Dealing with Dad's Doggies
by Dreemaboutu
The apartment was dim, lit only by the flickering blue of a muted television. The air smelled of stale beer and sweat, and the heavy snoring from the couch filled the silence like a warning siren.
Eli stood in the doorway, clutching a towel he didn’t need. His dad was sprawled across the cushions, one arm dangling, the other clutching a half-empty bottle. His boots—mud-caked and steel-toed—rested on the edge of the coffee table, a threat to the laminate and to anyone who dared touch them.
Eli hated those boots. Not because they were ugly, but because they were loud. When his dad stomped in drunk, they were the first sound of trouble. And tonight, like most nights, his dad had passed out in them, snoring like a chainsaw, his breath sour and thick.
But Eli had a plan. A quiet one.
He tiptoed across the carpet, knees bent like a thief in his own home. Every creak of the floorboard felt like a gunshot. He paused, watching his dad’s face twitch. One wrong move and the man would wake up swinging or shouting—maybe both.
Eli crouched beside the couch, heart pounding. He reached for the first boot, fingers trembling. The laces were knotted tight, crusted with dried mud. He tugged gently, slowly, like defusing a bomb. The boot resisted. Eli held his breath, adjusted his grip, and twisted.
His dad snorted. Shifted.
Eli froze.
The bottle rolled off his chest and thudded to the carpet. Eli didn’t breathe. His dad muttered something incoherent, then settled back into his snore.
Eli resumed. He worked the boot loose millimeter by millimeter until, finally, it slipped off with a soft thud. One down.
The second boot was worse. His handsome dad’s leg twitched every time Eli touched it. He considered leaving it. But something in him refused. This wasn’t just about footwear. It was about reclaiming a sliver of peace.
He gritted his teeth and went back in. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His fingers cramped. But he kept going.
And then—like a miracle—the second boot slid free.
Eli stood up, boots in hand, staring at his sleeping father. The man looked smaller now. Less monstrous. Just a handsome drunk, passed out.
Eli walked to the hallway, placed the boots gently by the door, and leaned against the wall. He exhaled for the first time in minutes.
He had done it. Quietly. Carefully. Without waking the storm.
And for that moment, Eli felt something rare and precious: relief. Not triumph, not joy—but the soft, fleeting comfort of surviving the night without a bruise.
Tomorrow would be another battle. But tonight, he had won.
The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering blue of a muted television. On the couch his handsome father still lay completely out of it—shirt stained, mouth slack, one arm dangling off the cushion like a forgotten marionette. The smell of whiskey clung to the air. His socks, damp and smelly from a long day of drinking and shouting, were the final insult.
Eli crouched beside the couch, his breath shallow. He’d done this before—small acts of mercy disguised as chores. A bowl of water, a towel, and the quiet resolve of someone who’d learned to tiptoe through landmines. His father’s snores came in uneven waves, each one a warning.
He reached for the first sock. It clung to the skin like regret. Slowly, inch by inch, he peeled it down, careful not to tug too hard. His dad shifted, grunted, then settled. Eli froze, heart thudding in his throat. After a moment, he resumed, finally freeing the foot. The second sock came off easier, as if it had given up.
Eli sat back on his heels, staring at the big bare feet. They looked strangely vulnerable—sweaty, smelly, human. He felt no triumph. Just a dull ache.
He knew what he was about to do was a sign of weakness, but he really didn’t care.
He moved his face closer to his dad’s feet. The socks were gone, but the odor wasn't. For someone who spent a lot of time practicing judo in his bare feet, his sire’s soles were almost virginal. They were wide and long with strong heels and well-defined high arches. The balls of both feet were meaty and the toes were long and plump.
And Eli started with these long, plump toes. First he used his pinky to fiddle with his dad’s pinky toe, the smallest. Then he wiggled his pinky through the space between toes--the pinky toe and it's nearest neighbor toe. After playfully waggling each toe he gently raked his fingers across the lifeless dad’s arch and worked his fingers along the crevices under those five digits.
Each of the unconscious man’s big, handsome feet was taken up and its toes were sucked into Eli's hot mouth. On the left foot, the tongue slid between the toes--licking and sucking and biting. Then on the right foot, light butterfly kisses replaced the sucking. Kisses that trailed down his senseless sire's instep to his heel and up the back of his ankle. Eli raised his father’s leg and the trailed soft kisses along the back of the passed out man’s calf to the bend in his knee. Then Eli grabbed his ankle with both hands and guided his bare foot to whichever direction he wanted to lick.
The warm soles tasted salty as he ran his hot wet tongue slowly up and down each of them. His taste buds tingled at the fresh taste of bare manly foot flesh. Eli Bascombe's slimy tongue vacillated between each sole, both now shiny with saliva. His tongue moved over the tops of the dead boy's toes, then into the crevices under those still piggies. Next Eli squirmed his tongue eel-like between each of his dad’s bare toes. Then, with both bare soles in his hands, the youth sucked one big toe, then the other. Then he sucked BOTH big toes simultaneously as his fingers danced across his posthumous pal's bare soles. Eli fellated those two big toes for a while before using his mouth to covered all five toes on each foot, one at a time.
When he finished, he jerked off all over his father’s bare feet. Then he sat back again—elation quickly being replaced with depression.
This wasn’t a life, he thought to himself.
Not when your victories were measured in silent boot and sock removals and the absence of shouting. He looked around the room—the empty bottles, the stained carpet, the framed photo of better years turned slightly askew on the wall. He could leave. He could pack a bag, walk out the door, and let the silence be someone else’s burden. The thought didn’t feel cruel. It felt necessary.
Eli stood, placed the socks in the laundry basket, and walked to his room. He didn’t pack that night. But he left the door unlocked. Just in case tomorrow felt brave.