Inspired By Tommy's Toes
by Golden West
I was saddled with my roommate Greg’s younger brother Tommy for the evening. And I was pissed.
Greg and Tommy Knox actually lived in the rural area near the college called Baneberry Hollow. But the students didn’t care much for the hillbilly locals... even though Greg was a student. Anyway, Tommy and I made our way over to the girl’s dormitory. I hated being an emergency babysitter. Because Yvette's room was on the ground floor of her building, it was very easy to tap on her window and get her attention. Once she saw that it was me disturbing her at such a precarious hour, she opened up that window and allowed me and Tommy to climb in.
"Well, you're not going to get anyone to give you a lift to the Hollows at this hour," She said after I'd explained everything to her. Through her football jersey night shirt, I could almost see the sweet, secret brownness of her breasts and tummy. As she helped me through the window, she brought her lovely face so close to mine that I could smell the natural cinnamon-like sweetness of her breath. I wanted desperately for her to throw her satiny arms around me. "No cars on campus remember. You won't see a vehicle around here until at least six."
"I know," I said, glancing warily at the stern face of Yvette's cousin, Andre Evershade. He had a caramel skin tone, close-cropped black hair, generous lips, and an attitude as big as his native Texas. He was an art major and a radical of sorts—didn’t appreciate having his sleep interrupted by the arrival of "that hillbilly kid" and myself. That art major glared at me the whole time I was there. "That's why I was wondering if you would mind letting the kid sleep here for the night . . . please? I would let him stay in my dorm, but I'd have some trouble getting him out of there in the morning. You see a lot of the guys there haven't cooled down since the Baneberry Hollow urchins started sneaking onto the campus and stealing things. If one of those hotheads should spot Tommy there . . . "
Yvette nodded knowingly. She glanced over at the rusty-haired guttersnipe, and I could practically see her heart go out to this scrawny waif. She bent down so that she and the boy were almost eye-level. "Do your folks know that you're out so late?"
"My Mama don't care how long Ah stay out." Tommy Knox proclaimed haughtily. "She knows I can take care of myself."
I didn't doubt it.
It was obvious from the commiseration in her eyes that Yvette wasn't seeing an independent roughneck child of Appalachia when she looked at Tommy. All she saw was a skinny little waif who had been out in the cold night air, wearing no shirt beneath his frayed little overalls or even shoes on his little feet. Dark eyes softening with pity, she plunked the youngster down on her bed. She then sat down beside him, drew his cold feet into her lap and proceeded to chafe them--massaging warmth and blood back into his frozen toes.
Tommy seemed quite amused by her actions. After all, he was a child of the Lower Hollows--a rugged youngster quite used to traveling barefoot in the coldest weather. Why this chocolate-skinned young woman should feel the need warm his feet up was more than he could fathom.
He couldn't help but recall how his brother Greg’s girlfriend, Maya, was big on foot massages.
Like Greg, she was nineteen and had always believed that love was in the little things. She brewed his coffee just the way he liked—dark roast, splash of oat milk, no sugar. She remembered their mother’s birthday before Greg did. And every Friday night, after he kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the couch, she’d kneel beside him and begin the ritual: slow, deliberate foot massages that made him sigh like he’d been holding his breath all week.
At first, it felt intimate. Sacred, even. Her fingers pressing into the arches of Greg’s feet, tracing the tension in his soles, felt like a way to say “I see you” without words. He’d smile at her with half-lidded eyes and murmur, “You’re amazing,” and she’d glow with quiet satisfaction.
But over time, something shifted.
He stopped asking how her day was. Stopped noticing when she wore her favorite earrings or when she cried during movies. His affection became transactional, predictable. He’d text her “Long day. You around?” and she’d know what he really meant.
One evening, as she massaged his feet while he scrolled through his phone, she asked, “Do you ever think about us? Like, where we’re going?”
He didn’t look up. “I mean, we’re good, right? You take care of me. I appreciate that.”
She paused, her thumbs hovering over the ball of his foot. “Is that what I am to you? A caretaker?”
Greg chuckled. “You’re the best. No one’s ever made me feel this relaxed.”
That night, she lay awake replaying his words. Not “I love you.” Not “I want to grow with you.” Just gratitude for the comfort she provided.
The next Friday, she didn’t offer the massage. Greg noticed. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, curling up on the opposite end of the couch.
He looked confused. “Did I do something?”
She studied him. “Do you love me, or do you love what I do for you?”
He blinked. “Is there a difference?”
That was the moment Maya realized: Greg loved the feeling, not the person. The relief, not the relationship. She had become a balm, not a partner.
So she stood, walked to the door, and said softly, “You’ll have to find someone else to rub away your stress. I need someone who sees me—not just my hands.”
And that was the end of that. Too bad. So sad.
"So you'll let him stay, ‘Vette?" I asked the responsive young woman, my mind returning to the present.
Yvette nodded. With her thumb and forefinger she playfully waggled the boy's left big toe then looked up at him perplexedly. "If you go around shoeless all the time, how come you're feet are so soft? Most people who spend so much time barefoot have soles that are as hard as concrete."
Tommy grinned and told the resolute young woman about the magical Lower Hollows mud. He even revealed that many vain women in Hackberry hide themselves indoors with a generous amount of this amazing mud smeared methodically on their faces in order to temporarily arrest the aging process. But the cosmetic properties was not the reason why the mud was so special to young Tommy. In his earnest, childish way he tried to describe to all of us the gratifying sensation of stepping barefoot into this mud after it had been warmed for a few hours by the sun--how wonderful it felt when it oozed up between his toes.
Yvette sighed romantically. Clearly she was able to see the mud through the boy's eyes. But I could tell that Andre was thinking about the possibility of stuffing the mud in jars and peddling it around the girls' dormitory for a price. I won't say that the same thought hadn’t crossed my mind. In fact, it made me uncomfortable whenever I found that this abrasive fellow and I were on the same wavelength.
Without words, we left Tommy snoozing in her dorm under Yvette’s watch. Then we made ourselves comfortable in mine.
"First, I want to worship your feet." Andre said, no preamble.
"OK," I said as I sat down on the floor, stretching my legs out in front of me.
He slipped my shoes off and started to give me a foot massage. I felt embarrassed that my feet weren't traditionally handsome as they are wide with stubby toes, but she didn't seem to mind.
After massaging my feet, he went toe-by-toe, putting each one in his mouth. It felt like a really wet pedicure but it was nice not having the manicurist yelling at me for not having a regular appointment.
Andre told me that the first time he’d ever seen my bare feet, he fell in love. He said my dawgs were so beautiful and intoxicating that he just wanted to grab them and take a big whiff and inhale the wonderful smell … and he would kiss them toe by toe and bring pleasure to himself and me.
So I sat down on the couch and told him to get on his knees on the floor in front of me. Before any foot action, I had some foreplay plans. So I held my penis up and told hin to lick it like a popsicle. Andre leaned forward and started licking the underside of my penis. It felt absolutely amazing and I started to groan.
He stopped and said, "did that hurt?"
"No, keep going, it really feels good." I told him. She leaned forward and began licking it some more. It felt really good, but I knew it would feel better if he put it in her mouth.
"Put it in your mouth and suck on it." I told him. Andre looked at me, with a questioning look on his face and then slowly opened her mouth and put it over my penis. Then the art history major closed his mouth, and I felt his teeth on my penis.
"Ouch, be careful of your teeth, that hurts." I said to him.
Andre lifted his head and said "sorry,". He kissed my bare feet tenderly. He sucked each toe and probed between them with his tongue. He washed my soles with his tongue and by then my tool was standing tall and proud and hard as steel. That's when Andre took my penis into his mouth again. This time I didn't feel his teeth, but I did feel his tongue moving back and forth the underside of my penis. I put my hands on the side of his head, and started moving his head up and down, so my penis was going in and out of his mouth. It only took about 30 seconds before I pushed his head off and said "I'm gonna explode."
I took my penis between my thumb and finger and started to stroke it quickly. It only took four or five strokes before I was squirting my sperm all over the place. Andre started giggling and didn’t stop until I’d squirted the last drop.