Featherscape
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- Jun 23, 2017
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A full moon cast a shimmering curtain on the night when my actions had finally caught up with me. Hovering over me was the shadow of a familiar voice, his hand caressing my hair as it draped across the back of my neck. Face down against my own bed, I had little means of knowing to whom I had awoken, my cheek buried against my own pillow. His tone, however, lower than usual, was all too sentimental, even if he had taken on a role that I had never expected.
“No talking,” he said, low and hushed. My chest fluttered. I shivered and bit my lip. He ran his fingers through my hair, reaching around to hold one of my own socks, small and faded yellow, up to my lips. He told me to open and I obeyed, unwilling to deny the merits of my own actions. My heart smiled bright, blood racing as quickly as my thoughts. I bit down in the sock, faint traces of the sweat left over from the day casting a raw flavor against my tongue.
“I hope you know… you brought this on yourself,” the deep, masculine voice said behind me. Caught within the dead of night, the chill of the still nocturn blowing through my open window, my body burned, knowing his words to be true. He played right into what I wanted from him, going as far as to best perform the secretive invader role to contextualize the invitation. I reflected on the daring move that I had made onto my friend earlier that week as his stern touch bound my hands together in linen rope behind my back.
Matthew had been my brother’s closest friend since elementary school. The two were greatly inseparable at an early age and grew together in a strangely compatible tandem. They discussed many of the same shows, got into the same games, and even joined several of the same clubs in middle and high school. Together, they had given over largely to the nerdier, more outcast activities. They would collect Magic the Gathering cards and spend their available Saturdays playing Warhammer at their local game shop. Throughout middle school, even though he was older than me by several years, I was already starting to grow comfortable enough to pick on my brother regarding his interests. It was playful banter, typically regarding his lack of athleticism, but never too mean as to not allow him an avenue to hit back in his own ways. His best friend was largely the same yet in a way that always felt slightly askewed.
My brother’s friendship with Matthew seemed to come with an associated relationship with me as well, a kinship by proxy. Matthew and my brother, Andrew, were similar in many of the ways established in their shared environments, but as Matthew aged, he seemed to take on more conventionally comfortable qualities. His jokes were typically funnier, his humor more easily appealing, even when ironically so. He dressed just a little bit cleaner than my brother, though that may have been because I lived with Andrew and had grown to know the presence of his untended body odor quite well lingering in common areas. Eventually, being around Matthew became as streamlined and natural as being around Andrew despite both electing to pick on me for the occasional jape.
Matthew lived close enough to drop by often, usually already being at the house playing Battlefront or something with Andrew in the living room when I would come home from soccer practice once a week. His home life was a relative mystery, though with how welcoming my parents had become of his frequent visits and stays for dinner, looking back, I doubt it was as warm as what we strived to provide. As I grew older, I became more and more excited to see Matthew hanging out at our place. The two of us grew more comfortable with each other outside of the association with Andrew and by the time I had finally entered high school, we were pretty good friends. While Andrew continued to pick on me as per his role as ‘big brother’, Matthew often took a more protective approach, standing up to his playful bullying, even when it was all in jest. As an upperclassman in the same school, he even went as far as to take a more earnest stance with this in regards to real bullies that I would face or even crushes that ended in heartbreak. Matthew was there as a friend and a pillar through some of the hardest social trials that he knew I would face. I believe he quickly caught on to how appealing this became to me as the years went by.
Matthew's strong, warm hands eased down the backs of my legs, his fingers giving the crooks of my knees a jolting tickle that made me squirm and squeal into the sock gagging me. I squirmed slightly, yet found myself melting to his touch, surrendering to the rush sanctioned by us both in our own special silence. He worked his way down my body. Clothed in the light blue underwear that I had slipped into earlier that night, I trembled with the thrill of being the focused presentation of my midnight intruder. I squirmed anxiously while Matthew moved farther down the bed, teasing me with slow, anticipated retaliation.
As Matthew and I grew closer, in no small fault than him spending more time in our house than his own, the playful teasing that persisted between us began to evolve. I would occasionally catch him looking at me when he thought he was being sly. I blew it off as coincidences at first, perhaps a little wishful thinking, but as it continued to happen through the years, I toyed with the idea of there being something more to his glances. They were leering in nature, nothing that appeared reflected in his typically playful demeanor, but certainly definitive enough to warrant deeper, more rousing speculation.
The years continued, as did the passive looks that seemed to last longer than before. They were intentional, more obvious, and in a strange way, endearingly flattering. I had never really received much attention from boys before and my first experience with flirting came invitingly natural to my friend, Matthew. I would sit closer next to him on the couch, laugh a little more at his jokes than before, and pay more attention to how I looked when he was around. It was an electrifying, yet terrifying experience, allowing your first real crush to come from such a good friend, but the most unique change came from how I would catch him starting to look at me.
Along with the usual sly looks Matthew would give to me, met with my own passive awareness, I would also see him focusing noticeably on my feet. This was around the age where I was sure that I knew what his looks were really for. At first, I found the attention he would put on my feet strange, but in a cute, harmless way. It was new and oddly just as exciting as any other carnal stare. After I became sure that my feet had gotten his regular attention, I began playing into it. I would go barefoot in the house around him more often, usually sitting in ways that put them in easy view. Matthew always seemed to fall quiet in these moments. Even when out of eyeshot, I could always feel his looks bearing down on them. It actually became kind of exciting, in a way, feeling that my feet had this kind of influence over him in a way that I had never considered before.
“Keep them still for me,” Matthew said in the darkness of my bedroom. Compelled, and guided by a strange thrill in obeying, I did what he was told. I could feel that familiar stare pressing down on my soles, igniting a blush that remained buried against my pillow. His hands caressed the edges of my bare feet. My teeth sank into my sock as we both remained quiet in our deeds so as to not alarm anyone else in the house of what we were doing. Matthew ran his fingers tenderly around the sides of my feet. His touch sent light, tapping tickles up through my soles, doing more to command my attention than to incite laughter, though I knew the latter was surely on Matthew’s mind.
As I had grown more daring in my efforts to see Matthew squirm to the sight of my feet, making him clearly anxious in the presence of my more oblivious brother, I was prepared to take further steps to see just how far I could push the unspoken connection between us. I began leaving my socks around in common areas, occasionally finding single ones missing by the time Matthew had rushed out of the door. I would drop hints of wanting my feet rubbed and would even playfully put them more blatantly into view for Matthew and my brother in teasing and disingenuous efforts to get a free massage. I would also take the more risky approach of admitting my own overwhelming ticklishness. There were times where the three of us would be watching movies or playing games on the couch where I would place my bare feet in Matthew’s lap. We would both pass it off as me being innocently obnoxious in the company of my brother’s friend, but neither of us demonstrated any effort to remove them from where they rested. Instead, Matthew would sheepishly touch them when he thought I might not notice his intentions or even give them a quick tickle, resulting in a genuinely explosive reaction that I would follow up with keeping them dangerously in range.
It had become obvious that not only was Matthew into my feet, but that we both had taken the passive approach long enough to warrant a more direct communication about the feelings that resided beneath. I was content with simply playing up the role of flirt and simply keeping him around to play with and make nervous with my own special brand of teasing. Yet, following the dinner me, my family, Matthew, and more of my friends shared for my eighteenth birthday, Matthew had taken my hand and pulled me aside. I stared up at his matured expression, his stare still casting tingles with the slightest of effort. He told me that he was going to get me back for all that I had put him through. Still living nearby to attend college with my brother in town, Matthew said quietly that if I agreed to it, to keep my window unlocked that night. I almost considered the reality of him joking, but I had grown to know him as well as my own brother, and could tell by his tone that he was serious and planning something more overtly acknowledging the years worth of unspoken tension. Intrigued, I agreed, and kept our meeting to myself.
As the night lay the world around us to rest, and the crickets sang their rippling chorus beneath the moonlight, I surrendered myself to Matthew’s command. I trusted him. Even as he brushed his fingers along the warm bottoms of my soft, bare feet, all with the promise of delightful torments as an answer to all that I had done to him, he was still the friend I knew. I breathed in his scent with each needful gasp through my nose. I squirmed as he tied my ankles together at the bottom of my bed, positioning my feet to point down off of the edge. I was his. He had been my toy, my thing to play with for so long, that I was content with spending an evening being the same, even at the promise, and parallel threat, of pleasures only teased.
Within the still air, I heard a sharp breath fluff swiftly at my soles. Matthew cradled my feet tenderly in his hands and pressed his nose against the center of one arch. I kept my feet still for him. A brief urge to judge, or perhaps to simply question, came over me, but I had no right to indulge in the momentary societal impulse to think of him any differently. He enjoyed the sensory measures that my feet provided him and I reveled in the affection, finding the attention given to my feet an endearing extension of getting to know a guy who already meant so much to me. Even if I was to question his attraction to them, surrendering such a pleasure to Matthew came easy, as if, should I see him as only a friend, I would still trust and allow him to enjoy himself. I was his and was in no position to argue even if I wanted to. This element alone ignited sensations within me that I had never known, both about Matthew and myself.
My body burned as I lay in my own bed, comfortably dressed down into the set in which I had wanted Matthew to see me. He breathed in the scent of feet with each dense inhale, his nose pressed against the silky warmth of my sole. I was left attempting to rationalize the attraction, questioning what it was, from his end, that he found appealing. I had washed my feet in a shower before bed and applied a subtle layer of a fragrant moisturizer that had long since seeped into my skin. What was left would have to be an aroma that combined the appeal of cucumber melon with their more natural, distinctive odor. Matthew took quite kindly to the sensations, sucking in deep, long breaths strong enough for me to hear and feel.
Matthew indulged himself, drinking in the yield to years worth of reserved desires, teased for my own playful pleasures. I wondered how long he had been wanting to engage so intimately with my feet, with me, and considered that I had not even noticed most of the times he had stolen a glance. My toes wiggled slightly as my feet hung off of the edge of the bed, tucked between his hands holding them gently. Matthew moved his nose around my soles in different spots, taking in long, needful breaths. I was there simply to allow him such personal delights; not to question or even understand them, though the warmth that his affection resonated throughout my body was all I felt I needed to know. He was still Matthew, tender and sweet, and yet there came a darker maturity about him that drew me into this dim, sentimental space only big enough for the both of us.
As Matthew traversed his nose around my feet, feeling the humid blush of my soles against his cheeks, I bit down upon the sock gag tucked between my jaws. He drew sharp sniffs beneath each of my toes. His antics were almost dog-like, resembling that of a child at play, and yet I knew his motivations were anything but. I wondered if that would be the night that more would come, whether or not I was just fueling the momentum for something far more abrasive to take place between us. I questioned if I would be opposed, and when I quickly decided that I would welcome those advances just as fluidly, what that meant for us as friends, what that meant for our feelings toward each other. My thoughts were cut short by a warm, wet sensation to brush up the length of my left arch.
My teeth sank into the sock in my mouth as I began to feel Matthew’s tongue brush against my sole. It was somehow both warm and cool at the same time, a slippery extension of the boy’s own pleasure. Initially, I was compelled to remain in the moment, to enjoy the sensation of having my foot licked. It was an odd experience, one I had never felt before, but despite the initial shock of difference, I found myself sinking into the enticingly intimate sensation. His tongue was warm and wet, slowly cascading streams of affection through my senses. My composure melted to the new rush of stimulation, a lecherous rise leaving my body burning more and more with each tender lick. His approach was tender and patient. His own desires took precedence over my helpless, bound figure, and in that selfish consideration, my own steadily began to brim.
Matthew’s lips left long, lingering kisses along every inch of my soles. His tongue scaled slowly up and down each foot, tasting every soft, humid fiber. I found myself involuntarily moaning against my gag, squirming slightly atop my own bed. Lost in the trust that I had for him, almost wishful in wondering how far Matthew would go the night of his intrusion, I felt the timeless sense of carnal apathy wash over the room, where Matthew and I indulged in delights we had never spoken of before. The sudden intensity of being his object of desire, to play with in such a way that I had only teased before, churned my own burning ache. Matthew drew in deep breaths, ran his tongue all over both soles, and held them tenderly in his hands as he thoroughly suckled on each of my toes. And in it all, I allowed it. The visit, the bondage, the acute gestures of his own deepest, most secretive pleasures, I permitted it all and was fully prepared to accept the consequences of my own indulgence.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips. Matthew pulled away from my feet, leaving behind a small trail of saliva. He wiped his mouth and examined my feet, shimmering in the moonlight glowing just outside of the window. I thought he had gotten his fill and that maybe he would be on his way before being found out. I could have laid there and accepted his affection all night long, even eventually drifting off to sleep to the feeling of his tongue and lips on my bare feet. While I laid wondering what this would do for the dynamic of our friendship, whether this meant we would become something more or not, he interrupted my curiosity with more words whispered in the night, demanding my ear.
“Can’t be too loud,” Matthew said. I had only but a moment to wonder what he meant, unable to speak or question with the gag in my mouth, but his words became quite clear very quickly. His fingers circled around the edges of my feet to press into the center of my arches. Immediately, the boy began lightly scribbling his nails along my soles. I stifled a heart squeal, heavily muffled by the thickness of the sock lodged inside my mouth, as my body recoiled to the sudden surge of stimulation.
I shrieked as the tickles rose against my soles. Matthew's nails scribbled in tight, concentrated flurries against my soft, slender arches. The ticklish surges shocked through my senses. My eyes widened as my moans became sudden and exaggerated fits of laughter streaming from my throat. My body twisted against the bed. My arms pulled at the tie holding them together behind my back. My eyes quickly began to tear as it became frightfully apparent that there was little I could do to stop the ticklish assault against my incredibly sensitive feet.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle…” Matthew whispered in the dark, accentuated by his own amused giggles. Tickles had become a common consequence of me teasing Matthew with my feet within his reach, but mostly they had been brief bursts of scribbles to assert momentary retaliation. We both knew how abundantly ticklish I had always been, especially on my feet, but never before had I been exposed to such consistent bouts of prolonged tickling. Within seconds, the sensation had already lasted longer than any tickling I had ever endured before. I squealed with laughter into my gag. My body flailed within the confines of the ropes keeping my arms behind my back and my ankles pressed together. And yet, I could feel the restraint in Matthew’s assertion, the careful consideration of how much I was able to withstand while still pushing limits I had never known before.
Unable to see his movements at the bottom, I had no means of anticipating what he would do at any moment or when he would stop. His fingers danced along my squirming feet, his nails scraping and skittering with endlessly scouring. The tickles rushed up and through my senses. I did what I could to restrain my laughter, but found my voice peaking against the gag. The flurries of tickles surges through my nerves, my soles a playground of taunting torment for Matthew’s delight. His hands kept up well with the desperate writhing of my feet within the tie holding them together. While one would instinctively try to protect the other, Matthew’s hands tracked both in a way that let the tickles continue no matter how they moved.
A sharp yelp escaped my throat, muffled by the sock gag and my face pressed against my pillow, as Matthew’s mouth returned to my feet. His lips suckled at my toes while his teeth nibbled across the soft, bubbly pads. His fingers continued to scribble and dance faster and faster across my soles. Any and all restraint that I had to be cautious of my volume had vanished in a moment of blinding tickles surging through my senses. Matthew would occasionally stop upon hearing a noise outside the room, of which we both fell cautiously silent, only to then return with as much ferociousness. I rocked side to side. Tears stained my pillowcase, along with faint streaks of drool and sweat. I strained to breathe through my laughter, my face burning as Matthew commanded my entire bound body with the ticklish pulses waged against my incredibly sensitive soles and toes.
“Mmmm, so good…” I heard him mutter in the darkness. His teeth chattered menacingly against each toe, sending wave upon wave of tickles crashing against my most delicate area. As heavily as I found myself surrendering to the ticklish hysteria storming through my nerves, heaving exhausted breaths with great desperation, the aching burn continued to deepen. The rush of sensations ravaging through my body that I debatably deserved, if only as retaliation to the teasing that I had put Matthew through for years, fed into desires that I was only then realizing. The helplessness, the ties, the affection against my feet, and the breaking down of my composure through my own squealing ticklishness all appeared to culminate into something unexpected, not unlike Matthew himself.
His fingers scribbled viciously against my helpless soles. My feet had been made slick by his tongue, only to be refreshed in short breaks to help me catch my breath while he returned to licking my soles. When Matthew would resume tickling, my senses would be greeted by a renewed explosion of stimulation. I rocked side to side, squealing with desperate laughter into my gag. I bucked against the bed, never before having received a tickling so torturously constant. Matthew merely chuckled. He giggled and teased me with occasional phrases that would help emphasize my complete and total helplessness.
“Coochie, coochie, coo…” Matthew whispered. His nails scraped against my writhing soles, each ticklish nerve all his with which to play. His teeth nibbled at my toes and worked around the edges toward my heels. His fingers scratched and skittered freely, every second riddling my senses with more tickles than I had ever known before that night. I thrashed against my bed, still attempting to stifle my volume with brief and unsuccessful efforts. My feet were Matthew’s sole focus, a righteous rebellion against what I had inadvertently invited. Whether or not I deserved the torment I suffered became a secondary debate to why I enjoyed it, being Matthew’s ticklish toy, as much as I did.
For upwards of an hour, possibly more, I squirmed restlessly in my own bed. I screamed muffled fits of laughter into my own dirty sock. I fought back slightly, but ultimately fell under the mercy of my captor and most trusted friend, where I underwent alternate exchanges of maddening tickles and lulling licks and kisses, so sweet and tender. My heart raced. My senses raged into a needy, pulsing ache. I felt what it was like to be his, the boy of whom I had grown so fond over the years. He treated my feet, and by extension me, both like a treasure and like a toy, a delightfully enticing combination. I screamed. I laughed. I moaned. My mind both raced with contemplations and withdrew into the comfort of momentary surrender.
After hours of undergoing the most devilish tickles and the most passionate kisses, back and forth, leaving me utterly breathless… thoughtless… totally and completely his… Matthew pulled away. He came up to the head of the bed, stroking my hair away from my ear, and leaned in to whisper while I strained to catch my breath.
“That’s for teasing me all those years,” he said, his voice low and gruff. My heart raced. I could only stare back in the darkness. His touch was as gentle as ever. I wanted to fall asleep to it, that I could keep feeling it in my dreams. I wiggled my toes. I could still feel the slickness against them and my soles brought on by so many warm and loving licks. My feet tingled with residual tickles, echoes of their overwhelming sensitivity. Matthew untied my hands and began covering me with my bed sheet.
“I hope this wasn’t too much,” he said, chuckling slightly to himself. He whispered as he spoke, still mindful not to make an alarming amount of noise. “I certainly had fun. If you’d like to do this again, wear something red tomorrow. Got it?” Lost in his voice, in the warmth of his body hovering over my fatigued figure, I gave a solemn, weary nod.
“Good,” Matthew said. I could hear his smile while his face loomed as little more than a shadow over me. “Now get some sleep. You’ve earned it.” He gave my cheek another careful stroke with the backs of his fingers, feeling the blooming heat rising off of my face. Matthew started toward the window, beginning to climb out. Matthew hopped down and closed the window behind him. I watched him vanish into the dim, moonlight night, his steps lightly crunching against leaves in our backyard.
My tired eyes wavered. I considered taking out the gag and untying my ankles, my bare feet continuing to tingle. As sleepy as I had become, as tired as my arms were, I felt no urgency in the matter, almost wanting to hold onto both for as long as I could, thinking perhaps… Mathew would still return for more. My eyes closed as my mind stayed on him and all that his visit meant to me. My heart began to ease. Sleep started to take over. In my final conscious moments, I could only hope to dream of Matthew, his visit, and which red shirt I would wear the next day.
“No talking,” he said, low and hushed. My chest fluttered. I shivered and bit my lip. He ran his fingers through my hair, reaching around to hold one of my own socks, small and faded yellow, up to my lips. He told me to open and I obeyed, unwilling to deny the merits of my own actions. My heart smiled bright, blood racing as quickly as my thoughts. I bit down in the sock, faint traces of the sweat left over from the day casting a raw flavor against my tongue.
“I hope you know… you brought this on yourself,” the deep, masculine voice said behind me. Caught within the dead of night, the chill of the still nocturn blowing through my open window, my body burned, knowing his words to be true. He played right into what I wanted from him, going as far as to best perform the secretive invader role to contextualize the invitation. I reflected on the daring move that I had made onto my friend earlier that week as his stern touch bound my hands together in linen rope behind my back.
Matthew had been my brother’s closest friend since elementary school. The two were greatly inseparable at an early age and grew together in a strangely compatible tandem. They discussed many of the same shows, got into the same games, and even joined several of the same clubs in middle and high school. Together, they had given over largely to the nerdier, more outcast activities. They would collect Magic the Gathering cards and spend their available Saturdays playing Warhammer at their local game shop. Throughout middle school, even though he was older than me by several years, I was already starting to grow comfortable enough to pick on my brother regarding his interests. It was playful banter, typically regarding his lack of athleticism, but never too mean as to not allow him an avenue to hit back in his own ways. His best friend was largely the same yet in a way that always felt slightly askewed.
My brother’s friendship with Matthew seemed to come with an associated relationship with me as well, a kinship by proxy. Matthew and my brother, Andrew, were similar in many of the ways established in their shared environments, but as Matthew aged, he seemed to take on more conventionally comfortable qualities. His jokes were typically funnier, his humor more easily appealing, even when ironically so. He dressed just a little bit cleaner than my brother, though that may have been because I lived with Andrew and had grown to know the presence of his untended body odor quite well lingering in common areas. Eventually, being around Matthew became as streamlined and natural as being around Andrew despite both electing to pick on me for the occasional jape.
Matthew lived close enough to drop by often, usually already being at the house playing Battlefront or something with Andrew in the living room when I would come home from soccer practice once a week. His home life was a relative mystery, though with how welcoming my parents had become of his frequent visits and stays for dinner, looking back, I doubt it was as warm as what we strived to provide. As I grew older, I became more and more excited to see Matthew hanging out at our place. The two of us grew more comfortable with each other outside of the association with Andrew and by the time I had finally entered high school, we were pretty good friends. While Andrew continued to pick on me as per his role as ‘big brother’, Matthew often took a more protective approach, standing up to his playful bullying, even when it was all in jest. As an upperclassman in the same school, he even went as far as to take a more earnest stance with this in regards to real bullies that I would face or even crushes that ended in heartbreak. Matthew was there as a friend and a pillar through some of the hardest social trials that he knew I would face. I believe he quickly caught on to how appealing this became to me as the years went by.
Matthew's strong, warm hands eased down the backs of my legs, his fingers giving the crooks of my knees a jolting tickle that made me squirm and squeal into the sock gagging me. I squirmed slightly, yet found myself melting to his touch, surrendering to the rush sanctioned by us both in our own special silence. He worked his way down my body. Clothed in the light blue underwear that I had slipped into earlier that night, I trembled with the thrill of being the focused presentation of my midnight intruder. I squirmed anxiously while Matthew moved farther down the bed, teasing me with slow, anticipated retaliation.
As Matthew and I grew closer, in no small fault than him spending more time in our house than his own, the playful teasing that persisted between us began to evolve. I would occasionally catch him looking at me when he thought he was being sly. I blew it off as coincidences at first, perhaps a little wishful thinking, but as it continued to happen through the years, I toyed with the idea of there being something more to his glances. They were leering in nature, nothing that appeared reflected in his typically playful demeanor, but certainly definitive enough to warrant deeper, more rousing speculation.
The years continued, as did the passive looks that seemed to last longer than before. They were intentional, more obvious, and in a strange way, endearingly flattering. I had never really received much attention from boys before and my first experience with flirting came invitingly natural to my friend, Matthew. I would sit closer next to him on the couch, laugh a little more at his jokes than before, and pay more attention to how I looked when he was around. It was an electrifying, yet terrifying experience, allowing your first real crush to come from such a good friend, but the most unique change came from how I would catch him starting to look at me.
Along with the usual sly looks Matthew would give to me, met with my own passive awareness, I would also see him focusing noticeably on my feet. This was around the age where I was sure that I knew what his looks were really for. At first, I found the attention he would put on my feet strange, but in a cute, harmless way. It was new and oddly just as exciting as any other carnal stare. After I became sure that my feet had gotten his regular attention, I began playing into it. I would go barefoot in the house around him more often, usually sitting in ways that put them in easy view. Matthew always seemed to fall quiet in these moments. Even when out of eyeshot, I could always feel his looks bearing down on them. It actually became kind of exciting, in a way, feeling that my feet had this kind of influence over him in a way that I had never considered before.
“Keep them still for me,” Matthew said in the darkness of my bedroom. Compelled, and guided by a strange thrill in obeying, I did what he was told. I could feel that familiar stare pressing down on my soles, igniting a blush that remained buried against my pillow. His hands caressed the edges of my bare feet. My teeth sank into my sock as we both remained quiet in our deeds so as to not alarm anyone else in the house of what we were doing. Matthew ran his fingers tenderly around the sides of my feet. His touch sent light, tapping tickles up through my soles, doing more to command my attention than to incite laughter, though I knew the latter was surely on Matthew’s mind.
As I had grown more daring in my efforts to see Matthew squirm to the sight of my feet, making him clearly anxious in the presence of my more oblivious brother, I was prepared to take further steps to see just how far I could push the unspoken connection between us. I began leaving my socks around in common areas, occasionally finding single ones missing by the time Matthew had rushed out of the door. I would drop hints of wanting my feet rubbed and would even playfully put them more blatantly into view for Matthew and my brother in teasing and disingenuous efforts to get a free massage. I would also take the more risky approach of admitting my own overwhelming ticklishness. There were times where the three of us would be watching movies or playing games on the couch where I would place my bare feet in Matthew’s lap. We would both pass it off as me being innocently obnoxious in the company of my brother’s friend, but neither of us demonstrated any effort to remove them from where they rested. Instead, Matthew would sheepishly touch them when he thought I might not notice his intentions or even give them a quick tickle, resulting in a genuinely explosive reaction that I would follow up with keeping them dangerously in range.
It had become obvious that not only was Matthew into my feet, but that we both had taken the passive approach long enough to warrant a more direct communication about the feelings that resided beneath. I was content with simply playing up the role of flirt and simply keeping him around to play with and make nervous with my own special brand of teasing. Yet, following the dinner me, my family, Matthew, and more of my friends shared for my eighteenth birthday, Matthew had taken my hand and pulled me aside. I stared up at his matured expression, his stare still casting tingles with the slightest of effort. He told me that he was going to get me back for all that I had put him through. Still living nearby to attend college with my brother in town, Matthew said quietly that if I agreed to it, to keep my window unlocked that night. I almost considered the reality of him joking, but I had grown to know him as well as my own brother, and could tell by his tone that he was serious and planning something more overtly acknowledging the years worth of unspoken tension. Intrigued, I agreed, and kept our meeting to myself.
As the night lay the world around us to rest, and the crickets sang their rippling chorus beneath the moonlight, I surrendered myself to Matthew’s command. I trusted him. Even as he brushed his fingers along the warm bottoms of my soft, bare feet, all with the promise of delightful torments as an answer to all that I had done to him, he was still the friend I knew. I breathed in his scent with each needful gasp through my nose. I squirmed as he tied my ankles together at the bottom of my bed, positioning my feet to point down off of the edge. I was his. He had been my toy, my thing to play with for so long, that I was content with spending an evening being the same, even at the promise, and parallel threat, of pleasures only teased.
Within the still air, I heard a sharp breath fluff swiftly at my soles. Matthew cradled my feet tenderly in his hands and pressed his nose against the center of one arch. I kept my feet still for him. A brief urge to judge, or perhaps to simply question, came over me, but I had no right to indulge in the momentary societal impulse to think of him any differently. He enjoyed the sensory measures that my feet provided him and I reveled in the affection, finding the attention given to my feet an endearing extension of getting to know a guy who already meant so much to me. Even if I was to question his attraction to them, surrendering such a pleasure to Matthew came easy, as if, should I see him as only a friend, I would still trust and allow him to enjoy himself. I was his and was in no position to argue even if I wanted to. This element alone ignited sensations within me that I had never known, both about Matthew and myself.
My body burned as I lay in my own bed, comfortably dressed down into the set in which I had wanted Matthew to see me. He breathed in the scent of feet with each dense inhale, his nose pressed against the silky warmth of my sole. I was left attempting to rationalize the attraction, questioning what it was, from his end, that he found appealing. I had washed my feet in a shower before bed and applied a subtle layer of a fragrant moisturizer that had long since seeped into my skin. What was left would have to be an aroma that combined the appeal of cucumber melon with their more natural, distinctive odor. Matthew took quite kindly to the sensations, sucking in deep, long breaths strong enough for me to hear and feel.
Matthew indulged himself, drinking in the yield to years worth of reserved desires, teased for my own playful pleasures. I wondered how long he had been wanting to engage so intimately with my feet, with me, and considered that I had not even noticed most of the times he had stolen a glance. My toes wiggled slightly as my feet hung off of the edge of the bed, tucked between his hands holding them gently. Matthew moved his nose around my soles in different spots, taking in long, needful breaths. I was there simply to allow him such personal delights; not to question or even understand them, though the warmth that his affection resonated throughout my body was all I felt I needed to know. He was still Matthew, tender and sweet, and yet there came a darker maturity about him that drew me into this dim, sentimental space only big enough for the both of us.
As Matthew traversed his nose around my feet, feeling the humid blush of my soles against his cheeks, I bit down upon the sock gag tucked between my jaws. He drew sharp sniffs beneath each of my toes. His antics were almost dog-like, resembling that of a child at play, and yet I knew his motivations were anything but. I wondered if that would be the night that more would come, whether or not I was just fueling the momentum for something far more abrasive to take place between us. I questioned if I would be opposed, and when I quickly decided that I would welcome those advances just as fluidly, what that meant for us as friends, what that meant for our feelings toward each other. My thoughts were cut short by a warm, wet sensation to brush up the length of my left arch.
My teeth sank into the sock in my mouth as I began to feel Matthew’s tongue brush against my sole. It was somehow both warm and cool at the same time, a slippery extension of the boy’s own pleasure. Initially, I was compelled to remain in the moment, to enjoy the sensation of having my foot licked. It was an odd experience, one I had never felt before, but despite the initial shock of difference, I found myself sinking into the enticingly intimate sensation. His tongue was warm and wet, slowly cascading streams of affection through my senses. My composure melted to the new rush of stimulation, a lecherous rise leaving my body burning more and more with each tender lick. His approach was tender and patient. His own desires took precedence over my helpless, bound figure, and in that selfish consideration, my own steadily began to brim.
Matthew’s lips left long, lingering kisses along every inch of my soles. His tongue scaled slowly up and down each foot, tasting every soft, humid fiber. I found myself involuntarily moaning against my gag, squirming slightly atop my own bed. Lost in the trust that I had for him, almost wishful in wondering how far Matthew would go the night of his intrusion, I felt the timeless sense of carnal apathy wash over the room, where Matthew and I indulged in delights we had never spoken of before. The sudden intensity of being his object of desire, to play with in such a way that I had only teased before, churned my own burning ache. Matthew drew in deep breaths, ran his tongue all over both soles, and held them tenderly in his hands as he thoroughly suckled on each of my toes. And in it all, I allowed it. The visit, the bondage, the acute gestures of his own deepest, most secretive pleasures, I permitted it all and was fully prepared to accept the consequences of my own indulgence.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips. Matthew pulled away from my feet, leaving behind a small trail of saliva. He wiped his mouth and examined my feet, shimmering in the moonlight glowing just outside of the window. I thought he had gotten his fill and that maybe he would be on his way before being found out. I could have laid there and accepted his affection all night long, even eventually drifting off to sleep to the feeling of his tongue and lips on my bare feet. While I laid wondering what this would do for the dynamic of our friendship, whether this meant we would become something more or not, he interrupted my curiosity with more words whispered in the night, demanding my ear.
“Can’t be too loud,” Matthew said. I had only but a moment to wonder what he meant, unable to speak or question with the gag in my mouth, but his words became quite clear very quickly. His fingers circled around the edges of my feet to press into the center of my arches. Immediately, the boy began lightly scribbling his nails along my soles. I stifled a heart squeal, heavily muffled by the thickness of the sock lodged inside my mouth, as my body recoiled to the sudden surge of stimulation.
I shrieked as the tickles rose against my soles. Matthew's nails scribbled in tight, concentrated flurries against my soft, slender arches. The ticklish surges shocked through my senses. My eyes widened as my moans became sudden and exaggerated fits of laughter streaming from my throat. My body twisted against the bed. My arms pulled at the tie holding them together behind my back. My eyes quickly began to tear as it became frightfully apparent that there was little I could do to stop the ticklish assault against my incredibly sensitive feet.
“Tickle, tickle, tickle…” Matthew whispered in the dark, accentuated by his own amused giggles. Tickles had become a common consequence of me teasing Matthew with my feet within his reach, but mostly they had been brief bursts of scribbles to assert momentary retaliation. We both knew how abundantly ticklish I had always been, especially on my feet, but never before had I been exposed to such consistent bouts of prolonged tickling. Within seconds, the sensation had already lasted longer than any tickling I had ever endured before. I squealed with laughter into my gag. My body flailed within the confines of the ropes keeping my arms behind my back and my ankles pressed together. And yet, I could feel the restraint in Matthew’s assertion, the careful consideration of how much I was able to withstand while still pushing limits I had never known before.
Unable to see his movements at the bottom, I had no means of anticipating what he would do at any moment or when he would stop. His fingers danced along my squirming feet, his nails scraping and skittering with endlessly scouring. The tickles rushed up and through my senses. I did what I could to restrain my laughter, but found my voice peaking against the gag. The flurries of tickles surges through my nerves, my soles a playground of taunting torment for Matthew’s delight. His hands kept up well with the desperate writhing of my feet within the tie holding them together. While one would instinctively try to protect the other, Matthew’s hands tracked both in a way that let the tickles continue no matter how they moved.
A sharp yelp escaped my throat, muffled by the sock gag and my face pressed against my pillow, as Matthew’s mouth returned to my feet. His lips suckled at my toes while his teeth nibbled across the soft, bubbly pads. His fingers continued to scribble and dance faster and faster across my soles. Any and all restraint that I had to be cautious of my volume had vanished in a moment of blinding tickles surging through my senses. Matthew would occasionally stop upon hearing a noise outside the room, of which we both fell cautiously silent, only to then return with as much ferociousness. I rocked side to side. Tears stained my pillowcase, along with faint streaks of drool and sweat. I strained to breathe through my laughter, my face burning as Matthew commanded my entire bound body with the ticklish pulses waged against my incredibly sensitive soles and toes.
“Mmmm, so good…” I heard him mutter in the darkness. His teeth chattered menacingly against each toe, sending wave upon wave of tickles crashing against my most delicate area. As heavily as I found myself surrendering to the ticklish hysteria storming through my nerves, heaving exhausted breaths with great desperation, the aching burn continued to deepen. The rush of sensations ravaging through my body that I debatably deserved, if only as retaliation to the teasing that I had put Matthew through for years, fed into desires that I was only then realizing. The helplessness, the ties, the affection against my feet, and the breaking down of my composure through my own squealing ticklishness all appeared to culminate into something unexpected, not unlike Matthew himself.
His fingers scribbled viciously against my helpless soles. My feet had been made slick by his tongue, only to be refreshed in short breaks to help me catch my breath while he returned to licking my soles. When Matthew would resume tickling, my senses would be greeted by a renewed explosion of stimulation. I rocked side to side, squealing with desperate laughter into my gag. I bucked against the bed, never before having received a tickling so torturously constant. Matthew merely chuckled. He giggled and teased me with occasional phrases that would help emphasize my complete and total helplessness.
“Coochie, coochie, coo…” Matthew whispered. His nails scraped against my writhing soles, each ticklish nerve all his with which to play. His teeth nibbled at my toes and worked around the edges toward my heels. His fingers scratched and skittered freely, every second riddling my senses with more tickles than I had ever known before that night. I thrashed against my bed, still attempting to stifle my volume with brief and unsuccessful efforts. My feet were Matthew’s sole focus, a righteous rebellion against what I had inadvertently invited. Whether or not I deserved the torment I suffered became a secondary debate to why I enjoyed it, being Matthew’s ticklish toy, as much as I did.
For upwards of an hour, possibly more, I squirmed restlessly in my own bed. I screamed muffled fits of laughter into my own dirty sock. I fought back slightly, but ultimately fell under the mercy of my captor and most trusted friend, where I underwent alternate exchanges of maddening tickles and lulling licks and kisses, so sweet and tender. My heart raced. My senses raged into a needy, pulsing ache. I felt what it was like to be his, the boy of whom I had grown so fond over the years. He treated my feet, and by extension me, both like a treasure and like a toy, a delightfully enticing combination. I screamed. I laughed. I moaned. My mind both raced with contemplations and withdrew into the comfort of momentary surrender.
After hours of undergoing the most devilish tickles and the most passionate kisses, back and forth, leaving me utterly breathless… thoughtless… totally and completely his… Matthew pulled away. He came up to the head of the bed, stroking my hair away from my ear, and leaned in to whisper while I strained to catch my breath.
“That’s for teasing me all those years,” he said, his voice low and gruff. My heart raced. I could only stare back in the darkness. His touch was as gentle as ever. I wanted to fall asleep to it, that I could keep feeling it in my dreams. I wiggled my toes. I could still feel the slickness against them and my soles brought on by so many warm and loving licks. My feet tingled with residual tickles, echoes of their overwhelming sensitivity. Matthew untied my hands and began covering me with my bed sheet.
“I hope this wasn’t too much,” he said, chuckling slightly to himself. He whispered as he spoke, still mindful not to make an alarming amount of noise. “I certainly had fun. If you’d like to do this again, wear something red tomorrow. Got it?” Lost in his voice, in the warmth of his body hovering over my fatigued figure, I gave a solemn, weary nod.
“Good,” Matthew said. I could hear his smile while his face loomed as little more than a shadow over me. “Now get some sleep. You’ve earned it.” He gave my cheek another careful stroke with the backs of his fingers, feeling the blooming heat rising off of my face. Matthew started toward the window, beginning to climb out. Matthew hopped down and closed the window behind him. I watched him vanish into the dim, moonlight night, his steps lightly crunching against leaves in our backyard.
My tired eyes wavered. I considered taking out the gag and untying my ankles, my bare feet continuing to tingle. As sleepy as I had become, as tired as my arms were, I felt no urgency in the matter, almost wanting to hold onto both for as long as I could, thinking perhaps… Mathew would still return for more. My eyes closed as my mind stayed on him and all that his visit meant to me. My heart began to ease. Sleep started to take over. In my final conscious moments, I could only hope to dream of Matthew, his visit, and which red shirt I would wear the next day.
