From: "Bill Tilden" <abcd@efg.org>
Subject: ** NEW --Pete and Mike: A Tennis Story (M/M, Foot)
Date: 6 Jan 1997 22:29:17 GMT
Organization: Wimbledon

NOTE: This is a work of erotic fiction, not to be read by anyone under the
age of 18, or anyone who would be offended by a story of this kind.  If you
are offended by stories of male-male sex, foot fetish sex, or sex in
general, you should stop reading immediately.  As a work of fiction, any
resemblance here to any actual person or persons is purely coincidental.

*****

Pete and Mike were both in their early 20's and were consistently ranked
among the top ten tennis players in the world.  They had known each other
since boyhood and both were currently at the top of their games.  Even amid
this high level of mutual accomplishment, Pete was clearly the more
successful of the two: he had won all the major tournaments of the year so
far, and was on the verge of winning his first Grand Slam: a win at the
U.S. Open would be the cap to a remarkable year.  Mike outwardly wished the
best for his "old friend," but was secretly jealous of this upcoming
achievement; he hadn't won a major tournament in years, and people were
speculating that his best days were behind him.  That was about to change.

Mike had invited Pete to his house in early August for a short tennis match
and lunch.  It was a hot summer day, and Pete arrived already decked in his
tennis whites.  Pete had a new contract with Nike, and even had a pair of
shoes named after him; he arrived wearing a pair of these shoes (low-cut,
white leather, with a black swoop), adorned by tennis socks that came about
a third of the way up his calf, white shorts and shirt.  Mike greeted him
wearing his own get-up: the two were similarly dressed, except Mike's
contract was with Reebok, and while his shoes were also low-cut and made of
white leather, their design had traces of yellow and blue about them.  Mike
had a habit of wearing his socks a little higher than most; they looked
rather thick, and came halfway up his calf.  (Mike also wore ankle braces
to support the strenuous exertion he placed on his feet; they blended into
the whiteness of his socks, and gave them an even thicker look.  Mike was
known as one of the fiercest players on the pro tour, jumping around the
court with great abandon.  For this reason, his legs were highly developed;
his thighs and calves were regarded as the most muscular to be found.)

The match went rather quickly; it was clear to Mike that Pete wasn't
playing at full speed, but Pete still managed to beat him in the end. 
After he won the final set by serving an ace, Pete came up to the net to
shake Mike's hand.  Pete was an All-American type, and had a reputation for
being "nice."  Even so, Mike sensed a little haughtiness in the way Pete
said "Nice game."  The two shook hands and retreated to a table just
outside the tennis court; they took a seat in some deck chairs and grabbed
a glass of water.  Soon they would go inside and eat the sandwiches that
had been prepared for lunch.  The heat had produced a lot of sweat, and
they both sat down glistening and hot.

"You know," Pete said, staring at Mike's feet, "I've been thinking about
getting some ankle braces myself.  They still haven't got these new shoes
right."  It was widely known that while Pete's new shoe contract gave him a
lot more money, the shoes that were produced for him weren't as
foot-friendly as his old brand.

"What's wrong with them?" Mike asked

"They just don't give me the arch support I need."  Mike had become kind of
an expert in arch support problems -- he'd been plagued by his own foot
problems in recent years, which was the chief reason he eventually moved to
ankle supports.  He knew all the pressure points to check to determine the
full extent of Pete's problem, and thought he would volunteer his services.
  "Here -- let me check it out for you.  Take your shoes off."

"What?" Pete replied, with a slight, nervous laugh.  "Take your shoes off,"
Mike replied.  "Believe me, I can tell right away what type of problem
you're having."  A nervous grin broke on Pete's face, and he turned a
little red; inexplicably, he shifted his gaze from Mike's eyes to Mike's
feet.  Mike was puzzled by Pete's reaction -- it didn't seem like too big a
deal -- but then something clicked.  But he needed to make sure.

"Here, let me show you," Mike began.  He grabbed another deck chair and
placed his feet on it;  He began to unlace his left shoe, making sure to
follow Pete's gaze.  "What're you doing?" Pete asked, still smiling.  Mike
replied: "I'll show you where *I've* had some problems -- see if they're
anything like yours."  Pete continued to smile, and Mike noticed that
Pete's gaze never deviated from his feet.  It was instantaneous: Mike was
now convinced that Mr. All American Tennis Pro had a foot fetish, and
wanted his feet.  This was a very useful piece of information; in an
instant, Mike knew he had to use this to his advantage.  In the space of
two minutes, he had gone from feeling dejected over losing the tennis match
to feeling elated that his losing days might now be over.

Mike was slow, almost playful as he unlaced his shoe.  He untied the knot,
then removed the shoelace loop by loop by loop.  "These shoes are *real*
comfortable.  It's almost a shame to take them off."  He almost felt a
little guilty, but only a little; he was clearly toying with Pete, but was
enjoying doing so.

Mike unlaced the shoe as far as necessary, and, with mock effort, pulled it
off his foot.  He placed the shoe on the table, inches away from Pete's
arm.  The moist sock clung to Mike's foot; the shoe's indentation was
pressed firmly into the sock and to the foot underneath.  Next, Mike undid
the ankle brace and put it on the table next to his shoe.  Pete continued
to smile, his blush getting slightly redder, his gaze not deviating from
Mike's foot.  Mike rested his socked foot on his right thigh.  He pointed
to an area of his sole just below the knuckle of his big toe.  "Now this
area gets *really* sensitive.  Do you get that problem too?"

"Yeah."

"It's kinda sore right now," Mike said, and he began to massage his foot
vigorously with both hands.  "I always like to massage my feet after a
game.  They get so sore sometimes.  Do you do the same?"

"Maybe.  Sometimes."

"Here.  Take your shoe off."  But it was less a question than a plan of
action.  Mike grabbed Pete's left foot and started to unlace his shoe. 
Pete offered no resistance.  "You gotta make sure you do it right."  Mike
dropped Pete's shoe on the ground, and clutched Pete's foot with his right
hand.  Balling his left hand into a fist, he rubbed the bottom of Pete's
moist foot with his knuckles.   "You gotta do it like that."

Pete relaxed a little.  "Oh yeah.  That's nice."  Mike continued to squeeze
the foot in various locations, his hands getting slippery from the moisture
of the sock.  "That's real nice."

"Here," Mike said.  He grabbed the ankle brace from the table and began to
place it around Pete's foot.  "What're you doing?" Pete asked.  "Leave this
on for a few hours.  Walk around with it and see if it does anything for
you."  "I can't.  It's yours."  "I insist."  Mike wasn't just being nice. 
He considered the ankle brace a statement of ownership, a way of saying
that Pete's foot was now his, just as the rest of him would soon be his.

"You haven't seen my new gym yet, have you?" Mike asked, charting a new
plan of action.  The day was supposed to end after lunch, but Mike wanted
to continue his seduction as quickly as possible.  "Let's check it out
after lunch."  Pete said sure -- he didn't have anything planned for the rest
of the day anyway.  Mike put his shoe back on and went into the house to
get the sandwiches; the two shared small talk over lunch, the shoe
discussion having been temporarily forgotten.

After lunch ended, Mike escorted Pete to the gym, which was in the
basement.  There was a full-set of machines and weight-sets, and Pete
couldn't help observing: "Whoa, this is cool!"

"It's really worth it," Mike responded.  "I spend a few hours a day down
here bulking up.  Wanna check it out?"  Mike led him to the benchpress
area, and Pete lay down on the bench and reached out for the bar.  The
weight level had been left from earlier.  Pete examined it, thinking that
it was probably the maximum level that Mike had been able to press that
day.  "Let me see if I can match you here," Pete said, really meaning: "Let
me see if I'm stronger than you."  In truth, Mike had set the weights to
his lowest -- not highest -- capability, but he didn't say anything: for the time
being, it was better for Pete to think he had the upper hand.  Beginning
slowly at first, Pete pushed the bar up, and eventually got it to full
extension.  He exhaled, and quickly let it drop.  "That was tough!" he
said, but quickly added, "put another ten pounds on."  "Are you sure?" 
"Yeah!"  Mike did so, knowing that he had himself done *fifty* extra pounds
earlier in the day, and Pete struggled to get the bar up, eventually doing
so.  And he repeated the task two more times.

Pete was breathing heavily and sweating pretty profusely; neither Pete nor
Mike had showered after the tennis match, and Pete's shirt was drenched
with moisture and beginning to smell.  "Man, you're beginning to REEK!"
Mike kidded.  "Take off your shirt if you're going to use my equipment!" 
Both of them laughed, and Pete took his shirt off, throwing it on the side.
 His chest was deceptively lean, and covered with a dense scattering of
hair.  "Look at all that hair!" Mike chided, removing his own shirt.  "Look
at me -- not a hair in sight!"  Mike's chest, in contrast, was smooth, his
muscles more clearly in view, and his golden skin was fully tanned,
contrasted to Pete's pale -- if hairy -- skin.  Pete took a good look at his
muscular companion, and the same nervous grin began to break out on  his
face.  "Let's see how you do on the legpress," Mike said aloud, thinking to
himself, "You really want it -- and you're about to get it!"

Pete got into legpress position, resting his back on the bench and pressing
the weights forward with his shoes.   It was something of a struggle -- the
weights had been set pretty high for Mike's muscular legs -- but Pete was
eventually able to push them to their full level.  He let the weights slide
back, pushing his knees above his stomach, with his legs extended in air. 
"That was tough!"  "Yeah -- you're getting more sweat on my bench too!" 
Little drops of water were dripping from Pete's chest.  Mike stood right
behind Pete and placed his right hand on Pete's torso; he playfully rubbed
the hair on his companion's chest, smoothing the moisture back and forth. 
"So WET!" Mike exclaimed.  Pete briefly recoiled, as if being tickled, but
before he could say anything, Mike prodded him with his other hand to get
off the bench.  "Let me show you how it's *really* done," Mike said.  Pete
got off the bench -- still wondering what to make of Mike rubbing his
chest -- and Mike got into position.

"The real trick of leg-pressing is putting your feet in the right
position," Mike said, placing his Reeboks on the press pads.  "You see how
my feet are positioned?" "Yes."  "Are you looking at my feet."  "Yes." 
"Now watch my feet as I press the weights down.  Okay?"  "Okay."  With mock
strain, Mike pushed the weights forward, and let them come back quickly. 
"You're right," he said afterwards, "that *was* tough!  Let me try it
again."  With his knees bent over his chest, Mike reached up to bring his
socks back to full position; he quickly glanced back to see if Pete was
still staring at his shoes and socks, and was delighted to see that he was.
 "One more time," Mike said, "and continue to watch my shoes."  Mike
repeated the effort, and let the weights come back with a loud clank.

"I hurt my ankle!" he shouted.  Pete came to his side.  "Could you do me a
favor?" Mike asked.  "What?"  "Remember the foot massage I showed you
earlier?"  "Yeah."  "Could you remove my shoe and massage it real quick. 
Sometimes that gets rid of the pain right away."  Pete wasn't sure what to
do; he was still freaked out by Mike rubbing his chest, but the thought of
removing Mike's shoe and massaging his foot seemed… appealing.  "Which
foot?" Pete asked.  "Right one."  Pete knelt at the side of Mike's foot and
unlaced his shoe.  He removed the shoe -- all the extra exercise had unleashed
more foot aroma -- and, grasping Mike's foot the way he'd been shown, Pete
began to massage it through the moist sock.  He was very gentle with it,
holding it about six inches in front of his face.  Unconsciously, he
brought the fingers of right hand to his nose and sniffed, taking in the
transferred aroma of Mike's foot.

Observing this all, Mike smiled.  "That's so nice," he complemented.  "You
do that so well."  Pete smiled his nervous smile in return.  "Do you like
it?" Mike asked.  "Like what?"  "Massaging my foot."  "It's…  it's okay." 
"It's more than that," Mike said -- and, to Pete's surprise, Mike moved his
foot away from Pete's massaging fingers and thrust the foot to Pete's face.
 Mike rubbed the bottom of Pete's nostrils with the bottom of his
sock-covered big toe.  Pete's initial reaction was to double back a bit,
but then he brought himself back to Mike's foot, grabbing it again and
placing the tip of the toe under his nose.  It smelt so good, and he was
finally conscious of the fact that his dick was now fully erect.

"You love it, don't you?  You love my foot."  "Yes."  "You could just kneel
there all day rubbing my foot in your face."  "Yes."  "Come closer."  Pete
did as he was bid; Mike rewarded him by rubbing his sock-covered foot all
around Pete's face -- touching, with his toe, Pete's eyes, his ears, and his
forehead.  Pete was lost in ecstasy.  "You love my shoe, too.  Don't you?" 
"Yes."  "I want you to remove my other shoe.  But you have to do it with
your teeth, because you want it so much, you'll do anything for it." 
"Yes."

Pete bent down to Mike's other shoe, and placed the shoelace in his mouth. 
He sucked on it a bit, and also managed to lick the white leather of the
shoe itself.  He managed to unlace the shoe, and then continued to loosen
the shoelace by movement of his tongue and teeth.  He bit the cup of the
shoe -- where the ankle meets the shoe -- with his teeth, and pulled the shoe
off.  He was immediately rewarded with the fresh scent of Mike's other
shoe, and deeply inhaled it.

"Take off all your other clothes.  The only things you can leave on are
your socks and the ankle brace I gave you earlier."  Pete quickly did what
he was told, pulling his white Nike socks up to his calf.  He knelt
obediently in front of Mike, with his fully erect dick dangling from his
crotch.  Mike was impressed: he hadn't expected how gorgeous Pete's hairy
body would be with all his clothes off -- and what made it even more gorgeous
was the look of total desire and obedience in his eyes.  This was better
than he could have imagined.

"It's good that you're kneeling.  This is how you're to think of me from
now on.  As someone you kneel before.  Yes?"  "Yes."  "You want my socks
again, don't you?"  "Yes."  "You want to place them in your mouth, don't
you?"  "YES!"  Pete crawled back to Mike's feet and grabbed them, but Mike
surprised him again by pressing him backwards with his feet, so that he
doubled back and landed on the floor.  Pete readjusted himself to lie with
his back on the floor, and Mike again rewarded him by pressing the damp
soles of both feet firmly on Pete's face.  Pete let out a groan of
pleasure, and Mike inserted the tip of his right foot into Pete's open
mouth.  Pete quickly closed his mouth around the foot, sucking it with the
glee of a baby with a pacifier.  Mike shifted his left foot down to Pete's
chest, and rubbed the foot against the now-familiar hair.  Mike let this go
on for a while, but he was ready to explode himself.  He removed his feet
from Pete's body, and removed his lycra shorts and underwear.  He bid Pete
to come to the bench, and Pete obeyed.  "I need you to suck my dick," Mike
said.

Pete instantly placed his mouth around Mike's throbbing dick, sniffing in
all the smell from a day of tennis and working out.  Pete worked and worked
Mike's dick, and Mike himself couldn't restrain groans of pleasure.  He
grabbed Pete's hair and wrapped his sock-covered legs around Pete's back. 
Pete got into his work and moved his tongue into the recesses of Mike's
asshole, wanting to suck up all of the workout that he could.  Mike
exploded with five spasms of cum; the first two landed on Pete's head,
cutting across his face and hair.  Pete managed to mouth Mike's dick for
the final ejaculations, obediently swallowing his master's cum.

A sweaty and almost disbelieving Mike stared at his cum-covered friend.  He
removed the sock from his right foot, exposing the naked object of Pete's
worship, and used it to retrieve the cum from Pete's hair and face.  He
then inserted the foot into Pete's willing mouth, starting with the big
toe, which was covered with a good deal of cum, and then moved on to the
other toes.  Pete's eyes were closed as he sucked Mike's toes, and Mike
said: "My feet are all you will think of now.  You will never beat me
again, because all you'll be thinking about his how you want to worship my
feet, and smell them, and suck them, and you wont' be able to think of
anything else."  Pete murmured a "yes" from his ecstasy of sucking.  Having
established the power structure, Mike got on the ground with Pete and did
what he himself had been dying to do -- sucking Pete's own feet.  Pete's feet
were still covered by those gorgeous white Nike socks.  Mike placed these
in his face and sucked them back and forth, while Pete continued to do the
same to Mike's own feet.  Mike would allow eventually allow Pete himself to
cum, but not before he got all the pleasure of foot-sucking and domination
out of the way for himself.  And that probably wouldn't be for a few more
hours yet.