by Wanz
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I didn't think he was exactly stable or dependable when I agreed to rend
him the room. He had flitted from job to job, and was only in his
present one for 3 weeks. He was however, dressed in jeans and a white
pocket tee shirt that seemed to be painted on, and I adored him upon
sight. Besides it was just 2 weeks before Christmas, and he had no other
options. He could walk to and from work from my house, he said. He had
no car. He was wearing white cotton socks (later I would find out they
were the kind with that sexy tan toe and heel) and these fabulous all
leather timberland hiking boots. The thought of him walking a mile and
half to and from work and sweating in those boots, and then possibly
taking them off in my line of vision in my own home was enough for me to
ignore all my good senses. I rented him the room. He only had half the
rent up front. I took it. That one payment of $125.00 is the only money
I have ever gotten from Greg even though he has lived in my house for
nearly 2 years now.
Correction. He has ruled my house for nearly 2 years now.
As fate would have it, during that first week, he never took his shoes
off where I could see, and never came out of his room. It was driving
me crazy. I know this part sounds cliché, but, he came home early from
work one day and caught me laying on his bed with a pair of his ripe
socks which I had fished out of his hamper, on my hands, as if my hands
were his feet. I had one socked hand on my crotch and the other pressed
against my face when he walked in.
Surprisingly He was really cool about it. He didn't get mad or
anything. He simply became extremely inquisitive, and interested in my
fetish. I'm not saying he didn't laugh a few times. He did. And he did
think it was strange and he said so. But he must have asked me questions
for more than an hour, and till this day I don't know why I answered
them all so candidly, but by the end of the hour, he asked if I would
like to take his boots off and smell the real thing fresh and warm.
I of course said yes, and he said, knock yourself out. He had been so
sweet and understanding. This was a really kind gesture on his part.
He places his foot across my lap, where I was still sitting on the bed.
I began to unlace his boot. He pulled his foot away and as I looked at
him a huge grin ran across his face, and he said, you wouldn't by any
chance enjoy this more, if you were on the floor, would you.
I answered, well, yeah actually, I think I would.
His smile broadened. Still very sweetly, not yelling or anything, he
simply said, good. Then I think you should kneel before me, and maybe
even beg a little.
I knelt.
I begged.
As I took his boot off, he cautioned me to go slowly. He said, wait,
wait, wait, and placed his foot back on the floor. He said, before you
take it off, just stick your nose in around the ankles and sniff a
little.
I got up on all fours just like a damned dog, forced my nose in between
his boot and the socked ankle peeking out of it. The mixture of
leather, and 23 year old, street wise foot sweat was already incredible
to me. I could not wait to get that boot off, and now, without him even
suggesting it, I began begging him to allow me to remove the boot.
After a full 3 to five minutes of this torture, he did something
unexpected and yet again, seemingly sweet. He said, you don't move a
muscle. He smiled and looked right in my eyes as he drew his booted
foot across his opposite knee, while I stayed kneeling on all fours. He
slipped the boot off his foot. Stay still, he said. He put one hand
behind my head and drew my nose and mouth into the open end of the boot
he held in his other hand. He pressed from both directions. No so as
to hurt me, but to create a seal between my face and the boot, so that
all the air I breathed in was his precious foot odor. With my nose
still in the boot, he said, I got fired today, I don't think I'll manage
to have the other half of this months rent, but somehow, I don't think
that's going to be a problem do you? He pulled the shoe away and held
it high in the air over his head, and his eyes told me, silently, I
would not get to smell it again if my answer was not what he wanted to
hear. I said, No, no problem at all. He said, are you sure about that.
I said, yes. And suddenly without warning his tone changed completely,
and he barked, yes what? I didn't catch on right away, and I said, yes,
I am sure it won't be a problem. He yelled, it won't be a problem sir! I
just stared at him startled and couldn't think of how to respond. He
said Oh well, And began to put his boot back on.
I quickly yelled out, It won't be a problem SIR! I promise you SIR,
being late with rent is not a problem SIR. As a matter of fact, you can
just forget about the rest of this month's rent all together SIR. Please
SIR, Please let me kiss your feet.
Greg, smiled that boyish grin that was so contrary to what was going on
inside his head, and he simply said, that's what I thought. Now get
these boots off my feet, and lay flat on your back so I can use your
face as my foot stool.
I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
Greg never returned to work. He did however leave the room I had rented
him and moved into my Master bedroom suite. Not with me. He made me
move out. I didn't move into the spare room. That was transformed over
time into his personal gym with only the best equipment my money could
buy. The remaining bedroom of my three bedroom home was not to be mine
either. Greg ordered me to sell off the bedroom things at a yard sale
along with everything else in the house which he had no use for. I ran
the yard sale under his supervision, sold everything he told me to, and
gave every penny of the money to him. In accordance with his wishes, I
put a state of the art surround sound system and hardwood floor and
mirrors in the third bedroom, transforming it into Greg's personal
little dance space, complete with black lighting and strobes. He would
dance for hours on end, and work out for hours on end. He transformed
himself into a stunning specimen of a man in a very short time, all the
while working up a sweat then ordering me to worship at his feet.
He got my number quickly and played me like a piano. He wrote prayers
about how perfect his feet were, and about how I thankful I was to have
the opportunity to experience his sweaty socked feet in my face, and how
his feet were the most important thing in my life, and how I would do
anything he said to keep from loosing the opportunity to have those feet
mashed into my face. He would make me kneel before him and recite this
prayer 20 and 30 times at a time, all while he played with my dick with
one socked foot as I knelt before him, and the other socked foot would
be rubbed on my chest, my arms, my thighs, and yes, my face, while I was
praying to him.
Within 3 months of his arrival he had reduced me to a complete and total
sock slave, and had transformed my modest home, into his pleasure
palace. As I type this story right now, I have no bedroom or even a bed
to call my own. I sleep at Greg's feet. Sometimes beneath his feet,
laying across the foot of his bed, other times, just on the bare floor,
with a blanket, and his dirty sox as my pillow.
Greg almost never left the house. I of course had to work. From the time
I would get home, he would never lift a finger to do anything for
himself. If I wanted to be able to worship those feet, then I had to
wait on him hand and foot. Finally he decided he should not have to do
for himself even while I was at work, and so now, I pay for a butler to
see to his whims, while I am at work. Of course the butler is
legitimate and does not worship Greg's feet, but none the less, the
thought of some one other than me waiting on him makes me insanely
jealous. That is how addicted to my servitude I have become. About six
months ago, I started skipping lunch, and working only 5 hour days
instead of 8, so that I could get home earlier, throw the butler out,
and throw myself at Greg's feet.
As a result I have had to cash in a lot of stock in order to support
Greg in the manner he deserves to be supported. He doesn't know I own a
vacation home in South Carolina. I have just placed it on the market,
and when it sells, I will invest that money, and drop to working only 3
days a week, so that I can be there, at Greg's beck and call 24 hours a
day on most days.
I absolutely adore him! The less he does for himself the more intense
my desire to do for him becomes. The more I do for him, the more he
rewards me with those sweaty socked feet. The more he works at getting
them good and sweaty the more my heart aches to please him for being so
sweet to me.
Greg has managed to convince me that it is impossible for me to
experience an orgasm unless his socked foot is pressed against my face.
And you know what? That is absolutely true. My only pleasure in the
world comes through his socked feet. I am now so brainwashed and so
devoted to, and so in love with this mans sweaty socked feet, I have
lost the ability to cum, unless I am breathing his foot odor.
Greg rarely, rarely, leaves the house.
Every now and again he likes to go to a rave. He picks up several young
party boys, then brings them home to show off his 'piece of work".
That's what he calls me. His piece of work. He says he created me.
Made me what I am. He orders me to perform all manner of worship on
him, for the amusement of the boys. He then allows each boy to have 30
minutes, in which they can be my acting master, and I must obey. He
never brings home anyone who isn't perfectly lovely, so this is quite a
treat for me. Then all 3 or 4 of them go to bed together, but not
before placing their breakfast orders. Greg takes great delight in
suggesting that everyone order something different.
So basically, I write down everyone's breakfast orders, after I have
worshiped their feet, and licked their boots, etc. etc. I then undress
them all and leave them to have sex. (I am never permitted to have sex.
Only to masturbate while laying flat on my back on the floor with Greg's
feet in my face). While they do their thing, and eventually fall asleep,
usually around dawn, I stay up. I have to. Greg demands, that when ever
he brings people home to sleep with him, that I have all their clothing
freshly laundered, pressed and on hangers before they awake. I must also
have shoes shined to a gleam along with brand new socks awaiting. I
must have toiletries laid out. Separate tooth brushes with tooth paste
already applied, separate full bars of soup, separate wash cloths, etc.,
for each boy. Greg explains that while none of these boys is truly my
master, the fact of the matter is, they have pleased him, so therefor I
should worship and thank them by serving them dutifully as my show of
gratitude for pleasing my true master.
I whole heatedly agree!
From the moment Greg awakes and rings his bell, I have exactly 3 minutes to produce coffee at his bedside, and exactly 15 minutes to deliver
anywhere from 2 to 6 breakfast trays made to order, depending on the
size of the orgy. Greg usually then has morning sex with each of his
boy toys.
(Many of these boys come over quite willingly, just for the experience,
and to see me perform and grovel. Others are escorts which I of course
pay for, then end up serving.) As each person completes their morning
sexual duties, I escort them to the waiting shower or bath, according
to each boys personal instruction, and I bathe them. I dress them. I
kneel before them each in turn, and smother their feet with kisses,
thanking them for allowing me to serve them while in my master's home.
(And yes I do mean my master's home: One day Greg was tired as was going
to go straight to bed after dancing for hours and hours, without
allowing me time to worship his feet. I begged him, and begged him,
promising to do anything he ordered, if I could just have 10 minutes
with those warm moist socks. He said O.K. if I needed his feet that
bad, I should give him my house for ten minutes with his feet. He
actually waited up, and would not allow me to remove his boots until the
lawyer arrived, and I deeded the house to him. As I signed the last
document he ordered the lawyer out and me down on the floor. He pulled
off his own boots for the first time in over a year, smashed his feet
into my face hard, and said, sniff away, you've got five minutes. I
said Sir, I was certain you promised ten. He said since when do you
talk back to me, now it's 3 minutes. I deeded my three bedroom home to
Greg, for 3 minutes with his feet. I could not go to bed without
experiencing them, so I gave him my house! But back to the boys......we
left off where I am saying good-bye to each by groveling at their feet
and thanking them for allowing me to serve them while in my master's
house).....I do get a reward of sorts. They all go home wearing brand
new socks. Greg insists that I be allowed to keep the dirty socks they
arrive in, to add to my dirty sock floor bed upon which I sleep. This
little scenario happens about once a month or so. Other wise things are
pretty normal. I do Greg's laundry, and all the domestic house chores.
I bathe and clothe him, daily. I cut his hair. I do his manicure and
pedicure weekly. I spot him when he works out. I play personal DJ when
he dances. I cook all the meals. I serve all the meals then crawl under
the table to worship his socked feet while he eats. I never eat with
him. I never eat in front of him. I do nothing for myself unless he is
asleep. Every waking moment, every conscious thought, every breath I
take, is for his satisfaction, enjoyment, pleasure, and glory. He is my
most precious sock master. And I am his willing sock slave who simply
cannot, and will not live on this earth unless I can continue to live at
his feet!
