Tickled by an Unhinged Shoe Salesman
by Golden West
CURTIS
I never meant to become a shoe salesman. Truth be told, I don’t even like shoes all that much. They pinch, they scuff, they squeak at the worst possible moments. But men—handsome men—well, they’re another matter entirely. And this store, tucked neatly between a dry cleaner and a frozen yogurt shop, seems to attract them like moths to a flame.
When one of them walks in, I transform. My posture straightens, my voice drops into a professional register, and suddenly I’m the most diligent employee in the Western Hemisphere. I measure arches with the precision of a surgeon, lace boots with the reverence of a priest, and polish loafers until they gleam like mirrors. Customers often glance at me sideways, as if wondering whether I’m auditioning for “Employee of the Year” or simply unhinged.
Take last Tuesday, for example. A sandy-haired nineteen-year-old with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun wandered in, asking about running shoes. I practically sprinted to the stockroom, emerging with three different models, each carefully chosen for his stride, his build, his aura. I explained cushioning technology as though I’d invented it myself. He nodded politely, but I could see the suspicion in his eyes—why was I so invested in his footwear journey?
The truth is, I’m not invested in the shoes at all. I’m invested in the way his jaw tightened when he bent to tie the laces, the way his laugh rumbled when I joked about “breaking them in on the treadmill.” Around men like him, I become a scholar of soles and insoles, a philosopher of leather and suede. My devotion is so intense it borders on absurdity.
Other customers—ordinary ones—get the bare minimum. A quick “What size?” and a half-hearted trip to the back. But when the handsome ones arrive, I’m suddenly the patron saint of retail. I suspect they leave wondering if I’m secretly writing a dissertation on their feet.
Maybe I am. Or maybe I just know that in this little shoe store, surrounded by racks of sneakers and boots, I’ve found my own peculiar stage. And every time a beautiful man steps through the door, I’m ready to perform—studious, meticulous, suspiciously attentive. But something came over me as I knelt before him. Something I couldn’t control.
KYLE
I walked into the shoe store still a little sweaty from my workout, my gym bag slung over my shoulder. The place smelled faintly of rubber and leather, and I was just hoping to grab a new pair of running shoes without much fuss.
Almost immediately, a salesman appeared. He was young, maybe my age, with neatly combed hair and a smile that seemed a little too eager. “Looking for something athletic?” he asked, already steering me toward the wall of sneakers.
I nodded, and before I knew it, he was crouched at my feet, pulling boxes off the shelf like a man on a mission. He asked about my training routine, how many miles I ran, even what surfaces I usually trained on. At first, I figured he was just one of those employees who took his job very seriously.
But the longer I stayed, the stranger it felt. He hovered as I laced up each pair, watching intently as I jogged a few steps across the store. His eyes followed me with an intensity that made me self-conscious. When I sat down to take off one pair, he leaned in closer than necessary, his voice dropping as he asked how they felt.
I tried to laugh it off, but something about his focus wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t just professional diligence—it was… extra. He seemed fascinated, almost fixated, and not just on the shoes.
By the time I slipped back into my own sneakers, I’d made up my mind. He wasn’t just enthusiastic about his job. He was a tad odd, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that his attention had very little to do with footwear.
I thanked him politely, grabbed the pair I liked, and headed for the register, relieved to put a little distance between us. Then I saw another pair I liked better—so much so that I asked what size they came in. I even let myself get talked into trying them on. The salesman was ready, willing and able to help me try them on.
CURTIS
I couldn’t stop myself.
Kneeling before Kyle, I snatched off his socks and fervently kissed his bare toes! I couldn’t believe he was an armature beach volleyball player--his soles were smooth and tender. The toes were long, plump and shapely. He had strong heels and a well-defined high arches with meaty balls of the feet. I continued kissing his toes, drawing each one into my mouth and tickling them with my tongue. Kyle was surprised by my actions. Then horrified. But then…
Soft chuckling sounds came from Kyle, telling me that he was into what I was doing. The store was empty … so it was just us. And the idea that someone might pop into the store at any moment just made the scenario that much hotter. I took the time to use his socks to securely bind his wrists together, then returned to his feet. I kissed and massaged and tongue-tickled my way all over the sandy-haired athlete’s size 11 soles.
"Nohohoho plehehehease don'thahaa tickle meheeheheee!" Kyle exclaimed, trying to twist his body away, straining once again at the bonds cinching his wrists together.
I paused for a moment, facing Kyle Michael Fitzgerald's sensitive soles. I watched the ecstatic nineteen-year-old and listened to him plead, which seemed to make the fire in my loins grow. Then, without really realizing it, I started to play my fingers along Kyle’s feet. This made him start to guffaw and plead for me to leave his feet alone. I dragged him to the back of the store—to the bed I sometimes slept on when I’d been evicted from my living spaces and hadn’t come up with the money to rent another. Don’t judge me. My boss has used that bed more than once when he’s had a ruckus with his wife.
Anyway, while Kyle was weakened from my tickling ordeal, I took the time out to untie him, remove his T-shirt and slack and briefs and then re-tied him in a new configuration using athletic socks. First, I used some socks to tie his left arm to the headboard, then I moved down the bed to the left leg and tied it to the footboard, leaving just enough slack for the sandy-haired youth to move slightly. I repeated the process on the lad's right arm and leg until I had him spread across the bed in an X.
Apparently, he didn't like this new formation because ... well, he was trying to scream. But I had gagged him with a sock by this time to keep the sounds of his grunts and protests. His penis was standing tall, proud and throbbing …but his green eyes were wide with fear. And yet he was still powerless to stop whatever I had in store for him.
And he could never have expected what I had in mind.
I left him and made my way to my boss’ personal mini-fridge. I returned with a canister of Cheese Whiz and slowly smeared it over Kyle’ jerking cock. I then proceeded to lick and suck the yellow-orange cream on the hapless sandy-haired kid's cock back off. The attack of my hot mouth and tongue caused Kyle’s seven-inch penis to twitch and jerk and swing from side to side! My hot tongue began to lap up the cheese whiz.
I had some idea of what I'd do next, and watching Kyle thrash and strain against his bonds as I brought him closer and closer to orgasm was getting me really hot.
I played with my stiff six-inches as I finally sucked and licked the last of the cheese whiz off my young captive's cock. I even shot a load of cum over his stomach and along his thighs. By this time the nineteen-year-old sandy-haired youth was faint with overstimulation and his cock was hot pink and felt just plain hot! Feeling my milky cum against his skin seemed to triple his need.
Having watched me reach my orgasm, Kyle Fitzgerald's magnificent bound body was clearly within minutes of gasping and groaning with orgasmic pleasure. And then, suddenly, he squirted his fresh cum straight into the air before it splattered down on his own chest and on me! The feel of the sandy-haired youth’s hot ropes of cum on my body, and the aroma of his fresh young cream, was too much for this mild-mannered shoe salesman!
Untying his legs, I grabbed the nineteen-year-old’s ankles and raised his feet, not over his head, but high enough to tie the ankles to the headboard and leave his asshole exposed. I then sat down under Kyle’s raised ass and worked up a mouth of spittle. While he shook his sandy head "no" and made garbled pleas through the gag, I held open his butt hole and drooled into that funky opening--lubing it. Then, drooling over my index finger, I slipped the digit up the sandy-haired kid's hole, causing my captive to groan as the desire to get off another load grew still stronger.
I was soon erect again and ready for yet another go-round…