fay and her footboy

fay and her footboy

by ancil

“Whap!” “Forty-eight-thank-you-mistress!”

“Whap!!” “Forty-nine-thank-you-mistress!”

Mistress Fay hesistates, reluctant to deal the final blow. She wishes she had assigned twice as many lashes.

The switch hangs heavily in the black palm of her hand, fingerless latex gloves stretched to her elbows. She wears only them, a matching latex mini-skirt, and a pair of strappy black pumps, her foot tapping indecisively as she contemplates the form before her.

Her slave hangs by his wrists from a wooden frame in front of her. His knees bent, he is just shorter than her. A blindfold is tidily strapped over his eyes. He is lean but muscled, fully-shaven but for the messy shlock of brown hair on top of his head. He tends to be rather unkept. That’s what she’s for.

Her slave wears forty-nine bright pink lines across his back, more a few of them across his ass-cheeks. She finds their arrangement aesthetically pleasing. She is an artist. Fay already knows where the last line will go.

Then she has a wonderful idea. Smiling gleefully to herself, she finishes off the portrait.

“Whap!!” “F-fifty! Thank you mistress!”

She sets down her switch and gives his shoulders a rub. Her latex palms pinch his arms and slide down his sides. “You took that very well, slave,” she says. He says nothing. “But i bet your back must really hurt.”

She wraps her arms around his chest and pulls herself against his back. He winces as her breasts come into contact with his bruises.

“There’s a remedy for back pain,” she whispers in his ear, her long nails running up and down his chest, “a remedy i’ve heard of, and i’m sure you’re familiar with it. You’ve seen it - you lie down, and someone walks across your back. Barefoot.”

He gasps, gasps at the thought of his mistress’s perfect feet, at the thought of her perfect bare feet on his skin. He adores her feet, and she knows this. The fingers planted on his abdomen can feel the warmth of his @#%$ as it grows.

“Do you think that would work, slave?” she asks. “Do you think that would help?” He says nothing. His opinion, he knows, is ultimately unimportant. “Okay,” she whispers low and husky in his ear, “we’ll try that.”

After a few moments the blindfold is removed, and he sees his mistress’s beautiful face, ringed by long blond curls. Her nose is a tiny dart, her smile warm and wide. As she steps aside to undo his cuffs, he sees she has set a soft blue blanket on the floor for him.

After freeing him, she steps to the blanket, wearing his blindfold on her forehead like a headband. She stands beside one end of the rectangle of the blanket. “Come and lie down on the blanket, slave.”

He walks next to her and begins to kneel, stretching himself out on his chest, with his head at the opposite end from her feet. She stops him. “I want your head right here,” she says, tapping her toes. “Lie on your back, too. I’ve decided i’d much rather walk on your front.”

Her slave does as she commands, trying not to tremble too visibly at the thought of her perfect feet on his chest. Lain on the blanket, he tries to dispel the thought of her feet next to his head, her toes peeking out over the edge of her shoe.

Fay kneels on one leg to unlace one pump. “Be a good boy and hold this?” she says, wedging her heel in his mouth. She pulls her foot from it. He watches her plump, creamy sole rise from his face. “That’s what i like about you. You’re such a good little footboy.” He whimpers with the heel of her shoe on his tongue.

She removes her shoes, one from his mouth and one from her foot. She lifts one leg, holding her foot above his face. He bites his lip, trying not to drool with the sleek shape of her foot before him, five perfectly-round toes sitting at the end. They wiggle.

“Uh-uh. No lookie.” She brings her sole down slowly across his eyes, blotting out all sight of it. A tiny moan slides up from his throat at the feeling of her warm foot on his face. He hopes she doesn’t hear it.

Fay replaces her foot with the blindfold, and steps quietly away towards his abdomen. She prods his side with her bare toes, and he squirms, releasing a squeak.

Gently, she steps onto his lower chest, one foot at a time, feeling him grunt as his body accomodates her weight. “Mmmm,” she sighs, feeling warm muscle beneath her feet. She curls her toes, digging her nails into him.

She moves toward his head, walking along the straight line of his chest. He groans under her weight, though aroused by the feel of her soles on his skin. She lifts a foot, scratching at his neck with her toenails. He coos, releasing the breath pressed from his lungs by her one foot, that heaviest of foots in the entire world.

His mistress turns and steps back toward his pelvis, stopping in front of his trembling @#%$. Long and stiff, it telegraphs his arousal. She lifts a foot toward it, running the pad of her big toe down it and the nail of her toe back up.

She feels him shiver beneath her foot. Amused, she turns and lowers herself, sitting on his chest. His @#%$ slides between the hot latex seam of her crack, and he can feel the warmth of her ass on his chest. And of course, her bare soles, her legs pulled up in front of her.

Her feet claw slowly up his chest like a shipwrecked islander across a beach. Her toes slide across the skin of his neck, and she takes his chin between her two feet.

“Do you like your mistress’s feet, slave?” She pushes his chin back with her soles, toes curled over the edge of his face.

“Y-yes, mistress,” her slave answers. “I love them.”

“Worship them,” she hisses.

Anticipation building in his foot-held throat, he begins to bring his hands from his sides to hold them. In a moment her feet are on his hands, wrists pinned by her arches to the floor. His head bobs forward, gasping at the speed with which her feet have trapped him.

“Noooo hands,” she warns him playfully. He tries to hold in his whimpers as her feet work back up his arms. She presses her heels up against the bottom of his chin, then her soles climb over onto his face, one on top of the other over his lips.

She can feel the hum of his moan, trapped beneath her feet. His nose puffs breath across her toes, and she curls them against his face. “Worship them,” she reminds him.

He slowly opens his mouth to kiss her soft sole. Then he opens it a bit more, licking the ball of her foot. His tongue slides across her smooth skin easily.

She slides her soles over his face, encouraging him to lick. They stroke his cheeks and nose and ruffle his hair. He laps at her arches and her heels and her toes. She runs her toes between his lips one by one, eager to feel his tongue on their pads and in between.

“Mmmmm,” she sighs, “you’re such a good footboy.” She reaches a hand around behind her to his @#%$ wedged along her ass. She begins to run a long nail along the length of his shaft. His shudder is a warm buzz against her bare ass and cunnie.

Her feet plant themselves on his cheeks, keeping him steady. “Tell me,” she says, still stroking him, “what do mistress’s feet smell like?”

Her toes ride up along his nose, pinching it between. Toes sit on the rim of his nostril, waiting to be smelt. “They smell like, l-like...leather. Like w-wet leather. Like wet leather slapping.”

“And what,” she asks, “do they taste like?” She pops a big toe into his mouth, and he suckles it like a child, tongueing its broad pad. “What do they taste like?”

“They taste,” he stammers, as her toe slips from his mouth, “they taste...they t-taste...delicious.”

She smiles. “Then eat.”

She spreads her toes across his face, and he licks eagerly at and between them, as she tells him, through sighs, just what she will do.

“What i’m gonna do to you...mmmm...one night...i’m going to kneel you at the foot of my bed...tie you to the footboard...ummm...tie you real tight, and you’re gonna wear my foot for a gag...mmmm, haha, while i sleep, yes...”

He whimpers into her toes, still suffering the tip of her nail on his @#%$, its speed never wavering. He nibbles the meat below the base of her toes.

“Maybe...invite some friends over...and we’ll put you in front of the coffee table, and sit down...mmmm, three of us...sit down on the couch...and we’ll line up our feet on the table in front of you...worship them, yeah, all six, haha...” Fay slides one foot onto the floor, spreading her legs to slip a finger into her @#%$. “Yeah...and you’ll suck all thirty toes...one-by-one-by-one...all the way across...”

His tongue begins to smack wildly against her sole. That finger on his @#%$ still does not vary its speed. The one in her cunnie, however, is humming like a bumblebee. He can feel her warm juices trickle onto his chest.

“Hee hee...maybe...find a nice set of stocks to lock you in...then maybe...maybe we’ll have some fun with your feet for a change...with matches and pins and ice cubes and feathers.” She pinches his head. That does it.

He reaches his peak and she begins to milk him, squeezing out his hot juice across her back. This and the sensation of him screaming his lust into her soles brings her own efforts at self-pleasure to a head. She splashes onto his chest.

“Uhh-hhh-huhh.”

Dazed, Fay pushes herself back up with her hands. Wet and sticky, she slides off him easily. He continues to lick very gently at her soles. She lifts her feet from him, dripping saliva and sweat. He stiffens himself, biting his mouth closed.

“Oohh,” she says, “you’ve gotten mistress all messy.” She giggles. “I think you need a punishment...fifty lashes before bed tonite!” His mistress struggles to get back on her feet. “And when you’re all good and bruised again...maybe your back will need another...treatment?”

She stands, looking down on her slave. He cannot see her smile. He tries - and fails - to hide his.

end