Night School Foot Master

By Ralphman

I hated night classes. They were so long and boring. Everyone was always distracted, falling asleep after work, whatever. But I needed the class. I sat there on the first night, wishing I was almost anywhere else. Then everything changed. A guy walked in the class and sat down next to me. He was about 6'4', black hair, piercing blue eyes.

“Hi. Is this Linguistics 534?” he asked me. He had a slight Russian accent; it was very sexy. “Just want to be sure. I’ve only been at this school for a few weeks, so I’m learning my way around. I’m Serge,” he said, offering me his hand.

“I’m Andy,” I replied. Then the professor came in and began the class.

I was trying to pay attention to the lecture, when I heard what sounded like a shoe falling to the floor. I looked down, and couldn’t believe what I saw. Serge had slipped off his brown dress shoes, and was stretching his feet out under his desk. I watched in total awe as he flexed his long toes. He crossed his legs, giving me a full view of the bottom of his left foot. He was wearing grey patterned dress socks. They were slightly worn near the front; I could see a slight glimpse of his bare toes through the fabric. The bottoms of his socks looked slightly dark, as if they were a little dirty or, perhaps, sweaty. He had obviously been on his feet all day. Damn, I wished I could have gotten down on the floor and massaged his tired feet for him right there.

Needless to say, I had a hard time paying attention in class that night. The dude kept flexing his toes, stretching his feet out in front of him, slipping his feet in and out of his leather dress shoes. Several times he extended his legs out to the side of his desk, as if he wanted me to get a better look at his feet. He caught me staring down at his feet a couple of times, and I quickly turned away, embarrassed. But I swear I saw him smiling out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he liked showing off his feet as much as I liked looking at them.

The next night in class, I waited anxiously for him to arrive. I wondered if he would sit next to me again, and if he would offer me another foot show. I didn’t have to wonder for long. He walked in the classroom, wearing shorts and sandals! He sat next to me again, and almost immediately kicked off one of his leather sandals and crossed his legs, so I could see his bare sole! This went on all night- he would flex and stretch his beautiful bare toes while exposing his bare sole to me, then he’d slip his sandal back on and leisurely let it hang from his toes as he slapped it against his heel. He continually put his feet out in the aisle, where I could see them better. When he caught me staring, I did not look away. Instead, I smiled directly back at him. Class was over before I knew it, and he got up and walked out. I sat there, with a full hard-on, pissed that I hadn’t followed him outside.

The next day the same scenario was repeated. I was determined to leave the class with him tonight. He came into class wearing jeans and black leather loafers. I smiled at him as he sat down, and he immediately slipped his loafers off under his desk and began flexing and stretching his feet. He was wearing black gold toe dress socks tonight. I looked up from his feet to find him staring directly at me, smiling.

“Hey man, I hear you give a good foot massage,” he said, with a glint in his eye.

I was shocked at how direct he was being. “I, uh, where did you hear that?” I stammered.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. What was your name again?” he asked.

“Andy.”

“Well, Andy, maybe we can talk after class a little more. What do you say?”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds great,” I replied, totally aroused.

Serge continued his regular foot show throughout the class as usual. His black dress socks were shiny with a full day’s perspiration on the bottom; I wanted to get on the floor and bury my face in his feet so bad. The class was almost over, and Serge slipped his beautiful feet back into his loafers.

“Time to go,” he said, standing. I was embarrassed; I had totally lost track of time while fantasizing about his feet.

“Uh, oh yeah. Right,” I stuttered.

I got up, a huge bulge in my pants, and followed Serge out of the classroom, covering my hard-on with my books like a high school kid.

As we walked to the parking lot, I casually put my arm around Serge’s waist. He pulled away.

“Hold on, dude. I’m not gay,” he laughed.

“I just, uh...” I stammered in surprise.

“No, look. It’s no big deal,” he said, punching me playfully on the arm. “I’m not gay, I just like to have someone... pay attention, let’s say, to my feet. My girlfriend won’t touch ‘em; she says it’s gross.”

I was still confused, looking at him blankly.

“Look, man, I know you like my feet. I just want a nice, long, foot massage. Using your tongue, of course. You can do whatever you want, I just want you on the floor under my feet for about an hour,” he said, smiling.

I was about to blow my load in my pants just listening to him.

“So whad’ya say?”

“Let’s do it,” I replied, almost out of breath.

“We’ll take my car. I live right around the block,” replied Serge.

We drove to his house in silence. The only sound was my heavy breathing, which I was trying desperately to control. Finally, we arrived at Serge’s house and walked in.

“Sit down there,” he ordered, pointing to the floor in front of his couch. I obediently sat down on the floor and crossed my legs. Serge sat on the couch in front of me, and put one of his feet up on my shoulder. He put the other foot in my lap, and I quickly took his black leather loafer in my hands. I rubbed it, enjoying the feel of the smooth imported leather.

“Lick my shoe. Shine it good,” he said quietly.

He raised his foot to my face and I began to run my tongue all over the top and sides of his shoe. He moved his foot directly up in front of my face, and I stared at the bottom of his shoe, where, in the sole, there were worn imprints of his toes and the ball of his foot. He shoved his shoe roughly into my face.

“Lick the bottom of my shoe. Clean off all the dirt and garbage I have stepped on today with your tongue,” he ordered.

I began to lick the bottom of his shoe, until finally he lifted his leg and turned his shoe so he could see the bottom.

“Excellent. Nice and clean,” he said.

“Uh, think maybe I could take your shoe off and work on your foot now?” I asked, impatiently thinking of the sweaty, dark, dress-socked foot inside the shoe.

“Do not speak, foot boy. First the other shoe,” he said, laughing. He took his other foot off of my shoulder and put it in my face. I started the same procedure all over again and continued until he was satisfied.

“Now, you need to promise me that you will exist for one reason only- to service my feet. If you promise me that, you can remove my shoes,” he told me sternly.

“I promise to exist only to serve your feet, sir,” I said quickly, desperately wanting to get at his feet. He nodded at me, and I slipped off his shoes. I put my nose in each loafer after taking it off, and inhaled deeply. The aroma of imported leather and man-sweat was magnificent. I set his shoes down, and began to massage one of his feet. As I did this, he gently rubbed his other foot over my face.

“Oh yeah, that’s it. That feels good,” he purred, as I worked one of his feet with my hands and sniffed and licked the other.

He moved his feet, indicating that he wanted me to massage the other one for a while. I did as he wished, and he generously smeared the foot I had been massaging over my face. I opened my mouth, and he shoved his toes inside, the warm fabric of his dress sock tasting salty on my tongue. He continued forcing his foot into my mouth, until four of his toes were in. I thought I was going to choke as he continued forcing his foot in, wiggling his dress-socked toes on my tongue.

Suddenly, he stopped his contented purring and pulled his foot out of my mouth. He put his foot against the side of my head and shoved me gently to the floor.

“Lay down, foot boy,” he said softly.

I got on my back, directly beneath his feet. He began to rub his feet all over my face, pushing the soft, warm fabric of his socks everywhere- in my eyes, mouth, nose. I reached down and unzipped my pants, letting my cock spring out before it exploded.

This went on silently for a little while. Then he suddenly removed his feet from my face.

“Your mouth must be a little dry. Let me get you something to drink so your tongue is all ready for the next step,” he said.

“Next step?” I asked.

“You will remove my socks and lick and suck my bare feet until I say I’m satisfied,” he responded. “First, put these on my feet,” he ordered, dropping a well-worn pair of leather slippers on my face.

I sat up, and slipped his feet into the leather slippers. He patted me on the head like I was a dog, and walked into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with a glass of water for me.

“Here you go. Drink it all down so that your mouth will stay wet until you finish me off,” he said firmly.

I drained the glass, then removed his slippers and caressed his dress-socked feet again. Suddenly, I felt a little dizzy. My head fell forward, towards his feet. He raised his feet, and I laughed and began kissing the tops of his feet, then his toes, then....

The next thing I knew, everything was dark, and it felt and smelled as if his feet were everywhere; they were all around me. I thought I was dreaming, maybe having a wet dream, and I was loving every minute of it. Then suddenly, light flooded into my eyes.

I looked up, and saw Serge, sitting on the couch, looking down at me. He was smiling and laughing. I laughed too. This was so weird; it was like a movie. My depth perception seemed way off.

“Damn, I bet he slipped me some acid in that water!” I thought to myself.

“Hey, am I trippin’ or what?” I asked him, laughing.

“Or what is right. I’ll show you,” he said.

Then I realized what had happened. He lifted his left foot over me, and I saw that I was now only about 5 inches tall. He lowered his foot over me, and began to rub it roughly all over my tiny body. I wanted to scream, but instead found that I liked it. My dick was still hard, and I rapidly reached orgasm. I screamed against the bottom of his dress sock as I started to cum. He lifted his foot suddenly, and my load shot all over up to my chest.

“Damn, little guy, you almost stained my sock, bastard,” he laughed.

I sat up and tried to speak.

“How did you, I mean how did I shrink?”

“Ancient Russian herbal magic, my stupid little friend,” replied Giant Serge.

“Is it... permanent?”

“More or less. At least it’ll last the rest of your life! Now, you have more work to do,” he said, as he pulled one of his socks off.

The sock was almost off, when he stopped.

“Go on, you take it the rest of the way off,” he ordered.

I stood up, and pulled at his sock with all my might. It took what seemed like an hour to do it, but I finally got it off. I sat down, exhausted, on the sock.

“Not so fast, get the other one off,” he said, pointing with his bare toes to his other foot. I slowly got up and repeated the process until finally, both of his big, beautiful feet were bare. I stood there in awe, gazing at his huge toes. He flexed them in front of me the same way he had done in class.

“Now, kiss my toes,” ordered Serge.

I walked up to his big toe, and kissed it. Then I began to lick it. Then I embraced it and bit on the huge toenail. I was hard again. Serge laughed hysterically at my behavior.

“Damn. Fags and feet. I just don’t get it, but I’m sure glad you faggot punks are all like this!” he laughed.

I continued working on his big toe, then moved on to the soft flesh between his big toe and the next one. I put my head in between the toes, and inhaled the intense aroma. It was so incredibly masculine and strong, I couldn’t believe it. I licked and sucked the soft, sweaty, salty flesh.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang.

“Shit, Rosa’s home,” Serge yelled at me. He looked around, and then grabbed on of his slippers. “Get in. Now,” he ordered.

I looked up at him. Confused, I continued to lick between his toes. I should have listened to him, because he suddenly clenched my head between his toes and lifted me in the air. I thought my neck was going to break, but he released me, and I fell to the ground. Actually, not the ground. I landed inside his leather slipper. I was on my back, looking up out of the opening with Serge looked in at me.

“You better start listening to me,” he growled, as he lifted his bare foot over the opening of the slipper. He shoved his foot in quickly. I watched as his bare toes, the ball of his foot, his arch, and then finally his heel, passed over me. Then his foot stopped moving in to the slipper and started descending on top of me. I braced myself as his heel slammed down on my tiny body. He stood up.

I thought I was dead, but nothing happened. I felt my body squish beneath his heel and spread into the slipper along the bottom of his foot. I didn’t know how it was possible, but I had changed shape and was now roughly the same size, shape and thickness of one of those Dr. Scholl’s cushioning inner soles. It felt strange, but good in a way. I squished around the bottom of Serge’s foot as he walked, his soft, warm but punishing sole, and his erotic foot sweat and odor surrounding me on all sides.

To be continued?...

NIGHT SCHOOL FOOT MASTER
Part Two
by Ralphman

It seemed as if hours had passed since Serge had dropped me into his slipper and then put it on his foot as if I didn’t exist. My soft, pliable body squished and spread beneath the sole of his foot as he walked and stood on me. It was a strange sensation; I felt as if I was able to move freely about inside the slipper as he stood on me. One minute, my face was beneath his heel, then as I moved a little, my face slid up to the arch of his foot, where I was able to see a little light and breath a little bit of fresh air. After catching my breath, I shifted again, and my face was up between Serge’s beautiful, long toes, tasting the salty perspiration that covered them. It was as if my body had become the gel inside one of those cushioning insoles they sell at the drug store. I was enjoying this feeling of swimming around beneath Serge’s foot while the soft, warm, moist flesh of his sole pushed down on me, molding me into its shape.

Suddenly, I felt the pressure let up a little, and Serge’s foot began pulling out of the slipper. I shifted myself so that my face was now looking up out of the opening as Serge’s toes slid over me and out of his slipper. He was alone now, looking in at me and smiling. I tried to regain my shape and stand up, but couldn’t. I seemed to be stuck in the shape of an insole. But all I could do was smile. I didn’t care, I just wanted Serge to put his slipper back on his beautiful foot.

“How are you doing in there?” he asked. “Sorry about that- I had to act fast. Didn’t want Rosa to see you. She doesn’t know anything about my little collection!”

I just laughed and smiled and tried to nod my head to show him that I didn’t care. But although I felt like I was able to move my head, the reality was that I was just a flat piece of Serge’s insole now.

“I usually tell you guys what to expect before I do that,” he continued, “but this was an emergency. Doesn’t seem to have bothered you though.”

I continued laughing to myself, thinking, “no, it didn’t bother me at all.”

“See, once you shrink, I only have about an hour to mold you into shape. I had to keep you that way for at least an hour, or you would have reformed your body and grown back to normal size. But you just spent two hours getting formed into my insole, so it’s permanent. You can’t go back now,” he explained, smiling.

I didn’t want to go back. I just wanted Serge to wear me again.

“I like the way it feels to have one of you guys under my foot. You’re pretty durable now; not much can hurt you. I have another little friend in my right slipper right now. I had two, but the other guy wasn’t quite as tough as I thought. So I needed a replacement. That’s you!” he said.

The other guy had been fairly new. He had been shrunken and transformed for only a week when Serge decided to use him as an insole in his cleats while he played soccer. He had been using the other little insole man that way for months, so he didn’t think there would be a problem. During the course of the game, however, his foot began to feel unusually wet. He thought that he may have just been sweating a lot in the hot California sun, so he ignored it. But when he removed his cleats in the locker room, the bottom of his foot was covered in the little man’s blood. He had somehow “popped” and oozed out all over the inside of Serge’s shoe. Serge was furious; not only did he have to find a new living insole, but the little man’s death had ruined his soccer cleats and a brand new sock!

He figured that the failure of the little man to successfully become a sport insole was due to the strength and physical condition he had been in before transforming. This guy had been a small, slightly built foot freak he had met on the internet. The guy in his other shoe, who had survived many soccer and basketball games, was one of Serge’s ex-teammates. He had been big, muscular, and powerful before he made the mistake of offering Serge a foot massage after one of their matches. Serge had decided that he would find a replacement that was equally big and strong, as I had been only hours earlier.

“So, anyway, you can move around as much as you want within your new form, but you can’t ever go back to human shape,” he told me. “But I think you’ll be happy in your new ‘job,’ so to speak.”

Serge laughed and slipped his foot back in the slipper. I was again engulfed by the taste and smell of his bare foot. He walked around he apartment a little, and then went to bed. He slipped his foot out of his slipper, and got under the covers. I drifted off to sleep, dreaming about my new owner’s beautiful feet, and imagining what lay ahead for me tomorrow. An entire day in his shoe... I couldn’t wait.

To be continued...