This Little Piggy
You've been dating Emma for three months. You haven't told her about the feet thing.
You haven't told her about a lot of things. The quickness, for instance—the way you've finished in your pants twice just from making out on her couch.
She smiled both times, soft and unkind, and said "that's okay" in a voice that made you want to disappear.
But the feet thing feels more dangerous.
It started in college. A pool party. Your friend's older sister drying her feet on the deck, toes curling against warm concrete, and a sudden rush of blood you didn't understand.
Ten years later, you still don't. You just know it's there.
Emma has nice feet. You noticed on the second date—sandals, a thin silver anklet, coral toenails. You looked half a second too long and she caught you, and you laughed, and the moment passed.
But it didn't pass for you. It never passes.
It's a Sunday afternoon. She's at the other end of the couch, legs across your lap, reading. Bare feet. She kicked off her sandals at the door and you've been trying not to look for an hour.
She's wiggling her toes. Not deliberately. Just the idle movement of someone comfortable. A slight flex, a slight curl.
Your cock is half-hard. Has been for twenty minutes. You're holding your book higher, pretending to read.
She notices. "Hey. You've been on the same page for a while."
You glance at her. She's looking at you over her book, warm and amused.
"I'm… savoring it."
"Mmhm." She stretches, and her heel presses against your thigh. Closer to the problem than you'd like.
She goes back to her book. But her toes keep wiggling.
You watch them. The coral polish. The smooth arches. The way her second toe is slightly longer than the first.
Your cock thickens fully, pressing against your shorts. You shift, trying not to draw attention.
Emma doesn't look up. But her smile widens.
---
It happens on a Wednesday. She's tired from work. She kicks off her shoes, sighs, and drops onto the couch.
"Rough day. My feet are killing me."
She draws her knees up, then looks at you. That soft, considering look.
"Hey. Would you rub my feet?"
"Sure," you say, too quickly.
She smiles. Extends her legs into your lap.
You take her right foot. The skin is warm. You press your thumb into her arch. She sighs, head falling back.
"Oh, that's good. Right there."
You massage carefully, trying to keep your breathing even. Your cock is responding, filling, pressing against your zipper. There's nowhere to hide.
She doesn't open her eyes. But her toes curl against your palm, and she hums, low and satisfied.
"Your hands are so warm. You're really good at this."
You swallow. Move to her other foot. She flexes into your hands, toes spreading, and a pulse of heat shoots through you.
"You're tense," she observes. "Your hands just got tight."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just breathe."
But her toes curl again, deliberate this time, and your cock throbs against the seam of your jeans. You let out a small, involuntary breath.
She opens one eye. Looks at your lap. Looks at your face.
"Oh," she says, without surprise. "There it is."
You freeze.
"There's what?"
She sits up. Her foot stays in your hand. She looks at you with that warm, certain expression.
"You know what." It's not a question.
Your mouth is dry.
"It's okay," she says, her voice dropping. "I've noticed you looking. At my feet. For weeks now."
Your face is burning. "I haven't—"
"You have." Gently. Factually. "At the beach. At dinner last week. Just now." She pauses. "You're looking right now."
You are. You can't stop.
"It's okay." Her hand comes up to rest on your cheek, cool and gentle. "I think it's sweet. You don't have to hide it from me."
And that's how it starts. Not with a demand. With a cool palm on your cheek and a soft "it's okay" and the promise that she sees you, all of you, and isn't going anywhere.
The next evening, she comes home, kicks off her shoes, and sits beside you. Closer. Her bare feet tuck up beside her.
"Hey. Wanna rub my feet again?"
You do. God, you do.
You take her foot. She sighs, leans back. Your cock hardens immediately, pressing against your sweatpants. There's no hiding it.
She watches it happen. That small, knowing smile. "There he is. My good foot boy."
The phrase sends a jolt through you. Foot boy. You should be embarrassed. You are. But your cock throbs at the words, and she sees it, and her smile deepens.
"Keep rubbing. You're doing so well."
After ten minutes, she flexes her toes and says, "You can kiss them if you want."
Your breath catches. "What?"
"My toes. You can kiss them. I know you want to. I'm giving you permission."
You look at her foot in your hands. Her toes, slightly curled, waiting.
You lean down. Press your lips to her big toe. The skin is warm, slightly salty. A small sound escapes you—something between a sigh and a moan.
"Mmm," she breathes. "Good boy."
Your cock jerks. A wet spot forms at the tip.
"Again. Kiss each one. Slowly."
You do. With each kiss your arousal deepens, your breathing quickens.
"Mmmnnn…" you hear yourself moan, muffled against her toes. "Oh god…"
"That's it. Just let it happen."
You're trembling. Your cock is leaking steadily. You haven't touched yourself. You haven't needed to.
She curls her toes against your lips. "Open."
You open your mouth. She slides her toes in. The taste of her—salt, skin, the faint remnants of lotion—floods your senses.
"Suck."
You suck. Gently at first, then harder, your tongue swirling, your eyes closed, a low moan vibrating in your throat.
She watches you. Her hand rests on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.
"You're so good at this. Such a good boy. You were made for this, weren't you?"
You nod, her toes in your mouth, tears of shame and relief pricking your eyes.
"It's okay. This is what you needed. I've known for weeks."
You come in your pants. Without being touched. Without warning. A sudden, wrenching orgasm that makes you gasp around her toes, your hips jerking, your cock pulsing helplessly.
"Nnnngh—oh god—"
She holds your head gently. Lets you ride it out.
"There. That's what you needed."
You pull back, panting, your face wet, your sweatpants ruined. You can't look at her.
She cups your chin. Lifts your face. Her eyes are warm, certain.
"Same time tomorrow?"
It becomes the ritual. Every evening. Her couch. Her feet in your lap. Your mouth on her toes.
And each time, you come faster.
The first week, ten minutes. The second, five. By the third, you're coming the moment her toes slide into your mouth.
"So quick," she murmurs. "My good, quick boy."
One evening, she's in her armchair. You're on the floor beside her, kneeling. You don't remember deciding to kneel. You just are.
She extends her right foot. Wiggles her toes.
"You know what I've been thinking? That nursery rhyme. This little piggy."
You look at her, confused.
"You remember it? This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home."
She touches her big toe, then the second. "This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none." She touches the third, then the fourth. "And this little piggy…"
She wiggles her pinky toe. "…went wee wee wee all the way home."
She looks at your lap. At the obvious bulge.
Your cock throbs.
"I thought so."
She introduces it the next evening. You're on the floor. Her foot is in your mouth.
"Let's try something. I'm going to say the rhyme. You just keep sucking."
You nod.
"This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none."
Your breath is coming faster. Something about the rhythm, the childishness, the way she's saying it while her toes fill your mouth—
"And this little piggy… went wee wee wee all the way home."
You come. Instantly. A sharp, helpless spurt.
"Nnnngh—"
She holds her foot steady until you're done.
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
The next evening, she says the rhyme again. You come at "wee wee wee" again. Faster.
The evening after that, she gets to "this little piggy had none" and you're already spurting.
"Oh, sweetie. You didn't even wait for the end."
She starts saying it faster. Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten.
By the end of the month, she barely has to start. "This little piggy—" and you're coming.
"Such a good boy. My little piggy boy. So quick. So responsive."
The phrase leaks into your life.
You're at the grocery store. She examines a cut of beef. "I think we'll have roast beef tonight."
Your cock jumps in your jeans.
You're at her parents' house. Her niece is playing on the floor. Emma scoops her up, tickles her feet, and recites: "This little piggy went to market…"
Your face goes white. Your cock thickens. You grip the table, willing yourself not to come in your slacks.
Emma looks at you across the room. That small, knowing smile.
"…all the way home."
You excuse yourself to the bathroom. You stand there trembling, your cock aching, the front of your pants damp with pre-cum.
You don't come. But you almost do. And she knows it.
One evening, you're kneeling beside her armchair. She hasn't asked you to suck. She hasn't said the rhyme. Your cock has been hard for an hour.
She looks up from her book. "You're waiting."
You nod. You're waiting for the trigger. For permission.
"I think you could come just from me saying it. Without the toes. Without the sucking. Just the words."
You swallow.
"I do." She extends her foot, rests it on your thigh. "Let's try. Hands at your sides. Don't touch yourself."
You put your hands at your sides. You're trembling.
She holds your gaze. "This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none."
You're close. Already close.
"And this little piggy… went wee wee wee all the way home."
You come. Untouched. A violent, wrenching orgasm, your hips jerking, cum flooding your pants, a ragged cry tearing from your throat.
"Oh god—Emma—"
She watches. Calm. Warm.
"There. I told you. You just needed me to say the words."
She cups your chin. Lifts your face.
"My good little piggy boy. All the way home."
It follows you everywhere.
She says it in the car at a red light. You come in your jeans, gripping the steering wheel, biting your lip until it bleeds.
She texts it while you're at work. This little piggy went to market. You read it in the bathroom stall and come before you can touch yourself.
She whispers it at a party. You excuse yourself and come in your pants standing at the sink, staring at your own helpless face in the mirror.
Each time, she's there afterward. A cool hand on your cheek. A soft "good boy."
One evening, you're kneeling beside her chair. Her foot rests on your thigh. You're hard, waiting, aching.
"Emma. Please."
She looks at you. "Please what?"
"Please say it. Please."
She smiles. "Oh, sweetie. You don't even need me to say it anymore. You just need to ask. And the asking is enough."
You realize she's right. Your cock is already twitching, already on the edge. The words don't matter. Just her. Just the permission.
"Go ahead," she says. "You can come. I know you need to."
You do. Helplessly. Gratefully. Spurting into your pants, whimpering, your forehead resting against her knee.
She strokes your hair. "My good boy. My perfect, quick, little piggy boy. All the way home."
You stay there, trembling, spent, certain of only one thing: you are hers, completely, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, his girlfriend's feet, a nursery rhyme, and the conditioning that turned him into her perfectly trained little piggy boy.
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