Yvan, also known as member QueerYvan, is a historian of sexuality. In an ongoing series, he shares some of his favourite fetish encounters (in a whole lot of detail), as well as occasionally fill us in on the history of kink:
It is a warm evening after a hot day. I walk to his hotel through the streets of Marseille, a new city to me. My favourite street so far is rue de Coq, and the sun is nearly setting, so the light is golden and everyone glows. The hottest guys in the street are framed in a doorway. They look at me because I am new, and I enjoy the fact that they do not know who I am yet. No men know me here yet; he will be the first.
I arrive; he undresses. I tell him to kneel in front of me, and to close his eyes. I like looking at his face without him watching me. I don't know him yet. I sit on the bed in front of him. I do nothing for a moment, waiting for him to start to struggle in his isolation. I make no sounds. His breath stops in anticipation. That's when I begin.
-- Open your mouth, I say. Put out your tongue.
I can see into his throat, pink, wet. I put my fingers inside, pushing back along his tongue, feeling inside his cheeks, making his saliva flow so I can finger fuck his throat. When my hand is wet, I take it out and rub it over his face, his eyes still closed. I spit, and smear that over him, too.
I move behind him, and take a length of string from my pocket. I grab his balls and tie them up until the saggy skin is tight and he is exposed and vulnerable. I slap them, and he groans. I do it again. I pull on his scrotum and punch it. He grunts and falls forward, slightly.
-- Stay still, I say.
I squeeze him tightly, seeing him go intensely purple, and then I hit them again. I tell him how I want to torture his big, heavy balls. I ignore his cock, which is leaking and smells aroused. I punch him twice quickly in his bound-up testicles and then stand. I push his balls tight against his body with my foot, and then kick. I love the sound he makes when my hard leather hits his flesh. I kick him again and again, seeing what he can take, staying just below his threshold, letting him get used to it before kicking harder. When he falls forward on his front, I stamp my foot down and stand on his cock, crushing it into the floor until he calls out to stop. He dick looks deflated and sore. Our eyes lock for a moment. I slap his face and tell him to stay focused. He nods. I pull him up to his knees, legs spread, balls tied up, and I kick him again, squashing his exposed genitals hard into his body and making him collapse again in front of me.
I push his face to the floor, close to my boots. He lies there, panting. He remembers to close his eyes.
-- Open your eyes again, I say.
He stares directly in front, his pupils adjusting to the light. I hear him inhale deeply, smelling the warm leather mixed with the scents of the streets and my feet. I push his right cheek against the floor with my sole, walking on his face.
-- Clean them, I say.
Slavishly he licks the leather. His tongue wide, cleaning the street from me. He opens to take in as much as he can. The corners of his mouth stretch around the rubber lines of my sole. He is slobbering and rubbing his face in the spit, degrading himself as I watch. I like seeing this crazed devotion to the filth I've walked through in the Marseillaise streets. Next time, I think to myself, I'll piss on my feet near the bins outside the hotel where we meet and then tell him to lick them clean.
-- Take off my boots, I say.
He unties my yellow laces, lingering too long so I flick my foot into his face and ask him if this is for him or me. He takes off one boot, then the other, and starts to pull off my socks. I slap his face.
-- Did I say socks or boots? -- Boots, Yvan.
I take off my own socks, put them in my boots and throw them to the corner of the room.
-- I was going to let you sniff them. I'm sure you'd have liked that, right?
-- Lick them, I say.
I give him my foot. I have the best foot tattoos that I have seen. The work by Delphine Noiztoy is exceptional. A strip of asaha pattern fading out from a black line that traverses my whole body, finishing as dots on my toes, and on the other foot an exquisite dotwork iris. Her work is so fine it makes my long, hairy feet look delicate. My tattoos are an unfinished project; when I can afford to have more of her work my feet will be integrated with a brushstroke across them both. It is a treat for anyone to see such art up close, but especially a grovelling slave like this one.
My feet are sensitive. My skin is too rough from the hard water in the mountains, but my feet are strong from half a life of yoga. He held one to his face and sucked my longest toes in like a cock. I watch him drift into the zone where he will be serving me and tasting me and being my foot slut. We fall into a rhythm with my foot fucking his face, pushing my toes far back into his throat. He gags.
-- Take it, I say.
He breathes in, closes his eyes, and I push as far back into his mouth as I can.
-- I'm feeling for the part of your tongue where the texture changes into your throat, I say, bending my big toe to reach deeper into his gullet. When he gags I can feel his mouth contract around my foot and he floods with saliva. I wonder to myself what it would look like to make him vomit like this.
I lie back on the bed. I'm wearing leather chaps. I pull my jockstrap down and get out my cock and balls to play with. I love getting myself hard when someone is watching, squeezing and gripping my cock until I am rigid and starting to want pleasure.
-- spit in my hand, I say.
I tell him to spit again, until there is enough saliva to masturbate with, and then push my foot back into his open mouth.
I lay back and start to wank. I close my eyes and tease myself. I focus on my cock, but when it starts to feel too good, I think about the way his tongue feels between my toes.
He is doing a fantastic job. I sit up and watch in the mirror as he fellates my foot. My cock is heavy in my hand. My veins are swollen. I can see precum glistening and dribbling down the tight purple skin. I edge myself like this forever.
I lie back and close my eyes and get myself off while he sucks and licks my toes. He's obsessed with them, breathing in their scent, making small sounds of excitement as he performs his task. It feels divine. My cock is thick and throbbing in my fingers. I watch as the spunk starts to spurt out of me in creamy wads, landing warm in my thick hairs. I pull my foot from his mouth and we both watch as my orgasm finishes leaking from me. The room smells like warm spunk. I hold out my hand.
-- Lick this off, I say.
He moves next to me and runs his tongue through the sticky mess in the hairs of my stomach. I push his face into it, smearing it into him. When he is finished, I tell him to clean up my cock.
As I get up to get dressed, I notice a copy of Jean Genet's Journal du voleur on the table, open at the description of Armand undressing: "Quand il allait se coucher, l'arrachant de passants de pantalon, Armand faisait claquer sa ceinture de cuir. Elle cravachait une victime invisible, une forme de chair transparente. L'air saignant." I hand him the book, and tell him to read. Kneeling on the floor, my spunk drying on his face, he reads in a strong voice that lets Genet's french sound poetic, although just beyond my comprehension. I thread my belt back through the loops of my jeans.
I stand when he finishes the passage, taking the book with me, leaving him kneeling at the end of the bed where he'd served me.