Barefoot Runner (f/m)
Posted: Fri Dec 12, 2025 12:54 pm
"I thought you'd be faster," Samantha called out from the pavilion steps, leaning against the peeling green railing. The rain had eased to a fine mist, but the track still gleamed wet under the dim afternoon light.
Alan skidded to a stop, panting, toes curling against the cold rubber. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, blinking up at her. "Not my fault," he said between breaths. "Puddles." His bare feet were streaked with mud and grass stains.
Samantha tilted her head, fingers drumming on the railing. "Excuses." She pushed off and sauntered down onto the track, the hem of her skirt brushing against her knees. "Bet I could beat you right now, even in these." She lifted one foot, showing off her scuffed school shoes laced over her thick black tights.
Alan snorted, but his eyes flickered to her shoes—then back to her face—too fast. "No way," he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The wind snatched at his damp vest, pressing it against his ribs like a second skin.
Samantha grinned, slow and deliberate. She stepped closer, close enough to smell the sharp tang of his sweat mixing with the petrichor rising from the track. "Scared?" she murmured, watching the way his toes flexed against the ground, the mud caked between them.
Alan's throat worked as he swallowed. The wind tossed his dark hair into his eyes, but he didn't brush it away. "You wish," he said, but his voice cracked halfway through. His breath hitched when Samantha crouched suddenly, fingertips brushing the inside of his ankle as she pretended to inspect a nonexistent scrape.
"Mm," she hummed, thumb pressing into the arch of his foot just hard enough to make him jerk. "Soft," she said, louder this time, and smiled at the flush creeping up his neck. His toes curled instinctively away from her touch, but she caught his heel with practiced ease, nails digging in just enough to sting.
Alan's pulse jumped visibly at his throat. He tried to pull back, but Samantha held firm, her other hand sliding up to grip his calf. The damp fabric of his shorts clung to her fingers. "Let—let go," he said, but it came out breathless, uncertain. His bare foot twitched in her grasp, mud flaking onto her wrist.
Samantha's grin widened. She dragged her nail along the sensitive ridge of his instep, watching his lips part in a silent gasp. "You're ticklish," she murmured, as if discovering some precious secret. The wind carried the scent of his fear—sharp and metallic beneath the sweat—straight to her nostrils.
Alan twisted violently, his free foot slipping on the wet track. He crashed onto his backside with a wet smack, but Samantha didn't release her grip. Instead, she straddled his thighs, pinning him down with her weight. His gasp turned into a yelp when she took off her school tie with her free hand, the striped fabric dangling like a serpent between her fingers.
The nylon hissed as she looped it around his wrists, yanking them behind his back. Alan bucked beneath her, but she leaned forward, her breath hot against his ear. "Stop squirming," she whispered, pulling the knot tight enough to bite into his skin. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against the damp fabric, his bare toes digging frantic trenches in the rubber.
Samantha sat back on his thighs, admiring her handiwork. The tie dug into his pale wrists, already flushing pink from the friction. A drop of rain landed on the bridge of his nose, and he blinked rapidly, lashes sticking together. She reached down, tracing the arch of his foot with one fingernail, watching his stomach muscles contract in anticipation.
"Up," she commanded, jerking his bound hands sharply upward until he staggered to his feet. His bare soles slapped wetly against the concrete as she marched him towards the pavilion, her fingers twisted in the fabric of his vest. The girls' changing room door groaned when she shouldered it open, the scent of old sweat and floral body spray thick in the air.
Alan balked at the threshold, toes curling against the cold tile, but Samantha shoved him forward with a laugh. His knees hit the bench with a hollow thud as she pushed him down, his mud-streaked feet leaving smears on the pristine white surface. From the corner, a forgotten hairbrush clattered to the floor—the sound made him flinch like a gunshot.
She rummaged through the lost-and-found bin with predatory efficiency, tossing aside mismatched socks and crumpled jumpers until her fingers closed around the prize: a frayed skipping rope, its plastic handles worn smooth by countless hands. The rope hissed through the air when she tested its weight, the sound cutting through the damp silence. Alan's eyes darted to the emergency exit, but Samantha stepped into his line of sight, twirling the rope like a lasso. "Don't even think about it," she murmured, and pressed her palm flat against his pounding chest.
The bench groaned under their combined weight as she straddled his lap again, looping the rope around his waist in rough, efficient tugs. His breath came in shallow bursts when she yanked it tight ariund his bidy and the slats of the bench, the fibers biting into his ribs through the thin vest. She knotted it at the small of his back, then paused to admire how his bare feet dangled inches above the tile, toes twitching like a hanged man's. A stray hockey sock—crusty with dried mud—made for an improvised gag; she stuffed it between his teeth before he could protest, the wool soaking up his panicked saliva.
Alan thrashed violently when her fingers traced the hem of his shorts, tickling his thighs, but she merely laughed and reached past him, snagging the discarded hair tie from the floor. "Relax," she murmured. The blindfold came next: her own tartan scarf, still warm from her neck, smelling of lavender detergent and something muskier beneath. She wound it twice around his eyes before knotting it at the base of his skull, her thumbs pressing into the delicate hollows behind his ears. His gasp fogged the fabric as she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Better."
The skipping rope’s rough fibers burned against his ankles as she lashed them together with methodical precision, each loop tighter than the last. His knees knocked together when she cinched the final knot, his bare soles twitching helplessly in the air. The bench creaked ominously as he arched his back, testing the bonds, but all it earned him was a sharp nip to his earlobe. "Settle down," Samantha breathed, her fingers skating up his shin to trace the tendon behind his knee. "We’re just getting started."
The first stroke of the nail brush came without warning—stiff bristles scouring the mud from his toes with ruthless efficiency. Alan jerked violently, a muffled scream vibrating against the sock in his mouth. She chuckled, twisting his big toe between her fingers to hold him steady as she scraped the brush over the arch, each pass slower than the last. The scent of cheap soap mingled with the wet-earth musk of the track still clinging to his skin. His toes curled into themselves instinctively, but she wedged the brush between them, scrubbing until the pink flesh shone raw and clean.
Water from the tap hissed into the basin beside them, droplets splashing onto his ankles as she dunked the brush again. "Filthy," she tutted, dragging the soaped bristles along his sole in long, deliberate strokes. His thighs trembled against the bench, the skipping rope digging deeper with every convulsive twitch. When her thumbnail found that delicate spot just below his toes, he arched so sharply the bench legs screeched against the tile. She paused—letting him pant against the gag—then blew a slow, cold stream of air across the wet soap suds. His answering whimper was sweeter than the lavender clinging to her scarf.
The bristles switched to feather-light circles around his heel, teasing the sensitive skin there until his breathing turned jagged. Samantha watched with clinical fascination as his toes splayed wide—an involuntary surrender—and seized the opportunity to dig the brush between them, twisting. His muffled laughter vibrated through her palm where it clamped down on his knee, the sound choked and desperate. Mud swirled down the drain in rusty tendrils, revealing the vulnerable pink undersides she'd been craving. "Almost clean," she murmured, squeezing his Achilles tendon between her fingers like a pulse point.
Her lips barely grazed the arch—just once—but the shock of it made him freeze mid-squirm. The kiss left a damp crescent she traced with one fingertip before raking her nails up the length of his sole in a slow, deliberate drag. Alan bucked so hard the bench lifted momentarily off its front legs, his scream muffled by layers of wool and polyester. She caught his ankle before he could yank it away, her thumb pressing into the hollow beneath his anklebone just hard enough to make him whimper. "You're delicious," she breathed against his toes, opening her mouth just wide enough to scrape her teeth along the ridge.
The hairbrush came next—its bristles dancing in erratic patterns between his toes, circling each digit until his legs spasmed like a dying insect. She watched, enthralled, as his knees knocked together fruitlessly, the skipping rope sawing into his waist with every jerk. His heels drummed against the bench in frantic Morse code she pretended to decipher aloud: "S-t-o-p—" she mocked, dragging the brush in one long, excruciating stroke from heel to toes. His gagged scream dissolved into wet, hiccuping laughter that shook his entire body, sending fresh droplets of water skittering across the tiles from the still-dripping tap.
When he arched his back so sharply the bench threatened to topple, Samantha abandoned the brush in favor of her nails—ten precise points spidering up his arches in alternating rhythms. The sound he made wasn't human; a high, reedy keen muffled by wool as his toes curled inward defensively. She pinned his little toe between thumb and forefinger, wrenching it straight before skittering her index finger down the tendon with surgical precision. His hips lifted clear off the bench, the muscles in his bound arms standing out in stark relief against the nylon restraints. The scent of fear had changed—gone syrupy-sweet with adrenaline, clinging to his damp skin like the soap bubbles sliding down his calves.
She paused just long enough to press her lips to the hollow beneath his toes, tasting salt and the ghost of antibacterial foam. His foot jerked instinctively, but she trapped it against her sternum, letting him feel the vibrations of her laughter through his sole. "You're mine now," she murmured against his instep, then dragged her front teeth along the ridge in a mock bite that had him thrashing anew. Her nails found the spot just below his toes—that treacherous, twitching nexus of nerves—and attacked in relentless spirals, each rotation tighter than the last. The gag turned his screams into wet, rhythmic gasps that fogged the tartan blindfold with each exhale.
The wall clock's ticking grew louder as she switched tactics—alternating between feather-light strokes that made his toes curl inward protectively and sudden, sharp digs that sent his knees crashing together. His heels left dull thuds against the bench, the rhythm stuttering whenever she found a new sensitive spot. She catalogued each reaction with the precision of a scientist: the way his little toe twitched when she scraped her nail diagonally across the arch, how his breath hitched when she blew cold air between his digits. "Mine," she repeated, twisting the skipping rope tighter around his waist until the fibers sang with tension. His answering whimper was barely audible over the drip-drip of the tap.
By the time his laughter turned ragged and wet, his soles shone pink and trembling under the fluorescent lights. Samantha traced the web of veins beneath his skin with her thumbnail, admiring how they jumped at her touch. She leaned in close enough for her lips to brush the crest of his arch, her whisper cutting through his muffled sobs: "Say it." When he shook his head violently, she flicked the stiff bristles of the nail brush against his big toe—once, twice—until his entire body convulsed in silent laughter that shook the bench. The sock gag grew damp with spit as he finally nodded, his toes splaying in defeat.
The clock ticked past 6 PM when she stood, stretching lazily while Alan lay spent against the bench, his chest rising and falling in shallow hitches. She peeled the wet sock from his mouth with deliberate slowness, chuckling at the indented marks his teeth had left in the wool. His first gasping breath filled the room with the scent of sweat and fear-soured saliva. "P-plesse" he rasped, voice shredded from screams she'd muffled with her palm. Samantha rewarded him by giving him one full blown kiss —just once—leaving a desire which made him whimper as she strutted out of the pavilion leaving him tied up and blindfolded.
“You can call for help if you wish. See who comes to find you all tied up in the girl’s changing rooms.”
Alan skidded to a stop, panting, toes curling against the cold rubber. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, blinking up at her. "Not my fault," he said between breaths. "Puddles." His bare feet were streaked with mud and grass stains.
Samantha tilted her head, fingers drumming on the railing. "Excuses." She pushed off and sauntered down onto the track, the hem of her skirt brushing against her knees. "Bet I could beat you right now, even in these." She lifted one foot, showing off her scuffed school shoes laced over her thick black tights.
Alan snorted, but his eyes flickered to her shoes—then back to her face—too fast. "No way," he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The wind snatched at his damp vest, pressing it against his ribs like a second skin.
Samantha grinned, slow and deliberate. She stepped closer, close enough to smell the sharp tang of his sweat mixing with the petrichor rising from the track. "Scared?" she murmured, watching the way his toes flexed against the ground, the mud caked between them.
Alan's throat worked as he swallowed. The wind tossed his dark hair into his eyes, but he didn't brush it away. "You wish," he said, but his voice cracked halfway through. His breath hitched when Samantha crouched suddenly, fingertips brushing the inside of his ankle as she pretended to inspect a nonexistent scrape.
"Mm," she hummed, thumb pressing into the arch of his foot just hard enough to make him jerk. "Soft," she said, louder this time, and smiled at the flush creeping up his neck. His toes curled instinctively away from her touch, but she caught his heel with practiced ease, nails digging in just enough to sting.
Alan's pulse jumped visibly at his throat. He tried to pull back, but Samantha held firm, her other hand sliding up to grip his calf. The damp fabric of his shorts clung to her fingers. "Let—let go," he said, but it came out breathless, uncertain. His bare foot twitched in her grasp, mud flaking onto her wrist.
Samantha's grin widened. She dragged her nail along the sensitive ridge of his instep, watching his lips part in a silent gasp. "You're ticklish," she murmured, as if discovering some precious secret. The wind carried the scent of his fear—sharp and metallic beneath the sweat—straight to her nostrils.
Alan twisted violently, his free foot slipping on the wet track. He crashed onto his backside with a wet smack, but Samantha didn't release her grip. Instead, she straddled his thighs, pinning him down with her weight. His gasp turned into a yelp when she took off her school tie with her free hand, the striped fabric dangling like a serpent between her fingers.
The nylon hissed as she looped it around his wrists, yanking them behind his back. Alan bucked beneath her, but she leaned forward, her breath hot against his ear. "Stop squirming," she whispered, pulling the knot tight enough to bite into his skin. His fingers scrabbled uselessly against the damp fabric, his bare toes digging frantic trenches in the rubber.
Samantha sat back on his thighs, admiring her handiwork. The tie dug into his pale wrists, already flushing pink from the friction. A drop of rain landed on the bridge of his nose, and he blinked rapidly, lashes sticking together. She reached down, tracing the arch of his foot with one fingernail, watching his stomach muscles contract in anticipation.
"Up," she commanded, jerking his bound hands sharply upward until he staggered to his feet. His bare soles slapped wetly against the concrete as she marched him towards the pavilion, her fingers twisted in the fabric of his vest. The girls' changing room door groaned when she shouldered it open, the scent of old sweat and floral body spray thick in the air.
Alan balked at the threshold, toes curling against the cold tile, but Samantha shoved him forward with a laugh. His knees hit the bench with a hollow thud as she pushed him down, his mud-streaked feet leaving smears on the pristine white surface. From the corner, a forgotten hairbrush clattered to the floor—the sound made him flinch like a gunshot.
She rummaged through the lost-and-found bin with predatory efficiency, tossing aside mismatched socks and crumpled jumpers until her fingers closed around the prize: a frayed skipping rope, its plastic handles worn smooth by countless hands. The rope hissed through the air when she tested its weight, the sound cutting through the damp silence. Alan's eyes darted to the emergency exit, but Samantha stepped into his line of sight, twirling the rope like a lasso. "Don't even think about it," she murmured, and pressed her palm flat against his pounding chest.
The bench groaned under their combined weight as she straddled his lap again, looping the rope around his waist in rough, efficient tugs. His breath came in shallow bursts when she yanked it tight ariund his bidy and the slats of the bench, the fibers biting into his ribs through the thin vest. She knotted it at the small of his back, then paused to admire how his bare feet dangled inches above the tile, toes twitching like a hanged man's. A stray hockey sock—crusty with dried mud—made for an improvised gag; she stuffed it between his teeth before he could protest, the wool soaking up his panicked saliva.
Alan thrashed violently when her fingers traced the hem of his shorts, tickling his thighs, but she merely laughed and reached past him, snagging the discarded hair tie from the floor. "Relax," she murmured. The blindfold came next: her own tartan scarf, still warm from her neck, smelling of lavender detergent and something muskier beneath. She wound it twice around his eyes before knotting it at the base of his skull, her thumbs pressing into the delicate hollows behind his ears. His gasp fogged the fabric as she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Better."
The skipping rope’s rough fibers burned against his ankles as she lashed them together with methodical precision, each loop tighter than the last. His knees knocked together when she cinched the final knot, his bare soles twitching helplessly in the air. The bench creaked ominously as he arched his back, testing the bonds, but all it earned him was a sharp nip to his earlobe. "Settle down," Samantha breathed, her fingers skating up his shin to trace the tendon behind his knee. "We’re just getting started."
The first stroke of the nail brush came without warning—stiff bristles scouring the mud from his toes with ruthless efficiency. Alan jerked violently, a muffled scream vibrating against the sock in his mouth. She chuckled, twisting his big toe between her fingers to hold him steady as she scraped the brush over the arch, each pass slower than the last. The scent of cheap soap mingled with the wet-earth musk of the track still clinging to his skin. His toes curled into themselves instinctively, but she wedged the brush between them, scrubbing until the pink flesh shone raw and clean.
Water from the tap hissed into the basin beside them, droplets splashing onto his ankles as she dunked the brush again. "Filthy," she tutted, dragging the soaped bristles along his sole in long, deliberate strokes. His thighs trembled against the bench, the skipping rope digging deeper with every convulsive twitch. When her thumbnail found that delicate spot just below his toes, he arched so sharply the bench legs screeched against the tile. She paused—letting him pant against the gag—then blew a slow, cold stream of air across the wet soap suds. His answering whimper was sweeter than the lavender clinging to her scarf.
The bristles switched to feather-light circles around his heel, teasing the sensitive skin there until his breathing turned jagged. Samantha watched with clinical fascination as his toes splayed wide—an involuntary surrender—and seized the opportunity to dig the brush between them, twisting. His muffled laughter vibrated through her palm where it clamped down on his knee, the sound choked and desperate. Mud swirled down the drain in rusty tendrils, revealing the vulnerable pink undersides she'd been craving. "Almost clean," she murmured, squeezing his Achilles tendon between her fingers like a pulse point.
Her lips barely grazed the arch—just once—but the shock of it made him freeze mid-squirm. The kiss left a damp crescent she traced with one fingertip before raking her nails up the length of his sole in a slow, deliberate drag. Alan bucked so hard the bench lifted momentarily off its front legs, his scream muffled by layers of wool and polyester. She caught his ankle before he could yank it away, her thumb pressing into the hollow beneath his anklebone just hard enough to make him whimper. "You're delicious," she breathed against his toes, opening her mouth just wide enough to scrape her teeth along the ridge.
The hairbrush came next—its bristles dancing in erratic patterns between his toes, circling each digit until his legs spasmed like a dying insect. She watched, enthralled, as his knees knocked together fruitlessly, the skipping rope sawing into his waist with every jerk. His heels drummed against the bench in frantic Morse code she pretended to decipher aloud: "S-t-o-p—" she mocked, dragging the brush in one long, excruciating stroke from heel to toes. His gagged scream dissolved into wet, hiccuping laughter that shook his entire body, sending fresh droplets of water skittering across the tiles from the still-dripping tap.
When he arched his back so sharply the bench threatened to topple, Samantha abandoned the brush in favor of her nails—ten precise points spidering up his arches in alternating rhythms. The sound he made wasn't human; a high, reedy keen muffled by wool as his toes curled inward defensively. She pinned his little toe between thumb and forefinger, wrenching it straight before skittering her index finger down the tendon with surgical precision. His hips lifted clear off the bench, the muscles in his bound arms standing out in stark relief against the nylon restraints. The scent of fear had changed—gone syrupy-sweet with adrenaline, clinging to his damp skin like the soap bubbles sliding down his calves.
She paused just long enough to press her lips to the hollow beneath his toes, tasting salt and the ghost of antibacterial foam. His foot jerked instinctively, but she trapped it against her sternum, letting him feel the vibrations of her laughter through his sole. "You're mine now," she murmured against his instep, then dragged her front teeth along the ridge in a mock bite that had him thrashing anew. Her nails found the spot just below his toes—that treacherous, twitching nexus of nerves—and attacked in relentless spirals, each rotation tighter than the last. The gag turned his screams into wet, rhythmic gasps that fogged the tartan blindfold with each exhale.
The wall clock's ticking grew louder as she switched tactics—alternating between feather-light strokes that made his toes curl inward protectively and sudden, sharp digs that sent his knees crashing together. His heels left dull thuds against the bench, the rhythm stuttering whenever she found a new sensitive spot. She catalogued each reaction with the precision of a scientist: the way his little toe twitched when she scraped her nail diagonally across the arch, how his breath hitched when she blew cold air between his digits. "Mine," she repeated, twisting the skipping rope tighter around his waist until the fibers sang with tension. His answering whimper was barely audible over the drip-drip of the tap.
By the time his laughter turned ragged and wet, his soles shone pink and trembling under the fluorescent lights. Samantha traced the web of veins beneath his skin with her thumbnail, admiring how they jumped at her touch. She leaned in close enough for her lips to brush the crest of his arch, her whisper cutting through his muffled sobs: "Say it." When he shook his head violently, she flicked the stiff bristles of the nail brush against his big toe—once, twice—until his entire body convulsed in silent laughter that shook the bench. The sock gag grew damp with spit as he finally nodded, his toes splaying in defeat.
The clock ticked past 6 PM when she stood, stretching lazily while Alan lay spent against the bench, his chest rising and falling in shallow hitches. She peeled the wet sock from his mouth with deliberate slowness, chuckling at the indented marks his teeth had left in the wool. His first gasping breath filled the room with the scent of sweat and fear-soured saliva. "P-plesse" he rasped, voice shredded from screams she'd muffled with her palm. Samantha rewarded him by giving him one full blown kiss —just once—leaving a desire which made him whimper as she strutted out of the pavilion leaving him tied up and blindfolded.
“You can call for help if you wish. See who comes to find you all tied up in the girl’s changing rooms.”