Dad is relaxing after work.
Descent Under Stepdad
Foreword: This is a long one, a little raunchier at parts. Hope you all enjoy it!
-
After my mom left two months ago, I was devastated. She just… drove off one day, in the middle of the night, leaving me. She didn’t take her phone, just some clothes and money and left. I tried looking her up, but no leads popped up. She was just… gone.
In a way, I couldn’t blame her, at least for wanting to leave. My stepdad was an asshole. He was a demanding, traditional man. He expected a lot out of his wife. I’d often hear his strong, deep voice commanding her to do this or that. To clean, to cook, to run errands, to have his every need met.
Once late at night, I even heard him from the bedroom, ordering her to get on her knees to which she had weakly pleaded “Please, this is the fourth time, I’m tired Jeff.”
I didn’t hear a reply after that, but in my curiosity as I stepped closer to the door, I heard noises that sounded like she was gagging on something. Likely him ignoring her request and having her… service him regardless.
I was scared of him. With mom gone, he had no reason to keep me around, and I was afraid that he’d throw me out any day now. I was always making mistakes and getting in his way. I was sure he’d never hurt me, couldn’t risk the repercussions of that. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he viewed me as worthless and garbage. Even when my mom was here it seemed that way.
I was desperately trying to figure out what I could do to stay, I racked my brain and tried googling different things, but nothing seemed helpful.
Most suggestions said to call social services and live with a relative, but I didn’t have anybody else. All of my mother’s relatives were dead and after my dad died when I was young, my mom had shut them out of her life likely due to being unable to handle the grief. So I didn’t know any relatives I could reach out to.
Ultimately, I went to using sites like reddit anonymously asking for suggestions and emphasizing that I could not lose him. I wasn’t a minor anymore and I was too old to be put in foster care, not that I would have wanted that either. I would be out on the streets without him.
As I went to school, all that was on my mind was checking to see responses. After my last class ended, I left to walk home and was checking through what people said. Much of it didn’t seem all that helpful, just more encouragement not to put up with this. But there was one comment, one that didn’t get a lot of traction, down at the bottom.
“Sounds like a shitty situation but if you have to stay with him, do what you can to make yourself useful. As bad as this sounds, fill the hole your mom left. Make the man dinner, do his laundry, wash the dishes. If it makes life easier for him or makes him feel better, he’s less likely to want to kick you out even if he doesn’t care for you as a person.”
I honestly hadn’t thought of this. I guess I also wouldn’t have been sure of where to start, but this gave me a good start.
-
I decided I would start with the last thing on the list that reddit user posted: doing his laundry. I was surprised he even still had clean clothes considering I had never seen my stepdad wash them himself. His slobbish habits also made this more of a chore than it should have been. There were dirty clothes everywhere. Undershirts over chairs, underwear hanging off of furniture, socks on the floor and strewn over the couch. I sighed and began silently collecting everything.
At some point, it became tiring trying to bend over and pick up every piece of clothing, so I annoyingly got down on my knees and started putting everything in a pile on the floor to collect together later.
After about thirty minutes, I’d made some good progress and had a small pile in a corner in our living room. That’s when the door slammed open and I heard him stomping through the house, footsteps growing louder as he walked into the living room. Quickly I threw myself out of the way as he threw himself onto the couch.
He squinted at me, as he dropped his suitcase and grunted, kicking off his shoes.
“Finally you’re fucking doing something worth some shit around here. Now might as well take these off, I’ve been wearing ‘em for a week now already.”
My heart pounding in my chest, still kneeled on the floor, I crawled over to him. I was met with an overpowering sour scent. But more powerful than the scent was his control over me. He told me I had to do this, so lord knows I wasn’t about to back out. I shakily raised my hands to his left foot and gently tugged on the sock. For a moment, it stuck to his foot, a testament to his statement of how unwashed and sweaty these socks were. But soon enough I had the first sock off, then moved to the second.
After they were both removed, he kicked my forehead with a drenched bare foot and pushed me onto my butt.
“Now fuck off.” Hurriedly, I scurried away and put his socks on top of the pile of clothes as I bunched it up, using my chest and part of my face buried in the dirty clothes to hold it steady as he added, “Oh, and get to work on dinner when you’re done.”
“Of course.” I muffled through the socks and underwear covering my mouth, his freshly removed pair most prominently sticking out and brushing my tongue as I spoke. Slowly, I ambled my way to the washing machine with that same sour scent invading my senses every step of the way. Forced to breathe it in, I realized how fitting it was. Sour just like him, with a heaviness to it like how his presence dominated a room. Accented by a fullness and musk that embodied his traditional masculinity. There certainly couldn’t have been a more apt odor for that man.
Quickly, I deposited his laundry into the washer and made my way into the kitchen to get started on dinner. This was something I’d occasionally do since mom left, but like doing his laundry, I planned to do it everyday from now on if it meant giving him a reason to keep me around.
-
A few days passed. I’d grown used to making my stepdad dinner every night. I’d also taken to start cleaning up the house. At first, I wasn’t sure if he’d noticed since he didn’t comment on it. But then one day, he naturally ordered me to fix up the kitchen better.
I took that to mean that he had noticed and silently breathed a sigh of relief that my efforts weren’t going unnoticed. In a way… at least for the most part, I’d begun filling in the role that my mom left. I was still in school, but most of my time spent at home saw me as something of a… housewife. Or houseson? Houseboy?
Either way, I didn’t mind it, not nearly as much as my mom had, apparently. Though, perhaps that was a bit of Stockholm syndrome. I only appreciated the work because I had to. Nevertheless, the one real positive I knew it granted me was that I was perpetually preoccupied.
I didn’t have a whole lot of friends at school. I mostly just kept to myself, so only a few people who pushed through my anti-social tendencies really got close to me. While I liked them, though, we never hung out or texted much. A lot of the day I would just sit around feeling bad about myself. So in a way, doing these things for my stepdad kinda kept me busy and out of those thoughts.
Instead of thinking about how worthless I was, I would think about how my stepdad would want the house to look, or what he’d want me to clean next, or what dinner I’d be making for him. I still felt a desire to prove myself to him, to want to be useful, but I no longer felt like I was completely useless and at risk of being thrown out.
At first, I didn’t even notice this. It was one of my few friends, Janet, who commented that I seemed less depressed when we were in our AP Lit course.
“Huh…” I paused reflecting on that, “I guess maybe I haven’t been as hard on myself lately.”
“Good, I like you being nicer to yourself, Ian,” she said smiling.
Making this realization really put some wind in my sail that day. School flew by and after walking home, showering, and tidying up the place, I got to working on dinner.
-
I was making a lasagna today, which if you’ve never done so before, can take quite a while. After about an hour, the lasagna was mostly done and I was getting ready to fix a salad to go alongside it when I heard a thunderous slam of the front door.
Nearly dying from fright, I would have sworn the door must have been broken after how hard he’d closed it.
Walking past the kitchen, his voice boomed, “Is dinner fucking ready yet?!”
“N-n-no.” I squeaked out, “It’ll b-be just a little longer.”
“It fucking better be! You know I get here at 6 PM sharp, so fucking have dinner ready! Jesus, what the hell did I marry you—“ He stopped himself as he realized what he was saying. Though I could no longer see him, I could hear that he silently made his way to the living room and threw his things down and himself onto the couch.
I was scared, I’d never seen him this angry before. I tried to focus on finishing dinner but my hands kept shaking.
After about 5 minutes, the lasagna came out and I’d finished the salad. Though scared of his wrath, I feared even more what he’d do if I served him the food too hot, so I waited an extra two minutes to allow it to cool.
Normally I let him know dinner was ready, but when I tried to speak barely a whisper came out. I quickly got together a meal proportionate to his standard serving and slowly brought it out to him.
Every step I took, I felt my legs wobbling. As I turned the corner to step into the living room, I felt my breath get caught in my throat. He was sitting on the couch, feet up on the ottoman, trying to watch TV but he was staring daggers at it. If looks could kill, I’d be dead. And not because of measure of attractiveness, but rather the pure rage.
I gently placed his food down on the table beside him and took a step back. I didn’t want to take a step out of line. This was like my worst nightmare. Everything I’d done up until now could have been for nothing. If he was this angry, there was no telling what he could do. I felt like my life was flashing before my eyes.
“The fuck are you just standing there for?”
I was snapped back to the present, by that growling voice like a sledgehammer to my heart, which felt like it literally stopped for several seconds. I must have looked like I was jumping out of my skin. My mind went blank, and my mouth went on autopilot.
“I-I-I d-didn’t know if you needed a-anything else.” I stammered out.
“Jesus christ, are you fucking dense? Do you always gotta be in the god damn way?” He barked out before sighing heavily. “Fuck, fine. You wanna be useful? Rub my fuckin’ feet or some shit.”
Immediately I dropped to my knees. I was still reeling from his anger, I just wanted to do what he said. It didn’t matter that it involved touching his disgusting feet. Not that I could really perceive my own disgust. Even as my hands gently wrapped themselves around his socked soles and pressed into the damp surfaces, my face remained emotionless, staring at the ground. In this moment, my entire being just collapsed into my hands. I stopped thinking, stopped feeling. I just rubbed his feet.
My hands glided over the bottom of the surface. With each motion into the soles of his feet, the force grew a little stronger and more confident. While massaging his left foot, my left thumb that rolled out the arch was soon accompanied by my right, kneading into the balls of the foot. Gracefully then, my hands would slide down to his heel, massaging the outer area, smoothing over the calluses that could be felt even through the sock.
This and more repeated between both feet, and truly during this time, I forgot my fear, my anxiety, all of my thoughts. I just… was. One with my hands. One with his feet. I couldn’t explain it, perhaps it was a mixture of my emotions just boiling over and my mind cracking under that pressure, but this was the most relaxed and free from worry I’d been since it had been just him and me. Even as my mind returned to the present by the very voice that previously sent shivers down my spine, I remained in complete composure.
“Be a good bitch and get me another beer.”
Silent, I rose up from my knees and walked out of the living room and into the kitchen. As I stood there, it felt like suddenly everything came back into me. I stared at my hands, which smelled of his disgusting, sweaty feet and I was mortified. As the smell permeated my nostrils I felt almost nauseous. However, I rushed to grab a beer and run back into the room so as to not keep him waiting too long.
“Now go fuck off, you’ve bothered me enough today.”
The words left his mouth no sooner than I handed him the opened beer. I needed no further instructions and quickly ran out and up to my room.
Despite everything, as I sat in my room, tears nearly bubbling to my eyes with my head in my hands, as the scent of his feet wafted off from my hands it reminded me that I got through this moment. Yes, he’d been more angry than he’d ever been and I got through it. He’d ordered me to rub his feet and I did and he let me go.
A wave of relief washed over as I focused on my ability to not just get through the moment, but continue to do so in a way where I was perhaps making myself useful to him.
I continued to sit there breathing in the stink that clung to my hands as I pondered the complete emptiness I’d experienced massaging his feet. For once in my life, I felt free of concern and anxiety. It… It was so nice. Yet again, it seemed the more I focused on attending to his needs, the less I worried about my own. Or was it that attending to his needs was, inadvertently, attending to my own?
I lied back on my bed as this thought and others swam through my head and until sleep slowly crept up on me.
-
I woke up groggily the next morning. It was a Saturday, so I wanted to just stay in bed. But images of my stepdad from last night flashed in my eyes. I checked my phone and saw it was 8 AM. I knew my stepdad kept a pretty tight schedule on his sleep, just like work, and that he’d be up in the next thirty minutes. So with those images still flashing in my mind, I rolled out of bed and walked downstairs to the kitchen.
I opened the fridge and breathed a silent sigh of relief in gratitude to past me for what I’d picked up at the grocery store. I pulled out some eggs and fresh fruit, things I occasionally liked having for breakfast, but also knew my mom used to make often for my stepdad and got to work.
I filled up a coffee pot with water and got to work brewing his morning drink as I cracked the eggs over a bowl and added some milk as I broke the yolk, a trick my mom taught me to make the eggs fuller and the way she’d always make them for my stepdad.
After mixing them up for a minute, an extra idea came into my head. I sifted through the cabinets until I found what I was looking for: waffle mix. I remember as a kid, mom and I used to always make them.
I smiled wistfully for a moment. I couldn’t believe she left me… A chill overtook my body and I could feel the dark thoughts threaten to consume my mind. Shaking my head, I tried my best to spin the situation: Maybe I can create this new tradition of making waffles for him instead. I thought to myself as I turned back around, setting up the waffle maker.
I proceeded to skillfully balance cooking the waffles and eggs while pouring the coffee. Quickly after it all finished, I cut up the fresh strawberries and bananas and plated everything as I heard him walk down the stairs.
“Good morning.” I greeted him with a warm smile. “I made breakfast for you,” I explained, as I carried his plate and coffee and dutifully followed behind him as he made his way to the living room.
He sat down, kicked off his slippers, and put his feet up as I placed everything beside him. Quickly I went back into the kitchen to grab the single extra waffle I’d made to have for my breakfast and joined him in the living room with a glass of water.
Silently we ate as he read over his morning paper. In the silence, I thought about the day ahead and how little I had to do. I was always ahead of schoolwork since I never really did anything with anyone. So for better or worse my day was free.
The longer we sat in silence, the longer that freedom and emptiness ate away at me. It made me think of how easy it felt when I was doing things around the house, taking care of my stepdad. I had a purpose. I was useful.
I felt a quiet passion burning within me as these thoughts brewed. Nervous as I was, I decided to speak up to my stepdad, possibly for the first time with any sense of confidence.
“Is there anything you’d like for me to do today?” I inquired, innocently and genuinely.
My question was only met with a short grunt to which I had no idea how to respond. But after sitting quietly for a moment, he spoke up.
“I got a list of things I need from some stores. You can do it so long as you don’t fuck it up.”
“I won’t.” I reassured him calmly. Calmly, huh? I noticed this sense of calm just like when I did chores around the house, like when I… rubbed his feet. I liked this. Though, as embarrassing as it was, it was probably the most powerful when I had been touching his dirty feet. But maybe this was worth doing whatever I had to.
He grunted again in response and reached over to the table beside him and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. He quickly wrote some things and then handed me the paper.
“I added the stores. Get each of those items from those stores. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Of course.” I replied before getting up and heading to my room to get dressed. Now properly clothed, I ran down the stairs and after cleaning up in the kitchen, and heading back in the living room to grab my stepdads dirty dishes, I grabbed the keys to my car and headed out the door.
-
2 hours had passed and I was able to pick up most everything from the stores my stepdad had written down. The only thing I hadn’t been able to find were some planks and nails he’d wanted from Home Depot. I knew I could probably find something similar in a Lowe’s but I thought back to his words and how he’d emphasized that he wanted everything from the stores he’d listed.
I knew he’d liked constructing things in his down time. That was one of the reasons my mom used to say she loved about him, both for the craft and how we’d never needed anyone else to repair anything. He was our handyman.
He used to work on something almost every weekend. But after mom left, I hadn’t seen or heard him go in the garage, his workplace, as much. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but this also clearly meant something to him. So I pulled up Maps on my phone and checked the next closest Home Depot.
“30 minutes away,” I said to myself. It was worth it, I decided, setting the route and shifting the car into drive.
The long drive gave me plenty of time to think about things. Everything I was doing. I took pride in the way I was being useful around the house, and once again felt a sense of relief at how much calmer I felt. The same tension that used to radiate from the walls hadn’t been there the past few days.
But also in my thoughts, I questioned what I was doing. I knew I just wanted to get by, but within days I’d grown comfortable in this position. A bubbling hole in my chest formed as I thought about how I was just filling the role my mom left. And she left.
So as peaceful as things felt now… Things obviously wouldn’t stay that way, right? I mean, she grew sick of it, and within some parts of me I really understood why. He was controlling and selfish. Everything was about him. His needs. And he wasn’t even nice about when you did cater to him. He just acted like that was the way things should be. So I should hate that right? I should… so why was I growing so much more at ease when I focused just on him. Was it simply because I wasn’t focusing on me? But that wouldn’t explain the growing sense of confidence that Janet, and now I myself had begun to see.
Before I knew it I’d arrived at the Home Depot. Parking and running into the store, I browsed the aisles for nails and upon looking for the specific ones he wanted, released a sigh of relief when I saw them. Quickly, I went to find the planks and experienced similar satisfactions seeing that they were here too. A sense of pride welled up within me at being able to get everything he wanted from the exact stores he wanted them from. I picked up the number of planks he needed and headed to the self-checkout to pay.
Upon making it back to my car, I placed everything in the back seats with the rest of his items and this time turned on my favorite pop album to try and lift my spirits and pre-occupy my mind on the way home.
-
After about 40 minutes I’d made it back home. Having left around 9 AM, it was now around 1 PM. I unpacked my car and put those things that my stepdad would use for his handiwork in the garage and some other items, such as printer paper and office supplies in their right places in his home office upstairs.
After coming back down, he was standing by the garage inspecting what I’d brought in.
“I made sure to get everything from all the exact stores.” I reassured him.
“What took you so damn long?” He huffed out.
“Home Depot was out of the planks and nails you wanted… so I looked up the next closest one. I know it added a bit of time.”
His only response to the job I’d done was a single grunt. Despite the limited response, I felt a sense of pride. I know he’d previously get mad at my mom when she ran errands for him and picked things up from more efficient locations as opposed to getting them from where he wanted. So that singular grunt was like beautiful praise to my ears for going out of my way for him.
“Just get started on my lunch, you know I like to eat at noon.”
“Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll make your usual BLT sandwich.”
Once again, he grunted in assent as he walked back into the living room.
Taking a few steps into the kitchen, I got to work. Mom would sometimes ask me to make it for him when she was busy so I knew exactly how he liked it and made short work of the sandwich.
After setting the food down, I asked him if he wanted anything to drink and hurried back into the kitchen to get him some water. Now that I’d taken care of him, I got to making myself my lunch. I perused the refrigerator and settled on having a soup I’d picked up from the store.
A few minutes later and I was sitting in the living room with him, just like this morning as we ate in silence. Only, instead of reading the morning paper, he was now typing away on his laptop every so often between bites.
I finished eating shortly before him due to his laptop taking some of his attention and as I rose to take his plate in with me, he spoke commandingly, “I’m going to the gym in an hour. Cut the lawn while I’m out.”
“Of course.” I smiled back at him then heading out of the room. Given he told me to start after he left, I decided to get started on some of my laundry while I waited. I could wash it before he left and dry it while I cut the lawn.
I then just meandered in my room for about 40 minutes while I waited to hear him leave. It was strange, how uncomfortable I had grown with stillness. Nevertheless, when I heard the washer go off, I was delighted to also find him dressed in his gym attire checking everything before he head out.
“Make me a protein shake.” He ordered, shaking the bottle in his hand after seeing me come down.
Immediately I pivoted what I was doing and focused on what he’d asked. A minute later I handed him his drink. He took an initial swig of it and after tasting it he gave his usual grunt of approval and walked out the door.
I stood there a moment feeling that same pride as earlier well within me before I went downstairs and threw my things from the washer to dryer. After starting the run cycle, I ran upstairs and into the garage.
I filled up the lawn mower with gas and opened the garage door. Revving the engine, I got to work. I knew my stepdad preferred the lawn cut in a specific pattern so it appeared deliberately cut and appealing. That was why this was a task he often did himself.
Huh, I thought to myself, He asked me to do it instead… Does he trust me? A stronger sense of pride bubbled within me and I focused my attention on the task at hand. I’d seen him cut the lawn in the past. In fact when I first got old enough to do chores like this, he’d tried to show me how to do it. I was several years younger and so nervous and frightened by him that I hadn’t retained any information, and after initially cutting some of the grass, he stopped me and angrily questioned why I wasn’t listening to him. I just started crying and ran back inside.
Since then, he’s never asked me to do it. But he did now. I was making progress. He was trusting that I could be useful to him, that I could listen and follow his orders. So as I cut the lawn and did so perfectly as he liked, that sense of pride and a new sense of joy filled my chest.
Within 30 minutes, I had finished and after putting away the lawn mower, I went inside to shower and clean myself of the sweat and dirt I’d accumulated over the day and from cutting the lawn.
I was quick to rinse off, wanting to take my things out of the dryer, fold them and put them away. The plan was to finish before he came back so I could be ready to do whatever he wanted me to do.
After hurriedly putting my things away, I ended up finishing before he returned and sat alone on a couch in the living room. I glanced at my phone and saw it was 3:50 PM. He had been at the gym for a while now. I tried to mindlessly scroll on my phone but found that was ineffective and my anxiety continued to grow.
I was staring down at the slippers he’d left in the room from this morning when I heard the door crack open and instantly I ran over to the door. He stepped in and placed his bag down, light beads of sweat still dripping from his hair onto his forehead.
“May I take that for you?” I asked, pointing at his gym bag.
“Yeah, I need to sit down.” He grunted. I nodded in affirmation and quickly grabbed the bag taking it upstairs to his room and placing it beside his dresser, where he normally kept it. I noticed he didn’t have the bottle with his protein shake in his hand when he walked in. I reached into the bag and sifted through his clothes until I felt the bottle and grabbed it, pulling out an article of clothing along with it. As I held the bottle up, a worn sock hung from the palm of my hand. It wasn’t warm so it must have been from another day. He’d returned in the same gym clothes today.
The strong sour musk was still so strong radiating from the sock, it instantly assaulted my nose and my head spun. I sat there for a moment just staring at the dirty sock, the bottoms marred darkly grey from use. Shaking my head, I remembered he’d just returned from the gym and was tired, so I put the sock down and quickly went back downstairs and, after putting the bottle in the kitchen, went into the living room where he was sitting on the couch with his feet up.
I stared awkwardly at his feet, covered in a different pair of those same white socks darkened from use. Only these were freshly used. They were disgusting… and yet my heart was pounding. Before I could contemplate whether this was the most idiotic thing I had ever done, the words slipped out of my lips.
“Would you like a foot massage?”
I stared awkwardly down, my eyes still resting on his feet. I felt a mixture of repulsiveness and confusion at my actions and, albeit thoughtless, willingness to subject myself to something so debasing again. Waiting for a response felt like a torturous eternity. Though, one where I was trapped in this space of not knowing; of both wanting to hear assent and begging him to tell me to fuck off and not immediately beat the shit out of me. In reality, likely only mere seconds had passed before I received the awaited response.
“You wanna fuckin’ rub ‘em?” He paused, “Sure, whatever.” He grunted out, before adding under his breath, “Fuckin’ faggot.”
My heart flinched up upon hearing that word, and yet automatically I once again took my place kneeling before him. In that moment felt the strangest sensation. Sitting inches from his feet, I took a calming breath in, and slowly exhaled. And as I rose my arms to once again place my hands upon his feet, all of my anxiety just melted away. That same heady and heavy musk that could only be defined as my stepdads foot stink assaulted my nose, and yet it meant I was about to do something to serve him. And that meant I was being useful. So despite his feet reeking more than ever, I felt so sure of myself in being before him, attending to his stinky feet.
My body that was practically vibrating unease suddenly grew still, and I felt… happy he had let me do this again. Then as my hands once again began working along his socked soles, I felt my mind, more consciously this time, fold into itself until my entire being was focused in my hands and in taking care of his feet.
An unidentified amount of time passed where I lost myself and it wasn’t until he spoke up that I had any conscious awareness at all. But as he spoke, it all returned in a controlled, disciplined manner.
“Beer, bitch.” He grunted.
I rose with intention and quickly made my way into the kitchen. Unlike yesterday, my mind stayed still, stayed as one. I grabbed his beer and returned to him, cracking it open and placing it on the table next to him before turning to sit once again at his feet. I resumed massaging his feet as he sipped his new beer. I felt this overwhelming sense of fullness. In it, I felt like I never had before, more sure of myself than I ever had. I felt confident that I could make him feel good. That I was making him feel good, and that I was being useful. Without pausing my hands, I spoke, somehow without much thought but with clear intention.
“Would you like me to remove your socks?”
“Why the fuck would I want that?” He spat back at me, voice full of vitriol.
“I think it will help this to feel better for you.” I replied, without hesitation, no quiver or doubt in my voice.
I couldn’t see as I was only focused on my hands, as they moved across his feet, but he had on his face an expression mixed with disgust, curiosity, and self-satisfaction.
“You want to make my feet feel good?” He asked mockingly.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, please.” The words once again leaving my lips naturally. I was requesting to massage his bare, sweaty soles. I’d normally be disgusted by that, wouldn’t I? And yet, in this moment I hadn’t a care in the world about that. I wanted to massage his bare feet.
He grunted and kicked my forehead with the free foot I wasn’t massaging, “No, faggot. That’s a good start, sure. But it’s yes, SIR, understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He snorted, clearly enjoying the way he toyed with me like a dog.
“Better, so what is it you wanted again, bitch?”
“I want to rub your bare feet so it can feel better for you, Sir.”
“Ahhh, there we go.” He sighed, clearly pleased with himself. “Sure, make me feel good, fag.”
Without missing a beat, without being told, and still not really in control, I replied one last time: “Thank you, Sir.”
Quickly I removed the sweat soaked socks which similarly clung briefly to his feet as they had a few days ago. My small hands now reacquainted themselves with the bottoms of my stepdads bare soles. The sweat and heat of his skin now amplified being in direct contact with my own. This change in sensation coupled with the intensifying ripe odor had a grounding effect on me. Compared to the texture of his socks, which felt akin to rough fabric, and the the more muted foot funk which I could zone out of, the feeling of his slightly rough, damp feet and that head-pounding musk now called my attention more than ever.
It was like a kaleidoscope zooming in, initially the image is so obscured by the fractured pieces, but now it was simple and clear. I could feel my knees dug into the carpet, my back tight from holding this position, and my hands slightly aching from working his tough feet.
I blinked a few times, and looked up at my stepdad. He was looking at his phone quizzically, then typing something. Shortly after I heard the sound made when an email is sent. He put down his phone and returned to his computer which sat on top of his lap.
What am I doing here? I thought to myself. Why… why am I beneath him massaging his feet? Is this really what I want. Is it really worth going this far to try and ensure he keeps me around? These questions swirled in my head. But with each question, I took a breath and would inhale that sour, burning scent and I’d feel the question dissolve. One after another they fell apart as I took in his poisonous stench.
I asked to be here. You wanted to be here. Were the only thoughts that seemed to escape and continue cycling through my mind.
I rubbed my thumbs over a small area of tension. I’d press my thumb down, move through the knot, and hear: You wanted to be here. My thumb would reset its position, move through the knot, You wanted to be here.
You wanted to be here. You wanted to be here. You wanted to be here.
Over and over. I must have wanted to be here, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Otherwise I would not have asked… Right? That must be the case.
The knot worked out and suddenly a new thought echoed in my head: You like being down here.
I… like being down here? I heard my stepdad grunt in relief as the knot worked out and automatically a sense of satisfaction bloomed inside me. I felt so happy I’d made him feel good. That I’d made his feet feel good. I must like being down here.
I must like massaging his feet.
These thoughts brought concerns about why and what that meant. But for a moment, that satisfaction and joy of bringing my stepdad relief drowned them out. I could figure out what that means later. For now, I could just continue rubbing his giant soles.
So I continued to rub them for some time. Slowly the room grew dimmer as the sun passed through the sky. Eventually, he took a swig of his beer and the light ring of the empty can resounded through the room.
“Would you like me to get you another?” I asked, naturally attuned to his needs.
He grunted in affirmation and I rose from the floor and headed to the kitchen, grabbing the empty can on the way there.
While in the kitchen I finally had the chance to glance at the clock and saw the time. 5:27 PM. So I’d been on my knees for about an hour and a half. I opened the fridge and grabbed a new can before heading back.
After cracking open the can and placing it beside him, I asked, “It’s getting close to dinner time. Is it all right if I pause caring for your feet to make dinner?”
He glanced up, looking at me for the first time in a while. His expression sent shivers through my system. It always seemed he looked at me in disdain, with contempt. For the first time, his gaze seemed softer. Not necessarily of any fatherly caring, but more so one that perhaps embodied how he felt his needs were being met to his satisfaction.
“Make something quick,” he commanded, his tone more steady and void of the usual premature disappointment, “Have it ready by 6.”
I knew of only a few things I could make that quickly which would be to his liking, so I quickly turned around and headed out, but not before affirming with a “Yes, Sir.”
I entered the kitchen and washed my hands before turning to look through the fridge. I scanned its contents before my eyes rested on what I was looking for: the salmon. I’d make him a salmon salad, one of his favorite fish dishes. I also grabbed some packaged kale, an onion, and carrots.
I immediately got to work cutting up the vegetables before putting them on one pan to cook. I pulled out a second smaller pan to cook the fish after seasoning it. While both were on the stove, I poured the kale into a bowl, mixed it with some olive oil, salt, and pepper and gently massaged it.
While I was working I’d heard my stepdad walk upstairs with the shuffling of his slippers, and shortly after heard the water running indicating he was showering. Strangely, the first thought that came to mind was of his feet and their smell. I wondered if they wouldn’t smell the same— as strong— washed. Curiosity mixed with… a sense of disappointment…? Filled my body as I considered the fact that they may not have the same scent.
Shaking my head, I returned focus to the food. Once the kale was done, I stirred the vegetables as they were getting close to finishing and flipped the fish after another minute.
Before long everything was done. I’d heard my stepdad walk back down and into the living room while I’d been taking care of the vegetables. Carefully, but efficiently I moved to plate our food as I glanced at the clock: 5:59 PM. I grabbed utensils for him and made my way back to the living room.
As I stepped in, I saw he was in the same position as earlier, sitting on the couch with his feet up. He glanced up to see the time and let out another grunt as he smirked proudly.
“Done on time. Good boy.” He praised me.
“Thank you, Sir.” I replied genuinely, a fullness welling in my chest. I gently placed his food on the table beside him.
“Get me water on your way back.” He ordered.
“Of course, Sir.”
I walked back to the kitchen and poured his water from our filter and carried the glass with me as I walked in with my food.
After placing his water beside him I sat on the couch across from him and ate. He turned the TV on and watched the sports game. As I ate in silence beside him for the third time today, it dawned on me. I never ate with him. Never sat next to him. I’d always gone to my room to eat, avoided him. I’d been so terrified of him that I never spent any time around him. Never listened to his needs. Never gave myself the chance to be useful to him.
A smile came on my face as I thought of this. How nice it felt to be around him, to feel his pride in what I did for him. I… want to keep doing this. The thought came to my mind like a vow.
The smile stayed on my face as I continued to eat in silence and he occasionally cheered for his team. I joyfully watched him get into the game, seeing a passionate side of him that I’d never seen before. I was almost sad when he finished eating since it meant I would have to leave for a moment, so I hurried as I took our plates and returned back to the room.
As I entered, he snapped his fingers and pointed at his feet.
“Pause over. Back to serving my feet.”
That same smile returned to my face, unable to be hidden, and an unintentional giggle came out of my lips as I kneeled before him and obediently assented “Yes, Sir.”
I saw him look down, his gaze boring through my skull like he was seeing something not visible to me. Though he didn’t say anything and simply returned to watching the game, he uncrossed and recrossed his feet and wiggled his long toes in my face. As he did a warm scent wafted into my nose and I inhaled happily. The sourness of his foot funk was gone and I missed it… I missed it, huh? I thought.
But still, the heady musk remained and felt so pleasant to breathe in. It’s pleasant to breathe in his foot stink? This time the question bounced in my head for a few moments. As I continued to breathe in the warm stench as my hands got to work, a simple thought came to mind that silenced them: Yeah, I like smelling his feet, cleaner, and stinkier. I do like it. I like it a lot. I really like when they’re sweaty. It feels like all I can think about is his feet. I like thinking about his feet. I like his feet.
I gently pressed my fingers into and across his feet, rubbing out tension and enjoying the feeling of his strong, warm feet against my small fingers.
I was generally a smaller guy. Standing only at 5’4. Not tiny, but below average. Everything about me seemed below average. Compared to my stepdad’s feet which seemed huge, though I didn’t yet know the actual size, mine were very visibly much smaller at only a size 8 in the US. My hands were additionally small, though I felt my fingers were appropriately sized for my hands, the natural diminished size of my hands meant my fingers were naturally smaller too.
This was all readily visible attributes, but sitting beneath him and rubbing his feet, seeing the visual difference between the two of us, made my mind naturally wander to my dick and its size. At only 4 inches flat when it was hard, and less when soft, my gaze slowly went from my stepdad’s feet, along his legs, and eventually resting at his crotch.
A deep pool of shame began to well in my chest as I stared at his crotch and it only grew as I thought back to that time when I heard my mom gagging on it. I wasn’t sure of my sexuality, I’d never done anything with anyone. But, when with some of my few friends, we had made jokes with bananas and popsicles and I knew you could take quite a bit down your throat before gagging. At least a little more than 4 inches.
Thinking about that moment so intensely made me recall a piece I’d forgotten. As I’d nervously backed away, hearing her gag, he’d said: “Come on! You know you still have more to take! You’re gonna get these last several inches down, bitch!”
If she was gagging and still had several inches to take… He had to be seven or eight inches long…
I swallowed hard and managed to break my gaze from his crotch, my eyes darted up and noticed him looking down at me, scowling. I say looking down at me, but again it was almost like he was looking through me.
I smiled up at him. I smiled because I didn’t want to be scared anymore. I smiled because I didn’t want to be anxious anymore. I smiled because I wanted him to be relaxed and enjoy me servicing him feet. I smiled because I wanted him to smile.
He stared at me like he wanted to say something, but stayed silent while I heard the game play in the background; however, as soon as it cut to commercial he spoke up.
“What’re you smiling about, faggot?” He asked. Despite that word I didn’t flinch. I didn’t flinch because he’s yelled at me so many times before. For so many years, I’ve heard disgust and disdain in his voice. When asking this question, though his voice was gruff and probably sounded grumpy, after years of feeling his contempt when he spoke, I could tell when it was absent. And it was.
“I like massaging your feet.” I spoke softly, truthfully and, for the first time, unapologetically. “I hope you’ve been liking it too.”
He grunted out a laugh at my honest response.
“Hmph,” he sighed, stretching his legs out further, his soles and toes coming dangerously close to my face. That warm, inviting, and toxic smell further tightening its grip around me. “You’re better than your mother. She never liked doing shit for me.”
He paused, and before I could stop myself, I spoke up.
“I like doing things for you.” His eyes homed in further, and second-by-second it seemed more and more like he was looking at me now.
“I… I like cleaning the house. I like doing your laundry. I like making you food and bringing it to you.” This time I paused, my eyes breaking away from his to stare at the mountainous soles before me. He let my words, my admissions, hang in the air. As they did, I sighed and felt a wave of relief wash out of me as these hidden thoughts were laid out before him and I breathed back in his foot funk. “I really like massaging your feet,” I admitted, gently tightening my grasp on them as an innocent smile spread across my face. “I want… I want to make you happy. I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Now I feel like I can— I hope I am—”
“Shut up and rub, queer.” He ordered, smacking my cheek with his foot as the game came back on.
Obediently, my mouth immediately closed and I went back to rubbing his feet. This time, gently attending to areas where he had mild calluses forming. Massaging them as if rubbing them out would rub out all his tension, all his disappointment in me. As if the more obedient I was, the happier he’d be with me.
I could only hope.
We sat in silence for another 10 minutes before the game started to end. He began cheering for his team, and as they made a final touchdown and won the game, he shot up. His outstretched legs pushed that much further forward, suddenly and unexpectedly coming into contact with my face. My nose finding itself directly between his big toe and his second toe, I sharply inhaled from surprise, and my eyes rolled back as I became completely intoxicated.
He leaned back and turned off the TV. My face almost feeling magnetically pulled toward his feet as they departed from my skin. That’s when he finally looked back down at me and cleared his throat. As I looked back up into his deep brown eyes which felt like a warm chocolate puddle I could fall into— deeper, deeper, deeper— he spoke up:
“You wanna make me happy? Do what I say?” His gaze sharpening as he asked these questions. “You wanna be a good faggot for me?”
“I-I d-do…” I stuttered, nervous now that his attention was so focused on me.
He ripped one foot from my hand and slammed it on the ottoman I was kneeled in front of.
“Speak up and speak with confidence when I ask you a question! …I like you better that way.”
He… he likes me when I speak with confidence? A surge of passion swirled in my chest.
“Yes, Sir, I want to make you happy! I want to do what you say! I want to be a good faggot for you, Sir!”
“Hmph,” he smirked, tapping that same foot against my cheek. “Then follow me upstairs. But first, put on my slippers.”
Hastily, I picked them up. A wave of sour, musky stench wafted from the footwear, reminding me of his sweaty feet. A pit grew in my stomach as I craved his ripe feet once again.
With his footwear now on, he stood up and began heading out of the room ahead of me. His command was final. I now had a choice to make. To follow his orders, solidifying the words I just spoke. Or, I could go back on them. Return to being afraid of him. To return to disappointing him.
This, wasn’t a decision at all, and that was shown as my legs decisively moved just behind him. Following, unashamed.
We walked up the stairs and into his room. He sat on his bed, turning toward me. Without looking at me, another order was given.
“Shirt.”
Without hesitation, I walked up to him. Standing before him, I knew something felt wrong, and letting my body move on autopilot, my knees dropped to the floor. I now looked up at him. Better. I thought, internally smiling. Much better.
I then began unbuttoning his shirt and helping him remove it.
“Pants.” He promptly ordered once his shirt was off.
Once again, from my knees I undid his belt, removing it. Then unclasped his jeans and gently pulled down the fly. He suddenly moved to stand up and I quickly backed up. His pants naturally dropped a few inches and a prominent bulge threatened to escape the front. I audibly gasped as it came into view. A pungent, spicy aroma burning my nostrils. It’s intoxicating too, I thought to myself.
Hands shaking I reached up and slowly lowered his pants. The pants initially caught on his bulge before it jumped out, springing free. The odor grew stronger and my knees grew weaker as I breathed it in, my face only inches away.
He removed his bulge from my face; however, as he moved to sit back down and I fully removed his jeans.
Last, he commanded, “Slippers.”
I knew this was just a formality. He could easily kick them off himself. I lowered myself even further and gently pulled the slippers I had put on less than two minutes ago. Their hypnotizing reeking stink, pulling me in, closer and closer until I was insignificant and tiny crouching beneath him. With his slippers off, he lifted a leg and roughly pushed his foot into my face as he used it to kick himself onto his bed.
Yet more symbolism. I internally acknowledged, shaking with glee. He used my face… His feet touched my face!
-
As aware of his descent as he thought he was, the small boy was blinded by his sudden submission and the joy that followed. He could not see the depths to which he had dropped… or risen, some might say depending on how they viewed his submission. His stepfather saw it all, he knew what the boy was. More importantly, he knew what the boy was to him. And he knew how to make use of the boy to his fullest advantage. How he could play his cards right and have that poor little boy wrapped around his fingers forever.
A life of complete luxury where he would have someone completely devoted to him, hand and, especially, foot. A life where his every need would be met with a smile. A life where he could be as demanding and cruel as he wanted and this sweet boy would beg for it time again, no… where the obedient little faggot would beg for more; more demands, more cruelty. The man smirked to himself as these thoughts came through his mind.
He was not evil, no. He had wanted all this from the kids mother, but the bitch couldn’t take it. She always complained when it came to doing what he said. Complained about putting him first. Complained about taking his fat fucking cock. And that cunt would never have touched his feet, not clean, let alone when they were sweaty and ripe.
So she wanted to leave and he let her. He wasn’t evil. But he saw now. Saw over the week, but only now with the fullest of clarity. He wouldn’t get what he wanted from the stupid bitch who left, but he’d get it from her kid. It wasn’t his kid anyway. They raised him as if the man was his stepdad, but the truth was the dumb bitch never could commit to marrying him. And seeing how useless she was, he stopped caring early on.
So the kid wasn’t his, not by blood and not legally. So, as he pressed his clean, but still smelly foot onto the kids face, the most devilish of grins formed in his mind. The boy would become his. That sweet and innocent boy would be taken advantage of and manipulated into the man’s perfect faggot. He’d intoxicate him with his foot funk, get him high on his sweaty cock, hypnotize him with his ripe pits, and control him. Control his mind, control his heart. In time that little fag bitch would forget he ever had wants or needs. Except for one thing. His new want, his new need:
To care for his Master’s every whim.
-
My stepdad’s warm, stinky sole pressed into my face and I felt my vision spin in ecstasy. I struggled to hold myself upright and fell backwards. I looked up at him as he relaxed, placing his hands behind his head and provided the next order:
“Come to the edge of the bed.”
Still feeling so tiny beneath him, I crawled to the end of the bed where his feet rested. I could pretty much only see the large soles spanning the space before me. Parts of his face or hair sticking out from behind his feet.
“Come closer.” He commanded, warmly, inviting.
Slowly my face closed the gap, inch-by-inch. Until my nose was up against the warm flesh and the heady aroma began to take its poisonous hold. He knew my cognitive processing would stop now. He could go in for the kill.
But he wanted to break me, not just take me down.
Brief flashes of everything I would do for these feet came through my mind, lingering on the most humiliating. As he spoke, he got his true goal out of me, my hungry, lustful disappointment.
“You will kiss the bottom of one of my feet as you rub the other, switching every few minutes. You will only kiss them. Understood, faggot?”
Despite my sadness at his orders, I craved to serve him. I craved to please him. My face turned slightly upright and my lips lingered, just barely brushing feet, before pressing in to the warm skin. The warmth spread across my lips, pulling me in more. I planted one kiss, then removed my lips—willfully— before quickly pressing them again and planting a second kiss.
It was so easy to kiss his big feet. It felt so natural. Yes, this is natural. This is where I belong. I thought, in between kisses.
My hands lifted and I began rubbing once again, feeling safe in the space underneath my stepfather’s feet.
After a moment, he turned off the light.
“Keep going until I fall asleep.” He commanded.
“Yes… Sir…” I assented between kisses.
I expected a grunt or no response at all. But he surprised me, jumpstarting my heart.
“That’s a good boy. Such a good faggy boy.”
I smiled in glee as I passionately kissed his powerful feet. Again and again, eventually switching feet for which I kissed and massaged. Resuming on the new foot, I planted loving, adoring, worshipful kiss after kiss.
Seconds turned to minutes and before long I heard him snoring. But my worship was unrelenting. I kissed his beautiful feet in silence, out from under his dominant gaze.
For the first time this night I noticed I was hard. My small dick practically straining in my pants. The tantalizing stink of my stepdad’s feet made my little penis strain all the harder. I was tempted to stroke breathing in his foot funk. But he did not give you permission. I thought. He ordered you to kiss and massage his feet. Not to play with your pathetic little dick.
I couldn’t cum. I wasn’t allowed to. So I did my best to stop thinking about the little thing straining in my pants and focused just on breathing in the musky scent of my stepdad’s feet, the feeling of his warm feet against my lips, and the flesh against my hands.
I turned my attention away from my dick again and again. Until at some point, I stopped noticing it. I stopped noticing a lot as the my world shrank in that darkness. At some point I stopped noticing the feeling of his tough flesh against my hands, and stopped feeling my lips leave his delicious soles.
Eventually just the smell remained as my head rested against his feet with my lips pressed against them. I inhaled that stink, filling my mind with it, clouding out everything else. I could only think about him and his feet. Even when I stopped consciously thinking, my dreams were only of him and his feet. Of being underneath. Of serving him.
Of being my stepdad’s good little fag boy.
End of part 1(?)
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I hope you all enjoyed the story! I may write more following this storyline. It took me quite a while. I wrote about a third of it a few (7-8) months ago and didn’t pick it up again until a few weeks ago, when I slowly added to it. Needless to say, with all that time, I’ve grown attached to it and have ideas of where to go from here. Hopefully the length of time it took is a testament to its quality and how much you all will enjoy it! I have a few other stories that have been cooking and that I’ll be working on with some more times. Mostly new stories, I have a few ideas of where to take the story with the footballers. I hope those will all come out great too. Let me know what you all thought, always love hearing from fellow foot domination enjoyers, whether it be the doms, subs, or switches (:
