Beautiful stranger
I threw the party to celebrate nothing in particular—just the end of a long week, the excuse of a stocked bar, and the need to see familiar faces. My apartment pulsed with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. I was in my element, moving from group to group, topping off drinks, basking in the glow of being the host.
And then I saw him.
Across the room, leaning casually against the wall as if he’d been painted there, stood a stranger. He was perfect in every visible way—sharp jawline, eyes that seemed to catch the light no matter where he turned, posture that radiated effortless confidence. He didn’t look like someone who belonged to any of my circles, yet he carried himself as though he belonged everywhere.
I felt a pull, irrational and immediate. I wanted to know his name, his story, why he was here.
I tried to cross the room, weaving through bodies and conversations, but every step toward him was intercepted. A friend grabbed my arm to tell me about their promotion. Another guest wanted to know where I’d hidden the extra ice. Someone else insisted I taste the cocktail they’d mixed. I smiled, nodded, laughed, but my eyes kept darting back to the stranger. He was still there, still perfect, still waiting—or maybe not waiting at all.
Finally, I broke free. I stood in front of him, heart pounding, rehearsing the simplest of introductions in my head. Hi, I’m the host. Who are you? Easy.
But before the words could leave my mouth, the room tilted. The liquor I’d been downing all night caught up with me in a sudden, merciless wave. My tongue felt heavy, my vision blurred, and instead of shaking his hand, I collapsed into darkness.
When I opened my eyes, sunlight was streaming through the blinds. The apartment was silent, littered with empty bottles and abandoned cups. The party was over. The guests were gone. And so was he.
I lay there, head pounding, wondering if the stranger had been real at all—or just some perfect apparition conjured by the haze of alcohol and the loneliness that lingers even in a crowded room.
I woke to the faint hum of the refrigerator and the sharp smell of stale beer. My living room was a battlefield of paper cups, half-eaten chips, and the occasional glittering confetti that clung to the carpet like stubborn memories. The party had ended hours ago—or at least, I thought it had.
That’s when I saw him.
A man I didn’t recognize was sprawled across my couch, one arm dangling toward the floor, his shoes kicked off in a careless heap. His chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths. Passed out cold.
I froze. Who was he? My old college professor John was still in my home, but he had no idea who the stranger was.
I replayed the guest list in my head. Friends, coworkers, neighbors—faces I knew, voices I could place. But this man wasn’t one of them. He was a stranger. All I knew, vaguely, was that someone had mentioned he was “a friend of a friend.” No one had asked me if he could come. He’d just… appeared.
I sat down in the armchair opposite him, studying his features like a detective piecing together a case. His jacket was worn at the elbows, his hair slightly unkempt, his shoes scuffed. He looked like someone who’d been walking for miles before collapsing here.
So I began to invent him.
Though he was only about nineteen I imagined he played music. Maybe he was a musician, drifting from gig to gig, crashing wherever he could. Maybe he’d followed the sound of laughter and music into my house, hoping for warmth and company. Or perhaps he was running from something—a bad breakup, a job gone wrong, a city that had swallowed him whole.
The longer I stared, the more elaborate the stories became. He was a poet, a wanderer, a man with secrets. He was lonely, desperate, searching for connection. He was everything I imagined him to be, because I had nothing else to go on.
Hours passed. I tidied the kitchen, checked on him occasionally, half-expecting him to wake and explain himself. But he didn’t stir.
Then the phone rang.
It was Mark, my old college buddy—the one who’d brought half the crowd last night. His voice was casual at first, asking if everyone had made it home safe. Then, almost sheepishly, he asked:
“Hey, uh… is Danny still there?”
“Danny?” I repeated, glancing at the unconscious figure.
“Danny?” I repeated, glancing at the unconscious figure.
“Yeah, Danny. I told him he could crash at your place if he needed. He’s been having a rough time lately. Lost his apartment last week. I didn’t think he’d drink that much, though.”
And just like that, the mystery dissolved.
Danny wasn’t a poet or a fugitive or a wandering soul. He was simply a man down on his luck, a friend of Mark’s who’d needed a place to land. The truth was ordinary, almost disappointingly so, compared to the stories I’d spun in my head.
But as I looked at him again—his shoes worn thin, his body curled into the couch—I realized my imagined versions weren’t entirely wrong. He was searching for something. Shelter. Safety. A pause in the chaos of his life.
And for one night, my home had become that place.
But not for long. Lust had taken over by the time the two of us were alone, and I had every intention of giving in to it.
Mark announced that he was on his way back over … clearly sensing that there was some disturbing sexual fun to be had. I threw the unconscious Danny over my shoulder and started for the bedroom. (next time I do something like this I'll get pictures . . . I didn't know just how MANY folks out there are turned on by a guy carrying another guy over his shoulder).
Anyway, once we got him in the bedroom I went to work. I HAD to get a look at Danny's feet. As if turns out, they were as handsome as the rest of him. Mark arrived, ready and willing for action.
Things only escalated from there.
After both of his feet were bared I slowly began to lick his well-shaped feet. I even turned the limp lad on his side with his toes facing near to my face. I took those toes into my mouth and slowly began snaking my tongue in between them lightly. He began to squirm--coming out from under the "stuff" just a bit, so I stopped. After re-dousing him I pressed the knocked-out nineteen-year-old's legs up against my chest and sucked and nibbled on his long beautiful toes. My tongue explored all the areas in between his ten digits and licked his soles clean. Was fun for me.
Eventually I stepped aside and, good as my word, allowed my old college professor John Berger to have the lad.
And the old guy was an aroused mad dog! He was a lustful motherfucker who seemed to gain super-strength with his horniness. He tore the unconscious Danny's clothes off, Well, Danny was only pretending to be unconscious at this point, but he did such a good job of it, it doesn’t matter. I believe he was still half-asleep to be honest. Still there was SOME consciousness in him and I could feel he lust and anxiousness radiating off the youth’s body as John grabbed his now naked form by the waist and practically lifted him up to the room’s ceiling. I kid you not. In the cramped confines of that bedroom, the old man held the young stranger’s languid, spaghetti-limbed body up and impaled him on his dick! He held that limp, flopping handsome feller by the back of his knees against his white-haired chest. His hard cock rammed deep inside the pretending-to-be-unconscious youth's rag-doll-like body.
And the nineteen-year-old stranger was STILL getting fucked when he came out from under his half-asleep stupor. He gripped John's arms--confused about what was happening to him. The disconcerted gratification in his eyes was unmistakable however. Danny eventually couldn't hold back the scream as his body and soul surrendered to the complete pleasure and aching pain that thrusted inside him.
John held the handsome young stranger as he impaled him. The scream the nineteen-year-old let out only caused the old man to increase his speed and harden his thrusts. Within seconds . . . apparently when John felt Danny tighten his asshole even further . . . he rammed inside double-time and started to come.
And Danny's own dick sprayed it's seed up toward his smooth chest and handsome face, covering him with the wetness. He screamed about feeling the old man's semen that burst into his hot sore asshole . . . screamed that felt it start to overflow from the small orifice and begin to spill out. I could actually see it. I watched as the jizz dripped down the inside of John's legs. And the handsome young man really looked faint within the old man's arms . . . and eventually he passed out again without anyone using more of the chemical on him! The old man held the limp, pretending-to-be-unconscious lad, hungrily licking his ears and neck and kissing his face . . . while Mark and I feasted on the nineteen-year-old's bare feet again.
I stared at his almost perfect body for a long time as I watched his rippled stomach rise and fall with each sleeping breath. His muscular arms were resting on the soft carpet over his head as he was sleeping, revealing his big biceps and hairy armpits. But most of all, I couldn't take my eyes off of his beautiful feet. They were well-shaped and fleshy with round, plump toes. The soles of his feet looked so vulnerable!
I grabbed my trusty eagle's feather and rubbed it across his toes on his right foot. His toes curled, causing little ridges to form across the bottom of his sole. In his sleep, Danny tried to pull his feet away from the tickling blade of grass. I quickly bound Danny's right hand to a nearby tree with some rope from the tool kit. He started to stir a little when I tied his other wrist down, but he didn't wake up. Then I tied his ankles together and started tickling his feet with my fingers. He woke up quickly and started giggling. He thrashed around, laughing drowsily as he come out from under the chemical, but I kept right on moving my fingers over his soles and between his toes. I'm glad I kept going, because he finally reached the apex by going into uncontrollable laughter.
As Danny giggled and squirmed on the van floor, I proceeded to lick, kiss, and ever so gently nibble on every square inch of his chest, underarms, and neck. I teased, bit, and swiped his bare underarms with my tongue until he was moaning and ready to cum. I took all his male-nipples into my mouth and sucked each one hard, as he madly dry-humped the air and had what appeared to be a mind-bending dry orgasm. Shit, the young stranger squeaked and writhed on the floor so much I almost thought he was having a seizure.
Before Danny woke up too much, Mark swiftly and adroitly placed a chloroform soaked cloth over the stranger's nose and mouth again. The handsome youth thrashed in a frenzy, but Mark held firmly onto the cloth, making sure that the nineteen-year-old inhaled every last bit of the solution once again. And Danny's body became weaker much fast this time around--going limp and tugging the youth down into genuine unconsciousness after only a few moments.
Overcome with an urge of sexual heat, Mark licked all the sweat from Danny's feet, running his tongue sensually along the soles, taking the toes one by one into his hot mouth and sucking all the sweat from them, and finally licking the tops of both feet for good measure. Mark then began to lick Danny's chest, coating it with saliva, flicking his tongue sensually over all three nipples. John was in heaven. By now, both our crotches were stretched to the full. Mark's dick, ached for release as much as mine, stopped throbbing in our underwear and dripping pre-cum . . . and began erupting into explosions of jizz that puddles in our crotches in a satisfyingly gooey mess.