Toes of Cruelty

Toes of Cruelty (revised)

By hughgee

So I started seeing this girl and it turned out she had the ugliest toes on the face of the earth, right. Seriously, they were “man toes.” By that I mean they were all knobbly-knuckled and kind of long and spindly. They were hideous. I probably never would have dated her in the first place, had I gotten a look at those things earlier. Ugh…

I tell you, they were bad. You ever see a guy’s toes when he’s got his second toe in from his big toe extending out way longer than his big toe? Well, she had that. Awful. Just nasty. They didn't fit on her, either. Everything else on her was so demure, so earthy, so smooth and soft.

So I started teasing her about it one time we were out at this semi-fancy restaurant. Little did she know it was my “precursor” to ending things with her. Yeah, I started teasing her, telling her, jokingly, how “manly” her toes were. Well, she got this serious look on her face, like she’d been all through this before. I was kind of taken aback by her reaction: she didn’t get upset or anything; she just said something about how her toes “were good for some things I’d never dreamed of before.”

I said, “Yeah, right. Whatever.”

Then I felt her foot up in my crotch, underneath the table. She was sitting opposite me in this one 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, sonuvagun if she didn’t manage 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?” I cautiously asked her. 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 nearly gasped as I felt one of those cold, ugly toes touch my naked belly skin as it hooked over the elastic of my underwear and yank downward. A second later I DID gasp out loud as I felt her whole cold other foot protrude downward into my drawers—and sonuvagun, 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. ‘Cause 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 tittered over her fingers hiding her face. “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 cold 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.

Man, they were cold. I kept thinking that, reminding myself how ugly the feet that were touching me were. I did that so as to force myself not to get hard. It only was partially successful, seeing as how if there was any bubble gum underneath these tables, the end of my Johnson would’ve been rubbing up against it right now. 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 ungodly 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.

“Ooo—sorry. A bit too hard,” she apologized. Seemed so damn sincere about it, too.

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, ‘cause I was a bit out of it, mind you—was rubbing two of those ugly toes of hers together, chirping-legged-cricket style. Must’ve been her big toe and that big, long ugly sucker 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 rub, 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, to mean what was occurring under the table.

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….tooooes….”

Giggly-giggle, snicker-at-me city.

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. She started asking me what was it I was saying about her toes.

“N-n-nothing,” I said, softly. I was mesmerized by what she was covertly doing to me still.

“You said they were ugly,” she snickered.

I wanted to answer. I wanted to. But what could I say? She had me. I’d said it. Should I lie? It might get me in more trouble. Should I be honest? No. No. Anything I said could be used against me. And from what pressure I’d initially felt, the last thing I wanted—the last thing I wanted on the face of the earth was to feel that pressure around the tether to my balls again. But my lack of answer, my silence, turned out to be worst of all.

Pressure. Ungodly, cruel, cruel, CRUUUEL pressure!

“Ugly?” she sniffed. “You think they’re ugly?”

“N-n-n” I tried to get out. I was trying to say “No” but it wouldn’t even come out.

Those toes—those bony, knobbly knuckles. They were doing a number on me, killing me, hammering bone to knuckly bone into the nerve tethering me to my left ball. Her hard, unyielding feminine toe knuckles against my soft, manly, sensitive nerve endings.

"Could pretty toes do 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, acquiescencing to her power, her knobbly, knuckly-toed 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 man-size flip flops flapping on the floor. Never have I experienced a break up as rough as that one. Never.

And you're talking to a guy who's been divorced.