It isn’t really about the ears, is it?

It isn’t really about the ears, is it?

I am sitting on the floor of my apartment, as he leans back on the couch. His legs are draped over my shoulders, feet dangling in my face. I sniff deeply and smell the sweat on his socks, he wore them a few extra days just for me. My hands reach up to rub his feet, the socks slightly damp beneath my fingers. I guide them closer to my face and kiss them slightly, inhaling deeply one last time before peeling off his socks. As I start to lick the soles of his feet and gently rub his toes, he reaches down, slowly caressing my ears with his fingers.

The sensual touch sends energy through my body. Perhaps it would with anyone I found attractive, but with him it is different… it’s a pulsation of approval that shoots from my ears to my toes. Without his energy, the touch might be sensual, or hedonistic, but it isn’t a language of affection.

‘Good job, faggot’, he whispers into my ear as he strokes them again. This is, of course, not the first position of the night – the stroke of my ears is a cumulative reward, as well as a reminder to keep up the good work. I suck his toes and lick his soles, eager to please. His hands leave my ears as he uses his feet to force me to the ground. Flat on my back his feet cover my face, rubbing along my tongue. My dick, hidden and constricted, twitches, not that he has much interest in that. I lie there, savoring the taste on my tongue, ready to receive my next command.

It isn’t really about the ears, is it?