I can still remember the first time I served a man, more specifically when I served a mans feet. I w

I can still remember the first time I served a man, more specifically when I served a mans feet. I was always a nervous kid and I never learned to shake that habit, which lead to me often being too scared to act on my instincts and desires. I was eighteen when I first serviced a man, but I would have it no other way because I think that was when I was trully prepared to let myself and my needs go and devote myself to taking care of another man. And that first time just so happened to be my father.My father was always a handsome man to me, I think to others he may have come across as just an ordinary guy, but something about his behavior, his casual displays of masculinity, intensified my attraction to him. I was never ashamed of feeling anything toward him because most children find one of their parents attractive, that’s the whole point of the oedipus and electra complexes. However, most children then grow out of it; unfortunately, I did not. I remember growing up and seeing him put his sweaty bare feet up on the ottoman, put his hands behind his head and relax. My brother and mother both loved him but after a while they would both leave, sometimes commenting on the smell, sometimes trying to insist it was something else to try and spare his feelings. But dad never minded. I remember a few times he would look at me and chuckle after they both left and tell me, “They are both just a bunch of pussies. I don’t stink that bad, and besides if you can handle it, they should be able to as well.” I would normally just nod in agreement with him when he made these comments, doing whatever I could to make him feel that he should continue doing it and to try and boost his ego however I could.One particular evening, I remember listening to him chide them to me and just staring at his big, wide, meaty soles. I could see still fresh sweat dripping down his toes. I couldn’t tell you why I felt so drawn to his feet, but I couldn’t stop staring. I was still rather young at the time, so I’m sure my father thought nothing of it after he noticed. I was still frightened, though, when I finally looked away to see him looking back quizzicaly, with slight grin on his face. “You know,” he commented “there’s a reason my feet stink like this.” My expression changed from horror to curiosity, and he used that as affirmation to continue his thought. “Well, my feet do have a sort of natural musk to them. Trust me, your mother’s made sure I know. But they only really sweat like this after I’ve been hard at work.” His words felt genuine and sincere, and I could feel them sink into my brain as he spoke. “I’ve been out doing yard work, taking care of the family, it’s no wonder I’m so sweaty and smelly. But more than that, my feet just hurt so much. Your mother outright refuses even when I’ve just showered, and there’s no doubt your brother would be the same way. But I just wish there was someone who would rub my feet for me. I mean, they deserve to be taken care of, don’t they?”Without thinking, I nodded my head and inched ever closer. My face nearly touching the soles of his feet, taking every opportunity to breath in his heavy musk. My hands slowly made their way to his feet and as I began rubbing, everything sort of clicked. Everything made sense to. I felt like this was where I belonged. In general, at the feet of a man, but more specifically, taking care of my father just felt right. Then, all at once, it was taken from me. “Whoa, there sport. Don’t wanna kill you with my foot funk, do we?” He chuckled, “Thanks for entertaining your old man, but I doubt I’ll ever find anyone who can handle these bad boys.” And with that he got up and left, leaving me reeling from and swirling with thoughts and feelings.That must have been when I was eight or nine, and while it wasn’t my first time serving a real man, it was my first time getting close. Although events like that would occur every now and again, they would never go as far as that first time. I never got close enough to touching them again, until I was eighteen that is.-My days started the same as all the other summer days had been up to that point. I had graduated that year, so I got to actually enjoy my break, as opposed to previous years that were spent doing summer work for AP classes. I was lounging around trying to kill time, playing some games on various consoles, but after years of devoting all my time to school, relaxing just felt… wrong. Anytime anybody in my family went anywhere I would try to go with them, but my brother had recently left as he was going to study abroad and wanted to actually live on his own in the country for a bit before his classes started and my mother was away visiting family. My dad was outside doing some yard work, and while I wanted to kill time, actually working wasn’t an appealing method of killing time. Besides, my dad enjoyed doing that kind of stuff on his own, says it gave him time alone to think while also keeping his body in shape without having to go out of his way to go to a gym or buy gym equipment.I checked my phone: 5:30pm. With a sigh I got up and shuffled into the kitchen. Mom had left telling us we would have to fend for ourselves, but that she left some food in the fridge that could be made into a meal. Dad was a decent cook, but mom was better and she didn’t mind cooking as much as he did. I must have gotten my cooking skills from her because from a young age I remember helping mom make dinner and pretty early on took the role of head chef whenever she was away. After glancing through the fridge, I settled on the dish that would be the easiest to make that we would both like and set to making it. About halfway through, I heard the door open followed by the heavy footsteps that could only be from my dad.“Jesus,” he sighed, “it’s a hot one today, ain’t it? I was just about boiling out there.” I turned around to see him wiping sweat from his forehead and taking off his shirt.“Yeah, I wouldn’t know since I’ve been inside all day. But I think I saw the temp was supposed to be in the hundreds.” I replied as I brought my attention back to cooking so as to not focus on my shirtless father.“Well it certainly felt like it.” He proclaimed, “anyway, I’m gonna go get changed out of my shirt and pants before dinner, which smells great just so you know. You better watch out though, with skills like those men like me might just pounce on you.” He grabbed me as he said ‘pounce’ and his chuckling became uncontrollable laughter when he saw how much I flinched. “I’m just playing with you, boy, but I am looking forward to dinner. You have no idea how grateful I am that I haven’t had to cook when your mom leaves for a long time thanks to you.” He ruffled my hair and left heading up the stairs.I could still feel my body tingling where he grabbed me, and his words hung heavy in my head. I never told my parents about my sexuality, but my mom always voiced her support-slash-indifference when seeing radical hate groups by just saying, “nobody’s getting hurt, what does it matter. I may not march but I’m not gonna just listen to people spout nonsense because they don’t like someone different from them.” My dad hardly ever voiced his opinions, but once he and I passed by a gay bar and saw some guys making out, and I guess he particularly focused in on one couple that was a rather burly man, a bear, and a skinnier man, a twink, and he just said, “I don’t voice my opinion on this kind of thing much because I don’t think I feel the need to, but it can be real obvious how they aren’t much different from us when you look at two guys like that. I mean it’s plain as day to see who’s the man and who’s the wife, what does it matter that it’s two men. That would be like you and me, I do and don’t mind doing the physical labor and you do and don’t mind doing the housework.” Chuckling in realization of what he said, he added, “guess that means you’d make a good wife for me, or would it be husband? Boy? Hehe, whatever.”There was a lot wrong with how my father thought about things, but he was at least accepting, and it gave me insight into how he thought about it. I did always find it strange that the one time I heard him talk about it, he said it to me and said those things. But I figured I was overthinking things.Just as I finished plating dinner I could hear dad coming down the stairs, “Perfect timing,” I told him as I turned around with our dinner, “everything’s already set up, so you can just chillax and I’ll take care of the rest.”Smiling he said, “You are just too good to me, boy. But I’m not gonna argue with the chef’s orders.” After I placed his food down, he sat swinging his massive feet on to the ottomon I got out for him, wiggling his socked toes, airing them out. I went to go get the rest of the food and our drinks and when I came back he told me, “Hoo, boy, now the smell of my socks don’t bother me, but I didn’t change them with the rest of my clothes and I can already tell the smell has filled this room. I didn’t think they were that bad, but…” he started to get up, but I wanted him to know the smell didn’t bother me.I took a massive inhale and was hit with the strongest round of foot funk my nose had ever been assaulted with, but I knew I needed more. “See, dad, the smell doesn’t bother me.”Chuckling, he relented, “Okay, boy, I won’t change my darn socks. But there’s no way in hell that this smell doesn’t bother you.”After he said that, I felt my knees suddenly crumble and before I knew it I had my face planted in his feet breathing in all his hard work, all the hours on his feet. I don’t know how long it was before my mind came back on, most likely several seconds, but it felt like the most satisfying eternity of my life. Regretfully, I pulled my face from his feet and once again showed him, “See the smell of your feet really doesn’t bother me. It never has!” I finally admitted and it felt like a weight had been lifted of my chest. My dad stayed silent for several seconds before I started to get up, but using his feet he kept me down on my knees. “Now, boy,” he finally spoke, “I’m not going to repeat myself. You used to be the only one who would stay around regardless of how sweaty and smelly my feet were, and once you even tried to give me a foot rub. So, answer me this: do you like the smell of my feet, boy? Is my son some kind of foot funk faggot?” I could feel my hands and knees shaking, I was so scared, but I was tired of running and he kept me down by his feet when he asked that so maybe that could be taken as a good sign. With resolve in my voice, I responded: “Yes, I’ve always loved the smell of your—“ but before I could finish he pushed his sweaty socked feet into my face, shutting me up.With the biggest shit eating grin on his face, he looked down at me, with his big meaty, sweaty, smelly feet in my face and told me, “Now there are gonna be some changes around here, boy. First, start rubbing my fucking feet.” I promptly placed my hands on his feet and started rubbing without moving them an inch from my face. “That’s it. See, I had my suspicions about you, especially after you were practically drooling over them when you tried to massage them the first time. But see, I wasn’t ready then to accept that my son might not only be a foot fag, but that he might be in love with my feet? That was just insane.”He proceeded to grind his feet in my face, further embedding his scent. “But then, day after day, I would work my ass off, whether it be a long day at work or a hot day outside taking care of the yard, every day my feet would sweat and they would fucking reek, but you, you would always sit right by them, unbothered. I began thinking: there hasn’t ever been anyone who could stand the smell of my feet, but here you are, trying to subtly take deep breaths in, practically on the verge of busting your nut just from the smell at that distance. You couldn’t just stand it, no, and you didn’t just like it— you were in love with it. And here I am tired,” and with that word he grinded his feet harder, “and sweaty,” and harder into my face, “and I deserve to be taken fuckin’ care of. Don’t I?” I was sure it was a rhetorical question, but I nodded my head without hesitation. And surprisingly, he used his sweaty feet to ruffle my head, a sign of affection I wasn’t expecting at all. “See once I made all of these connections in my head, I knew you’d get it. I tried testing the waters when I said how I felt about the gays. See, there are gay men, and then there are fags. Now gay men can do what they like, similar to your mother I simply don’t give a shit. But fags, well they are begging to used so badly that they might as well get what they want. And if I had a foot fag son who wanted to spend hours sniffing my rancid feet, licking them clean, sucking out the toe jam, and making sure they were getting the type of attention and devotion they’ve deserved for years, the foot rubs they’ve needed, well, who am I to stop them? Some have a calling for music, cooking, sports, some would even say its such a strong connection that its fate. And if I had a faggot son who’s fate it was to rub and suck clean the feet of real men, it would just be downright blasphemous for me to prevent him from his fate. So, boy, let me ask you this? Is my son a foot fag?”My heart was beating so fast. There were so many thoughts running through my head, but in that split second, I happened to catch another whiff of his feet, and it was like my will was a sheet of glass covered in cracks and that little whiff was just the tiniest breeze that suddenly shattered it. Without saying a word, I grabbed his socks with my teeth and tore them off, revealing to me the same meaty size 11’s I’d seen all those years ago. I was more than just horny, lusting after his feet. Dad— no, my master, was right. I was hungry for them, I needed them. This was my fate, and it would be blasphemous to do anything but worship real mens feet. And my new master’s would be the first. I smashed my nose against his bare feet, breathing in a scent ten times more intense than I had ever had the pleasure of being dominated by, and in my high, in the eternal hypnotization his foot funk was putting me under, I looked up to see my master smiling down at me. Not with the shit-eating grin from earlier, but a proud smile, of an alpha male who had just manipulated his first faggot into being his foot slave. -- source link

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