by Paco Tuesday
My time spent at liberal arts mecca known as Starros College was never wasted.
My dorm-mate was a British nineteen-year-old named Carswell Cornish. He had come to Starros under a scholarship similar to mine, so he would also be forced into community outreach service. He was a shy, smiling handsome foreigner fresh out of high school. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked, he'd been under the impression that all Americans were wealthy until his arrival at our fair campus. As I said, he himself had been born “across the pond” … in a somewhat impoverished little mining village called Cricklade to be precise.
I entered the room. It was dark and dead silent. Carswell was stretched out atop his bed, eyes closed. He was shirtless and wearing only his jeans. And he was barefoot. I immediately took notice of his big white-and-rosy feet, because they were so attractive. They were size 13 American and were so meaty and smooth that I had to fight not to stroke my fingers along his sole or even lean down to take a whiff of his well-manicured toes with their clear nails and lack of blemish.
The only thing “wrong” with Carswell’s feet was that they smelled a little. And even that was actually a plus in my book. The slightly sweaty fragrance that lingered upon them after he removed his socks was wonderful.
I really would have leaned over and took a good whiff at the area beneath his perfect toes if I really thought he was sleeping … and he really did sleep deeply. But I knew that, at this moment, he was faking.
"Get up, C, you aren't fooling anybody." I said, taking off my jacket and suspending it from a hook near my desk. "You've got a scheduled section of lawn to mow in exactly forty-five minutes."
Carswell sat up on his bad, a miffed expression on his face. "I'm amazed at how you're always able to tell when I'm faking sleep, Virgil."
"That, my confused limy, is because you've never actually heard yourself sleep before." I explained, recalling the buzz saw-like noises my dorm-mate erupts into once genuine slumber has descended upon him. "There's a lawn mower at the campus utility room with you're name on it, C. (at our college, we students were all required to tend to the campus lawns and gardens, btw) I can't cover for you today, so I suggest that you pick out some work clothes and a sturdy pair of shoes so that you can return home to Britain with all your toes. And then you--"
"Hold it right there, Virgil!" He ordered as I began unbuttoning my shirt.
I held it. Carswell was shy, but he also retained a certain percentage of unshakable optimism and quiet cheerfulness. He was also a little left of center, so it was best to just play along when a sudden burst of inspiration had him under siege.
He immediately snatched up his drawing pad and began sketching me. He was dressed in his usual painting attire; boxer shorts and nothing else.
"What was that all about?" I asked once he'd finished sketching.
"The angst-ridden expression on your face was perfect!" he announced with his crooked-toothed smile. But his usually sunny grin was lackluster. There were magenta-colored smudges under his eyes and I knew that he must have been up all night finishing his painting. Maybe I should have played along when he was pretending to be asleep--perhaps he might have actually drifted off for real. He certainly looked as if he could've used the Z's. "So you must have gotten wind of the board's decision?"
I nodded glumly, then did my best to change the subject. "I really didn't expect to find you here. I thought after all that painting you'd be off-campus getting your mack on or whatever."
"I'm not yet finished with my masterpiece. And when you paint in the manner that I do, old man, you don't think about things like 'getting my mack on'." he said, retrieving a packet of caffeine tablets from his desk and downing two of them without water. "Even wanking is beyond me at the times when I am creating. A derivative of artistic innovation is that the libido seems to somehow disappear."
I was surprised to see him speak so candidly. Carswell wasn't usually the type to discuss sex or the lack thereof. I myself was a virgin, but how long could this possibly last? I mean, I was in college. It never occurred to me that my British buddy might also have been a virgin, for he was almost two years older than me. "So until your paintings finished, you're a eunuch."
"Basically." replied Carswell, stifling a yawn. "Oh! I have a question concerning those letters on your desk. The ones that you've been writing to your sisters and so forth."
A jolt of anger and surprise coursed through me. "You've been reading my mail?"
A flush began at the young Englishman's perfect toes, then crept up his lean, shirtless body and finally brought a healthy red to his face. Carswell blushed this way--from bottom to top, like a pitcher being filled with strawberry Kool-Aid.
"I can't believe you did that." I said. Then I motioned towards his easel. The sheet-covered canvas it supported was facing the wall where it couldn't be seen. "You asked me not to look at your painting until it was finished … and so far I've taken nary a peek. What's so hard about showing me the same courtesy?"
Carswell hung his blonde head in shame. "It was … YAWN … purely an accident, Virgil. And I didn't open any of the mail sent to you. I was just searching for a pencil in your desk and I just happened to … YAWN … glance at the letters you yourself had written."
I nodded, totally convinced that my dorm-mate hadn't meant to be sneaky. If he had, he certainly would never have mentioned seeing the letters on my desk in the first place. "So what's the problem?"
No answer.
I turned to look at him and discovered, ZAP! He’d fallen asleep just like that. I would have suspected narcolepsy if I hadn’t previously seen him work himself to exhaustion and pass out as if he’d been struck dead several times before.
And because he was genuinely asleep this time, I knew that an atomic bomb couldn’t wake my British bud. Still I was nervous when I began tentatively touching C’s feet with my fingers. Even more nervous when I replaced my fingers with the tip of my nose--sniffing every particle of odor that his feet generated. The sweaty smell on his feet was exotic and erotic to me.
I smelled his feet like for atleast five minutes as I remember, changing from one foot to the other—sniffing like no coke addict ever could. I knew opportunities like this were frequent, but I still intended to take advantage of every one.
Feeling bolder I tasted his toes and soles—yes they tasted slightly salty because of the lingering sweat … and the soles were oh, so smooth to my caressing tongue. I carefully licked and suck on Carswell’s perfect toes because, even though I knew in my heart of hearts that he wouldn’t, I feared he’d awaken. I did this for ten minutes then my rock-hard rod got into the act. I rubbed my penis all over C’s foot in a sawing motion along a sole so smooth and layered with my saliva that there was no need for an artificial lubrication. It felt utterly fantastic! I licked, touched and sucked the young Englishman’s feet over and over again—alternating with my masturbation. I pleasured myself with this British boy’s fantastic feet until I couldn't contain it…then my semen exploded all over his sleek soles and perfect toes.
I put my dick back in my pants and was still horny enough to lick the semen from my foreign friend’s feet before turning off the light and laying down upon my own bed.
