Page 28 of Taste Test

My phone sat on the basin beside me, screen propped against the soap dispenser, muted but still playing.

Two young guys on a sofa—a hairy-legged jock in a backwards cap and a blond twink—were making out, hands already on each other’s cocks.

Cap Guy then yanked the twink’s head down onto his lap, gagging the boy around his substantial meat.

“You nearly ready in there, mate?” came Jared’s voice through the door. “I’ve got everything sorted. Just need my guinea pig.”

“Two minutes!” I called back, my voice coming out slightly strangled.

“I’ve left you a clean towel on your bed. When you’re done go slip that around you then come meet me in the lounge.”

“Okay. I-I’ll be done soon.”

“No rush. I’m just reading through my notes. Did you know there are more than thirty different pressure points in the human foot alone?”

“Fascinating,” I mumbled under my breath, feeling myself getting close.

Jared kept talking—something about arches and nerve clusters—but his voice began to fade as he retreated back to the lounge, the words trailing off into a blur of “… medial zone… reflex stimulation… crazy, right?”

I pressed a finger hard into that sweet spot behind my balls.

“oh-uh… ooo” The noise slipped out before I could catch it.

The orgasm tore through me, my cock shooting streaks of white puddles across the bathroom tiles.

I grabbed toilet paper to clean myself up, then got on my hands and knees to wipe up the mess from the floor.

After flushing away the evidence of my tactical wank, I went to my bedroom. I dropped my phone on the bedside table and ditched the damp bath towel I’d dried off with and grabbed the clean one Jared had left on my bed to wear for the massage.

Instant mistake.

It was white. Innocent-looking. And criminally small. Not spa-day small. Not cheeky-lads-at-the-beach small. We’re talking villain origin story small. I held it up, stared, then glanced down at my dick.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and looked in the mirror. It barely covered the essentials. I tugged it lower—just a bit—deciding it was better to flash the tip of my pubes than risk my balls staging a coup.

Still, I didn’t trust the situation. Even the slightest rise—a twitch, a half-chub—would turn this towel into a traitor.

Not helping matters was my cock’s track record of betraying me at the worst possible moments.

And Jared… Jared had hands. Strong, attractive ones that could potentially stir things in me I sure as shit did not want stirred.

I stared at myself in the mirror, towel barely hanging on, and weighed my options.

Then it hit me.

The chastity cage!

I turned to my underwear drawer like a man hunting for divine intervention. There it was, wedged between mismatched socks and a tragic pair of mesh briefs. The clear plastic nightmare Dash had gifted me last Christmas.

At the time, I’d laughed off what I deemed an offensive joke, and gone home and shoved it in the drawer, never seriously considering I’d put it on.

Today, however, Dash’s crude joke might just save my life.

It was fiddly to put on. All rings and clips and plastic nubs that pinched in places no plastic should ever pinch. But eventually I wrangled it into position. My cock sat inside its little prison, mute and obedient, like it’d been grounded by the headmaster.

Insurance policy activated.

I adjusted the towel one last time, tried not to wince at the way the cage shifted with each step, and took a deep breath.

It’s showtime!

Barefoot, nearly naked, and sporting a kinky device courtesy of my dickhead supervisor, I made my way into the lounge. Jared was dressed head-to-toe in black, like a budget spa therapist, standing beside an actual massage table he’d somehow muscled through our front door.

He’d really gone all out. There were scented candles above the fireplace and on the coffee table, some sort of ambient whale song drifting from his bluetooth speaker.

I stared at the table, then at the candles, then back at him.

“So how does this work then?” I asked.

“Simple. You get on the table, I work through my techniques, you tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.” He patted the vinyl surface.

I climbed on, face down, the vinyl cool against my skin. The towel barely covered my arse. I reached back to check—fingers fumbling at the hem—then tugged it lower, just a touch. Better to flash the top of my crack than risk exposure of what was happening further south.

“Comfortable?” he asked, rummaging around for oils or whatever.

“As comfortable as one can be lying naked on a table in the lounge.”

“Just relax,” Jared said, rubbing something between his palms. “Let the magic happen.”

“Magic?”

“Mate, I’ve got magic hands. Girls tell me that all the time. They’re always going on about how good I am with my fingers.”

“Newsflash, but I’m not some bird you’re about to finger behind the club rooms.”

“You say that now…” I didn’t need to see him to know he was probably waggling his eyebrows.

“Don’t be a dick. Let’s just get this over with so I can go put some bloody clothes on.”

He didn’t answer, just stepped closer. I felt the shift in the air before I felt his hands. Warm, slick, confident. He started with my neck and shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight bands of muscle that had built up from hunching over textbooks all week.

I expected him to fumble, to be all show and no substance, but his touch was…

annoyingly good. He found the knots like he’d mapped them out in advance, working them loose with just the right amount of pressure.

My body responded before my brain could object.

Shoulders unbunching, breath deepening, the kind of involuntary surrender that felt suspiciously like trust.

His fingers slid from my neck down to the tops of my shoulder blades, then traced the curve of my spine, like he was reading me, learning me, one vertebra at a time.

Eventually he headed even further south, his hands moving to my feet and calves. He used the heel of his hand to dig into the tight muscle. It felt bloody amazing. My eyes fluttered shut. I might’ve let out a quiet noise.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” he said, “you really do have sexy feet.”

I snorted. “They’re sexy now, are they?”

“Yep. Proper sexy. No homo.”

“I’m sorry but telling me I have sexy feet is a little homo.”

“Nah. I’m just a little bisexual when it comes to feet.”

I cracked one eye open. “Your what?”

He kept rubbing, like it was no big deal. “I reckon I’ve got a foot thing. Like, full-on. Doesn’t even matter if it’s a guy or a girl. If the feet are good, I’m gone.”

“What happened to all that clinical sports science analysis? Diagnosing my biomechanics and perfect arches?”

“Something can be two things at once, can’t it? Your feet are biomechanically sound… and sexy as hell.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“Nah. I’m serious.” His thumbs dug deeper, never breaking rhythm. “I’m not some hardcore shoe-sniffer or whatever. And it’s not with everyone. But yeah… feet can do it for me.”

I swallowed. “Including guys’ feet?”

“Are you a guy?”

“…Yeah?”

“Then there’s your answer.”

It went quiet after that. I lay there trying to process what he’d just told me. Bisexual for feet? I’d never heard of such a thing.

The silence stretched on, filled only by the ambient whale song drifting from his speaker and the firm glide of his hands up my calves.

Then Jared spoke again: “Do you remember Kieran Jolliffe from high school?”

“Yeah. The stoner obsessed with reggae?”

“Yeah. He had sexy feet.”

“Right…”

“Back in high school, we used to hang out in his sleepout after school. One time we got wasted, ended up watching a movie on the floor, and I started rubbing his feet. Don’t even know how it started. They were just... there. And I was like, mmm they’re nice .”

“You rubbed Kieran’s feet?”

“And sucked his toes.”

“Eww.”

“Not eww. Yum. His feet were like chewing gum for the soul.” His thumbs pressed deeper, absent-minded.

“I’ve always liked hands-on stuff. Massages, pressure points, that sort of thing.

Feet are just… chill. Fun to play with. Sometimes they give me a stiffy.

Sometimes they just calm me down. Like your shirts do. ”

“Is this you telling me my shirts smell like feet?”

“No.” He gave my foot a playful slap. “Your shirts smell fine. It’s more the vibe. Calming. Stress relief.”

I stared at the back of my hand, trying to act cool while my brain scrambled with the image of Jared—my straight flatmate—sucking a boy’s toes and calling it “stress relief.”

“It became a regular thing with Kieran,” Jared went on, his voice taking on a dream-like quality.

“Every Thursday after school, I’d go round, his parents wouldn’t be home till late.

We’d smoke up a bit, put some music on, and I’d just do my thing.

He’d lie there zonked out, and I’d work on his feet for ages. Sometimes an hour, maybe more.”

“An hour?”

“Yeah. I was thorough. Started with massage, then moved to the good stuff. He had these long, elegant toes. Perfect for sucking. He’d just lie there, eyes closed, making these little contented noises.

” Jared’s hands had slowed on my calves, like he was lost in the memory.

“Sometimes I’d get so worked up I’d have to sort myself out while I was doing it.

Kieran didn’t mind. Said it was only fair since he was getting free massages. ”

“You jerked off over Kieran Jolliffe’s feet?” I half-shrieked.

“Sometimes, but usually just onto my stomach. He didn’t like getting cum on him. Reckoned it was messy.”

“And all this time I assumed your time at high school was spent shagging the girls on the volleyball team, but it turns out you were in a sleepout sucking on a stoner’s toes.”

He laughed. “Who said I wasn’t doing both?”