my closet. There sat my little stash of daddy’s items, just until he got back from his trip and then they’d magically be found under my parent’s bed. Naughty me!
Once the clothes were in the clothes hamper, I was free to just hang around while dad did his nightly tub.
He always visited the loo before he ran the tub. I’d perch on the porcelain bath edge of the large tub and just watch. Again, nothing sexual, pure admiration of my dad’s body and its functions. Dad never worried and encouraged me to just be myself and never be ashamed of the human form or its needs.
He stood tall, facing the bowl, strong legs splayed gently and solid bare feet flat on the cool mosaic tiling that covered our bathroom floor. His fully nude form seemed to glow with creamy marble-like skin and his sporting weekends provided his muscles a tone and tightness that I grew to appreciate as the perfect male.
He would grasp his ample penis and pull back the foreskin sheath to expose that tender pink knob that lay hidden within. A flow of golden pee would stream out and hit the water with a cacophony of waterfall sounds. He never missed and his aim straight on target. My own aim needed great improvement as mother reminded me constantly as she cleaned the bathroom!
A good wiggle-waggle shake and dad’s penis head would vanish back inside its cosy little home and then he’d move to stand beside me as the taps began to flow and fill the large bath with swirling warm water and endless bubbles. Soon dad would step in and lay back; his foreskin ensconced manhood with its crown of thick rusty gold pubic hair would vanish into the sudsy froth and occasionally pop into view from time to time. Dad had certain procedures only he had to undertake since I was “cut” and I knew he had to do more “intense” penile cleansing than I had to worry about. He always did his duties quickly and efficiently and I marvelled at his hygienic finger-work. The old saying, “know thyself” comes to mind now as I think back to dad and his body. He knew it well and was unashamed and proud of who he was...completely. I watched all this and drank in all that my dad was and felt pride burst forth in my chest every time. Mine, all mine I’d say in my head.
Once the intense hygiene was accomplished, dad would lay against the back of the large tub and just enjoy a few moments of solitude and suds. The proverbial soaking away the day as I sat there watching and saying little. I was growing sleepy and bed was calling.
Dad’s eyes, too, grew heavy. He’d do one last very memorable thing before rising up to dry off; he’d rest those two large fleshy size 11’s on the tub rim near me. The soapy bubbles clinging all over the pink flesh, toes wiggling just a bit. A last ditched temptation for Tony. Would Tony tickle?
No, Tony lovingly grabbed the bar of soap from the sink and massaged the entire length of each foot in an act of devotion and dare I say...submission. He was my dad and I was he son. I always submitted to that love and parental authority. He never steered me wrong and always had my best interests at heart. So I washed his feet, as an act of respectful love and awe. My small fingers all slippery with soap, working around every smooth ridge and valley that were my daddy’s feet. Every toe and crevice in between, my fingers swirled thru and lathered completely. My trembling hands worked each meaty heel and sailed along his high arches.
He’d pull free from my grasp and let the feet fall and soak for a bit. I’d wash away the soapy residues at the sink and wait with the fluffy bath towel in my hands. The night was upon us now and my job was done. Dad would rise like a titan from the soapy froth and his naked body was nearly shielded with sudsy remnants dotted here and there. He’d grasp the towel and begin to dry off. My eyes really droopy now and mom entering the room.
“Tony, bedtime. Let your dad be. He has to work hard. It’s adult time now.” Mum would say as she gently pulled me away. Dad would be left in his half-dry state and mum took over my world.
As I stripped off and became ready for bed, I always wondered in those early days what “adult time” meant.
Mum always seemed eager to get me processed and kissed goodnight. Lights out, door left ajar.
Dad, in a few minutes after my light was out, would tiptoe in. I would drift in that zone of in and out of consciousness as he came to me all tucked in bed. He’d give me a kiss on my forehead and pat the covers up around my shoulders to make sure I was snug.
Dad, his face washed & shaved, smelling like sweet spices. His reddish golden locks all smoothed back and combed into place and his moustache tickling my skin as he kissed me goodnight. All these things stay with me forever. The way dad stood above me and my vision blurry with sleep, his eyes bright and knowing.
He wore a rather flimsy robe only; blue shiny material in a plaid print which covered his nakedness. The silky robe belted loosely around his slender 32 inch waist, the material ended just above his knees. His muscular furry legs striding away from my bed, those large bare feet leaving impressions in my plush bedroom carpeting. My prince charming, soldiering off to lands and tasks unknown to me as my bedroom door slid nearly closed again. The hallway light dimly glowing and lighting my room just faintly.
Night noises lulled me to sleep. The sound of more water running though the pipes, the distant faint chatter of the TV and clattering of dishes being put away all were known by me. I’d awake an hour or so later, the hall light off and my room dark and quiet. New strange noises came now, not every night, but often and unfamiliar back then in my incoherent state. Not loud noises, very soft and yet intriguing. Curiosity in me grew and my mind raced. I thought I knew everything about my home and parents...I was a devil and always one step ahead or so I thought.
The need to explore these strange night noises eventually became an obsession with me. More of that inner voyeur coming to life and being nurtured, so I suppose now as I look back. Voyeurs not only watch but they listen. It’s all part of the same phenomenon. It’s all part of me.
My voyeurism began in those early days as a non-sexual, completely curiosity driven desire to know all and be part of all when it came to my dad. My mother’s possessive nature towards him always fascinated me and almost succeeded in keeping me away from my dad at times. She felt, as far as I could see, that she owned him. As years went on, the shattering truth would have to be swallowed and accepted; nobody owned my daddy...he was a player!
The night came that I could no longer resist my gnawing curiosities and the warnings about staying put in bed were crying out to be ignored. The art of stealth was always mine, the little devil I was and always able to sneak about became my signature.
Dad had come and gone as usual from my room wearing the flimsy robe that covered my fairytale-like bedtime prince’s statuesque nudity. My wilful fingers had toyed with the robe belt as he bent to kiss me on the forehead; the knot easily pulling free. The robe gently fell open and I smiled. The gently fuzzy rusty-gold chest haired torso appeared as did the full pubic nest in those vibrant reddish colour tones crowing his abundantly sheathed manhood just below. I admired in sheer awe, my eyes taking him in as he should be seen in his fully natural state. His flimsy robe not necessary at all in my opinion, this was best. I gazed and took in the man who was my dad, the very fullness of him. Artistically perfect and all mine from my birth. No sexual thought crossed my mind; it was all emotional and highly spiritual.
Dad swept out of the room; those size 11 bare feet leaving those tell-tale impressions in my carpet as he went. It was like a thin coating of snow and each step he took left a short lasting impression. Impressions of a deeper nature where being left on me as I watched those precious feet, those feet I loved walking away and closing the door almost completely.
I dozed that night but did not fully sleep. Voyeurism had taken hold. Curiosity now ruled my actions rather than blind acceptance of any parental regulations.
An hour passed and then the hall light switched off. My room left in shadows, the house quiet but not quiet if that sounds right. Subtle voices, whisperings...sounds of some unknown variety. My mind alert and my smaller feet treading delicately in my father’s earlier steps still barely visible in the now rising fibres of the plush floor covering. I slid my bedroom door open and peeped out. The upstairs hall dark and shadowy with a gentle moonlight glow coming in the small window at the landing atop the stairway was all that I saw.
I moved stealthily out into the hall, my bare feet not making a sound. Moving like a silhouette, a little devilish one at that! The only light faintly coming from my parent’s room door which remained ajar, just a crack, down the narrow hall near the top of the stairway and it was calling to me.
My ears straining and pricked to full attention as the whispers carried on intermittently. One high pitched, one lower and that unique thrumming baritone sound can only be dad. I’d know my dad’s voice anywhere, even in whispers. I moved like mist to the cracked space along the door jam, my eyes spy the bedside lamp on the lowest brightness. Mum called that setting “night light” and it was used for getting up in the night so not disturb dad from his sleep. The night light was on and I knew both mum and dad were in the big bed and awake. The bed springs sighed slightly and the old wooden bedstead creaked from weight shifting to and fro.
This position I found myself in that first night of nocturnal voyeurism would become a position I’d visit over and over as the years moved on and I matured. My stealth-mode would continue growing stronger with each passing session and my interest evolving from a mere curiosity to a fuller understanding of the nature of what “adult time” truly represented. I found in years to come that my dad enjoyed “adult time” with many people and of both sexes. But that was much later in the course of events!
This first visit to the door was more or less a trial run. Getting my feet wet, so to speak. The slightly ajar door provided excellent listening and somewhat awkward viewing potential. My first nocturnal visit was memorable to this day for one very important factor...dad’s fleshy bare feet!
The door had two cracks, one along the hinge side and the one along the latching doorknob side. The doorknob side view being near the foot of the bed and open just enough to see dad’s side of the big bed up to his knees or so. That first night I was dumb struck by the amazing view of dad’s exposed bare feet just perfectly framed in the open door crack. The bed covers were obviously askew and his upper legs seemed mostly covered but his two pinkly perfect man-feet were beautifully on display and each wriggling just enough to cause my heart to race like mad. The way his long toes undulated and flexed almost hypnotized me there and then. It was like a puppet show of manly feet. Dad’s feet, slightly moist and just catching enough “night light” to glow pink and supple and be oh so alluring to my very admiring eyes.
The bed clothes rustled from time to time and a sound of giggling or sighing came and went. I stood rooted like a tree, my heart thudding and his amazing size 11 feet moving to unheard music there on the foot of the bed. It was as if he were dancing to a rising, soul soaring beat only he could hear and it was taking him away. The beat incessant and all powerful as he moved his feet to what I knew must be some incredibly breathtaking symphony. Sighs and guttural sounds now and then a sudden splaying of his lovely toes thrumming explosively into a star fish-like array; those perfect toes went rigid and stiff like an electric bolt roared had thru him. I loved the way he danced that night, his feet were all I saw and all I could have hoped for.
I think it was this night all those years ago that made me really appreciate bare feet as well as socked feet. Dad’s feet, all moist and pink seemed to signify life and vitality. My body wanted to kneel and creep to the foot of my parent’s bed and just experience his feet at that very moment of that delicious starburst-like perfection Id’ just seen. I wanted to sneak over and not only examine every inch of his size 11’s but also to inhale the obvious perfumes that were emanating forth from them. I could see a sweaty sheen on the supple foot flesh, no doubt the musky aroma and taste would have been nirvana!
The moment was all too fleeting and the sound of whispered “goodnights” caught my ears and my daddy’s deliciously naked feet relaxed, toes again together and then the light snapped out. My sense of loss was sudden and all consuming; I wanted those feet now! But it was over...for the moment. I made a pledge then and there to own those feet at every chance and protect them from anyone else who challenged my place at daddy’s feet. I wandered away in the dark house and found myself passing the bathroom door. The need for comforting consumed me.
I crept like a wraith to the clothes hamper where only a few hours earlier I had deposited dad’s worn items of clothing. I moved and lifted the lid as quietly as a mouse. I can still recall that moment back in the 1960’s and exactly what socks dad had worn that very day the voyeur in me was born.
They were a navy blue pair, OTC length with a gold woven toe. The fabric was sheen with a gentle ribbing throughout the calf section. The foot section was completely plain fabric apart from the golden toe caps. In the dark I rummaged and found what I craved. My hand knew the textures of socks by then and I located the little ball of dad’s most recent pair.
I pulled them free of the clothes hamper prison and made my way to my room and closed the door tightly but noiselessly. I moved to my bed and cowered under my blankets.
In my little cave, my private sanctum of all things me...I lay with dad’s socks plastered to my face. I breathed in all that he was. I had his lovely feet just moments before within my very grasp but somehow that moment belonged to mom, not me. I resented that. It made me mad. Why did daddy dance like that for her? It perplexed me that night as I sat hunched in my little blanket covered sanctum. I sniffed and snuffled the divine aromas that lay hidden in those navy blue socks as I pushed them all over my face, making them mine! They were mine. He was mine! I knew that or thought I knew that nobody except me owned daddy’s beautiful feet. I was wrong. And soon would find out I had many, many competitors for not only his size 11 feet but for all of him! The first of these many so called, “competitors” besides my very own mother would soon arrive on the scene and that saga begins next in part four of my memoirs.
I lay back in my little cave in the dark of night and carefully took each moist aromatic sock and gently and lovingly pulled them onto my much smaller feet and legs. They crept loosely up and up, past my kneecaps, I giggled. But my tingling toes and smaller sensitive feet magically fell into a sacred place in each sock that seemed preordained by daddy’s bigger, sweatier and stronger man-feet. I rested my daddy socked feet upon my mattress, feeling where dad’s feet had been, had sweat, had walked...had sailed like a warrior. Fantasy and reality always blurred for me then and I fell back onto my pillows wearing those navy blue moist socks of dad’s and began dreaming. My hero, my dad, my world!
