Petey

by Bud Boytaurbody

This is why you shouldn’t drink citrus flavored foot bath—or should you?

“What did you do?” I asked Petey when I got to his room, after getting his call on my cellphone. He was looking excited but nervous, sitting in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin.

“Sick?” I asked.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “I had this citrus-scented foot bath stuff, and it smelled so good while they were soaking in it that I dipped my finger in it to taste it. It tasted so good I took a sip, and then a swallow.”

“That was stupid,” I said. Just like muscle-boy Petey to do something dumb like that, I thought. He is dumb. Cute, but dumb.

“I know,” he said. “Now I'm growing feet all over the place.”

“You don't look taller.”

“No, not feet taller, feet. My feet. Look.”

He stuck his leg out from under the blanket. It had three feet growing from the ankle, crowded together. They were big, too. I watched as they moved against each other as Petey showed me them. Each foot was a perfect copy of the other; they smoothed themselves against each other as I marvelled at their size and beauty. I didn't want to get too much into their beauty, because of the predicament Petey was in. But still, they were amazing.

“And look at these,” he said. He stuck another leg out, which had three of the large, beautiful feet growing out of its ankle, also crowded.

“And these, and these.” He stuck out a third leg! It, too, had with three feet growing on it. He stuck out another leg, and he slid out two more legs, all sprouting the extra feet.

“Holy moly,” I said, swallowing, eyeing all of Petey's feet. They weren't ugly; in fact, they looked good, but Petey looked worried. I didn't blame him.

He directed my attention to the box of foot bath stuff, on the floor by the bed where he had dropped it.

“Enough for multiple foot baths,” it said under the brand. “Delicious citrus, for the most fresh feet,” it said on the other side. The background pattern behind all the labeling was an endless mosaic of interlaced footprints, I noticed.

Some of the detached feet rolled out from under the blanket, thudding on the floor, falling on each other with muffled slaps.

“They're separating when they get too crowded,” he said. I found myself getting horny, against my better judgement.

“You're sweating under that blanket,” I said. “Let me see under it.”

“Promise not to freak?” Petey said, looking scared.

“I already am freaked,” I said, but when that made him look even more scared, I said, “Just a joke. No, I won't freak.”

“I'm the freak,” Petey said. He let the blanket fall away.

I felt shocked, but also guilty, because while I should have been worried for Petey, which I was, I was also turned on.

Petey had grown a nest of his long-muscled legs, each of which had the three handsome feet clustered at the ankle. He tried to keep all of the handsome legs pulled up around him, but as the extra feet separated, he'd tried to keep the extra feet collected in his lap. Or laps, I guess, since he was ringed by legs, and the extra feet were spilling heavily out of his laps and piling up around him.

The thing is, the legs were beautiful, long and healthy, with lots of smooth muscle, and all the extra feet were also well-shaped and good-looking, smooth and perfect, really. I could feel the warmth radiating from them. Even the piles of separated feet were smooth and perfect, radiating that gentle warmth. I picked one up, amazed at its weight and its warmth in my hands. It was smooth across where the ankle would have been; a perfect separation, and the pads and toes were warm and slightly sweating, with that pleasant tang of clean male feet. It was strong, smooth, heavy and beautiful, just like all the others. I wanted to kiss it, but I didn't just then.

I was trying to keep my concern for Petey's plight at the forefront, but my pulse was racing and I could feel myself fighting my own urges, because Petey was oddly sexy like this.

A few more of the big feet quietly separated from Petey, tumbling and falling clumsily to the floor or rolling to a stop on the bed, against the other handsome fallen feet.

“They're falling off my wrists, too,” Petey said, showing me his well-muscled, long arms. Sure enough, three of the heavy, handsome feet were warmly clustered at each of the wrists. As we spoke, one of the feet fell from a wrist, falling with a soft thud against some of Petey's shins and landing upside down on the other fallen feet, its handsome sole upward. Soon another foot fell on it, its sole lying heavily on the upturned sole of the first foot.

I looked at the arm from which the two feet had fallen, where fresh feet already replaced then, seeming to materialize from the wrist and the other feet, and the same size and handsome shape.

And then I noticed something else about Petey, who was looking less worried and more turned on as he surveyed his growing collection of large, beautiful feet.

“You've got six arms,” I said numbly, as I realized how many of his nicely muscled arms I was looking at. It took time to count them; I was distantly reminded of the six-armed Spiderman comic book Petey had shown me a couple summers ago. Except that Petey's six muscular arms were laden at the wrists with these beautiful clusters of feet.

I realized that with the clean citrus smell of Petey's footbath and the fresh tang of his newly sprouted piles of feet, I could smell another sharp male tang.

“Have you come?” I asked. “It smells like jizz in here.”

Petey blushed deeply. I immediately regretted the question. “I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't mean to be rude.”

“No, it's OK,” he said, the blush lifting lightly. “I couldn't bring it up myself. I mean, it's so sexy being like this I can't help it; I had to have some foot sex because I am so turned on like this.”

I realized that lots of the feet closest to Petey's several legs were still glazed with come. In fact, I realized that Petey's pairs of legs were sprouting several huge, beautiful hardons, partly obscured by all the handsome feet. But as I looked closer, it was unmistakable. The proud stature of Petey's manly erections reached up and out from the tumbled piles of male feet, and new erections were upending some of the come-soaked feet as the penises swelled.

I had to come myself, in the worst way.

“Come on, Petey,” I said, trying to sound casual, but noticing the hint of a plea in my own voice, “let's have some foot sex while we decide what to do.”

“Oh man, I need to,” he said, looking relieved, rubbing several handsome feet against his penises. It was hot to see him so turned on by so many of his own feet. He groaned, coming intermittantly, first from one penis, then from another, as foot after foot became bathed in hot jets of his semen.

I couldn't take it any longer. I was gathering up armloads of Petey's heavy, beautiful feet, kissing them and pressing my face into them, loving their handsome male foot shape and the beauty and sweetness of their soles, while rubbing some of them against my own huge hardon. Oh, did it feel good to come on them.

“Careful,” Petey laughed as he caught his breath, licking some of his come from the come-soaked feet on one of his wrists; “This might be contagious.”

“Awesome,” I said, hoping it would be.

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