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.
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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 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.
