Asphalt Soles

A Foot Torture Fantasy

"This won't do, Michael, really." Mistress puts down the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, pointing her tender bare foot in its strappy high-heeled sandal at me. There's a little brown smear on the sole of the shoe. "I told you to repaint the doorstep with liquid tar, and now I stepped in it because I forgot about it, and it's still sticky. The sole of my shoe is a mess, and some of it got on the carpet in the hall."

"I'm very sorry, Mistress", I say, knowing it would be pointless to defend myself. I'm kneeling on the kitchen tiles before her, naked as always at home, hands and feet shackled, looking up at her enticing boobs under her almost sheer designer top and her displeased, impatient face above the twin mounds, awaiting her next sentence. It's exactly what I'd had guessed.

"Some punishment is in order, wouldn't you say?"

"You're absolutely right, Mistress. I beg for punishment."

"Where did you put the can with this stuff, Michael?"

"In the garage, Mistress."

"Good. Just the right place. Go there, put yourself in the bastinado stocks and wait."

"Yes, Mistress." I hurry to obey, already looking forward to the arousing Whap! of the bastinado cane while placing myself on the stout, leather-upholstered bench, face down, knees bent at right angle, bare soles and toes up in the air behind me. Mistress loves to punish my naked feet, and I love to have my naked feet punished. I built this bench myself, to her order of course. We're really an ideal couple.

Then I lie waiting for my punishment.

*

When her petite, slender shape finally appears in my field of view, though, after what seems an eternity, she doesn't carry a cane or her vicious riding crop, but her heavy-duty, elbow-length rubber gloves, the ones for dirty chores, not the black latex ones, and she's reading something on her phone. I get a queasy feeling in my belly.

She doesn't say a word. First, she closes the locks on the bastinado bench, securing my feet into the wooden stocks on its rear and my wrists to its front legs. I'm free to buck and writhe in reaction to any punishment of my naked soles now, but I can neither escape nor protect my bare feet. It's an exhilarating feeling. The fourfold "snap!" of the massive padlocks is enough to give me a hard-on. I flex my toes, turn my ankles to and fro, shift my body on the upholstery. I'm totally helpless, my feet mercilessly exposed.

Next, she places the little propane camping stove on the concrete floor, at the front end of the bastinado bench, perhaps a metre from my head, so I have a good view. She opens the garage window (safety first), ignites the stove with her cigarette lighter, carefully adjusting the wreath of blue flames until it burns bright and steady, puts an old dented cooking pot on – and suddenly there is the can of liquid tar in her hand.

She spoons what remains of the stuff into the pot. It's at room temperature, quite stiff and viscous. Its rich dark-brown colour – tar in its pure form, not as asphalt, is not black but has the colour of crude oil –, ironically makes it look like molasses. She takes her time. A strong smell like on a freshly laid-on road emerges. My heart is racing, my mouth dry. She's stirring the tar with a spoon, making me watch. The camping stove emits a busy little singsong, the flames licking around the lower edge of the old pot, the spoon clinking softly. The aromatic smell of hot tar is getting more intense in the confined space of the garage.

"Now listen, Michael", she finally hisses, propping my chin up with her thumb and forefinger. "This is not a light matter. You ruined a pair of my shoes and the carpet in the hall by your careless use of tar. You should know how sticky and tenacious this stuff is. To make this clear to you, and for my own pleasure, I shall now coat your naked soles and toes in it. Applied hot. Boiling hot." There is not a shred of mercy in her eyes. "To make it sting, so to say. Do you think this is appropriate?", she adds.

"Yes, Mistress", I gulp.

"How do you want it applied?"

"Boiling hot, please, Mistress", I whisper.

"I didn't hear you?"

"Boiling hot, please, Mistress!"

"Boiling hot it is then. Regrettably, it can't be actually boiling, since tar only boils at 500 degrees Celsius or so – these online encyclopaedias are really useful and entertaining –, which would result in third-degree burns, of course. But, as it turns out, tar gets really, really liquid at about 60 degrees Celsius. That's juuust short of causing any second-degree scalding, but it will hurt you a lot at that temperature, seep into every nook and cranny and stick all the better. It won't injure you, though. Or at least not badly, who can say?" She smiles while snaking her hands into her heavy-duty rubber gloves, snapping them sharply like an evil surgeon in a horror movie. "You'll know soon enough."

There's a paintbrush in her hand now. It's one of our house-and-garden brushes, an old one, quite a harmless, commonplace tool. It's flat, but not very wide, one for close work. She dips it into the hot tar, brings it up dripping again. "Here's a little taste of what you're in for", she says, walking back around the bench to my helplessly presented feet. Staring back anxiously over my shoulder, out of the angle of my eye I see her holding the brush over my soles, see a drop falling. A big one.

A searing pain pierces the skin of my right toeballs, making me go rigid all over and clenching my teeth. I hear my shackles rattle.

"That was one drop. Better get used to it."

She amuses herself by dripping a few more blobs on my naked soles and the undersides of my toes. The drops of liquid tar are so hot they appear cold to my overloaded nerves. One of them runs along a wrinkle in my sole for an inch or so. I twitch, I moan. The blobs stay hot for a long time, prolonging the pain. I swear I can hear them sizzle, although surely that is just my imagination.

"Enough played", Mistress finally decides. "Hold your feet still while I coat them." She returns to the stove, dips the brush in again. My head follows her walking back around the bench.

As the brush touches my right big toe, I jump again in my restraints. It slowly plays along the row of toes, leaving a coat of seething liquid tar. I'm crying silently now, beating the ground with my hands, shaking and sweating.

The second scalding brushstroke lovingly embraces the inner phalanges of my toes, turning to and fro, thrusting deep between the toes, like a slick sticky tongue. I'm crying even more, throwing my head up and down, waves of pain running through my whole body.

Then she starts on my toeballs. She has to re-soak the brush first, though, taking her time. I hear her high-heeled sandals clicking on the floor, see the camping stove with the seething tar in its pot dancing before my sweat-obscured eyes, as she soaks the brush, lifting it again, heavy with dripping hot steaming tar.

I feel the scalding liquid inexorably cover my toeballs, then the tender arch of my right sole, then my heelpad, then painting a clean rim around my sole. The hot brushstrokes are slow, each one repeated several times. Each one is unbearable and yet must be borne. I drift into a sort of ecstasy, the world becomes a little unreal and fuzzy.

*

"OK, that was one sole", I hear Mistress say. "First coating. Now for some sand, to take away the stickiness." She grabs a handful of coarse-grained construction sand from the bag in the corner of the garage. Normally she uses it as an additive when mixing flowerpot earth for her cacti. Now I'm feeling it being sprinkled and rubbed on my tar-coated right foot, where it soaks up the still liquid tar, bonding with it, forming a much more tenacious sort of... well, asphalt?

How shall I ever remove this stuff from the skin of my soles and toes? And what did she mean by "first coating"? I refuse to see the answer to these questions, clear as it is.

Before I can muse about it for much longer, the first sweeping pain hits my left toes. Mistress takes her time to hot-tar the naked sole of my left foot, and she makes it nice and thorough. I lie panting, out of tears by now, writhing, sweating. The liquid tar keeps its heat for a long time, so the pain doesn't end. Finally, after interminable minutes of seething brushstrokes, my left sole is tar-coated, too. "Now for the topping!", Mistress announces lightheartedly, again rubbing in a handful of sand on the tormented tarred skin, turning the tar into a layer of asphalt on my bare sole and toes.

"Would you like a second coating, just to make sure?" I don't believe what I'm hearing. I can feel the thick sticky asphalt layer on my bare feet, still burning hot but palpably tightening and solidifying now. I already can't spread my toes anymore, they're stuck together, and my ability to flex them is much restricted.

A second coating? Mistress wants to repeat this whole ordeal? But amidst my shock and fright there's also the arousal. My hard-on, trapped between my abdomen and the leather upholstery of the bench, is pumping. I'm as incredibly turned on by the thought as I'm frightened of it. Even more so. "Yes, please, Mistress", I hear myself whimpering.

"Here it comes. Looks fantastic, by the way. Really a great idea of mine." Mistress applies a second coating of boiling tar to my naked soles. It doesn't dissolve the first one, because of the sand, but adds a new layer of tar on top, soon reinforced into asphalt by a second layer of sand. The pain is slightly dampened by the first layer, but only slightly.

When I catch my breath after the brush has done its work a second time, I manage to crane my neck and flex my ankles enough to get a view of my tarred soles. They look incredibly... well, hot. They are not just black and oily, and they aren't wrinkly anymore, they are solidly covered in fresh hot asphalt. They look like the surface of a highway just laid down by the roadworks guys - a black, slightly steaming dough, smoothly following the shape of my naked soles and toes, with little oily drops running down on them, and emanating that delicious tarry smell. Bonded to the skin of my soles, I realize, practically a part of them now. I find the sight of the steam rising from them, in particular, arousing as hell. There is actually a faint hissing sound. My erection is pulsating, suddenly I have to take care I don't cum in front of Mistress.

"This is even better than I thought", Mistress smiles. "The sand just was to stop you from leaving tarry footprints everywhere, but I've practically invented a new form of body mod! I hope you appreciate that. - Now, did you learn your lesson, Michael?", she sternly adds, slapping my asphalt soles with her rubber-gloved hand.

"Yes, Mistress, I did", I moan, slowly calming down, still craning my neck and staring at my fresh, new, steaming asphalt soles, mentally preparing to being released and having to sit up. What will it feel like putting them on the ground? Walking on them?

"Very well", she interrupts my thoughts. "Then we can proceed and apply the third coating."

This time, there's no holding back. Unable to contain myself at her words, I shoot off my load, hands-free, while my helpless bare soles are waiting to be asphalted a third time. Boiling hot, of course.

*

A new form of body mod, indeed. Several days later, I'm still wearing the asphalt soles – they are part of my feet now, fused with my living skin. It must have been the heat. They won't come off while showering, no scrubbing of the soles and toes will help. I'd probably need to apply oily solvents, and Mistress won't give me permission to do that. She likes my toughened barefeet, says they are only appropriate for a house slave, and already talks about renewing the asphalt layers should they wear down. I'm not being asked, of course. "Remember when we fantasized about nailing horseshoes to your feet?", she says. "This is even better because it's practical!"

As it turns out, the asphalt coatings are tarry enough to stay flexible, they won't crack or terminally harden, and they are thin enough to feel like extensions of my natural soles – like very tough, rubbery calluses, if you will –, but solid enough to make themselves felt at every move and remind me I can't take them off. My toes have been effectively glued together in the process, but I can flex them up and down a little and walk fairly normally. My soles still hurt, though, and I do leave a little sand and tar with every step, giving rise to further punishments. Mistress also removed from my sleeping cage the black leather mattress on which I used to lie down at night, so I don't soil it with my asphalt soles.

I've taken to admiring my asphalt soles, sitting down now and then to hoist one foot on my knee, tracing the alien black surface with my fingertip, or following the zone of reddened skin forming its outline, or just propping them up in front of a mirror, rubbing them against each other, hoping they'll stay on forever, enjoying what Mistress did to me.

***