Landlord Uses His Feet to Bully Me
by Andrew D
I was looking for a room to rent in Toronto.
Responding to an ad in the paper, I contacted a man named Peter Fruchter, who was part of the faculty at a popular university. The two of us couldn’t have been more different – I am a quiet, meek, and unintimidating individual, while Peter's imposing presence made me feel like the subservient beta male I knew I had always been. Peter towered over me at 6’3” and 230 lbs, and exuded an air of authority that immediately made me feel small and insignificant. With him being in his early thirties, there was only less than a decade’s age distance between us, but compared to him, I felt like he was the senior to my junior.
I moved in shortly afterward, and Peter seemed to grow a liking to me. He would ask me to do things like make him a snack or tidy up a room here and there. But as time moved on, my sense of obligation grew. What began as simple requests from Peter soon evolved into expectations. It didn’t take long before I found myself cooking meals for Peter, doing Peter's laundry, and meticulously scrubbing the bathroom until it gleamed. Don’t get me wrong – Peter never threatened to kick me out if I didn’t do what he said. Rather, I simply did what he asked as a way of avoiding confrontation.
I’m sure you get the idea now – I’m not a very assertive person, a pushover, if you will. My personality was the total opposite of Peter’s. He was a natural alpha male. He bossed me around because that’s the kind of guy he was, while I did what I was told because of my natural personality. Perhaps Peter sensed this and exploited it. It hardly mattered – what Peter said, I did, and that’s just how the cookie crumbled in his household.
Within weeks, my servitude to Peter became the natural order of things. His requests transitioned into demands, and before long, he would leave a list of things for me to do before he got back from work. He didn’t care if I had plans, or what my work schedule was like. He wanted things to get done, and it was my responsibility to work around my schedule to not let him down.
One day I was lying in bed wondering what would happen if I didn’t do what he asked. What if I said “no” to one of his demands – what would he do to me? Would he punish me? Would he simply not ask me to do anything for him anymore, dissatisfied with my eagerness to please? I perished the thought, afraid of not being in my landlord’s good books anymore. No, that simply would not do. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting the big guy down.
It seems Peter was having those same thoughts though, and perhaps was eager to see how far he could take things with me. He was mindful that I never said “no” to him, and on one particular day, Peter decided to push the envelope. He was home before I was, laying back in his office chair, his feet up on his desk. I greeted Peter nervously, sensing something was afoot. Peter chuckled and told me to pull the size 11 sneakers off his tired feet.
I did as he asked, and let me tell you, the aroma that emitted from his footwear after I pulled each shoe off was so strong that it smacked me in the face. Peter picked up one of his shoes, then grabbed the back of my head and forced my face into the opening of his sneaker. I was commanded to inhale for a good minute until he was content with my efforts.
“What are you gonna do about it?” Peter said as he put his sneaker away, watching me catch my breath.
“Nothing, Peter,” I said between gasps.
“Try again,” Peter responded.
“Uh,” I whimpered. “Nothing, Mr. Fruchter.”
“Nope, that’s not it,” Peter replied, rolling his eyes.
“Nothing…sir?” I whimpered.
“LOUDER.” Peter said, crossing his arms and smirking again.
“Nothing, SIR!” I shouted harder.
Shaking his head, Peter lay back in his reclining office chair and told me to get dinner ready. We remained out of each other’s sight for the rest of the day after I prepared the landlord’s meal. I was in shock at what happened, still trying to process it. What really confused me was the raging boner I had from the moment I walked out of Peter’s room. What was turning me on? Peter’s assertiveness? The scent of his sneaker? And why wasn’t I pushing back against anything Peter told me to do?
A similar turn of events happened the next day. Peter was waiting for me when I got home again, but this time he was a sweaty mess. It was a hot day and Peter had rollerbladed all over town. He was just about to hop in the shower when he saw me arrive, and decided to have some fun first. With his rollerblades still on, my 230-pound landlord said he wanted a thorough foot rub from top to bottom. I assumed he was kidding, but the stern expression on his face told me differently.
I didn’t waste a second trying to come up with an excuse to not touch his sweaty feet. Instead, I walked over to him, sunk to my knees, and watched him drop one of his rollerbladed feet into my lap. Pulling them off, I couldn’t believe how much the insides of the blades stank – the smell that came out of the opening immediately made me sneeze, which caused Peter to laugh out loud. He then began rubbing his socked soles all over my face, using his foot as a paintbrush of sorts. The sock was absolutely drenched in his sweat and I was practically gagging. But again, to my total shock, my dick started to chub up again. Why? Why now?
“I want you to sniff,” Peter said to me. “I want you to worship me like the little loser you are, bud.”
And sniff is exactly what I did. Peter watched me sniff away at his sweaty smooth feet from top to bottom. Because my landlord was a thick man, he could work up a sweat just standing, so you can imagine how much sweat his socks absorbed rollerblading his way home. My cheeks, nose, and lips touched and tasted dampness when they made contact with his white sweat socks. At this point, Peter noticed how much I was enjoying myself, in spite of the sneezing and sour faces I was making. Thankfully, he didn’t spot the boner in my pants. After he was content with me watching him sniff away at his socks, Peter told me to peel them off. I found a small layer of sweat lingering behind each foot when I did that.
“Do me a favor, little buddy,” Peter commanded rather than requested. “Lick that up for me, will ya?”
I didn’t even question it. I just stuck my tongue out and lapped up all the sweat I could with my tongue, causing Peter to break out laughing.
“Holy shit,” Peter said, shaking his head in disgust. “I can’t believe you actually did that. Do you have any spine at all, fuckboy?”
Peter put his big bare sole on my face and pushed me back. I was beyond humiliated.
“Fucking weirdo,” Peter said. “You’re done here. Go get my dinner ready.”
I did as I was told, walking away in fear that I would never get to touch my landlord’s feet again.
That fear was squashed the next day when Peter barged into my room without knocking. He had just gotten home and was exhausted, telling me my “girly fingers” were needed. I told him I would be a second, but to my shock, Peter grabbed me by the hair, yanked me off my bed, and dragged me to his office, slinging me to the floor beneath his office chair once we got there. Peter then sat down and pointed to his feet.
“I gotta tell you, bud,” Peter said to me, getting comfortable. “Your scrawny fingers really are perfect for my feet.”
“Uh, thanks,” I nervously said.
“Whatever,” Peter shrugged. “Get to rubbing and sniffing, fuckboy.”
I didn’t waste any time getting down to business. Because of the size difference between us, I put extra effort into massaging my landlord’s large bare feet. Peter picked up something from his briefcase and began reading it, completely ignoring me as I rubbed as hard as I could. After finishing whatever he was reading, Peter’s attention went back to me. He stretched his arm out and whipped a damp white sweatsock off his foot in one fell swoop. Peter stretched his toes, slapping my cheeks a few times with his meaty foot, laughing as he did.
You would think I would be offended, but I was too busy admiring how thick his sole was, as each slap felt like getting hit with a salami. Peter wasn’t overweight, but he was stocky, unlike me, so I could feel the thickness of his meaty foot with each slap he gave me. For a moment, I licked my lips, and Peter must have assumed I was salivating for his sweaty foot. With that, his big toe landed on my bottom lip and slowly pushed its way inside.
“Open up, fuckboy,” Peter said to me.
I didn’t even try to make it look like I was putting up a fight. Without making eye contact with him, my mouth slowly opened up, causing Peter to laugh even harder as he slid his big toe between my wet lips.
“Suck, loser,” Peter said to me. So I did. I could peripherally see the grossed-out look on Peter’s face watching me slurp all over his giant toe. Suddenly, an explosion in my pants caused us both to look down at the growing wet spot on my crotch. The sound of Peter’s laughter became humiliatingly deafening.
“Get the fuck out and clean yourself up,” Peter instructed, pointing at the door, both amused and disgusted.
The next day, Peter rollerbladed home in a particularly foul mood. The disgruntled look on his face immediately told me that I was going to be the recipient of his bad attitude. Normally he was amused watching me take off his sweaty footwear, but something told me this time is going to be different. I was actually worried Peter was going to be a bit sadistic with me.
Peter was a man a few words on this day. He didn’t smile down at me when I kneeled before him to unlace his rollerblades. He just looked at me as if I was a piece of furniture, expecting me to get the blades off his feet. I didn’t want to push his buttons, so I immediately began unloosing and pulling them off.
As usual, my landlord’s socks were doused in sweat and dampness. Peter used his right foot as a paintbrush again, with my face as his fresh canvas. He rubbed his sweaty socked foot all over my face, and I could taste the sweat in the cotton. The smell resembled stale vinegar.
Thinking I was done, I silently stood up, but Peter lunged forward, grabbed my head with his hand, and forced me back down to my knees. Then, without warning, Peter open-palm slapped me hard across the face. I fell to my side, grabbed my cheek, and looked up at him. Peter just looked down at me without showing any remorse. He simply raised his eyebrow at me, and I immediately went back to work.
I began rubbing Peter's sweatsocked foot, moving from right to left, but Peter surprised me by pulling both socks off. He then grabbed my head - not with his hands, but the soles of his feet - and squeezed my head with them.
“Ow!” I shouted.
“Don’t piss me off,” Peter said to me in a surprisingly calm voice. “I’m not in the mood for your shit today, got it?”
“Yes!” I said in fear.
“Yes, what?” He shouted down at me.
“YES SIR!” I properly responded.
“Good fucking boy,” he replied, passive-aggressively patting my head in approval.
I took the hint and immediately went back to rubbing Peter's sweaty right foot after the let go of my face. The next 20 minutes went by very quickly, as Peter laid back in his chair with his hands behind his head, looking down at me. I put a solid effort into rubbing each foot. They were so wide, and there was so much thickness on each sole. I still admired that they were free of blemishes and dry skin, and at this point, I had become intimately familiar with the smell. Peter saw me lick my lips again, but this time he was not amused. Another open-palm slap struck me across the face.
“What was that for?” I shouted. This was a big mistake on my end. After all, who was I to talk back to the man of the house?
Peter stood up and grabbed a handful of my hair again, this time power-walking to the bathroom and dragging me along the way. I screamed and shouted in shock, but he wasn’t having any of my bellyaching. When we got to the bathroom, I was slung towards the toilet. I felt Peter’s sole against the back of my head, and just like that, I was face-to-face with toilet water. I heard the sound of a zipper being lowered behind me, and then the sound of a stream of water being poured into the toilet. Except it wasn’t water – it was piss.
That’s right. Peter was taking a piss in the toilet with my head inside of it. I could feel droplets, touching the back of my head, ears, and hair. He wasn’t pissing on me – just around my head. I tried to pull away, but felt Peter’s sole pushing my head deeper into the toilet, causing more of his piss to fall on parts of my head. While he prevented me from escaping, my meek and timid nature ensured I wasn’t running away of my own volition.
“Take a shower,” Peter said to me as he zipped up and washed his hands. “Then get started in the kitchen. My dinner isn’t gonna make itself, right fuckboy?”
As Peter left the bathroom, I adjusted myself, took off my clothes, and jumped in the shower. I lathered up and shampooed, worried what Peter would say if he could smell his piss on me. Although to be honest, I welcomed the alone time I was suddenly gifted, needing to take care of the raging boner I was fighting.
END (FOR NOW)