Moving down to Georgia for college from way up in Michigan was quite a shock. Culturally, things were much different, but I really liked that. And getting used to the weather was probably my biggest adjustment.
I learned that lesson during my freshman orientation, when my roommate and I got up early one morning to help with a mandatory service project outdoors.
I pretty much won the lottery when it came to roommates, to be honest. Brett was a super hunky baseball player from just north of Atlanta. When he walked into our dorm room I had to pick my jaw up from the ground, as he was about 6′2″ with a nice muscular build and piercing blue eyes. He was also very kind and easy going, which made him easy to be around.
When we walked out the door together for our service project, Brett gave me a look up and down. “You’re not gonna wear pants and a long sleeve shirt, are you?” he asked.
“Yeah, aren’t we working on some landscaping? I don’t want to get scratched up,” I replied.
“It’s Georgia in August, man, you’re gonna die from heat stroke. I’m wearing this and I’ll probably be soaking in sweat by the end,” he said.
I looked at Brett’s yummy body in his cut of t-shirt and shorts. Was he right that I was gonna get so hot that I’d regret wearing these clothes? Fuck it, I thought and told Brett I’d be fine.
Well Brett was right. Not only about my almost having a heat stroke, which meant that I had to take a break about halfway through just to cool down. He was also right about him soaking in sweat. As we walked back to our dorm room I couldn’t help but notice that his cut-off was completely drenched and his face was covered in sweat. And I wasn’t sure, but I thought I could catch a whiff of his pits from under his sweat-soaked shirt.
When we got back to the dorms, i immediately jumped into the shower and rinsed off. I was already super hot, so didn’t stay in long. When I made it back to our room, I opened the door and was greeted by the smell of a locker room hitting me full force. Damn, was it Brett’s sweaty clothes that were making the room smell so rank?
Sitting on the steps up to our loft was Brett, shoes off, playing on his phone, letting his soaked socks air out into the room. Those babies were completely drenched, and no doubt were the cause of the stench that was permeating our confined space.
“That was quick,” Brett said, looking up from his phone.
“Yeah, I just wanted to cool off and get the sweat off of me,” I replied.
Brett looked back at his phone and didn’t respond. I started dressing, expecting Brett to make his way to the showers as well, or at least take off his clothes and throw them in the laundry basket.
A few minutes passed and I got dressed. A few more minutes, and I laid on the bed. A few more minutes and by now I was completely intoxicated with the smell of Brett’s stinky feet. My eye’s kept glancing over and seeing the damp soles and wondering just what they must feel like, smell like, taste like. And how could this sweaty hunk just sit there and not notice or feel like he needs a shower?
A few more minutes, and I saw Brett lean back to stretch, pulling his arms over his head.
“Oh fuck I stink!” he yelled as he caught a whiff of his hairy pit. Brett moved his nose close to his right pit and took a whiff, and then moved over to his left pit and took a couple of deep sniffs. “Sorry dude, I’m so used to sweating like a pig, and smelling like one, that I forget sometimes, especially in the summer,” he said.
“Uh, yeah I kind of noticed,” I replied, still transfixed to the sight of his feet.
“You noticed and didn’t say anything?” Brett said, throwing his phone aside and picking up his shoes. “These socks alone must be making your eyes water, I’ve been wearing them for the past three days in this heat. And these shoes, they’re my cardio shoes and have been soaked in my sweat over the past few summers.”
“And your pits,” I murmured, almost catching myself before blurting it out.
“Yeah, man, my pits too, you noticed them? They’re really bad, like, haven’t seen deodorant in months, type of bad. The guys on my team in high school used to tell me they could smell them through my uniform.”
Brett stared at me with an evil smirk on his face, and I was too scared and turned on to do anything but stare back.
“Get off your bed,” he ordered. I knew exactly what he was telling me to do. I slipped on to the carpet and crawled slowly over to him. Too embarrassed to make eye contact so close, I looked at the ground when I reached his feet.
“Put your nose in my shoes and tell me what you smell,” he demanded.
Without any hesitation, I stuck my face in his running shoe, which I could already smell from inches away. I let out a whimper as the smell hit my nose and I took in all the masculine flavor of his wet sneaker.
“Aw little boy likes it,” Brett said, and I felt the wetness of his socked foot touch the back of my neck, causing me to whimper even louder.
“Get your nose to the bottom of that shoe and get it wet with my sweat,” he ordered. He pushed my head down with his foot and smothered me in his foot stink.
After a few minutes at his shoes, Brett gave me a new order, to lie on my back with my eyes closed. I did as told and soon felt the wetness of both his socks, removed from his feet hitting my face. The smell was overwhelming, and I couldn’t help but open my mouth a bit to taste the salty flavor of my stud roommmate’s drenched socks.
“These are marinated, boy,” he said laughing. And he was right, the flavor and the smell he’d been working on for a few days now, since before he even got to campus.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered after a few minutes, and proceeded to stuff the wet socks into my salivating mouth. I was so hungry for his funky socks and to get a full taste of them. He used his size 12 feet to stuff the socks into my mouth, laughing and telling me how sick it was that I was letting him do all of this.
Of and on for the next 20 minutes Brett would slap my face with his hot, wet feet, or stuff them in my mouth, or pry at my nostrils with his stinky toes. At some point he took of his sweaty, pit stained shirt, and placed it on my face for a while, letting me taste and smell the sweat of his pits and chest. The whole time I was humping the air, my hard cock locked in my underwear and shorts, pleading for some sort of relief.
“Close your eyes again,” he ordered one last time.
“Now for the ultimate feast,” I heard, not knowing at all what he meant. Brett cleared the socks from my mouth and his shirt from my face, and I felt the warmth of his skin coming close to my nose, and the smell of a deep, musky part of his body.
When I felt the hairs scratching my nose and cheeks, I knew exactly what he was doing. It was his ass, he was sitting his sweaty crack on my face. I could feel his trench surrounding my nose and mouth, and I took a deep breath in, and found his hairy hole with my tongue.
“Ah fuck,” he yelled, and it was enough in that moment to cause me to jizz in my pants without touching myself. The masculine stink of his wet ass crack and the taste of his tangy hole was all I needed. As I came, I kept licking his hole, and all up and down his crack as he straddled my face.
“You fucking pig,” Brett said as he grabbed my still hard cock in my shorts, with the mess of my cum all over. Only a few minutes later, the cum in my shorts was mixed with his own stud cum, as lurched forward and blew his load all over my stomach and legs.
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