The club was loud, the lights low and sticky-hot, and the tab was worse than anything the femboy had expected. He sat at the bar in a tight crop top, short shorts, and flip flops, legs crossed, already a little unsteady from the drinks he had ordered without counting.
When the bartender finally slid the bill across the sticky wood, the number made his stomach drop.
“You’re serious?” he asked, voice higher than he meant it to be.
“Dead serious. Pay up or we work something out. Manager’s waiting.”
He followed the man down a narrow hallway past the restrooms into a back room that smelled of leather, disinfectant, and old sweat. A padded bench sat facing one wall, the vinyl cool under his palms when he touched it. In front of it, a horizontal slot had been cut into the partition—wide enough for a pair of feet, nothing more. Soft black cuffs waited at the end of the bench, along with a wider strap for the thighs and another across the chest. The air on the other side of the wall felt cooler, carrying the faint scent of cologne and something musky.
“You can’t be serious,” the femboy said, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Feet? Really?”
The manager didn’t smile. “You racked up a tab you can’t cover. You either work it off the way we say, or we call someone who collects differently. Your choice.”
He hesitated, cheeks burning. Pride and panic fought for a second. Then he nodded once, stiffly.
They made him strip down to just the crop top. His shorts, underwear, and flip flops were taken; the air kissed the bare skin of his ass and the soft insides of his thighs.
He was guided onto the bench on his back, shoulders pressed into the vinyl, hips slightly elevated by a firm wedge so his bare feet could slide cleanly through the slot. The ankle cuffs clicked shut with a soft metallic sound, then the thigh strap pulled snug, pressing into the soft flesh just above his knees. A wider strap crossed his chest, pinning him firmly.
His feet slid through the opening until the soft arches and smooth soles were fully presented on the other side—soles facing outward into the new room, toes slightly pointed, the soft undersides offered like an invitation.
Cooler air touched skin that rarely saw this kind of attention—sensitive, slightly damp from the walk, the pads of his feet tingling at the sudden exposure. He could feel every shift of air against them.
“Don’t move,” the manager said from the other side of the wall. “People pay for time. You stay quiet unless spoken to. Work the tab down. And keep those soles facing each other like an invitation. Tease them if you know what’s good for you.”
The first person entered the small booth on the other side. Footsteps on concrete. A low chuckle. The air shifted; a faint scent of skin and something warm drifted through the slot.
“Fresh ones,” a voice said. Rough hands took both feet at once. The palms were warm, dry at first, then slightly damp as the thumbs pressed hard into the soft centers of the soles.
The pressure sank deep, spreading heat through the arches. “Nice and smooth. No polish. Perfect. Look at how he’s holding them… pointing those soft little soles right at me.”
The femboy jerked against the restraints. The cuffs bit gently into his ankles. He tried to pull his feet back, but the straps held. “Hey—don’t—ah—get your hands off—”
A tongue dragged slowly from heel to toes on the right foot—hot, wet, slightly rough. Saliva cooled instantly in the air, leaving a shiny trail that made the skin prickle. Fingers dug into the left arch at the same time, kneading the soft flesh until it yielded. Then the fingers switched to light, rapid strokes across the most sensitive part of the sole—tickling. The femboy’s toes curled hard and he let out a sharp, involuntary laugh that turned into a gasp.
“Stop that—don’t tickle—ah—fuck—those are sensitive, asshole—”
The stranger only laughed and licked again, slower, mapping every line of the sole while the other hand kept up the light, maddening tickles. The tongue flattened, broad and insistent, pushing into the softest part of the arch. “You hate it? Good. Makes it better.” A soft suck on the big toe—warm, wet pressure sealing around the digit—then the tongue pushed between the toes, slick and deliberate.
The femboy’s toes flexed involuntarily. His breath hitched. A drop of saliva slid down the side of his foot and cooled against the edge of the slot. The tickling fingers never stopped, dancing over the soft pads until his legs trembled.
“Fuck—quit it—that’s too much—you’re not supposed to—ah—”
The person spent the full paid time working both soles with tongue, lips, firm strokes of the thumbs, and sudden bursts of tickling that made the femboy thrash against the chest strap. Then the stranger pressed both soles together, creating a lovely tunnel of soft wrinkles, and slid a hard cock between them. The thick heat pushed slowly at first, then harder—foot-fucking the pressed soles with long, deliberate thrusts. The friction was slick with spit, the pressure deep. The femboy’s eyes widened.
“Wait—what are you—ah—don’t put that between them—fuck—”
“Shut up and take it,” the voice growled, thrusting faster. The wet sounds of cock sliding between soft soles filled the small space. When the timer buzzed, the booth emptied. The femboy’s soles were left damp, sensitive, and faintly sticky. The cooling saliva and residual heat made every slight movement of air feel like another touch. His skin felt tighter, more awake. His cock was already half-hard against his stomach.
The next one came in almost immediately. Different hands—larger, rougher, the palms calloused. They gripped the ankles through the slot and forced the feet to flex, showing the soft undersides more clearly. The stretch pulled at the tendons in his calves. The femboy, remembering the manager’s words, turned his soles fully inward, presenting them more deliberately even as his face burned.
“Look at these,” the new voice murmured. “He’s offering them. Pretty little soles just waiting.” A slow, open-mouthed kiss landed on the side arch left foot. Hot breath first, then the full heat of the mouth, lips sealing, tongue pressing flat. Then teeth grazed the tender skin just enough to make the femboy gasp—sharp, bright points of sensation against the softness. Fingers began light, rapid tickling on the right sole at the same time.
“Don’t bite—don’t tickle—ah—fuck—you like how soft they are, don’t you?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, half defiance, half something sharper. “Go on then. Lick them properly if you’re gonna be a creep about it.”
“Quiet,” the voice ordered, and the mouth returned, sucking hard on the arch while the tickling fingers never stopped. The suction pulled at the soft flesh; the fingers found the exact spot where the arch was most sensitive and danced over it until the femboy’s laughter turned high and breathless. Then the stranger pressed the soles together again and shoved a hard cock between them, fucking the soft channel with deep, wet thrusts. The femboy’s hips shifted against the wedge despite himself. His cock was fully hard now, the head brushing his own stomach with every small movement.
“I don’t like this,” he said, but the words came out softer than before—and then, quieter still, almost taunting, “you’re still fucking them like you can’t get enough. How’s that soft little sole-pussy feel around your cock?”
“You say you don’t like this but your feet say otherwise. They’re getting warmer. And look how you’re pointing those soles at me… teasing.” A long lick from heel to the ball of the foot, then another, followed by another burst of merciless tickling. The stranger spent long minutes just tasting, pressing, tickling, and foot-fucking every soft inch. The wetness built; saliva and pre cum mixed. When he finally left, the soles were flushed and shiny, the skin sensitive enough that the next breath of air felt like a caress.
More people came. Some were gentle at first, tracing the lines of the soles with fingertips before kissing them reverently—then switching to light, cruel tickles that made the femboy thrash and laugh helplessly. Others were rougher—pinching the soft pads until the flesh reddened, dragging nails lightly enough to raise faint pink lines, then pressing the soles together and fucking between them with hard, steady thrusts. One pressed both soles together and licked up the seam between them while murmuring filthy praise, then slid in and fucked the soft channel while the other hand tickled the exposed toes. Another sucked each toe in turn, slow and wet, while a free hand stroked and tickled the arches in firm, rhythmic circles. The wet sounds of foot-fucking mixed with the distant bass of the club—soft, intimate, constant.
The femboy’s protests grew quieter, replaced by sharper, more deliberate words. His breathing grew heavier. Every new tongue or hand or cock made his toes curl and his thighs tense against the strap. He kept his soles facing inward, presenting them, even when the tickling made him want to pull away.
“Come on then,” he murmured to one particularly thorough visitor, voice low and teasing even as he gasped. “You paid for them. Don’t just stare. Lick right in the middle… yeah, there. Harder. Tickle the toes if you want—I dare you. Make me feel it.”
The vinyl under his back was no longer cool; it had warmed with his body heat. Sweat gathered at the small of his back and the hollow of his throat. His cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking.
“Still hate it?” one voice asked after a particularly long session of tickling both soles until the femboy was gasping and laughing, then pressing them together and fucking between them with deep, wet strokes that left both soles glistening.
“…Yes,” the femboy whispered, but his voice cracked—and then he added, softer, almost inviting, “But you’re still sliding that thick cock between them like they’re made for it. Feel how soft they are? How warm? Keep going. Fuck them harder. Tickle them while you do it. I can take it.”
The stranger chuckled and dragged a thumb firmly up the center of the sole before switching back to tickling. “Liar. I bet you’re leaking. And you’re still pointing those soft soles right at me like you want it.”
“Maybe I do,” the femboy shot back, toes curling, soles angled more deliberately inward. “Maybe I want you to ruin them. So stop talking and use them.” He said partially confused at the embarrassing line but somewhat liberated in finally saying it.
A new person entered. This one didn’t speak at first. Just warm hands cradling both feet, thumbs working deep into the arches with practiced pressure. The heat of the palms soaked in. Then a slow, wet mouth closed over the ball of the right foot, tongue pressing hard, while the left was stroked and tickled in long, firm sweeps. The dual sensation made the femboy’s hips roll helplessly against the wedge. His cock dragged against his own stomach; a small, involuntary sound escaped him. Then the stranger pressed the soles together and pushed in, fucking the soft channel with long, deliberate thrusts while the free hand kept tickling the toes.
“Fuck… that feels—yeah, just like that. Deeper. You like how tight they get when you press them together? Keep fucking them. Tickle harder—ah—don’t stop—it feels…” He hesitated
“Good?” the voice finished for him, amused. “Say it.”
He stayed silent only a second longer, face burning, then let the words out with a breathless little laugh. “It feels good. Your mouth… your cock… the tickling… all of it feels good on my feet. Don’t stop. I want more. Tease them. Ruin them. They’re right here for you.”
“Louder.”
“It feels good,” he said, voice shaking but clearer now, almost taunting. “Okay? Your mouth feels good on my feet. Your cock feels even better sliding between them. Tickle them more. Fuck them deeper. I know you want to. Look how soft and warm they are… pointed right at you. Come on. Use them.”
The stranger rewarded him with a deeper thrust—thick heat sliding between soft, spit-slick soles—then a soft bite to the arch that made him moan outright, followed by another burst of merciless tickling. The sound surprised him. Time stretched. The wet heat, the firm pressure, the ticklish torment, the complete helplessness of his feet being used however the stranger wanted—it all sank into him. When the booth finally emptied again, the femboy’s soles were hypersensitive, every brush of air making him shiver. His breathing was uneven. His cock ached, neglected and leaking against his stomach.
The next few visitors found him quieter at first, then far more vocal. He still tensed at the first touch, still muttered half-hearted complaints, but his feet pushed back into the hands and mouths more often than they tried to pull away. He kept his soles facing inward, presenting them deliberately now, toes slightly curled in invitation even as the tickling made him writhe.
“Come closer,” he murmured to one, voice low and teasing. “Don’t just look. Those soles are waiting for you. Soft. Warm. A little wet already. Lick them. Tickle them. Fuck them if you want. I won’t stop you.”
One person spent the entire session just kissing every inch of both soles slowly, over and over—soft lips, warm breath, the occasional drag of a tongue—then switching to light, relentless tickles until the femboy was gasping and laughing and begging without meaning to.
Another used only the flats of their hands at first, rubbing in firm, rhythmic strokes, then pressed the soles together and fucked between them until the femboy’s toes curled hard and his thighs trembled against the strap. The friction built heat under the skin; the pressure made his arches throb in a way that traveled straight to his cock.
“Harder,” he whispered to the next one, already breathless. “Please—right there—fuck, yes—tickle them more—use my feet—slide that cock between them again—feel how soft they get for you—”
“Thought you hated this,” the voice on the other side teased, never stopping the wet attention or the thrusting. Saliva and precome mixed; the tongue flattened and dragged, then pointed and flicked while the cock kept sliding between the soft channel.
“I did,” the femboy admitted, hips shifting restlessly. The wedge forced his ass up slightly; every movement ground his cock against his own stomach. “I really did. But it… it feels too good now. Don’t stop. Fuck my soles. Tickle them. Use them. Please. Look at them… pointed right at you. Soft little things just waiting for whatever you want to do. Come on. Don’t be shy. Ruin them for me.”
The stranger did. Thoroughly. The wet sounds of foot-fucking filled the small space between them, mixed with the soft, helpless laughter the tickling pulled out of him. When the timer buzzed this time, the femboy made a soft, disappointed sound. His soles felt swollen with sensation, every nerve awake and used.
More people came. The protests were gone. In their place was quiet, needy, teasing voices—soft requests, breathless reactions, deliberate little invitations that made the visitors linger longer. His soles stayed presented inward like a permanent tunnel of femboy wrinkles, soft and available, toes sometimes curling in open invitation, taking whatever each visitor wanted to give.
“That’s it,” he murmured to one particularly rough visitor, voice low and coaxing even as he gasped. “Harder. Fuck them like you mean it. Tickle the arches while you thrust. Yeah… just like that. Feel how warm they are? How they give for you? Keep going. I want to feel every inch.”
Some were rough—nails scraping, palms grinding, hard foot-fucking that left his soles flushed and shiny, sudden bursts of tickling that made him thrash and moan. Some were almost worshipful—slow kisses, careful tracing of every line, warm breath held against the softest parts until he shivered, gentle tickles that built into torment. All of them left him more worked up than the last. Sweat slicked the small of his back and the hollow of his throat. His crop top stuck to his skin. The air on his exposed soles felt cooler every time a mouth or cock left them, the contrast sharp and electric.
Near the end of the night the manager checked the other side.
“Tab’s clear,” he said. “You’re done.”
The femboy didn’t answer right away. His feet were still out, soles warm and sensitive, faintly shiny with drying saliva and residual slickness. The skin felt raw in the best way—overstimulated, alive. He shifted against the restraints, testing them. The cuffs held firm. He turned his soles more deliberately inward, presenting them even now, toes flexing in a slow, deliberate tease.
“…Can I stay a little longer?” he asked quietly. “Just… a few more.”
There was a pause, then a low laugh from the manager. “Greedy now, huh?”
“Yeah,” the femboy admitted, voice soft but steady, almost playful. Heat still pulsed in his arches. His cock throbbed against his stomach. “I want more. Please. Let them keep using my soles. Let them fuck them. Tickle them. Whatever they want. They’re right here… soft and warm and waiting. Pointed right at whoever walks in. Tell them I’m ready. Tell them to come take what they paid for.”
The next person was already stepping into the booth. Fresh hands took his feet—warm, sure. A warm tongue dragged slowly across one arch, then the other. Light fingers began tickling the soft pads almost immediately. Then the soles were pressed together and a hard cock slid between them, thrusting deep. The wet heat and the ticklish torment sank in immediately. The femboy sighed, toes curling in open invitation, soles facing fully inward to welcome every new touch.
“Fuck… yes. Just like that. More. Lick them. Tickle them. Fuck them deeper. They’re yours for as long as you want. Soft little soles just for you… come on. Don’t hold back.”
He stayed tied down for the rest of the night, on his back, soles offered through the gloryhole and soles pointed inward, no longer forced—now willing, responsive, and quietly, completely into it. Every new tongue, every firm hand, every hard thrust between his soft soles, every merciless tickle only confirmed it. And every time someone new stepped into the booth, the femboy’s voice was waiting—soft, teasing, inviting.
“There you are. Look at them. Soft. Warm. A little messy already. What are you gonna do with them first? You own them for the time”
