It wasn’t the first time I’d raided my roomies’ laundry hamper, and it wouldn’t be the last. We’d both been to practice that day, and had then come home to work out, so we’d both been covered with sweat, positively dripping. He’d stripped his dirty clothes of right away and gone to shower.
I snuck over while he fooled around in the bathroom and fished them out, then retreated to the extra bedroom we use as a workout room to spend some quality time with them before the smell of our sweat had entirely left the air. Nothing gets me hard like the smell of sweat.
They were still sticky, and the smell was truly intense. A mix of sweat, a hint of shoe leather. The smell went straight into my brain and lay hold of every nasty thought I’d ever had about Joe . . . the smell was him, pure and simple. We’d been friends for so long and
practiced together for so long, that I would’ve known him by smell alone.
I’ve had kind of a thing for him for as long as I can remember, and it’s no surprise. He’s a great-looking guy – six feet tall, rangy but broad-shouldered, with long legs. His feet – perfect, perfect size 10’s. He always wore black socks pulled up over his strong calves
inside the beat up old Nikes that were as much a part of him, to me, as his sideways grin, or his slightly scruffy blonde hair.
I didn’t think he knew about that, in fact, I made an effort to keep him from figuring it out. The last thing I wanted was for him to decide he didn’t want me around. I settled for enjoying what I could – changing room horsing around, the occasional sweaty hug and rude joke – but what I enjoyed most was sneaking off with his clothes. I swear it was like a love affair. He never found out. I simply returned the items to the hamper when he wasn’t looking. It had been going on for weeks, with him none the wiser.
I’d have gotten away with it, too, if Joey himself hadn’t walked in on me while I had one of his socks wrapped around my cock with the other pressed to my face.
“Hey, have you seen my –”
When he saw me wanking, he stopped dead, turned around, and had almost closed the door when it hit him.
“Grant. Those are my fuckin’ socks.”
I was utterly humiliated, but I couldn’t hold back by then, I was so close. Another three tugs and I was done, cock twitching, shooting thick streams of cum over the socks and my hand. It was a complete mess. I sat there, grinning sheepishly.
“I knew you didn’t mind doing the laundry, dude, but . . . Christ.”
Then Joey laughed, came over and stood in front of me with an arrogant smirk.
“Wonder what the other guys would think if I told them about this?”
“But . . . you won’t tell, will you?” I asked with a wan smile.
“That depends,” he said, walking over and putting one foot on the mattress, not far from my face.
He hadn’t showered yet, still smelled like sweat and the outdoors. All he was wearing was a towel around his waist. He stuck his hand out.
“Give me back my socks.”
I gave them back sheepishly, and he took them, grimaced in mock disgust, and put them on.
“Now,” he said. “Get out of that bed and on the floor.”
I was a little confused, but I did it. He kicked me over, pushed me down with one foot, holding me there. “Pushups. Twenty!”
He took his foot off and stood right in front of me. Every time I dropped down, he made me kiss his dirty socks. The smell of mixed sweat and cum was really intense and soon had my flagging cock flying at full-mast again. Joey noticed, and laughed mercilessly.
Every time I came down, my cock brushed the floor. And the smell of him was driving me crazy. It was humiliating and completely unfair, but I was undeniably enjoying it.
“You’re a randy little pervert,” he chuckled when I’d finished my twenty.
“You like that, eh? I’ll give you something to like.”
He flipped me over with one foot, then rubbed his sticky sock all over my face. I spluttered and protested, but he merely went at it harder, berating me for being such a sneaky little tosser.
“If you’re that into it,” he said, “suck them. Go on.”
I licked the socks, sucked at them, and he rubbed his toes in my mouth, laughing at me. I tugged at the dark cloth with my teeth as he pressed first his left foot then his right against my face. Eventually I reached up and almost shyly held his leg, pulled the sock
off, and lay it over my belly. Then I licked the sweaty sole of his foot, his toes, sucked on them.
“Fucking pervert,” he said, mashing his foot against my face.
I licked and nipped at him, sucked his toes one after the other. He let me, gasping occasionally, and I could see that it was getting to him, too. His cock was hard under the towel, twitching occasionally. And I grew breathless when I realized how close I was to achieving my dream.
The hotter he got, the angrier he got, rubbing his feet on my face, practically stepping on me, swearing and cussing me out. He smeared his foot over my cheeks and chin, leaving trails of sweat. It was humiliating, but a part of me loved it. He switched to the other
foot, stripping that sock off and tossing it down on me.
“You’ve got a hard-on,” he said. “Use it. Jerk off. And keep sucking.”
I wrapped the sock around my pole and began jerking slowly, letting the sensations flow over me. Soon I was tugging furiously, as the sensations intensified, deepened. I stroked off, hanging on to his ankle, licking his foot, the arch, across the ball, up under his toes.
The salt tang of sweat filled my mouth, his smell filled my nose. I sucked on his toes, running my tongue around them as he pressed his foot to my face. My other hand crept up his sweaty leg.
He was groping himself through the towel, and eventually cast it aside, revealing his hard-on. He sat on the bed, where he could still rub his feet on my face, and stroked his cock, knowing I was watching. I watched him pump the skin back and forth, his fist squeezing tighter and tighter. He rubbed both feet on my face, smearing them around until my cheeks were sticky.
I sucked each one of his toes, licking them; then biting just a little. He was really getting off on it, too, groaning and panting. Pre-cum leaked from the end of his cock and he smeared it around the head of his cock. I stroked my own shaft harder, faster, breathing in the smell of his sweaty feet, watching his cock get more purple, watching the veins stand out along its length.
“Stroke it,” he said, pushing a sweaty foot down and rubbing it over my belly. “Stroke that cock. I want to watch you cum.”
He rubbed his foot over my cock and I threw the sock aside, turned enough so that he could rub both feet over my shaft, pinning it to my belly with one, running the toes of the other up and down the underside. It felt amazing.
He ground the ball of his foot under the tip, pushed my balls up with his toes, and finally I came again, arching up and gushing hot streams of come all over my belly and his foot. It felt incredible – he milked every last twitch and shudder out of me before he ran his foot through the sticky mess and then nudged me with his toes.
“Lick it off,” he said. “Lick it.”
He was close, his breathing ragged, his eyes half-closed. I sucked the come from his toes, licked his feet clean, and before I knew it, he had come, too, jets of sticky white spurting over his hand and dripping down his fingers.
We both lay there, panting, for a couple of minutes; then grinned at each other.
“I don’t think the other guys ever need to know about that,” he said.
“No,” I agreed. “Not if we’re going to do it again.”