Larry,
This is Jon. I have got to tell you about a true story that recently happened to me. During my senior year at college, I went to a party with some friends of mine. These were the kind of friends who love to party and drink themselves stupid all night long, and play rancid KISS and Guns and Roses (ugh) all night. But they are all really good guys, both over and under the influence of alcohol. This night, I arrived at their townhouse at about 7pm, and I learned that one guy, let's call him Pat, began drinking at 12 noon that day and hadn't stopped yet. He was the cute Irish dirty blond stud/jock with huge blue eyes who was the inspiration for several of my fantasies for several years now. I joined up with the party, partying, until about 2pm, when in walks Pat with two drunk girls under each arm. He had a scrape on his forehead because he fell down drunk unconscious on the sidewalk outside. The girls walked him up to his bedroom and left him there, then came out to me to get my attention. I was a pre-med student and knew a little something about bandaging wounds and stopping bleeding.
So the girls got me to go up and visit Pat, because they were afraid for his health and safety. I went up and saw Pat unconsious on the bed in the middle of his room, a bed that was dragged out into the room because his friends from other universities were also visiting for the party and they were using his bed. The girls then returned to the first floor, leaving me alone with Pat for about one hour. I heard another G&R song coming on downstairs, and I knew that I had time. I would have only ONE opportunity. Pat was folded on the bed, fully-dressed, with sneakers and socks, and Pat was one big jock. He was one of those good jocks with a heart of gold and a head of lead. I bent over and examined his forehead and saw that it was only a flesh wound, then went to the bathroom, grabbed a damp washcloth and held it to his head. When I did this, he did not move, not one inch. I was moving his head in my hand and, no response. A second time, and no response from Pat. His eyes were shut, and I could nod his head freely. I thought, what else of Pat can I move freely? I began to get a hard-on the moment I tested the consciousness of cute Pat.
Despite the alcohol I had drunk that night, the hard-on did not leave me for the rest of the night, because of what I did next. I left the cloth on his head, positioned so that I could see his eyes if they opened, and I moved down to his sneakers and moved the top one. He was on his right side, so his left sneaker rested on his right. Nothing. I slowly grabbed his left ankle, then the left knee and lifted them, and nothing. With his left leg and foot in my hand, I slowly turned the foot at the ankle. Still nothing. I put the foot down and quickly but quietly untied the sneaker. I loosened up the strings, lifted the tongue, slowly lifted the foot by the ankle, and slowly pulled off the sneaker. The smell of exercised feet wafted into the air, and it was good.
By this time, I was feeling the alcohol and was getting frisky and uninhibited. I tried to boldly test Pat's level of consciousness by slowly rolling into his hip and moving his body. Nothing stirred with Pat, until I tried it once-too-many times, and he almost woke up. The sense of impending fear that he would wake up sent my heart beating, hotly, but the wave of adrenalin roused me.
It was evident to me that I could go farther with Pat's body than I had, so I did. Boldly, I untied the other sneaker and removed it, and placed both next to the bed. I placed my hands on both soles of his jock feet, socks-on, and tested the reaction. Nothing. With my hands pressing softly on his feet, pressing softly on the feet of a dead-drunk stud, my hard-on was stiff as a steel pole. I could not wait any longer. I slowly grabbed the top of his sock and relentlessly pulled it off his foot. Success! I gently placed his foot down, adjacent to the lower socked stud foot this time, and pulled off the lower sock. I returned the top foot to its original position, resting peacefully onto of the lower foot. I could not believe that I was being so meticulous and careful with his two feet, while my heart was racing around all over the place inside my chest!
There they were. Two limp, muscular, numb, bare feet connected to one unconscious, hot, studly limp, numb jock-dude. Right there. Pat is a really good guy. A good friend, and dependable. I depended on him to stay dead-drunk, and he did. I rather matter-of-factly rearranged the feets' positions, ready with a story if Pat should wake up ("I'm checking for signs of a twisted ankle!"). My bare hands were placed on his bare feet, by me, although at this point I think I separated myself from the situation so as to watch it from above, being high on alcohol at the time. I rubbed the tops and bottoms, pressed the toes into a point and rubbed the folded soles (my favorite move), rubbed around some more, then planted my face right in the center of the soles, so that his feet imprinted right onto my face! I was locked in! Again I faceplanted into his soles, and nothing but easy soft breating from big Pat at the other side of the bed. I even looked sideways through the feet, which belonged to ME now, and looked at the face of the previous owner of these feet. I then looked at Pat's whole muscular body, slowly moving the feet and legs to make sure that they were connected to someone. Were these two feet connected to the same young male, I wondered to myself. Then another faceplant.
Then Pat groggily moved around and rubbed his bare feet against each other. I pulled back and saw the feet move with a mind of their own. I saw how the toes and soles matched with each other perfectly. Not to sound moribund, but his feet were shaped like two little coffins, narrow and longish up from the heel, the widening to the balls and toes. His soles were substantial. They were thick and desensitized from the development of a rather thick callous padding from all the sports he played. Worked wrinkles developed a natural pattern down the center of the dry soles, and his toepads reshaped into five perfectly round pads, resting on the tops of the padding below. The feet had time to dry off by now, so the scent was natural, with hints of sock and sneaker in the background. I could feel the heat radiate off the feet from Pat's overheated body trying to recuperate from a full day of drinking, and I swear I could see the feet pulsate.
I returned to rub my face and hands all over his feet for a solid fifteen more minutes! Wow! Then I heard people coming up the stairs, and in exactly 1.5 nanoseconds, I grabbed the blanket, covered the pulsing studfeet, put my hand on Pat's limp upper appendage (his head), and feigned a diagnosis to our friends who walked in. Actually, it was pretty hilarious in hindsight. Another friend and I recently recounted the scene. He walked in and saw me, drunk, with Pat's head in hand, administering Last Rites on the newly departed! It was a most humorous and exciting night. Every inch of this story is true, Larry, and I'm sorry it went on for so long, but you did say "in great detail", didn't you? Enjoy, and I'll hear from you soon.
Jon