It Started With Stinky Socks
Evan Whitmore was the kind of guy who turned heads without trying. Blond hair that caught the sun like spun gold, blue eyes that bordered on cinematic, and a jawline that could’ve been carved by a Renaissance sculptor. He knew it, too. His morning routine was a ritual of curated perfection: tousled hair just so, cologne dabbed with restraint, and outfits that whispered effortless charm.
But this morning, something was off.
He stood in front of his open dresser drawer, frowning. No clean socks. Not one. Laundry day had been sacrificed to a spontaneous beach trip, and now he was staring at a pile of crumpled, questionably fragrant cotton.
He sniffed a pair. Winced. Sniffed another. Worse.
Still, he had a lecture in twenty minutes and a reputation to uphold. He chose the least offensive pair—gray, slightly stiff, with the faintest whiff of gym locker—and slid them on with a grimace. “No one’s going to notice,” he muttered, slipping into his pristine white sneakers. “I’m Evan Whitmore.”
The walk across campus was uneventful. The sun was out. His reflection in the library window confirmed: devastatingly handsome, as always.
But the moment the twenty-year-old stepped into the lecture hall, something shifted.
A girl in the front row wrinkled her nose. A guy two seats over leaned toward his friend and whispered something, eyes darting toward Evan’s feet. Laughter—quiet, but unmistakable—rippled through the room.
He sat down, suddenly hyperaware of the warmth in his shoes. The scent was no longer faint. It was... traveling.
Professor Langley paused mid-sentence, sniffed the air, and frowned. “Let’s open a window, shall we?”
Evan’s ears burned. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them. He tried to focus on the lecture, but every shift in the room felt like a spotlight. Was that girl glancing at him or just looking past? Was that guy smirking or just smiling?
By the end of class, Evan—usually the last to leave, basking in casual conversations and compliments—was the first out the door.
He walked home fast, head down, sneakers squelching slightly with each step. The illusion had cracked. For the first time in years, Evan Whitmore felt... mortal.
That night, he did laundry. Twice.
Something had changed in him. He still looked like a movie star. But now, when he caught his reflection, he looked a little longer. A little deeper. And sometimes, he smiled—not the practiced, perfect smile, but the kind that said, “Yeah, I’ve been humbled. Just a little.”
He could almost reluctantly admit that he’d been a bit traumatized by recent events.
Twenty-year-old Evan Harold Whitmore, who had once been the kind of guy who drew attention, now wore shyness like a second skin. Even his clothes were often rumpled and mismatched more often—a clear echo his reluctance to be seen. That week, he’d been pulling long hours at the campus print lab, sleeping in the lounge between shifts, and wearing the same pair of socks for days. He knew they reeked. He just didn’t have the bandwidth to care.
So when Christopher Riordan sat next to him in Comparative Literature, he instinctively angled his body away. This handsome young lit major was the kind of person who made rooms feel brighter—sharp cheekbones, blond hair, a laugh that lingered and a way of listening that made people feel like they mattered. Evan assumed he’d shift seats the moment the sour tang of his socks reached him.
But he didn’t.
Christopher leaned in during group discussion, his arm brushing Evan’s. Chris laughed at his dry observations. He even lingered after class, asking if Evan wanted to grab coffee.
All the while, Evan kept waiting for the moment—the wrinkle of her nose, the polite excuse, the retreat.
It never came.
Days passed. The socks stayed. So did Christopher. There were rumors that the young lit major was a member of some sort of secret club that involved feet and whatnot, but Evan Whitmore was never certain if this was true or campus legend.
Finally, after a late afternoon study session (which included Chris) in the library, Evan couldn’t take it anymore. “You know,” he said, voice low, “I’ve been wearing the same socks for four days. I’m pretty sure they smell like regret and cafeteria meatloaf.”
Christopher blinked, then smiled—slow, deliberate. “I know,” he said.
Evan stared. “You knew?”
The young lit major nodded. “I smelled them the first day. Thought maybe you’d spilled something. By day three, I figured it out.”
“And you still sat next to me?”
Christopher shrugged, his gaze steady. “I liked your mind more than I disliked your socks.”
Evan felt something shift—like the air between them had been holding its breath. He laughed, half in disbelief, half in relief. “That’s... kind of amazing.”
Chris grinned. “Don’t push it. I’m still buying you new socks.”
And this was, as they say, the true beginning of a beautiful friendship. Christopher even introduced him to “friends” who were “into” feet/socks. This was the secret fetish club he’d heard rumors and whispers about. On campus they were secretly known as the Sockdolagers. Once they got Evan alone in a dorm room, they showed their new friend all the wonderful things they could do for each other.
The fetish club members immediately assailed Evan's bare feet in that small dorm room. They didn't suck each toe individually, but two of them grabbed a foot and sucked several of the boy's toes at once. They made sure that both feet got enough stimulation while taking Evan close to the edge as they massaged and kissed his feet.
They began stripping away the twenty-year-old’s clothes.
The Sockdolagers did both calves before moving into the bend of the twenty-year-old's knees. The bend of Evan's knees were another super sensitive erotic areas for the lad. The Sockdolagers had to let him calm down before going on. The thighs were not as sensitive as some of the other areas on Evan, but the fetish club members knew what was next and they were ready to attack the most erotic parts of the lad's backside.
They spread Evan Harold Whitmore’s legs even farther wanting better access to his butt and the area behind his balls.
Things were getting more and more intense. Evan instinctively knew that he would have to up his aggression level to keep up with these professional … almost brutal … fetish club members.
After stripping him naked as a jaybird, they started on Evan Whitmore’s cute butt by kissing, licking, and massaging the cheeks. Each spent several minutes and trips around Evan's butt to make sure that they didn't miss a spot. When one started on his butt crack, he started at the top of the channel kissing and licking very slowly. The Sockdolager had to work at going slow, it was all either he or his companion could do to keep from giving Evan's ass a wild tonguing. The heady exotic odor of teen ass made it almost impossible to take a slow and easy loving path to the pucker.
When one of them got to Evan's hole, he skipped the hole itself and went to the area between his hole and his young nuts. He gave the back of Evan's ballsack some special attention before raising the boy's ass even further in the air so that he would have even better access. The other Sockdolager kissed his way back to the hole.
It was at this moment that he realized that this particular fetish club member had a freaking gun! A gun that, with all the wild movements they were making, might discharge accidentally!
Still, the twenty-year-old felt more bliss than panic. Evan Whitmore was moving his ass around like crazy . . . it almost seemed as if the lad was trying to get the Sockdolager to his hole faster. Evan has the sweetest asshole either fetish club member had ever tasted. They took turns kissing, licking and sucking that little hole until there was a very big wet puddle of cum on the ground beneath the twenty-year-old.
The Sockdolagers MIGHT have left their new friend alone after having their way with him. But, without thinking of the consequences, Evan responded to a raging Christoper’s demand for sex with a kick in his balls. He knew he had nothing to lose by taking a chance on fighting off the Sockdolagers or maybe even making an escape attempt. Things had gotten a bit out of control, you see. The twenty-year-old tries to grab one of the Sockdolager's guns . . . bad mistake. The fetish club member lifts his firearm with a movement so quick it hits Evan Whitmore with the handle and instantly knocks the twenty-year-old unconscious.
Now the fetish club members turned on their leader—the man who’d brought Ethan into the group. Christopher Riordan.
And the lit major smiled as they came for him. He was used to the rough play of the Sockdolagers—enjoyed it immensely. Smiling all the while, the lit major grunted as he strained weakly against his fellow fetish club members’ superior strength. Collapsing back onto the dorm room’s floor, his chin jutted forth furiously before he grit his teeth against a fresh wave of pride and terror and pleasure.
"This is going to be fun," sneered a Sockdolager, sidestepping the lit major’s feeble attempt. With a hard punch to the youth's jaw, the Sockdolager knocked the young man unconscious.
The Sockdolagers lined the naked, senseless Christopher and Evan up side-by-side and began massaging their “friend’s” pecks and necks. While they were massaging, the carnEthantos started kissing their man-nipples. They worked their way down to their limp captives' tummies and then past their groin areas, down their legs, rubbing them lightly. When the fetish club members got to their captives' feet they began to kiss the bottoms of them. They even kissed the unconscious boys' toes before deciding to suck on them. First they began sucking on each of the boy's big toes on their feet. Evan and Chris let out gasps despite the fact that they were still unconscious.
The Sockdolagers sucked on each toe and licked in-between each one till they had licked and sucked every toe on each of the young men’s feet. They sucked and licked and licked and sucked. Next, they licked their way up their legs to the knees . . . then they licked their way up their thighs. When the fetish club members got to the unconscious young men’s balls they licked and sucked and sucked and licked till they actually grew bored with assailing their helpless captives.
They had to think up something new to further their fun that evening …
To be continued