I put my hands on his right foot, feeling it through his sock. I had become addicted to a feebler version of this odour by sniffing at Ben's footwear, but I had never been this close to the source of those emanations.
I felt the familiar stirrings of my cock as I responded to the smell.
The odour was an earthy mix of aromas: the boot leather, the wool sock, skin and sweat, with just a hint of dirt and fresh cut grass. I hovered in closer, subtly inhaling the scent of his sweaty socks very briefly, so as not to arouse any suspicion from Ben. His feet had been encased in socks and work-boots for over ten hours, and now they were breathing. The first thing that struck me was Ben's natural foot odour it was fresh and highly-concentrated at this range. I knelt beside the ottoman on Ben's right side as he kicked off his shoes. He raised his feet off the floor and rested them on the ottoman. "Alright, make it five minutes per foot instead of ten, and you're on," I said.īen nodded, walked over to the wingback chair in the living room, and sat himself down. And I guess you can't shit a shitter: I knew damned well I wanted to put my hands (at very least) on those feet.
Besides, I was between jobs and paying rent out of my savings my prospects for new employment were good, but a free meal would give my wallet a rest at a time when I didn't have much spare cash. Had he seen me breathing deeply of his foot-scent when I thought no one was watching? Was this a test? I wondered if Ben was on to me about smelling his socks. Indian, Italian, Chinese: you name it, it's yours if you do a good job on my feet." "You rub my feet for just twenty minutes, ten minutes each, and I'll order in delivery of whatever you want for supper. I was out as a gay man and Ben was cool with that, but I suspected that Ben didn't realize that the invitation to handle his feet would also invite an intimacy he might not intend. It was just something men don't normally ask of one another. I refused, of course, treating his request like it was a joke, even though I had already secretly taken to smelling his shoes, his slippers and his discarded socks in the laundry. "Seriously, man, I could use a really good, old-fashioned foot-rub. "Sorry to hear it," I said, meaning well. "What a fucking day! My back aches and my feet are killing me!" The socks were stained, imprinted with the overlapping images of a thousand blades of cut grass. I could see only a short length of each of his grey wool work-socks in the space between his shorts and his boots. His boots were as begrimed with mud and crushed grass. His shirt was soiled and sweaty, his shorts stained with grass and dirt.
He had been up since before the crack of dawn doing yard care: he'd have been mowing lawns and trimming hedges, bagging up fallen leaves and blowing off driveways on a normal, early-autumn day perhaps, he'd been helping to remove tree stumps or performing landscaping tasks if it was a more challenging day.
I was a bit self-conscious if Ben studied me carefully, he might see my boner pointing at him like an arrow from the front of my lounge pants.īen was six feet all, black, handsome and brawny.
I stepped out of the little laundry room and away from the incriminating jumble of dirty socks, and turned to face my roommate, Ben, as he let himself in after a full day's work. I couldn't help myself masturbating with all that sensual inspiration I came in a pair of my own socks less than a minute after I started stroking.Įven as I recalled those early minutes of self-discovery and satisfaction, I heard a set of keys jingle against the lock of my apartment door. I was hooked by all the odours, but the foot sweat turned me on the most. With an eye on the entrance the whole time, ever wary of observation and ridicule, I went around the change room sniffing at the armpits of t-shirts, the crotches and ass-creases of underwear, and the socks and shoes collected under the benches. There were no lockers it was an honour system change room, where you changed and left your clothes on the benches, trusting them safe from your neighbour. I remembered being alone in a men's change room many years back and inhaling the male scents of the place.
My fascination with men's feet went back to the change rooms of high school and extra-curricular sports. I smelled and licked at the bundle of Ben's socks in the laundry basket, recalling the instance when I first realized I had this peculiar foot fetish. As the title suggests, there is an extended scene of foot worship fetish in this story if that's not for you, feel free to just scroll on.