I bring the bowl, bidden by you, to remove the last trace of this dirty world from your feet, towel trailing my forearm as I solemnly progress. It’s the quiet time of the evening. The chiaroscuro of roosting crows that smeared the skies are replaced by the pulsing of crickets. “Cicadan rhythms”, we joke to each other as we prepare for bed. The heat released from the stone walls that have baked all day in this mediterranean sun now gives us warmth.
And in the light of a smokey oil lamp your skin glows in its newness, as you sit atop fresh sheets, your legs hanging down the edge of our iron bed, wrought out of love. I kneel, placing the bowl to one side and remove the towel from my waist to show you my naked frame that you have pulled from shame into comfort and pride. My collar is fastened; you nod and I pick up the dangling foot before me, a precious Rodin sculpture of the smoothest stone. For a moment I pause before I press my parted lips to those precious toes.
Forcing my fat wet tongue between them, drawing you into my mouth, I cradle the heel like an goose egg, its smooth shape sits perfectly in my cupped hands. I pass trembling fingers around your ankle, stroking back towards me, describing the arch and instep with hands roughened from hot summers in the orchard.
I shiver, feeling the hairs pick up on my arms, as I’m almost overcome by the completeness of this. At your feet, naked and serving you, my true vocation. As my cock briefly lifts, I hungrily lick, toe to heel, lifting the balls of each foot to place a long, lingering kiss on each.
“Begin” you say, in a neutral tone that seems loud in the silence of the evening. My hand moves down to meet my swelling self coming up, I pull silently at myself losing any sense of distance, just feeling fully in you, around you, of you.
I need this. This kneeling, this moment, this chance to pray and feel my real self reveal itself in all its vulnerability to you.
and I pick up the pace, the beating drum of my tightened skin matched by the rising of my breath. The joy of your commands knocks me giddy, I lurch and press into your knees, propped up between them, not stopping, just resting, engorging myself further by the scent of your ripe cunt.
“Back, where I can see, please” and a gentle tip back by your hand, and I’m rocking, now splayed and close to the edge but I’m powerless to speak. There is no need, you feel it. It is beginning, this covenant of blood and skin we both bear witness to, and I must seal it now.
“Good boy, it’s time”
and the release is final and sudden, a jerk from my guts and I spill my seed gratefully onto your pristine flesh and this is all that matters in the world right now.
I sink and the stone flags are a cold shock and scrape my stomach. I need to be as low as I can be, press my face into the sticky tops of your feet. To wear this offering as an anointed disciple.
Soon I will rise and bathe you. Slopping the warm water to rinse away my sacrament and swaddling your feet in crisp linen to press dry in a ritual well practised and unchanged by time.