The Rise of Scally God

By the time of writing this account today, October 2021 (age 21 now -- born in the year 2000, I have always felt the silly, childish pride of being a Third Millennium child), I have since improved myself a good deal but I will always be essentially the same person (and again, damn fucking proud of it.) If there's one thing, one overarching value Slut Sarah instilled in me that will always remain deeply embedded in my psyche, it is to be proud of who I am.

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Since before my birth Slut Sarah had already been working part-time as a warehouse packer on minimum state pay rate. To boost income, she also wrote and successfully published several erotic novels, drawing on her extensive life experience in the field. Her writing skills are proving useful to me today in guiding me to write this account.

She later started prostituting her sensuous body out on busy weekend evenings to help make ends meet after her scruffy, drunkard Italian trucker lover dumped her after only 5 months of fucking the shit out of her in the driver's cabin of his HGV, up and down every nook and cranny of the country.

How true all the finer details of the "Italian Stallion" episode of Slut Sarah's life are I cannot say but admittedly it does all sound consistent with her qualifications and training. I only know what her overweight, yellow-toothed, chain-smoking, heavy drinking, creepy neighbour, Dirty Darren tells me about it. However, the fact that my mum was one of the neighbourhood's top-rated hookers is no secret.

Darren never tires of taking perverse pleasure in relating to me the minutest details of my mum's sexual exploitation at the hands of the Italian trucker. I often think he must have been hiding curled up under the seat of my dad's HGV cabin through each session. I don't mind him telling me though. Not only does it give me the kind of family background information that my mum would perhaps not share but listening to him always gets me horny and my freak-sized young cock all fired up ready for take-off to Mission Mars.

Dirty Darren had even once told me how my "filthy cunt of a slut mum" used to keep her pubic hair trimmed exactly 5mm and shaved around to present an enticing auburn heart. I later had this bit of critically useful information independently corroborated by Slut Sarah herself and no less than three of my mum's Pakistani ex-clients (all three are now in their 70s.)

A filthy, disgusting, obese slob of a sick, old pervert Darren might be but one of my all-time favourite pastimes is to go over to his dirty shithole of a 1-bedroom flat for mutual drinking, smoking, laughing and marathon wanking sessions where the only permitted source of arousal is a detailed no-holds-barred obscene discussion of my sexy, slutty mum.

After a few drinks, any little inhibitions we might have had are quickly out the window and we begin the most disgusting verbal gang rape of my mum. We spit-roast the bitch, splatter the cunt's face in cum, convert her into our urinal, our toilet, lay her down, walk and stomp all over her. Fuck me senseless, it's mind-blowing just how much erotic pleasure can be extracted by a son fantasising about his fucking damn mum!

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In all honesty, my mum rarely kept from me any secrets of her past. We have always been very open with each other like that. For example, my petite mum likes her pretty feet pampered and I would sometimes spend up to whole two hours passionately massaging her sexy little feet, painting her toenails. The exercise proved useful in making me realise the immense power of a pair of beautiful feet. Since I am blessed with delicious feet, it was only a matter of time before I turned the tables on Slut Sarah and made her my foot-slut.

Nowadays it is me who settles down in my favourite armchair after returning home from a gruelling karate or kickboxing training session, kick my socked feet up onto the coffee table, snap my fingers and order the bitch to fetch me a can of beer, light me a cigarette and then kneel, remove my socks with her teeth and get working on my feet.

I slurp up the beer, exhale smoke all over the whore's face and give her verbal degradation while she slavishly massages, kisses and licks my bare feet. During these foot massages, Slut Sarah is permitted to address me only as "Daddy". The least deviation is met with an admonishing bare sole slap across the bitch's face.

We both find the sessions fun and pleasurable. I make sure we are positioned in full view close to the window so any passer-by can clearly see the humiliation meted out by a strong teen son to his fucking bitch mum. I try if I can to have some good mates including Dirty Darren around for a smoke and drink so they too can witness the power of scally feet.

The foot massage evenings normally end with one or more of the younger of my drunk friends, often with a subtle nod and a wink from me, spending the night with my mum in her tiny bedroom. (A year ago, I moved her into the smaller of the two bedrooms and took the slightly larger one for myself.)

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Many of my mum's clients, over ninety per cent of them, she had only recently told me, were much older, married Pakistani men. The majority of them were taxi drivers but a good few regulars were from astonishingly well-educated, career backgrounds or wealthy businessmen.

One notable regular Pakistani client was a 57-year-old world-renowned scientist, a Harvard University-educated particle physicist. Mum would often reminisce her time with him with undisguised pride, the way she had a married family man of his status enslaved, submitted on his knees, collared like an obedient dog, kissing and licking clean her working-class Scouser feet.

He got off on racial abuse and my uncouth bitch mum was only too eager to oblige. It came naturally to her, requiring zero effort. Slut Sarah saw him as the prostitute, a whore with a difference, one that pays to be granted the honour and pleasure of being allowed to kiss Slut Sarah's pretty feet and having his cherry banged numb by mum's strap-on.

To me, it did not matter from what ethnic backgrounds my mum's clients were. I could not give a damn filthy flying fuck whether they were White, Black, Indian, Pakistani, Chinese or Green Fucking Martians, or whether they were 18-year-old horny studs or 70-year-old dirty great-grandads. I take my hat off to and salute anyone who banged my mum's cunt, ass or mouth. This is what she was paid for and this is how she put food on the table and paid the bills.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all who ravished my whore mum's body. I feel the need to get that clear, otherwise, readers could so easily end up drawing completely the wrong conclusions in trying to make any sense of my motivations for doing what is to follow later.

But just the very fact the majority were mature, married, wealthy Pakistani men with families is important to mention here since it might contain clues to understanding much of what is to unfold in this story. It is for the same reason I have given quite a bit of detailed background to my growing up and circumstances so readers fully understand, if not appreciate, the person I am.

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We as humans are all slaves to, bound and defined by not only our genes but also our environment, our nurture. Nature and Nurture -- our twin jailers. The former has limited my body size to a boyish stature but endowed me with drop-dead gorgeous mixed English-Italian features and an enviable monster cock and the latter has made me hard as nails, confident and invincible. I have the entire world at my feet -- literally.

My upbringing and circumstances neither inspired me to achieve high nor presented many opportunities. Today, at the time of writing this, I work as a part-time brickie (to my American readers, "brickie" is British slang for a bricklayer.) However, the day on which these events occurred, three years ago, my prospects were not so bright. After dismal grades at school, I had started a short bricklaying course at a local college and was now neither employed nor in education. Uneducated, unskilled, jobless, broken and bored.

2: A Late Autumn Walk

I leisurely walked down the busy street in one of the more rundown sectors of a sprawling industrial area of Birmingham city, less than half an hour walk from my home in Handsworth. Treading carefully to avoid slipping on the ice that had formed on the pavement with the sudden drop in temperature following days of heavy rainfall.

Looking down, I check the laces on my embarrassingly tattered, black Reebok UK size 7 trainers (or "sneakers" to my American readers) are still tucked neatly out the way. I had bought the well-used pair on eBay a week ago after outbidding the competition for a very reasonable £4.70. Despite the worn-out and smoothed soles, the tops were at least still semi-intact even if scuffed all over. Like any other 18-year-old chav lad I just love to wear sporty gear, the best I can afford within my very limited budget on the meagre state dole handout.

As I continued my walk towards the martial arts gym that I had recently joined on my 18th birthday, the wind had picked up, catching the sides of my face and chilling my ears. I began to wish I had more than one layer of clothing to fend my upper body against the cold. I reached up and covered my head with the grey Nike hoodie top that a good mate of mine, Neil, had given me when he wanted to clear out his "old rubbish".

I had also helped myself to one of Neil's old pairs of Wrangler stretch jeans with torn away knees. The pair of jeans was itself inherited by Neil from his dad so I was now the third owner of the threadbare piece of rag that Neil had been using daily as a kind of "pre-doormat" to wipe away the worst of oil and grease from the deep-tread soles of his mechanic's work boots. The missing knees while I felt added a trendy, cool touch, right now were letting in the icy, blustery wind.

As if to tell me things could be a lot worse, in a moment of distraction lost in my thoughts I had just stepped in a deep puddle of water which was partially iced over and now I had damp, freezing feet too. Ankle socks drenched in the cold water. I just have to end up with wet feet every fucking time. This is what poverty does, unable to afford a decent fucking pair of shoes. Why doesn't the fucking council repair these huge potholes in roads everywhere?!

I cast a glance on my Casio digital watch (model F-91W -- fucking great watch for £5 brand new). 20:05 and still a ten-minute walk remaining to the gym. I'll survive another ten minutes, I thought to myself, I'm a hard, resilient Gypsy fucker. The evening's first stirrings of desire had already begun in my big, chunky, teen cock as I neared my destination.

I looked around and saw evidence of a once-great industrial city now decaying. Old abandoned factories, grimy-walled old warehouses with shattered windows, all just still standing there unused for I don't know what? Perhaps awaiting demolition by the local authorities who didn't have enough funds to repair the damn potholes.

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Eventually, I am in the carpark area of the gym. There are very few cars in it tonight, indicating many had better things to do than bother attending tonight's martial arts training session in the grim weather but I had my kinky motivation to be here. I noticed a new, gleaming white Volvo XC90 with its distinct private number plate. Despite my now near-frozen feet, the sight of the car filled me with a warm feeling. Gulzar, my much older Pakistani buddy had kept his promise to meet up for "training" at the gym.

Dr Gulzar Asfand Khan seemed to be everything I was not and would never be. A Pashtun of the Afridi warrior tribe, a Kyokushin Karate Black Belt III Dan Sensei. He was a very intelligent, highly educated 48-year-old (Cambridge PhD, working in the "field of research on developing new composites to withstand stress for use in hypersonic vehicles").

Dr Gulzar A Khan had an enviable family upbringing and was settled in life with a great engineering career, a lovely big-boobed Pakistani MILF wife and grown-up children. Two sons, 24 and 18. A hot, sexy 30-year-old daughter with long, glossy black hair and light-brown skin.

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(I greedily lust after Gulzar's daughter, Maira (I find Pakistani female names in themselves an aphrodisiac) and make no secret of the fact to Gulzar how much I desire to defile her shapely tits and that lush Muslim pussy of hers with both my ginormous scally cock and my racy bare feet. I'm definitely keeping her "on the list" for White cock-conquest -- the fact she is married and a mother is only a bonus turn-on for me.)

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I looked up to Gulzar with respect and awe. A man his age yet super fit and healthy, non-smoker, non-drinker, devout Muslim. Shaved head and a short stubble more than a beard, 6ft 1", muscular build of 95 kg, an absolutely ravishing delicious hairy body all over except his always closely shaved balls (unfortunately, he is never shirtless in the gym but I had him stripped down full naked enough times in the few weeks I had known him), UK size 12 feet.

Gulzar spoke flawless English with a posh newscaster's accent that was not heard in the areas of the city I frequented. The kind of man that from the very first sight would cause a "Wow!", on knowing him and speaking to him would cause another "Wow!", on meeting his great, academically bright and culturally-refined family would generate yet another "Wow!". He was, quite simply, my Triple Wow man.

To compare, I am 5ft 7", 60 kg, a slight but toned and fit build, UK size 7 feet (the height of perfection my feet are too, exquisitely formed and proportioned all over, heel to toe, top and sole), dark-brown, naturally wavy hair which I keep close-cropped, striking green eyes and totally blemish-free, flawless silk-smooth olive-tan skin (from my Italian farther -- yeah, the one who fucked and dumped my mother before I was born.)

I also have a shallow knife scar on the left side of my face running from near the eye down to the chin. It was caused while I was still a schoolboy when I intervened in a street fight to defend a mugging victim who was set on by two bulky thugs in Perry Barr. This scar, far from dissuading girls, drives them crazy with desire. It's an asset rather than a liability.

Gulzar was in almost every imaginable way more imposing than me - thirty years older, half a foot taller, 35 kg bulkier, educated, successful and partnered. The full package! He had it all and could not desire more in life.... Or could he? We will see.

3: Light Warm-up at The Gym

I walked through the entrance to the somewhat grubby locker room, kicked off my trainers and hurriedly flicked off my white ankle socks. God, it felt so fucking good to liberate my feet from the oppression of those fully soaked-through, dripping wet, ice-cold socks before making my way to the main training hall.

Since my bare soles were dripping wet, I very deliberately rubbed them hard all over the dusty floor and mats to blacken them with as much grime as I could collect under them. And so there I stood, at last, looking at my training partner Gulzar as he lightly punched and kicked the heavy bag in the corner.

Gulzar saw me, smiled and walked over. We tapped knuckles in our usual cool way and then, oblivious to the few built-like-tank Black guys who were also training there that evening, Gulzar moved closer to the wall on the windowed side of the hall and invitingly rested his sweaty bald head back against the condensed window.

"Come on Karl son, let's start with a light warm-up stretch. Give me a high side kick," bullshitted Gulzar, knowing full well high kicking from cold is not a "light warm-up" start to anything!

We both knew the game well by now. I positioned myself for a high side kick, pivoting on the ball of my left foot, bringing my right knee up high before bringing my right leg up high above the head, then skilfully manoeuvred my small, bare foot in a graceful arc, bringing the arch down to land right smack-bang on to the middle of Gulzar's nose, pushing the back of his shaved head harder against the window.

Ah, bliss! Just performing this simple act of domination on an accommodating, older face belonging to the man "who had it all", using the back of his head by steering it with my foot on the face to wipe some of the condensation on the window, was enough to make my 8.5" teen cock hard as steel.

I held my freezing-cold, damp bare foot pressed lightly in place, the arch balanced beautifully across the prominent bridge of Gulzar's made-for-the job nose for a good 2 to 3 minutes, letting the gentle warmth of his face transfer some heat and life back to my bare toes. It also gave him ample time to admire the grime-blackened bare sole stretched out just an inch from his eyes.

I gently wiggled and flexed my perfect toes, letting droplets of foot-dirt mingled grimy water from them slowly dribble down Gulzar's angled face (caused by the gentle pressure I was applying with my bare sole). Each drop of water left a dirt trail on his handsome face, to settle nicely in a tiny pool in the natural deep depression between his chin and lower lip.

I briefly removed my sole to admire my handiwork (call it footiwork, if you like). Gulzar's nose was already nicely blackened, while trails of the dirty water droplets falling from my bare toes down the right side of his face had given him a striped half-look of a tiger. A true warrior in keeping with his Pashtun descent. A cause for yet another "Wow!" for the Triple Wow man. I replaced my bare sole on his nose and pressed in.

The entirety of my man-bitch's, rugged, handsome face was getting reduced by me to a very effective, natural twin-function foot-dryer/foot-warmer device, better than anyone with any amount of money could purchase a man-made model. And if there are parts of my body besides my irresistible cock that I would never compromise quality on it's definitely my God Feet.

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It would not have been wise to let my feet go from freezing cold to too warm too quickly. For this reason, I liked to use my foot-warmer device in stages. Once my sexy foot had the worst of the chill broken, perched on Gulzar's nose where it was close to the source of heat but at the same time maintaining minimal direct contact, limited largely to his nose and my bare arch, I now re-positioned my sole higher to rest all of it, heel to the tip of big toe across his conveniently broad, flat forehead.

I pressed my bare chav foot in hard against Gulzar's face, this time making fuller, firm contact between the whole of my divine sole and Gulzar's enslaved forehead. Again, removing my sole briefly only to see the beautiful size 7 black footprint that now graced his forehead. The thin sheen of sweat on Gulzar's face was proving useful in getting the dirt off my sole and stick to his forehead.

Oh, fuck yeah, no doubt about it, Gulzar's forehead is definitely a more comfortable foot perch than his nose but like I just said, when my feet are too cold and/or wet as the case was today for me to want to use Gulzar's forehead for direct Stage 2: Foot Warm function, it was best to use the flexible device in steps, the nose for Stage-1: Foot Drip-Dry/Light Warm function, followed by the forehead for Stage-2: Foot Warm function.