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The Missing Lawn Mower
It was a hot Saturday afternoon. I had recently moved to a southern city and was trying to get settled in my new house. Spring comes early down here. With it came hot and sometimes humid days. But I am not complaining. After another cold and brutal winter up north these Yankee bones need a good thawing out.
I was busy painting in the back room when I thought I heard a soft knock on the front door. No one knows me here yet so I couldn't imagine who might be calling. When I opened the door there stood a young, fit and very handsome young man. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that showed off a toned torso. Short cropped tousled hair and a sweaty face completed the look.
He apologized for disturbing me. He asked if I had seen anyone “suspicious” pushing a red lawn mower down the street in the past couple weeks. I explained that I had just moved here and basically hadn't noticed any suspicious activity at all. Even had I seen someone pushing a mower it would not have made me think something was amiss.
This tired and sweaty lad had made a two-hour drive from a distant city to a house down the block that he is trying to sell. His intention was to spend the weekend there getting the place spruced up a bit. Mowing the lawn, trimming hedges, etc. But when he went to the storage shed in the back yard he discovered someone had broken in and stolen his mower and all his equipment. The discouragement showed on his handome face. I actually felt sorry for him.
I said I would gladly let him use my mower if I had one, which I did not. He thanked me and turned toward the neighbor's house. His plan was to go up and down the street inquiring at each house if anyone had perhaps spotted someone with his mower. I noticed he was wearing work boots. I thought that his feet must be very hot and tired in those heavy things. Immediately I had a mental image of what his feet must smell like being cooped up in those boots. Probably hot, sweaty and a bit rank. As he walked away I began to plan my strategy.
I waited until I saw him coming back toward my house and then went out to the street to check the mailbox. As he passed I asked if anyone had information that was helpful. He looked almost downtrodden by then and his reply was what I expected. Nothing. No one saw a thing. I mentioned that I had been working at getting my house settled and was getting a bit weary myself. I had some cold beer in the fridge and if he felt like relaxing for a bit he was more than welcome to stop back and enjoy a cold brew with me. He perked up slightly and said he might consider doing that. I didn't know if he would return but at least I had offered.
About half an hour later I again heard a knock on the door. I opened to see him standing there looking even more hot and sweaty that previously. He sheepishly entered and I offered him the one piece of furniture I had in the living room. A big, over-stuffed recliner. He sat down and leaned back and let out a long sigh. The footrest made a nice platform for viewing his feet. I popped a couple cans of beer, brought in a kitchen chair, and sat near him. We drank, chatted and relaxed. I told him that it was OK to take off his boots and let his hot feet get some air. He sheepishly replied that he had been wearing them all day and was sure his socks and feet were too sweaty and smelly. I eagerly reassured him it was just fine. It would not bother me. He reluctantly and slowly took off his footwear and I set them on the bare floor. He was correct about the sweat and smell, and his socks were worn and tattered and damp. I could even see a bit of big toe peeking out. I offered him another beer and he gladly accepted. He seemed to be relaxing a bit more as time went on. I then made my move. Not wanting to scare him off I was subtle but sincere.
“Hey, I know you are tired and your feet must be sore and tired as well. How about letting me give you a nice, gentle foot massage? I have done it a few times before to friends and it would be a nice way for you to relax even more this afternoon? You up for it?”
His immediate reaction was one of surprise and hesitancy. I could tell he wasn't sure where I was coming from and if he had perhaps been lured into possible weird situation. To help him decide I quickly reached out with one hand and gently touched his left foot. Just enough to convince him that I was serious. He flinched at first, but then I could feel the tension begin to drain from his body and he nodded that it was OK to continue. Green light means go!
I have to say that my passion for guy's feet is hard to describe. It can be overwhelming at times. If I find myself face to foot with a pair it makes me almost swoon. And this guy's feet were fine. I would say maybe size 11's and very nicely shaped. Even through his scraggly white sox the definition of his toes and arches was apparent. I started massaging his foot with both hands. Left foot first, and then switching to the right. Back and forth. Using genlty pressure and trying to hit all the right spots. He closed his eyes and leaned back a bit more. I pressed my nose against his feet and inhaled that magical, intoxicating scent. Foot aroma is better than cologne to me. And his feet smelled just right.
I got a bit bolder and began to remove his socks. He glanced up quickly with a questioning look but I told him to just relax, close his eyes and let me work my magic. He acquiesced. Immediately my tongue met the warm, salty and clammy skin of his foot. With one lick I knew it was going to be heavenly. I sniffed and licked my way around the top and sole of that foot and then went for the toes. I sucked the big toe first, slurping and slobbering as if it were a little penis that I was servicing. Then each other toe got its turn until his entire foot was glistening with my spit. Licking him made me feel like a kid licking a lollipop.
I moved to the other foot and did the same. Then both feet were pushed close so I could do them together. By now the guy was very relaxed, his breathing was shallow and his eyes, though open a bit, appeared to be almost glazed over. I continued with my ministrations and occasionally glanced at him to judge his reactions. I could detect that he was getting aroused. I think he tried to hide it, but it was obvious to me. Talk about arousal. My penis was so hard it almost hurt. It was leaking so much that my shorts were sticking to my thigh. I asked him if he was OK and he barely murmured a reply.
“I am fine. I never had anyone work on my feet before. It feels so great. It is hot. I can't describe how good it feels, mister.”
I answered, “I can tell you are liking it. There is nothing wrong with enjoying someone giving you pleasure. If you want to get even more comfortable, please feel free to do so. I won't mind. I will be concentrating on your feet.”
He glanced at me with a questioning look and I just nodded back. He hesitantly slipped off his T-shirt. It landed in a heap on the floor. His chest was hairless and his muscles were well-defined. Slowly he undid his jeans and started to slide them off. He had to raise his butt off the chair to accomplish this, but finally they were pushed down enough to where I could remove them completely. He leaned back again and closed his eyes. He was wearing my favorite underwear. Tight, white, well-worn jockey shorts. He filled them out quite nicely. I could see his cock pushing against the thin, worn fabric. I detected a slight piss stain and a wet spot where precum had leaked through. His hand was inching toward his erection. When he touched himself he sighed very softly. Gently he began to massage the mound in his shorts.
The only sound was that of my slurping and sucking on his spit-soaked feet and his shallow breathing.
END OF PART ONE. TO BE CONTINUED....