Posted: January 2004
Title: Plantar Fasciitis (My feet are killing me…)
Author: Haleth
Fandom: Real Person Fiction
Type: RPS
Rating: R (for a foot job)
Characters: Orlando/Orlando's feet/?
Warning: Graphic description of orthopaedic disorder.
Disclaimer: Okay, so Orlando's arches looked a little low in that pic of him and Dom on the dock at the bathtub races, but that doesn't mean his arches are falling, or that he experienced any pain from it, or that anyone tried to help him recover from this debilitating hypothetical pain, so this is obviously just made up stuff, right? You aren't so far gone that you can't figure that out, or are you? Oh my god, you can't tell fiction from reality… Help, medic! Slasher down!!
Summary: Chronic pain leads to desperate measures…

*****

All day running in the hills. His feet were killing him. And this was only the first day. Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn would be running for days more, up ridges and across mountains, over hard rock and rough surfaces.

He already knew his tunic wasn't adequate to keep out the cold in winter weather, he'd found that out the hard way while crossing the mountains. He knew the lacing on his leggings could be awkward, particularly during very quick pit stops. And now he was finding out that these Elven boots, beautiful as they were, simply weren't up to the task.

Orlando sat on the couch in his trailer and tugged his shoes off, letting out a soft moan. Orcs were stabbing daggers in the bottom of his heels. The pain was excruciating. He'd stripped off his costume as fast as he could in hopes that his trainers would give some relief, but to no avail.

The door was flung open, a pair of heavy shoes kicked off. "Tough day." John dropped himself onto the chair opposite and put his feet up on the coffee table. "My boots weigh a ton – they feel like boulders strapped onto my feet. Thank God, Brett will do the running for me tomorrow." He wriggled his stockinged toes around above a script. "What's wrong, lad? Don't tell me a single day of running is enough to wear you out?"

Orlando groaned, eyes closed in agony. "My feet are killing me. I don't think my boots give enough support for all this running. Legolas must have tougher soles than me." He opened one eye, focussing on the feet. "John, what are you doing here?"

John pulled his feet off the table. "Just popped by to see if you had any tea. I'm all out, and after today I could use a cuppa."

Orlando flung himself sideways on the couch. "Kettle's on. Help yourself, mate."

John rose and busied himself making a pot of tea in the little kitchen. He read the fatigue on Orlando's face and figured he could use some time to himself. "I'll return the cup tomorrow. And thank you very much."

There was only a piteous moan from the man on the couch.

"You know, Orlando, there's plenty of hot water left in the kettle. You should soak your feet in hot water. It'll ease the ache."

Orlando considered this for several long minutes after the door slammed behind his co-worker. A long soak in hot water sounded good. But that would mean getting up off the couch. He reached up to scratch at a bit of glue stuck to his ear. Okay, a hot soak it was. All he had to do was drag himself into the kitchen, locate the dishpan, pour in the water, mix in some cooler water from the tap until it was comfortable, and he would get the required relief.

* * *

Déjà vu. Orlando settled himself gingerly onto the couch. His feet screamed at him as he pulled the trainers off. It was worse today than yesterday, with only more agony scheduled for the rest of the week.

He'd stumbled a few times today, when he just could not ignore the stabbing pains any longer. Really not professional when dealing with helicopter shots. He groaned. How would he ever make it to the end of the week? The orc blades of the night before had been replaced by red-hot skewers this morning. True, the hot water soak had helped, but not nearly enough.

He lay back, one arm flung over his eyes. He'd come a long way from drama school, only to be undone by foot pain. Oh, the unfairness of it all.

Pounding on the door roused him from his misery.

"Orli, open up! Oh, it's unlocked. Hey, what's wrong? You look like shite."

"Sod off, Billy. My feet are killing me and I just want to take a little nap before I have to drive myself home."

"Let me see, where does it hurt?" Billy plopped himself on one end of the couch and lifted Orlando's foot. Gentle fingers ran over the top and trailed around toes. He ran his thumb from underneath the big toe back to the heel.

Orlando jumped a foot off the couch. "Leave it off, Bill. That fucking hurts!" He sat back and bent his knees, tucking his feet against his butt. "I don't need you making it worse."

Billy shrugged good-naturedly. "Sorry. Wasn't on purpose. What are you doing for it?"

Orlando grimaced and cupped his hands under his aching soles. "Soaking in hot water. John recommended it."

Billy laughed. "Just hot water? Won't do a thing. You've got to get some of those Epsom salts to put in the water. They'll relax all the muscles and take away the pain. Anyway, we're going out to the pub. Care for a pint?"

Orlando shook his head. "Got another day of running ahead of me. I'd better make it an early night."

"Suit yourself. Me, I've been up a tree all day. My feet are fine, but my arse is killing me."

"So go soak your arse in Epsom salts. I'll see you later."

The trip to the apothecary was excruciating, but Orlando made it home with a bag of Epsom salts. He put twice the recommended the amount in with the hot water.

* * *

Orlando limped out of the trailer and sat on the step. He didn't even bother lacing up his shoes. He was planning to find the nearest appropriate receptacle, fill it with steaming hot water right from the kettle, add a pound of Epsom salts and …maybe not Epsom salts. There was a bit of crusty salt residue between his toes that chafed and added to his misery all day long. Or perhaps he just had to rinse more carefully after soaking.

"Whatever is the matter, luv?"

He squinted at the woman standing in front of him, her eyes filled with motherly concern. "Oh, hi, Fran. I'm okay, my feet are just sore." He didn't want to worry her.

"They're taking quite a beating with all this running, I suppose. I have just the thing for it. Hang on a sec."

Orlando hung on. He waited a while as other actors went into the trailer to have their ears and feet and wigs removed. He waited quite a while, as actors and stunt people and eventually make-up artists filed past him down the stairs. Finally, when the sun was almost all the way down and he was beginning to despair, Fran reappeared.

"Oh, you waited all this time! I'm sorry. There was a script issue I had to attend to. Listen, here you go. It's a foot massager. It'll clear you up in no time." She handed him a strange wooden device. A frame containing several cylinders with various bumps and ridges across them, held in place by metal rods driven into opposite sides of the frame.

He held it up to the light shining from the open door of the trailer.

"You roll the bottom of your feet across it."

He nodded, disbelief clearly written across his face.

"Now don't forget, one more day of running, and then you're camping out to catch the sunrise."

He nodded, miserable. He wouldn't even get to rest in his own bed. He hoped the foot massager would do the trick.

Once he got home he brushed his teeth and stripped for bed. He sat in his boxers on the edge of his bed with the wooden contraption on the floor. He placed one bare foot over the cylinders and rubbed it forward and backward across the ridged surface. The cylinders rotated with the friction and massaged the whole of the bottom of his foot at once. He switched to the other foot after a few minutes. It wasn't innately unpleasant, but some of the higher ridges aggravated the pain in his heels. He grimaced. Not so useful after all.

He studied the carefully turned, well-sanded pieces of wood. Maybe if he took them out of the frame, some of them might make interesting sex toys, but they didn't do a thing for his feet. He sighed. A too-short sleep and then another day of agony ahead.

And the idle thought about sex toys had given him an uncomfortable erection to go along with the foot pain. Just his luck.

* * *

"Cheer up, mate. It's a beautiful day to be running about."

Orlando looked up blearily at the heavily clad figure of Gimli, son of Gloin.

"Didn't get much sleep," he mumbled.

Brett sat next to him on the bench. A barely touched breakfast sat on the table. Fork hanging from Orlando's wilting fingers.

"Bit hung over, eh?"

Orlando shook his head. He wished he were only hung over. It would hurt less. His feet now had barbed wire embedded just under the skin. And he'd spent the night tossing and turning. By the time he realized that a quick wank might do the trick it was already time to get up for make-up. He ran a very hot shower and stood with his back to the spray, lifting one foot at a time to let the steamy water wash the pain away. But it didn't. And when he wrapped the fingers of one hand around his hard cock to ease the ache there, balancing on one foot, he slipped in the shower and banged his shoulder against the hard tiles. But he wasn't going to admit that to Brett.

"No. My feet are killing me. Feels like I'm being stabbed all the time."

"Let me take a look, then. Off with the boots, come on, Orlando. Don't be shy. I've seen plenty of naked feet at the dojo." Brett helped him pull the tall Elven boots off and stripped of his socks. "Hmmm, the look normal. Do me a favour, stand up here on the bench."

Orlando looked around the food tent. Sleepy actors huddled over coffee and some stunt guys were eating hearty breakfasts two tables over. He reluctantly stepped up onto the bench. A few people looked up, but no one seemed too surprised.

"You've got sort of low arches there, Orlando. You see it sometimes, ‘specially in barefoot sports like karate. You need some arch supports in those boots." He motioned for Orlando to stay up on the bench. "Hey, Mike!"

One of the special effects guys came over to the table. "Morning, Brett. What's up?"

"Didn't you tell me you used to work in orthotics?"

The tall man shrugged. "Yeah, but I like casting Elf ears and Hobbit feet much better."

"Yeah, well, take a look at this. See? Arches are low, eh, and he's got pain in his heels, like stabbing."

"Hop down, Orlando."

Orlando grimaced. He couldn't hop anywhere right now if his life depended on it. He lowered himself with great care, and Mike knelt and took one foot in his hand.

"Does it hurt here?" His thumb pressed, just so.

Blinding white light flashed in Orlando's eyes. He nodded abruptly. He didn't trust his voice.

"Hurts like a bitch when you first get up in the morning, and then gets worse again at night?"

Another pained nod.

"Good call, Brett. You've got something called plantar fasciitis happening there, mate. Your arches are falling, and the soft tissue, that's the fascia, is tearing away there, at the front of your heel. It's all inflamed inside, that's why it hurts so much. You just need a little support, that's all. Do you have a few minutes? We can go to the workshop and take a casting. I can have you a pair of inserts by the end of the day."

Orlando nodded and followed.

* * *

Orlando sat by the campfire, wriggling his toes in his boots. Mike had the inserts done in no time and had them couriered to the campsite. It felt strange, having all that support under his arches for a change. The pain was still there but he felt confident things would feel better tomorrow. He took a sip of his beer and stared into the dancing flames.

This was nice, being out for the night with his coworkers. It was a wonderful idea Viggo had, to camp out like this. Aside from the feet issue, this job was the best thing that ever happened to him.

It was late, very late. Most of the guys snored on the other side of the fire. The stars peeked through a few clouds overhead. Orlando felt tired, but knew he wouldn't sleep well, so was avoiding his sleeping bag.

His aborted wank had left him, while not with a raging hard on, with a semi-hard cock all day long. Not the most comfortable thing when running over rough terrain. And he wasn't going to get to sleep until he took care of it. He gazed around the camp. There was no privacy to be had here. He'd have to go well past the circle of light thrown by the large fire.

He rose, trying to look nonchalant, and walked toward an outcropping of rocks. Perhaps there he would find some peace. He walked around the jutting boulders and found a smooth, almost vertical wall to lean against.

That was better. He wriggled his hands under his tunic, worked the laces of his leggings loose and slid cool fingers inside.

"Everything okay, Orlando?"

Shit. Viggo. Trust a Ranger to follow him into the pitch-black night.

"Yeah, I'm fine." His breath, much to his mortification, came in ragged gusts.

"You haven't looked so good the last few days. You sure everything is okay?" Viggo's breaths, Orlando noticed, were deep and even.

And his voice rumbled. Damn.

That rumbly voice made Orlando's cock twitch, even as he was withdrawing his fingers from the leggings. His index fingertip brushed against the moist tip.

Orlando shook his head. He didn't know why. There was no way Viggo could see it. Because if he could see in the dark well enough to see Orlando's head shake, then he could see in the dark well enough to see Orlando's hand had been down his pants. And that was unthinkable.

"Yeah, you know. It's been a rough week, and, um, my feet are killing me a little. Brett says it's my arches falling. I've got inserts in the boots now, to give it support." He was babbling, and to make matters worse his voice was sort of shaky. Why was it that in real life, when it really mattered, he had no control whatsoever over his instrument?

"Oh, foot problems. I give excellent foot massages. Sit down over here and I'll help."

Viggo moved to take his hand, but somehow, Orlando knew, Viggo would know where the dampness on his fingers came from so he jerked his hand away and Viggo ended up leading him by the forearm to a smooth rock two feet high or so, with a flat surface perfect for sitting on. If Viggo couldn't have known that rock was there if he wasn't able to see it in the dark. Damn.

He sat obediently and held up a leg. Viggo's hands felt warm on his calf as he slid the leather down. Once he'd bared Orlando's feet he knelt on the ground and placed one foot on his thighs. The other he took between confident hands.

"Where is the worst of the pain? Here?"

Orlando whimpered girlishly. He cleared his throat to deepen his voice, only to have his breath stolen when Viggo encircled his foot and pressed in all the right places. "Oh!"

Viggo grinned, and Orlando could see just a hint of it in the gloom.

Viggo shifted and Orlando's foot slipped further up his thighs. Cool night air wafted across the top of his bare foot, and Viggo spread his thighs just a touch, so Orlando could burrow his toes between them for warmth. That was nice. Better than nice.

Viggo worked his fingers assertively around Orlando's foot while squeezing his thighs together. Orlando whimpered again, but the throat clearing had lowered it to more of a moan.

"Feel better?"

"Hmm."

Viggo shifted again and Orlando's foot slid all the way to the prominent bulge in Viggo's leggings, a bulge Orlando had not noticed due to his inability to see in the dark, but that fit the curve of the underside of his foot perfectly. The heat emanating from the other side of the leather seeped into his foot better than the hot water, with or without Epsom salts, ever had. And it was Viggo's turn to moan.

He writhed against Orlando's foot a bit, keeping up the massage on the other one, until his breath sped up into gasps. He dropped the one foot and lifted the other off his crotch.

Damn. Orlando had been enjoying that. He had to shift now, as his previously hard cock was now painfully solid and demanding some sort of relief, or at the very least less pressure. He tugged the tunic down to cover the evidence, as his growing cock was beginning to push the unfastened lacings open.

Viggo placed the massaged foot onto his crotch, and began to rub the other. Orlando sighed. That was much better.

He sat in the dark, barely able to see Viggo, and rotated at the ankle to massage Viggo's leather-encased cock. He couldn't imagine why he'd thought the foot massager would do any good at all, when this was clearly the superior treatment. Then Viggo let one of his hands trail up Orlando's leg. Now he would know for sure, but why not?

Orlando let out a gasp when Viggo's foot-warmed fingers wormed their way into his leggings and brushed over the head of his cock.

"I don't think your feet are the only thing bothering you," Viggo rumbled. "Let me help you with that as well."

A few flicks of the wrist and Orlando's leggings were unfastened, his cock fully exposed and Viggo's hand wrapped warmly around it. How did he do that so fast? Viggo let go of the foot long enough to untie his own lacings. Orlando's toes curled when they came in contact with the thick, hot shaft. He rubbed his foot up and down the naked flesh.

Viggo squeezed and pulled and twisted his wrist some more and soon had Orlando on the verge of orgasm. Orlando's head was spinning. In such utter darkness he had no point of reference, nothing he could look at to tell him which way was up. He'd never experienced vertigo from a hand job before. He brought his other foot to Viggo's crotch and gripped the heavy cock between them, jerking up and pressing his soles together, which spread his own thighs wider. Viggo's free hand sped up to Orlando's crotch and slipped deep inside the leggings to cup his balls.

Orlando squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to make too much noise, but he couldn't hold back the cry. He loved having his balls handled more than anything else, and Viggo did it with such a sure but gentle hand, he wouldn't be able to stand it for very long. He felt them boil over and the come erupt from his cock over Viggo's hands.

Viggo grunted and titled his hips up to increase the pressure from Orlando's feet. Somehow, through his orgasmic fog, Orlando worried he was pressing too hard, but in moments Viggo grunted and a fountain of semen spurted up between Orlando's toes. Much better than Epsom fucking salts. Oh god, yes, that was simply marvellous, the feel of that thick cock pulsing under his feet. And then Viggo's hands, back on his feet, massaging the slippery substance into his soles. Some kind of pervy new age therapy, no doubt. Orlando fell back, grateful that the slope behind his back didn't include any jagged points, and lay panting in the dark while Viggo finished his erotic massage and carefully replaced his socks and boots.

"There you go, Elf. Good as new."

Orlando could only make a little mewling noise.

* * *

"Okay, that's excellent, Orlando. Very Elvish running you're doing today."

Orlando didn't know which therapy had worked, but today he ran like the wind with no pain at all.

"Thanks, Pete. My feet were killing me for a while, but I guess it just took me a while to find my feet."

"No," Viggo rumbled from where he ran next to Orlando. "It took me a while to find your feet. But I'm glad I did!"

And the race was on.

*****

THE END

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to: Haleth