Ass

All characters are 18 or older. 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.

*****

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.

My fascination with men’s feet went back to the change rooms of high school and extra-curricular sports. I remembered being alone in a men’s change room many years back and inhaling the male scents of the place. 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. 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. I was hooked by all the odours, but the foot sweat turned me on the most. 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.

Even 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 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 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.

Ben was six feet all, black, handsome and brawny. 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. It was good, honest physical labour. His shirt was soiled and sweaty, his shorts stained with grass and dirt. His boots were as begrimed with mud and crushed 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. The socks were stained, imprinted with the overlapping images of a thousand blades of cut grass.

“Wow,” Ben said. “What a fucking day! My back aches and my feet are killing me!”

“Sorry to hear it,” I said, meaning well.

“Seriously, man, I could use a really good, old-fashioned foot-rub. What do you say?”

I laughed.

“Just for a few minutes?”

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. It was just something men don’t normally ask of one another. 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.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ben said. “You rub my feet for just twenty minutes, ten minutes each, and I’ll order in delivery of whatever you want for supper. Indian, Italian, Chinese: you name it, it’s yours if you do a good job on my feet.”

I wondered if Ben was on to me about smelling his socks. Had he seen me breathing deeply of his foot-scent when I thought no one was watching? Was this a test?

On the other hand, I was hungry. 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. 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.

“Alright, make it five minutes per foot instead of ten, and you’re on,” I said.

Ben nodded, walked over to the wingback chair in the living room, and sat himself down. He raised his feet off the floor and rested them on the ottoman. I knelt beside the ottoman on Ben’s right side as he kicked off his shoes. The first thing that struck me was Ben’s natural foot odour; it was fresh and highly-concentrated at this range. His feet had been encased in socks and work-boots for over ten hours, and now they were breathing. I Gaziantep Yabancı Escort hovered in closer, subtly inhaling the scent of his sweaty socks very briefly, so as not to arouse any suspicion from Ben. 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 felt the familiar stirrings of my cock as I responded to the smell. 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.

“Go on, man,” Ben said.

I put my hands on his right foot, feeling it through his sock. I used my thumbs and forefingers to massage the arch and the bridge of his foot simultaneously. The wool of the socks slid a little under my skin, adding a welcome friction to the foot-rub. The sock felt slightly damp.

Ben immediately groaned with some relief.

“Fuck, that feels good.”

I acknowledged that with a nod and continued to rub his aching arch with one hand while the other hand wandered up to his toes. Even with his sock on, it was easy to identify each toe, and I pulled them one by one until each one gave a tiny crack.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the stuff. Rub my toes.”

I concentrated my efforts as I was directed. I held each toe with my fingers while my thumb rubbed them each for half-a-minute or so. It was maddening to be so close to these smelly feet without laying my tongue across them. My fetish got the better of me then, for I leaned in and began to sniff at the toes right through the wool socks without worrying that my roommate might take notice. Maybe I was emboldened by the fact that he was plainly enjoying this as much as I did.

“Hell, yeah, that’s right. Smell those toes. Take off my socks and sniff my dirty toes.”

I obeyed, slipping off first one and then the other sock. I held them both balled up in my hands, and quite without thinking about it, I probed the wool with my sensitive nose, inhaling their bouquet. My erection spasmed in response to the odour and Ben saw it stretching the crotch of my lounge pants.

“Jesus, man; I was kidding,” he said, with good humour. “You are such a fag.”

I was, in fact, a faggot, so I didn’t deny it. I told Ben he should be grateful for a hungry, queer mouth like mine. He laughed and told me to get back to work. Ben considered himself arrow straight; he could be counted on to keep me awake pounding some hot chick or other in the room next to mine twice or three times a week. Calling me a fag just meant that he understood that I was aroused by this contact, but letting me continued told me he didn’t care; at least he didn’t care as long as his feet needed rubbing. I was fine with that, especially as I enjoyed this waking wet dream. I suspected that when I was waiting for supper to be delivered, I might retreat to my room and beat my meat over the memory of touching Ben’s feet.

I turned my attention back to Ben’s naked feet, making no secret now of smelling them from sole to toes. I inhaled deeply as I dragged my nose across the calloused soles I was rubbing. These were a working man’s feet, with corns and bunions and the occasional blister; I soothed where I touched and Ben had no objections.

“Show my heels some lovin’,” he said.

I took this as permission to up my game. While I rubbed the heel of one foot with my hands, I loved up the other heel with my lips and tongue, letting my hands and mouth reverse heels occasionally. I nibbled at the ridges of hardened skin that made crescents around the back and sides of his heels. The salty, earthen flavour tantalized my senses as I continued to explore his foot with my tongue.

When my tongue reached his toes, I licked them and sucked them into my mouth one-by-one. There was some sock-lint between his toes and I pushed those damp woollen wads out of those spaces with my tongue. I might have stooped to licking feet and sucking toes, and maybe I got off on it, but I didn’t eat toe-jam for anyone.

As I rubbed his left foot sensually with one hand and lapped at his right foot with my tongue, I looked out of the top of my eyes and took in the sight of Ben staring back at me with his intense brown eyes. He met my stare with a heavily-lidded look of what I recognized as arousal. I let my eyes fall to the front of Ben’s shorts, and sure enough, his cock was pitching a tent there. I didn’t let my observation or satisfaction register in my eyes though; I didn’t want the straight guy having a moment of gay panic, so I continued the stimulation for another minute or two before I dared to break off.

“I know just what we need,” I said, clambering to my feet and bee-lining it to my room. I went through my nightstand and came back with a tube.

“It’s lube,” I said. I didn’t add that it was an edible product. “It should make it easier for me to pleasure your feet.”

I didn’t use the word ‘pleasure’ by accident; I wanted Ben to realize that he was being given pleasure by a gay man, but I didn’t want to jeopardize the chance to continue. I was highly aroused by the tastes and smells of Ben’s feet and I realized that before I was done, I was going to want to consummate my lust for them; I was going to try to fuck Ben’s feet if given half a chance.

Technically, I could have stopped rubbing him any time and just walked away from this growing arousal; I had promised Ben five minutes per foot and we were well past that now. Whatever the outcome of this little foot massage session, my supper was promised. But I might never have an opportunity like this again and I was determined not to waste it.

I poured the lube on my palms and applied it to both soles of Ben’s feet simultaneously. It was cool to the touch and he curled his toes a little in response. I rubbed the lube over the whole foot, warming it and using a thumb to part the toes to fill the spaces in-between with the edible oil. I glanced furtively over Ben. He had his eyes closed and his hands behind his head. A quick inspection of the front of his shorts quickly confirmed he was still hard.

Once I had the feet completely saturated, I returned to my massage with both hands, rubbing the moisturizing lube everywhere from his soles to the bridge of his feet and almost to the ankle and Achilles tendon.

I couldn’t help myself. I fell on his feet with my mouth; this time, I pleased him more desperately than before. The neutral taste of the lubricant didn’t deter me from the flavour of my subject. My passion was inflamed and I knew I wanted him more than anyone else in my life. After five minutes of kissing and lapping at his feet, I raised my head and looked into Ben’s equally lustful eyes.

“I want to fuck your feet,” I whispered with heated breath.

“You’ve got me so fucking hot, you dirty faggot,” he answered hotly, unbuttoning the front of his shorts and pulling his cock out. He started to jerk off, which just made me feel hotter. “Do it. Fuck my feet.”

I didn’t need to be begged. I whipped my t-shirt over my head and dropped my lounge pants, freeing my erection. It pointed at Ben’s feet like a weathercock. My hands were still slippery from the lubricant, but not so slippery that I couldn’t guide Ben’s feet together so that the arches met, looking like two halves of a clamshell, or maybe a pussy. What’s a gay guy know about that? I poured a little lube on my boner and spread it all over the organ. When my cock was fully lubricated, I inserted it into the space between the arches of Ben’s feet, slowly fucking them.

It felt exquisite. The lube compensated for the dry skin, but it didn’t change the rough texture of that thick flesh. It was as stimulating as any ass I’d ever been in, and feet smelled better than ass in my opinion. As I began to find a rhythm for my foot-fucking, I cast a glance at Ben. He was gently tugging on his cock. I tossed him the tube of lubricant in case he wanted to masturbate with greater ease. He caught it and was about to apply it when I whispered a promise at him. He weighed his options and set the lube to one side and left his cock alone with great reluctance.

I picked up speed as I fucked Ben’s arches and, in my excitement, I may have said a few things that might have worried a less secure straight man than Ben. I promised to suck his toes every day if he’d let me. If he wanted me to, I’d lick his ass and suck his cock. Ben took it all in stride, leaving his fingers off his cock with great difficulty, reserving himself for my special treatment.

“Oh, fuck, Ben, I’m going to come on your feet,” I declared.

Ben raised his head to watch me climax between his feet. The feeling of each spasm of my cock sent a shiver of pure delight down my back. My penis pulsed and I ejaculated a wealth of seed over the bridges of Ben’s feet. A few stray bursts striped the inside of Ben’s calves. After my orgasm, I continued to slowly pump between the arches of those heavenly feet until I became too sensitive to continue. I stepped back and withdrew from between the powerful feet that had contained my thrusts. I pulled up my lounge pants and tied them at the waist; that would catch any drippings from my cock while I cleaned Ben up.

I was grateful that the lube was edible as I licked Ben’s feet. I lapped at the semen I left on his bridges and sucked the excess lube off his soles and toes. Once his feet were clean, I leaned in further and licked my seed off the inside of his calves. I didn’t mind eating my own sperm, but cum just didn’t taste as good when it was cold.

Then it was time to deliver on my promise and Ben was impatient.

“Come on, fairy,” Ben said. “Do it.”

I had promised Ben he wouldn’t need his hands to get off and now was the time to deliver on that promise. I pushed his feet off the ottoman and pushed the footstool to one side. I knelt between his knees and spread Ben’s legs. His fully-erect black cock pointed up at me with just a slight curvature. He was probably between seven and eight inches long and as big around as a salami, making this one of the biggest cocks I had ever attempted to pleasure.

I turned to the task with a real will. For me, there was a fair amount at stake. The foot-rub might have started out innocently—well, innocently for Ben—but matters had taken a turn that changed the status quo within the apartment. I had fucked my straight roommate’s feet, and now I was sucking his cock. What would be the consequences for these actions? Would Ben accept the moment of passion as just that: hot, meaningless sex? Would our relationship change to a sexual nature or would it cool? Would Ben somehow consider himself exploited and used by his gay roommate and turn hostile toward me? A lot might depend on just how good a blowjob I could give.

So, I contrived to blow him the best I could. I freed him of shorts and underwear altogether. I kept my tongue active first in his groin, licking the sweat off the inside of his thighs and licking and sucking on his balls. I held the base of his cock to steady the monster and licked pre-cum out of his piss-slit before engulfing the glans of his penis in my willing mouth. I wrapped my tongue around that sensitive cock-helmet and let my muscle spiral around the tower of flesh in mindless repetition. Ben moaned; something was definitely right. In the meantime, I played with his balls and jacked him from the root of his cock. I let a hand straying down to rub his perineum and I noticed his cock throbbing in response. I wondered what would happen if I stuck a finger in his asshole, but I thought that might be too gay for Ben… at this stage.

As much as I enjoyed the smell of Ben’s feet, I had to admit that there was something deeply tantalizing about the heady aroma emanating from his pubic hair and from his groin. I could get used to this. I wondered if Ben felt the same way.

Just at that moment, Ben was feeling something else entirely. He came hard in my mouth, breathing heavily, sighing, moaning, grunting. I sucked down every drop and gave his cock a sensual tongue-bath to boot.

Ben had said he’d settle for a rub of five minutes per foot. Not every minute of this session had been spent on Ben’s feet but we’d been at this for over an hour. When I swallowed every last drop and cleaned his cock, Ben was still hard. I offered to give him a handjob, but he declined with a grin.

“No, I think I’ll save a little juice for the next time I need it.”

That probably meant he had a woman coming over tonight. I wasn’t jealous; this was looking more and more like it was just one-time sex. If I had another chance, I’d love to give those feet another licking, and if I ended up blowing him again, I might put a finger in his ass after all. There was a chance we might continue as friends with benefits. I was okay with that.

“The next time I need it might be tomorrow morning before work,” Ben said.

I grinned. No tension. No obligations.

Except one.

“Dinner’s still on you, remember?”

“You still hungry?”

We laughed and he ordered us a large pizza.

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