Confronting Connor
by Nutherlover
I couldn't stop thinking about Connor.
Three days had passed since the club, and somehow he was still lodged in my brain like a splinter.
Maybe it was the buzz-cut honey-blond hair. Maybe it was the ice-blue eyes that seemed to lock onto mine from across the dance floor. Maybe it was the way he'd laughed at every stupid joke I made, leaning closer every time the music got louder.
Or maybe I was just tired.
Tired of mistaking attention for affection.
Tired of convincing myself that this time was different.
At twenty-four, I had enough experience to know that attraction and interest weren't the same thing. Unfortunately, knowing that didn't stop me from checking my phone every ten minutes hoping Connor would text.
He never did.
So when I saw him again at the coffee shop across from my apartment, I finally walked over.
"Hey."
The smile that crossed his face was genuine.
"Hey yourself."
That somehow made me even angrier.
I folded my arms.
"You know, most people don't spend an entire night flirting with someone unless they're actually interested."
His expression immediately shifted.
"Oh."
Just one word.
Oh.
Not defensiveness. Not confusion.
Recognition.
And suddenly I realized he already knew exactly why I was upset.
Then he'd launched into his explanation.
Something about being overwhelmed. Something about getting nervous when connections became real. Something about having a history of pulling away from people.
I listened.
I really did.
But when I walked away afterward, I didn't feel better.
I felt worse.
Because his explanation sounded sincere.
And somehow that irritated me even more.
For days afterward I replayed the conversation.
While showering.
While working.
While lying awake at night.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I became.
Why did people keep doing this?
Why was I apparently the guy people flirted with when they wanted attention but disappeared from when things got serious?
The anger settled into my chest like a stone.
Then one evening, after way too much thinking and not nearly enough sleeping, I found myself standing outside Connor's apartment building.
The rational part of my brain had objected every step of the way.
The rest of me ignored it.
I wasn't there to start a fight.
I wasn't there to threaten him.
I just wanted answers that actually made sense.
At least that's what I kept telling myself.
Five minutes later I was standing outside apartment 4B staring at the number on the door.
For a long moment I hesitated.
Then I knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
Connor appeared wearing a gray T-shirt and sweatpants.
He was also barefoot and for the first time I saw that he had huge, well-shaped, well cared-for feet. My dick instantly hardened.
His eyebrows lifted immediately.
Then his entire expression changed.
Shock.
Confusion.
Concern.
And, to my surprise, fear.
"Uh..." His voice caught. "How did you find out where I live?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because now that I was actually here, the whole situation felt insane.
His eyes moved toward the hallway behind me as if checking whether I'd brought anyone.
"Listen," he said cautiously, "not to be dramatic, but... am I about to get physically hurt?"
I blinked.
"What?"
"You showed up at my apartment."
The statement hung between us.
When phrased that way, it did sound bad.
"I don't want to hurt you."
He visibly relaxed.
Only a little.
"Okay," he said. "That's good."
"You're seriously afraid of me?"
A short laugh escaped him.
I wasn't amused. He eyed me directly.
"You disappeared from my life for a week, then randomly appeared in a coffee shop, and now you're standing outside my front door looking angry enough to bite through drywall."
"I do not look that angry."
"You absolutely do."
I rubbed my forehead.
Damn it.
Maybe I did.
Connor studied me for several seconds.
"What exactly do you want?"
The question landed harder than I'd expected.
What did I want?
An apology?
Validation?
Proof that I wasn't crazy for feeling hurt?
"I wanted to understand."
The anger in my voice faded.
"I wanted to know why somebody spends hours acting interested and then acts like the other person doesn't even exist."
For a second neither of us spoke.
The fear in his expression softened.
Something else replaced it.
Guilt.
"I know," he said quietly.
The sincerity caught me off guard.
"I know I handled it badly."
I looked away.
Part of me wanted to keep being angry.
Anger was easier.
It was cleaner.
More comfortable than admitting I'd been hurt.
From inside the apartment came the faint sound of a television.
A normal evening.
A normal life.
And suddenly I saw the situation from his perspective.
A guy he'd ghosted was standing at his front door demanding explanations.
No wonder he'd looked ready to call the police.
That realization was embarrassing enough to cool my temper.
Connor seemed to notice.
"Do you want to come in and talk?" he asked.
I stared at him.
"You want me to come inside?"
"I mean, if we're having this conversation, I'd rather not do it in the hallway where my neighbors can listen."
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
The first one I'd managed all week.
He pointed a finger at me.
"Just so we're clear, this is still objectively weird."
"Fair."
"And slightly alarming."
"Also fair."
"Okay."
He stepped aside.
I shook my head and laughed despite myself.
The anger wasn't completely gone.
But for the first time since the club, it felt like something else had entered the room.
Possibility.
Whether that was a good thing or a terrible thing, I hadn't decided yet.
Still, as I crossed the threshold, Connor closed the door and sighed dramatically.
"You know," he said, "this conversation is already going a lot better than I was expecting."
I glanced at him.
"What were you expecting?"
"The truth?"
His blue eyes met mine.
"I was expecting to become the subject of a true-crime documentary."
For the first time all evening, we both laughed.
Connor really was beautiful with buzz cut honey-blond hair and azure blue eyes (yes, not just blue, azure/sky blue… no wait, ice blue). He had flawless, ivory skin and was very tall and well-built. Right now he was wearing sweatpants but was shirtless--showing off his six pack. Then, again, there was his feet.
Beautiful, big size thirteen feet.
I must have gotten a weird look in my eyes because, quite suddenly, the fear in Connor’s eyes returned. Male feet did things to me, and this honey-blond stud’s feet were masculine but immaculate.
But he actually used those feet to back away from me and, apparently, tried to run … but he ran in the wrong direction! I heard the thud as the boy’s skull impacted the wood that made up the back wall of the closet. I panicked as Connor fell limp in my arms.
I ran my large hands over his honey-blond head and was relieved to find no blood, but now I wondered how I would get back to my house carrying an unconscious twenty year old. Luckily he began to come to rather quickly. I tried soothing him as he slowly regained consciousness, but then I recalled all that I’d done for him … and the fact that he hadn’t been appreciative at all of the sacrifices I made to make him happy. I soon became angry. So angry that I stopped soothing and stroking him and started slapping him and hitting!
His attempts at trying to get away or fighting me was replaced with terrified acceptance of his current situation.
I don’t know why I knelt before him and began ravenously licking his beautiful bare feet. Maybe I just wanted to let him know that, even though I had him at my mercy, that he was still above me. I was weird like that sometimes.
I liked being at his feet--licking his smooth soles, sucking his pale succulent toes.
I loved it when he suddenly REALLY looked at me licking and sucking his toes. I knew there was an understanding between us, and he actually looked as if he was beginning to enjoy the experience. He closed his ice blue eyes and had a blissful expression at the feeling of my tongue as it moved up and down his saliva-slicked soles, sliding in between each toe, knowing how forbidden and socially weird this way. The way it tasted was fantastic to me… you see Con had been barefoot for a while… and it tasted like a thin film of dirt he had collected from the hard wood floors at his apartment.
Before I found him in the closet I’d found his socks on the bedroom floor … and of course I smelled them and sucked the sweet sweat from them. I don’t know when he’d peeled them from his big feet, but I’ll just bet he’d done so after he’d come in from a morning run, so they were PLENTY sweaty and fabulously fragrant!
We sat down on the bed and he placed his feet in my lap--and he looked as if he were on the edge of fainting when I began massaging his feet! I started at the pad behind his toes and move gradually to his heels, then back up to his toes. I am addicted to his feet and it's such a tender moment of trust and love. But soon my tongue is once again sliding gracefully up and down his big bare feet. And he moans as if the feeling of my tongue doing this the absolute best feeling in the world. When I began to nibble on his toes he actually did faint.
I couldn’t believe it.
I looked at that beautiful muscled nineteen-year-old lying there with drool oozing down one corner of his mouth. I sure as hell wasn’t going to kiss him now or something. So I stripped his limp body completely naked, lifted his ankles to my shoulder and was about to do what came naturally.
But the smell of the feet now propped on my shoulders distracted me.
So once again I found myself licking Connor’s soles and sucking his toes, even while he slept on. I shot my load so many times as I did this, I never did get around to actually fucking him that day.
But the NEXT day…
TO BE CONTINUED