Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2019 17:54:03 +0200
From: wise owl <wiseoldowl@gmx.com>
Subject: Watching Daddy (part two) for gay/incest

Reader Note: This is a love story pure and simple. A loving tribute to a
dad from his son. If this offends you- and by that I mean male sexuality in
all its fullness, if you are not of legal age, then please do not read
this.  If you have comments, please email me at wiseoldowl@gmx.com

Please give to Nifty, your support keeps it going!


**Please read part one before this section**

Watching Daddy

Part Two:


Once ensconced in his chair, he'd prop his feet up on the leather footstool
and my work began. He'd sip his drink and begin to read the newspaper that
lay nearby and ready for his enjoyment. I dutifully would kneel by the
footstool edge on the carpet and work his shoes off one at a time. Now the
laces in the very early days took a while to master. I preferred any
slip-on types, they slipped off so easily!

Dad never asked me to do this. I just began to as part of our pre-dinner
routine. Some things happen this way, call it natural. I was drawn to the
job and dad just let me to do my thing. He always did.

I felt very special and loved it. I'd have fought like a tiger if told not
to do it. It was my job and I took it very seriously. I found his laces
back then a real maze and often got them knotted. Dad sat and would just
let me work out any knots on my own. I would. It was like unwrapping a
present, you had to get the wrapper off. His shoes were the wrapper and
inside each lay my gift, his feet!

As I worked out the laces (like a puzzle sometimes), loosening and tugging
at them, the leather shoe would ease up around his large warm foot. His
feet radiated delicious heat to my tender hands which I could feel right
thru the polished leather. I then would switch to in front of the footstool
and use both hands and pull his shoe off. The first one off always felt
like was unlocking a safe of treasure, my face only inches away and the
smell of dad's warm foot filled my nose and seared my senses.

The giddy rise in my tummy like a rollercoaster ride whooshed up within
me. The smell was so electric! That heavily scent of sharp ripeness, toned
down by those warm natural leather perfumes and a delicate undercurrent of
a darker tribal smell that one can only describe as primal, musky and very
manly. It was like an opiate in strength and effect. I breathed it in as
the shoe fell beside me, eyes closed, breathing dad's essence in.

My eyes would then pop open and I'd stare wide mouthed at the very shape
and cherished form of the revealed socked foot before me. The silky nylon
blended sock fabric hugging every curve and bulge of his size 11 foot in
whatever colour the day had brought me. The proud golden toe cap of some
days a welcome and much loved sight. But the real treat visually was the
delightful sweat-effect upon the blended shiny sock material. The way each
toe and the tender ball of his large sculptured foot looked as if I could
see them thru the material, as if it were becoming transparent in some
magical way. The moistness of his sweat was creating a shimmering effect
that produced a sense of actually seeing his fleshy foot right there and
then, just sheer magic! I was transfixed.

"Tony, are you ok?" Dad would ask as he peered at me over the paper.

"Fine, daddy, just doing your feet." I'd say truly but all the while
secretly participating in a form of worshipful communion and was busily
establishing these newly developing rituals that would last all my life.

The trance would cease and I'd move on to the other waiting shoe. Struggle
with the laces but all the while my eyes were locked on my ultimate prize,
one of two to be precise. Dad's now exposed socked foot lounged there, just
a mere few inches from my greedy hands. That sock I had watched getting put
on this morning was now in its full glory. It had been worn for nearly 12
hours and had matured like fine wine or a strong brewed tea. I wanted to
jump ahead to phase two but had to finish phase one. One more shoe to shed
and it was always a bitch back then. Shoe number two was my enemy. Why?
Because my hands were shaking like little leaves on a tree in a strong
wind. The giddy sensation filled my tummy but also made me tremble, may I
say even quake from head to toe.

I prayed daddy would not think I was having a seizure or fit but the
shaking fingers must have been noticeable as I worked on his laces. Dad
would never have said a word, I know now, he believed fully in
self-expression and I was truly expressing myself. The real me was emerging
and it was exhilarating.

Shoe number two was yanked free and dad's other socked foot appeared before
me on the footstool, the mixed odours of the two socked feet wafted
together before me as I dropped the second shoe onto the carpet. Dad's
feet, free of the confinement, now wiggled and twitched. He stretched those
long lovely toes and moved his feet side to side.

The way the now very sweaty socks clung to his feet so tightly made it more
like a marvellous puppet show than a simple act of undressing. His feet on
the footstool mesmerized me and I sat for a few moments in sheer awe, call
it veneration. The smell and look made me stop and just enjoy the giddy
sensation that was that very moment, the moment of unveiling.

And then came phase two, my favourite task of the day, rubbing his feet. A
joy I'd have until dinner was served and I hoped dinner would take ages. My
hands launched to those socked feet and my heart soared and beat like a
tom-tom in my chest. The reward was at hand and all mine to enjoy!

Now if all this foot adoration of my dad is over your head, trust me...I
found ALL of him to be so amazing and truly breathtaking. His feet and my
stature back then were a perfect match. I was so close to them all the time
and thus it was only natural to begin a very close relationship with them.

All non-sexual back then as I have told you, just pure adoration of part of
the man I loved so very much. He and mum thought me bizarre in my ways of
being so attached to little routines like this, but they let me get on with
it. I was truly an odd duck but life is full of them, makes the world a
much more creative place!

Ahh, my dear dad, forever seared into my mind's eye, always about 40 years
old and sporting that playboy, devil-may-care style reddish gold
moustache. His hair the same colour and forever thick and lustrous. His
eyes so blue and full of fun and life. I can still be there, at his socked
feet, ready to work my hands all along those delicious size 11's. Every
blessed sculpture perfect inch!

The myriad of colours of those socks he wore was my rainbow of choice, not
the one that hung in the sky after a storm. Dad's feet were my rainbow and
most truly my proverbial "pot of gold". I had to keep my tremulous body
shakes to a dull roar and not let on just how this moment each night made
me feel. I dare say, losing this delightful bonding time each night, well;
it would have left me heartbroken.

Dad, wiggling those worshipped socked toes before me, waited as he read the
nightly paper.  My breath in little rasps escaped unnoticed, thank
goodness. I moved and began. My head reeling and spinning as the two socked
feet I loved melded in perfect harmony a scent of pure intoxication.

Some people drink to get high, I loved sniffing dad's used clothing and his
socks were my first super high...yes, guilty as charged! And boy, did I
love to get those right up to my nose and just soar away! I soon found his
discarded underwear briefs to have a similar effect, but I shall get to
that later on.

This saga of memories is living proof that we males develop our personal
fetishes very much as part of growing and day to day living.

And so, our leather footstool was like an altar for me and I knelt there
before these two "gods". My knees quaking and my hands reaching out. The
two feet were ready for my nightly veneration.

I began with his left foot. I loved all his socks but I think that a
certain pair comes to mind more often than others. He had a few light
charcoal ones with gold toes that seemed ever so endearing to me.

Why? Well, they were from one of his expensive men's shops that dad loved
and they fit like a second skin, no sags or wrinkles. They were not sheer
yet ultra fine, very strong and blessedly...when sweaty, near see-thru. The
very pinkness of dad's feet almost shone thru. The smell of dad's day at
his office combined with this nearly sheer style; it remains a memory I can
literally taste.

My eager hands moved to the juicy ball of his socked foot. My fingers
working at the base of those elegant, wiggling toes. Thumbs rubbing
rhythmically, pressing circles around that most pronounced part of the
human foot. Working into that little valley between two hills. That's the
way the ball of his foot felt to my young hands. I can still feel it now as
I write.

The small sighs and little moans from dad behind his newspaper let me know
I was doing well. My goal was to get the jubilant ejaculatory, "Oh, Tony,
right there, yes!"

I worked that left foot, deeply inhaling, trying not to faint. Not
easy. Moving up from the ball, gripping his lively, strong toes. His big
toe, so vivacious and round, I was tempted to bite it. Innocently and
playfully, but a primal need to bring mouth to foot was actually growing in
me. It would not be born in me for a while yet but the thought, no matter
how fleeting, a man's foot is something one can put in ones mouth. I was
not far off from that realisation. My own foot, alone and secretly, would
be my first tentative exploratory taste. The salty taste mixed with other
never dreamt of flavours, well, I knew if my own foot tasted so appetizing
than my dear dad's would be a form of exquisite caviar. But not yet, years
to come before I ventured that root. Before I dined on that delicacy.  But
I vowed someday I would!

His toes yielded and moved to my strokes and rhythms. My hands slid down
the silky, smooth, moist socked surface. My fingers riding along that high
arch. My nose a few mere inches away. Inhaling all the while, growing more
intoxicated. The arch and my small fingers had a very curious
relationship. This could be relaxing for dad or torture. A little dad
torture was pure heaven for me.

Finger nails now bared inward and a jump, a screech and giggles erupt from
behind the now shaking newspaper.

"Tony, that tickles. Come on!" he would beg.

Wicked me. How I loved to make him squirm. A bit more, the threat of the
pulling away of my beloved feet. The promise to be good.

And so another fetish was born, the desire to restrain dad and tickle him!
To be in charge, to control what he felt and make him obey me. If you are
thinking I was a right little devil, I was! I already was hatching plans
and dreaming up ways to get my dad just where I wanted him...and in time, I
would!

My "experiments" for my daddy at that stage were very basic, but as time
moved along, my "experiments", various schemes and planned scenarios became
much more elaborate and involved a "full body" approach. His whole
delicious body needed regular monitoring, thoughtful and extensive probing,
close observing and careful controlling...but that all comes in time. The
devil in me had very small horns back then, they needed to grow and grow
they did!



Much more to come in each new chapter of this saga!



Feel free to write me if you enjoyed this or have read my earlier
works. Thank you!

Tony aka wiseoldowl@gmx.com