Blonde Adventures, Part 5 The Barista
Peter de Ruthyn
I never had him in the flesh. Come to think of it, I never so much as saw him with all his flesh exposed. Friends had sampled what lay beneath his tightly-fitted boxer briefs, but I...I had only seen him walk around the apartment concealed by those flimsy little shorts. Watched him dress himself somewhat self-consciously after his occasional bouts of exposure, and watched him more boldly, more thoroughly and lustfully, as he lay sleeping on the sofa, his single cover thrown aside, leaving his body exposed to my unashamed gaze.
His skin was smooth and creamy, hardly touched by the sun. His eyes, when opened, were deep and soulful; his nose straight and delicate; his brown hair sculpted; his lips ripely pink and full, though not overprominent. His body was muscular without the muscles being constantly in evidence, preserving the illusion of youthful innocence he presented. And yet his arse was undeniably prominent and curving before it tapered down to strong legs, shaved as befitted a former aquatic athlete, and a truly graceful pair of feet. Slimness and tone were not criteria one could use for judging this boy adequately. He was built on a different model, one that called for constant subtle curves and arcs. A baroque model, perhaps. A tribute to the male nudes painted by Rubens, but without the excesses of bulk in which Rubens indulged. His was the allure of softness.
I would never enjoy this loveliness in person. Only by proxy.
As he lay asleep in the mornings, I could watch the bulge in the front of his tight underwear swell and expand with his dreams. He was still a teenager, and a hungry one. His body and mind alike conspired to remind him of his needs even in his hours of unconsciousness. I never broke in upon him in the midst of such dreams, although his almost complete nudity and semi-arousal seemed to demand intervention. Whether I was wrong to withhold my touch from him, I never discovered.
In time, I knew I would not be able to have him. I would be leaving for good soon, and though he was always friendly to me, I saw no mutual fascination in his eyes or in his actions. Unwilling to abandon the fantasy, I sought an alternative--and found it.
He had gone to work, trapped in a set of plain black clothes that his curves managed to make seem tailored and graceful, and I was left to find a means of acting upon my lubricious desires.
I remembered a similar case years before, that of a tall, handsome boy I had come to know during the summer. For three weeks I had watched him and wanted him, in spite of my wants being imperfectly formed from lack of experience. For one night, at the end of that period, we had shared a room. I had taken advantage of the opportunity. While he slept, I had removed a pair of his tight grey boxer briefs from his duffel bag. In the privacy of our shared bathroom, I had stripped myself and put them on, allowing the touch of the cloth that had grasped his skin to arouse me. I had brought myself to orgasm while wearing them, then slipped them back into his bag without removing all traces of my fun. He never knew what had happened, but from then on, he unknowingly carried a memento of my lust for him until those underwear wore out.
I would readily have done the same for this boy, if a pair of his small, skintight trunks had been handy. As it turned out, they were not. But there was something better, more unusual, more naughty. A pair of brown leather flip flops that he habitually wore when not working. I could use them as a proxy, and a highly suitable one at that, since they touched his bare skin so often. The idea appealed to me immediately. Casting a last glance around to ensure I was alone, out of habit, I stepped out of my Havaianas and stripped off my shorts and miniscule briefs. Then I reached down and picked up his temporarily abandoned flip flops.
My lips explored the sole of each sandal, tasting the faint traces of salt his shapely feet had left there. Combined with the distinctive scent of the leather itself, it gave a unique, distinctively boyish flavor, not unpleasant at all. In no hurry, I kissed the instep of each of his flip flops and envied them as I did so for the close contact they regularly enjoyed with his feet. My tongue traced the outlines his toes had made in the soft leather. They were beautiful lines, the unadorned impressions of a pair of perfectly formed teen feet. I allowed myself to wet the area thoroughly. I was, after all, making love to his feet indirectly, and it would not do to be less than lavish for a boy so sensual as this one.
I reached up and rubbed one of my nipples with the inside of one of the flip flops. It erected instantly. I imagined the boy to whom this erotically shaped piece of leather belonged lying flat on his back with his legs in the air, beckoning me towards his buttocks and the space between them, while diddling my nipple with his toes in order to make me hotter for him. I visualized taking those same toes in my mouth as I pushed forward, thereby allowing him to enter me, in a way, at the same moment I entered him. They would have been so round, so soft, so stimulating.
My hardened member left clear trails of wetness all over the inside of both flip flops. I had abandoned my oral efforts, my savoring of the areas that had been pressed so tightly against one of the most sexual parts of his body. Since I could not have him, I would have something that was often in intimate contact with him. Unknowingly, he would carry my ejaculation with him as surely as if I had allowed his tender soles to elicit it directly from my boyhood or if he had extracted it from me with his practiced lips. Placing his sandals together, I made a sleeve of them in which I could imprison part of myself, for the moment and then for longer. I penetrated them. I thrust into them. I used them as a substitute for the soles and the lips and the arse I could not have.
The pressure on my shaft, the taste that still lingered on my tongue, the erotic images crowding my brain--and above all, the secrecy and subversiveness of what I was doing--brought me to the brink of orgasm almost immediately. I paused, panting, wanting to prolong the experience. I took a sandal in each hand. Very gently, I grasped my erection between them, using only their tips, where his toes had rested. Instead of continuing to thrust, I used the two flip flops to stroke myself, providing only a surface sensation. The faint touch made me wild with lust and need. It took many extra strokes to bring me to the point of explosion, but that was my intention. The orgasm delayed was what I sought, so that it would be more full, more powerful, more pleasurable to me and more of a tribute to the boy whose blatant displaying of his lovely body had provoked it.
And when the orgasm came, my seed flowed down over the twitching head of my shaft and onto the soles of his flip flops without hesitation. It ran in rivulets from the toes to the heels as I held them up after my release had finished in order that gravity might distribute my ejaculation more evenly. There was a great deal of it. The leather of the soles, already dark from routine exposure to his tender skin, was nonetheless visibly stained. I considered this. I would have to eliminate the more obvious traces of my use, or abuse, of his sandals.
So my mouth touched their soles again, licking up my own sperm, now mingled with his scent. The closest he and I would ever come to a fluid union. But of course I could not remove it all and would not want to. The next time he groomed himself carefully, donned one of his tightest shirts, and slipped his bare feet into his flip flops before going out, the remnants of my saliva and my semen would rub off generously on his toes and arches and heels. The next time he lifted his legs to admit another boy to his body, traces of my adventure would still remain on his upraised, exposed soles.
In a way, I had had, and would have, him for far longer than most others ever would.
Comments and feedback welcomed at peterderuthyn@gmail.com! Also look out for my upcoming collection "Toyboys and Other Stories".