Straight Man's Good Boy

I love his feet most of all. Yeah, his feet. I lose my mind when I see his feet. He goes to the bathroom, looking exhausted but ultimately happy after he fucked me all day and shot four big loads. I shot a couple of loads too, and my balls are so dry they hurt, but I’m getting turned on again. I want more of him. It’s unbearable. Andrew is urinating into the toilet. Why wouldn’t he just use my mouth? He knows I can drink it all. I drink his piss a lot. He loves using my mouth as a urinal. He says it’s a pleasure for a man to piss into his boy’s mouth. And for the boy, it’s also a pleasure to consume his man’s piss. So Andrew sometimes drinks beer, goes to the bathroom, fills up the empty bottle with his piss, and gives it to me so I could quench my thirst. I love his piss. He drinks beer and I drink his piss. We once walked around the city. He drank beer, went into the bushes, filled up the empty bottle, and let me have it. We kept walking. Around were crowds of people, and I just sipped his hot piss from the bottle as if it was beer. Only Andrew and I knew it was his piss, not beer. He grinned and asked if it tasted good. I said it tasted better than anything and asked for more, and he filled up another bottle for me. He was drunk on beer when we got home, and I was drunk on his piss.

But now, instead of pissing into my mouth, he’s urinating into the toilet, and I can’t do anything about it. I kneel at his feet. I belong at his feet. Yeah, his feet. I love his feet most of all. I sniff the floor where he’s just walked barefoot, and I feel the smell. The smell of my man’s feet. The smell I’ll never mistake for any other man’s smell because I’m addicted to it. I kiss the floor. He’s washing his face, paying no attention to me. I kiss his ankles and stroke his toes. He pushes me back with his foot, but the next moment, I’m kissing his feet again. I’m grateful for this pleasure to be pushed back by his feet and kiss them after, no matter if I’ll be pushed back again, or kicked in the face, or slapped hard on the back of my head. His feet mean so much to me. I belong at his feet. He smiles. He’s pleased with this act of disobedience because it’s a proof—a proof that his feet mean so much to me.

“That’s a good boy,” he says, patting me on the head. “Now make me something to eat.”

I go to the kitchen, not quite happy with the fact that I won’t be worshiping his feet for a while, but definitely happy with the fact that I’ll still be of use to him and do something to please him even more. I know what he likes to eat, and I know he likes to eat what I cook because I cook well. I also know that, while he’s eating at the kitchen table, watching some sports on YouTube and paying absolutely no attention to me, I’ll have time to sniff his feet, kiss his soles, suck his toes. I’ll have time to admire his manly feet—they’re a bit dirty because he walked around the house barefoot—but this time will never be enough. He knows it. He knows I have very special feelings for him. I let him do what I’d never let any other man do to me. I love everything he likes and accept everything he gives me. It all started with his feet. He rewarded me with his feet, and I had to work really, really hard just to be allowed to touch them. Sometimes, if I was a really good boy and he was in a really good mood, he gave me his socks. I love his socks because they’re always stinky and I can smell them even from a distance each time he takes off his shoes. I think it’s natural for a man to have stinky socks. It’s kind of sexy.

I remember he dropped by one evening to hang around at my place for a few hours before the date with a pretty girl he’d picked up somewhere. I knew the girl was pretty because Andrew was a handsome man with a great physique and he liked pretty girls. But I also knew he’d break the girl’s heart. Girls always expected something of him, something he was not. I expected nothing of him, so he could break nothing but my nose if I didn’t suck his cock well enough (which was a rare case). He told me about his dates to make sure I was aware that he was straight, he wasn’t mine, and he’d never be mine. This awareness was crucial because I felt privileged to worship his straight feet, suck his straight cock, kiss his straight ass, and be of use to a straight man. And since he liked girls, I knew I was his only boy. He used to have a few other boys, but they couldn’t satisfy his needs or endure his lust. And they didn’t share this philosophy of having a relationship with a straight man and claiming no rights for him, so Andrew had dumped them quickly. I knew about it because he’d told me, and I felt even more privileged because I could satisfy him. But it didn’t mean I deserved any special treatment. It only meant I had to work hard to keep Andrew happy and satisfied.

So he drops by to have a quick meal, take a shower, and take a rest until it’s time to leave for the date. He doesn’t want to fuck me, because he’s going to have sex with a pretty girl tonight. I’m a good-looking guy, but I can’t compete with girls, so Andrew doesn’t need me now. He knows, however, how to keep me occupied.

“Don’t dangle under my feet,” he barks and pushes me away as I offer him a foot massage.

He tells me to go to the hallway. He left his sneakers there. He tells me to kneel at his sneakers, put my face inside, and sniff. That’s it. Just sniff. I do. I kneel at his sneakers, put my face inside, and sniff. I’ve never sniffed any of his shoes before. These sneakers are his favorite, so he wears them pretty much all the time. They’re warm inside. That’s the warmth of his feet. The insoles are slightly dirty, and I run my tongue over them to have a taste. They don’t taste anything special, neither do they taste good or bad, but I don’t care. I just worship his sneakers because they’re his and they smell of his feet. I bury my face deep inside and inhale this smell through my nose. I exhale through my nose too, because I don’t want his smell to mix with anything else. I spend the next two hours with my face in his sneakers. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Repeat over and over and over again until totally high on the powerful smell of straight man’s shoes, straight man’s socks, straight man’s feet. It feels amazing. It feels like I’m becoming Zen. It feels like a meditation on accepting myself as a faggot owned by a straight man, accepting my place at this man’s feet—or at his sneakers that he wore all day and then just kicked off in the hallway for me to sniff for two wonderful hours. I’m grateful that Andrew made me do this. He knew it would mean a lot to me. He knew I’d be happy before I knew I’d be happy.

When it’s time for him to leave, he walks into the hallway and kicks me up my butt. I lift my face from his sneakers and realize I want no fresh air. I want to keep sniffing. Andrew grins.

“I see you’re having the time of your life here,” he says.

“Yeah!”

I smile blissfully.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says and kicks me up my butt again.

He’s just fooling around because he’s in a good mood.

He puts on his sneakers, and I lace them up the way he likes—not too tight. When he leaves, I jerk off and cum, jerk off and cum, jerk off and cum. Three times. No breaks. Like a fucking champ. I tell him the next day I’m a fucking champ. He doesn’t give a fuck about it, but I want to amuse him. He laughs and says it’s funny and forgets about it the next moment. He gives me his socks before he leaves. He has some personal stuff—his toothbrush, his deodorant, his razor, some clothes, and a few pairs of shoes (not his favorite sneakers, of course)—at my place because it’s convenient, so now he puts on his loafers and gives me his socks. I love his socks because they’re always stinky, but before he leaves, I tell him how I sniffed his loafers all night. The same way I’d sniffed his sneakers last evening. The material was different, and he wore these loafers with no socks, and they were much newer than his sneakers, so the odor was lighter and softer, but I could still recognize the smell of Andrew’s feet. I could sniff the shoes of a hundred dudes with my eyes closed and tell the ones that belonged to Andrew just because I knew this smell. I was addicted to it. He hadn’t told me to, but I sniffed his loafers all night. And when I tell him about it, he doesn’t look surprised or impressed, because that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do. Worship his shoes. Worship his socks. Worship his feet. What I don’t tell him, though—because it feels like a little bit too much to tell—is that I licked the soles of his loafers. I’d never done anything like that before. They weren’t really dirty, but he’d still been wearing them in the street. A few days later, when we were out in a park, I asked Andrew if I could lick the soles of his shoes. He wore his old flip-flops because it was hot. He seemed confused with my proposition.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, smoking a cigarette and not looking at me.

I told him how I’d licked his loafers (“Because I worship you that much,” I said), and I asked again if I could lick the soles of his shoes.

“Please.”

“You’re a fucking freak,” he said.

“Yes. Please.”

He just shrugged, which, in his language, meant that he didn’t mind, so I kneeled in front of him and ran my tongue over the dirty soles of his flip-flops. I could taste street dust on them. When they were clean, I thanked Andrew for letting me do that.

“Fuck off,” he said and spat in my face.

In his language, it meant he was pleased, and I thanked him for letting me please him and be of service.

So he’s going out with his buddies, and he puts on his loafers and gives me the socks he wore on the date last night.

“Sniff these!” he says with a smirk.

I’m euphoric. I have some stuff to do at work, but I work from home, so I can take a good sniff of his socks whenever I want. I can rub my face against them and relish their smell. They’re sweaty and dirty on the soles because Andrew wore them with his favorite sneakers. And they smell. I savor their smell. It kicks me in physically because it’s strong and rich, and it kicks me in mentally because Andrew wore these socks and he’s a virile straight man. I sniff his socks and recall his face, his smile, his voice, his hands, his fists, his cock, his balls, his ass, his feet... I love his feet most of all. I belong at his feet. I’d worship his feet each and every second of my stupid faggot life if he let me.

But there were other ways, too, for me to please him.

For instance, he loved having his ass rimmed, and he told me about it right away. I was skeptical because we’d just met and I didn’t know how it all was going to turn out. I didn’t know how far I was going to get with him. But Andrew knew. He always knew ahead. He told me his ass was the part of his body that I’d have to pay very special attention to, and the very first thing he told me to do when we got intimate for the very first time was to rim his ass. I didn’t do it properly, because I’d never rimmed a man before, but it didn’t seem difficult, so I thought I’d learn fast. Andrew, however, wasn’t quite satisfied with my efforts, so I had to try really, really hard because I wanted to please him. He kind of helped me master the art of man-ass worship.

I remember I was rimming him once and saw he wasn’t happy.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You don’t know how to rim a man,” he said. “You don’t even try!”

“But you said you liked it...”

(He’d actually said it once.)

“Well, yeah, but I don’t now. Try to push your tongue a bit deeper!”

I was doubtful. Licking the ass on the outside is one thing. Licking the ass on the inside is a whole different thing. Andrew’s ass was always clean. It could be sweaty as hell—if, for example, he’d been working out in the gym—but it was always clean outside. I wasn’t sure it was clean inside. I douched thoroughly because we both hated any mess, but he didn’t have to do anything like that. He was a man and I was a faggot. That was the difference.

“Come on, are you disgusted? Really?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry, Andrew, I can’t...”

“Don’t be afraid, kid,” he said softly and patted me on the head. “You want to please me, right? You’ll do whatever it takes to please me, right? Just trust me and don’t think.”

TRUST ME AND DON’T THINK—that was his motto and the key principle of our relationships.

That moment, I started to trust him. He’d never talked to me like that before. He’d never been so kind and patient and understanding. He’d shown me his tough side first to make me surrender control and do whatever he wanted once he showed me his other side—the softer side. It's not like he wouldn’t hurt me or put me in danger. He definitely would because he knew how to push me over the edge, but that was exactly what I needed. That was the point.

So I pushed my tongue deeper into his ass. And immediately, it felt amazing because he exclaimed, “FUCK YEAH!” Now he was pleased. Now he was happy. Now I had to work even harder to keep him happy, so I set out to push my tongue into his asshole as deep as possible. He was tight, but his sphincter was getting relaxed to let me in. I could feel the pulsing of his rectum before I realized how deep inside my tongue had gone. I could taste his shit—or, at least, so I thought—but I didn’t freak out, because he sighed, “Fuck, it feels awesome!” Now I was going to sell my soul to the devil to make him feel awesome. I was addicted to his approval. His hard cock leaked crazy amounts of precum, so I took it in my hand and jerked him off. I’ll never forget how his anus flexed and contracted while he was cumming. Next time, I used my finger to massage his prostate. He objected, but I insisted that we try. I found his prostate easily and rubbed it gently. It made him ecstatic. In just a minute, my mouth was full of his hot cum.

“I love you,” I said, looking up at him.

“Fuck off,” he laughed.

He was pleased. More than ever, I guess.