syracel
04-10-2007, 02:21 AM
Toes of Cruelty by Hugh (revised by Syracel)
I felt her foot up in my crotch, underneath the table. She was sitting opposite me in the booth. I shuddered but she told me “sit still” and then I felt both feet. I felt her toes working away at my fly. She scrunched down in her seat—while the waitress was away of course—and was really concentrating. After only about 30 seconds or so, she managed to undo the button of my pants; another 30 seconds or so of her biting her lip and scrunching down into her seat and she managed to pull my fly down—all with her
toes, mind you. “Whoa, how’d you do that?” By this time I was nervous—this was a public place, remember. I started fidgeting with things around me—the salt shaker, the jelly packets and what not. I figured this was her big trick, but she assured me this was nothing. Then suddenly I felt one of her toes touch my naked belly skin as it hooked over the elastic of my underwear and yank downward. A second later I gasped out loud as I felt her whole other foot protrude downward into my drawers—and in one deft motion it kind of “scooped” out my balls so that they hung out over the elastic of my underwear as she let go with the other foot. For a moment she let her feet down again, leaving me to hang out all over the place, suspended and jutting upward and outward by the constricting elastic. She sat up and giggled into her fingers a second. I must have been blushing like a bastard. I’m sure I was. I was uneasy as hell. I tell you, I was glad it was a kind of a fancy place—a place that had tablecloths. ‘Because I don’t think a lack of a tablecloth would have stopped this brassy gal, had we been at, say, a McDonald’s or something. No, subsequent events were to show me this much and more. I admitted, sheepishly, that “Okay, I give it to you. Nice trick.” “No, silly,” she grinned. “That’s not it.” It looked like she knew something I didn’t. I didn’t know whether to be turned on as all hell or to be scared shitless. When I saw her scrunch back down and felt her feet up in me again, well, scared shitless it was. I saw the waitress give us a glance but then go over to another table. She was still tittering, ever more so fidgeting away down in her seat, and man she was really furrow-browed concentrating over whatever she was doing with her feet. And what she was doing with her feet was taking place at the base of my protruding balls: she had those toes of hers poking and prodding upwards and into my sack, lifting them up, stretching them out, then---WHAM! I have never felt such pressure exerted before on any part of my body. And you’re talking to a guy who’s done all the usual: I’ve hit my thumb with a hammer, I’ve dropped a 10-lb. plate on my foot at the gym, I’ve done all that stuff. But when this gal tightened the noose around one of my balls with her toes, I thought I was going to die. I exhaled mightily and fearfully…and helplessly. I felt the pressure ease, and then, heaven. I can’t explain it, but I’ve gone this far, so I reckon I better try. What I think she was doing—what I THINK she was doing, ‘because I was a bit out of it, mind you—was rubbing two of those toes of hers together, chirping-legged-cricket style. It must have been her big toe and the one next to it. Oh my, oh my. She had a toe-vice grip on my left nut, right behind where it attaches to the nerve or whatever, and she was rubbing, rub, rubbing away. I began to moan aloud and to my great consternation—I couldn’t control it. She giggled. The bitch was doing a lot of giggling. "I learned it in summer camp," she whispered, dipping her head, a splash of her hair to the side. Right about when the waitress came over finally, she eased up a bit when she ordered herself the most expensive steak in the place. Then the waitress turns to me. But the bitch across the table, she goes and increases her pinch-pressure, rub, rub, rubbing intensified rubbing like all get out, it felt like, and all I could get out, all I could say, well, moan, really, was, “Toes…..” The waitress all looking at me like I was nuts. “He needs a little more time to think about it,” my gal tormentor told the waitress, who was more than a little nonplussed. I still don’t know if she had a clue what was going on under the table but it causes me more than a little chagrin to think that maybe she did. When we were alone again, the gal got a glint of ire in her eyes. I was mesmerized by what she was covertly doing to me still. Her hard, unyielding feminine toe knuckles against my soft, manly, sensitive nerve endings. "You like this?" she hissed. I never stood a chance. I raised my hands, I splayed my fingers, I surrendered and I choked out words of surrender to her power. She let go and my face fell into the table, cheek first on the cold table top. There I was panting for breath. I saw her sideways, the motioning of her jiggling butt cheeks as she walked away, on out of the restaurant, her flip flops flapping on the floor.
I felt her foot up in my crotch, underneath the table. She was sitting opposite me in the booth. I shuddered but she told me “sit still” and then I felt both feet. I felt her toes working away at my fly. She scrunched down in her seat—while the waitress was away of course—and was really concentrating. After only about 30 seconds or so, she managed to undo the button of my pants; another 30 seconds or so of her biting her lip and scrunching down into her seat and she managed to pull my fly down—all with her
toes, mind you. “Whoa, how’d you do that?” By this time I was nervous—this was a public place, remember. I started fidgeting with things around me—the salt shaker, the jelly packets and what not. I figured this was her big trick, but she assured me this was nothing. Then suddenly I felt one of her toes touch my naked belly skin as it hooked over the elastic of my underwear and yank downward. A second later I gasped out loud as I felt her whole other foot protrude downward into my drawers—and in one deft motion it kind of “scooped” out my balls so that they hung out over the elastic of my underwear as she let go with the other foot. For a moment she let her feet down again, leaving me to hang out all over the place, suspended and jutting upward and outward by the constricting elastic. She sat up and giggled into her fingers a second. I must have been blushing like a bastard. I’m sure I was. I was uneasy as hell. I tell you, I was glad it was a kind of a fancy place—a place that had tablecloths. ‘Because I don’t think a lack of a tablecloth would have stopped this brassy gal, had we been at, say, a McDonald’s or something. No, subsequent events were to show me this much and more. I admitted, sheepishly, that “Okay, I give it to you. Nice trick.” “No, silly,” she grinned. “That’s not it.” It looked like she knew something I didn’t. I didn’t know whether to be turned on as all hell or to be scared shitless. When I saw her scrunch back down and felt her feet up in me again, well, scared shitless it was. I saw the waitress give us a glance but then go over to another table. She was still tittering, ever more so fidgeting away down in her seat, and man she was really furrow-browed concentrating over whatever she was doing with her feet. And what she was doing with her feet was taking place at the base of my protruding balls: she had those toes of hers poking and prodding upwards and into my sack, lifting them up, stretching them out, then---WHAM! I have never felt such pressure exerted before on any part of my body. And you’re talking to a guy who’s done all the usual: I’ve hit my thumb with a hammer, I’ve dropped a 10-lb. plate on my foot at the gym, I’ve done all that stuff. But when this gal tightened the noose around one of my balls with her toes, I thought I was going to die. I exhaled mightily and fearfully…and helplessly. I felt the pressure ease, and then, heaven. I can’t explain it, but I’ve gone this far, so I reckon I better try. What I think she was doing—what I THINK she was doing, ‘because I was a bit out of it, mind you—was rubbing two of those toes of hers together, chirping-legged-cricket style. It must have been her big toe and the one next to it. Oh my, oh my. She had a toe-vice grip on my left nut, right behind where it attaches to the nerve or whatever, and she was rubbing, rub, rubbing away. I began to moan aloud and to my great consternation—I couldn’t control it. She giggled. The bitch was doing a lot of giggling. "I learned it in summer camp," she whispered, dipping her head, a splash of her hair to the side. Right about when the waitress came over finally, she eased up a bit when she ordered herself the most expensive steak in the place. Then the waitress turns to me. But the bitch across the table, she goes and increases her pinch-pressure, rub, rub, rubbing intensified rubbing like all get out, it felt like, and all I could get out, all I could say, well, moan, really, was, “Toes…..” The waitress all looking at me like I was nuts. “He needs a little more time to think about it,” my gal tormentor told the waitress, who was more than a little nonplussed. I still don’t know if she had a clue what was going on under the table but it causes me more than a little chagrin to think that maybe she did. When we were alone again, the gal got a glint of ire in her eyes. I was mesmerized by what she was covertly doing to me still. Her hard, unyielding feminine toe knuckles against my soft, manly, sensitive nerve endings. "You like this?" she hissed. I never stood a chance. I raised my hands, I splayed my fingers, I surrendered and I choked out words of surrender to her power. She let go and my face fell into the table, cheek first on the cold table top. There I was panting for breath. I saw her sideways, the motioning of her jiggling butt cheeks as she walked away, on out of the restaurant, her flip flops flapping on the floor.