by Josan
Walter looked in on his way to the kitchen. "Want anything?"
"A beer would be nice." Alex kept his eyes on the screen. Walter
watched a bit. Since Alex had moved in, he'd learned to
follow the game: not that he enjoyed it anywhere as near as he did
football, but he could appreciate some of the finer
points.
In the kitchen, he pulled two beers from the fridge: a pilsner for
himself, a lager for Alex, opened them, strolled back into
the living room. He handed Alex his, got an absent-minded "Thanks" and
stayed to watch some of the action. He pushed
Alex's feet to clear seating space, smiling when one of the Italian
players threw himself to the ground in a dramatic display
of pain in order to gain a bit of time for his team.
When he'd first started watching soccer with Alex, Walter kept on
expecting to see a stretcher come out onto the field to
carry off the writhing player who obviously had, at least, a broken leg.
It had surprised him that, after the time allotted for
injury, the player would dramatically rise to his feet, stumble about
for a couple of steps then take off after a ball like
nothing had happened.
Now he just enjoyed those moments for the Oscar-winning performances
they were. To him, football was serious: soccer
was play. He enjoyed the comedy of it.
Alex had pulled up his feet when he'd sat down. Now they were resting
against his thigh, pushing along with the action on
the screen. Walter endured this for a bit, then grabbed the most
offending foot—the outer one—by the ankle and placed
it on top of his thigh. He held it there. Alex turned from looking at
the tv to him. Grinned his apology and went back to
his beer and the game.
Walter took a couple of swallows of his beer, smiled down at the foot
still participating in the game.
Alex was wearing thick white terry socks. He never wore shoes indoors
and hated even slightly greyed socks. He would
wear t-shirts till you could see through them, jeans until they were
white, shirts till the cuffs and collars were frayed, but
shorts and socks were forever being replaced with new ones. These were
brand new: they still had that never-washed
sheen to them.
Walter looked at Alex, oblivious to all but the game. He looked back
down at the foot on his lap. He bit his lower lip and
smiled at the foot.
He moved his grip on the ankle a little bit higher so he could roll
the sock off. Slowly. So as not to distract Alex.
It was a little like a strip-tease. The narrow lower leg. The ankle
with the protruding bones. The bony heel. The high arch.
The long, narrow toes.
Walter checked: Alex was still with the game.
With the index finger of his free hand, Walter drew a line from above
the ankle down over the top of the foot to the
middle toe.
The foot gave a little shake.
The finger went back to the ankle, skimmed over the skin, linking the
two ankle bones with figure eights.
The ankle wriggled.
The hand holding the leg moved down to the ankle, its thumb caressing
the bone under it. Gently. Back and forth.
Alex looked at Walter. Walter was watching the game. A loud cheer
called Alex back.
The finger began stroking the heel, gradually moving out to sketch
the arch.
The foot twisted a bit, trying to pull away.
The finger slipped back and forth down the arch to the sole.
The foot tugged.
The hand held firm.
Alex's other foot pushed against Walter's hip. When the hand did not
release the naked foot, it shoved harder. Walter
shifted his body a bit, waited for the foot to protest again, caught it
between the seat and his body, settled so that it was
now immobile.
Walter returned Alex's glare with an innocent look. Pointedly he
turned his gaze to the tv. The captured foot wiggled, or
tried to. Walter shifted his weight just enough to convince it that
wasn't a smart move.
The foot on his lap wriggled, but the hand holding it merely
tightened its hold and after a moment or two, the foot gave up.
The foot twitched.
The finger shaped the outline of the foot. Dragged along the callused
outer rim, calluses that matched those on the outer
edge of Alex's hand. It paid particular attention to each toe, tracing
the shape with just the barest touch. Carefully drew the
sensitive arch.
There was screaming from the tv: some spectacular foul that got even
Walter's attention. The foot tried to take advantage
of that. Alex yanked. The foot slipped out of Walter's grip, but not
enough.
The hand clamped down, yanked back hard in its direction and Alex
slipped to the small of his back.
This time the finger was ruthless. With the tip of its nail, it
stroked the underside of the foot, where it was most ticklish.
The leg tried hard to pull it away from the finger's relentless
torture. To no avail. The hand just gripped tighter, pulled the
leg straight. And the one tormenting finger became five.
Alex cursed, shoved his body down the couch until his knee threatened
Walter's jaw.
Walter pulled his chin back just in time. Then he let his upper body
fall onto the legs, separating them. One was
imprisoned between his body and the back if the couch; the other, knee
bent, at an angle hanging over the edge of the seat.
Alex finally got the message and lay still. Waiting.
A tongue gently caressed the teeth marks on the skin, moved to the
part of the arch it could reach.
Alex wriggled.
Walter could feel another reaction beneath his shoulder blade. The
pads of his fingers gently caressed the undersole in
short, light strokes from heel to toes.
The toes wiggled.
The foot twitched.
The cock hardened.
Alex growled.
Walter smiled.
lex threw himself on the couch, made himself comfortable, long legs
taking up most of the seating area. He grabbed the
remote, surfed until he found what he was looking for: the soccer game
between Italy and Germany. Settled in to enjoy.
The finger began making tiny circular movements in the dip where the
ankle became the foot. Then it moved onto the top
of the foot, following the line of bone to each toe, and back again to
the dip.
The foot was, for all of Alex's attempts, still firmly clasped in the
hand. Shoulder pushing back on Alex's groin, Walter
brought the foot to his chest, and then with just a bit more effort to
his mouth. He bit on the heel, harder the more Alex
pushed against his shoulder.
