Professor Morrissey’s Feet

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As I sat inside my morning Creative Writing class with Professor Morrissey, I started to feel nervous because it was approaching the time when we’d have to share some of our poetry with the class.

“Who wants to start?” Professor Morrissey said standing at the front of the class in a gray suit. He was in his late fifties with well-trimmed gray hair, but he looked much younger than his age. All his students loved him because he had a warm personality and he was always cracking jokes. Sometimes he’d wear a leather jacket to class and other times, he’d be dressed in a suit. “Ah, it seems to always be the same people…” He glanced over at me and said, “Miguel. How about we start with you?”

“Uh, okay,” I said nervously. I read a couple of my poems out loud and when I was finished, I let out a sigh of relief. But I was afraid that my writing was going to be picked apart.

“Well done,” Professor Morrissey said. “Now, can anyone tell me what some of the recurring themes are in Miguel’s work?” A student in the back raised her hand. “Yes,” Professor Morrissey said as he called on her. “Go ahead.”

“I noticed a lot of feet imagery in his poems,” the student said, which generated quite a few laughs from the class.

“That’s interesting,” Professor Morrissey said. He glanced over at me with a curious look in his eye and I could feel my face turning red. And I wished that I could’ve crawled under my desk and turned invisible.

After class, Professor Morrissey approached me in the hallway.

“I want to see you sometime during my office hours,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

“I think your work is really good and I may have some opportunities for you as far as poetry submissions go,” he said.

“Great. I’ll stop by later today.”

“Perfect,” he said with a grin as he patted my arm and I watched his feet as he walked away.

For the rest of the day I swam in my embarrassment. I’d always had a foot fetish, but I never planned on revealing it to the world. Maybe I was just being paranoid.

After my last class of the day, I stopped by Professor Morrissey’s office.

“Knock, knock,” I said before stepping inside.

He was sitting at his computer when he turned around with a large smile and said, “Hey. Good to see ya. Come in. Have a seat.” As he removed his reading glasses, I sat down in the chair next to his desk. “So, as I mentioned to you before, I was really impressed by your writing. And I want to put you in touch with the head of our poetry department,” he said.

“I’d really appreciate that.”

“I’ll speak to her sometime this week and then I’ll send you an email,” he said writing a note down on a piece of paper as a reminder.


“Send me some more of your foot poetry,” he said, and then he quickly corrected himself. “I samsun escort mean, metered poetry. Not foot as in human feet,” he said with a laugh. “Although, you do seem to be fond of those too.” I felt my embarrassment returning and I didn’t know what to say. “I hope you didn’t feel too embarrassed in class today.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said.

“It’s not an easy thing to do, but I’m glad you shared your work. And you’re not the only poet to include foot imagery in his work. Pushkin did as well. But he mainly liked women’s feet. Read Eugene Onegin when you get a chance.”

“I will.”

“You know, I might even have a copy here that I can let you borrow,” he said putting on his glasses. He turned around and scanned his eyes over his bookcase. Then he stood up and pulled down a copy of Eugene Onegin and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said as I flipped through it.

“I wonder if Pushkin was as passionate about men’s feet as he was about women’s feet,” he said. At that moment, I noticed him reaching down to adjust his dress shoe.

“Is there something in your shoe?” I asked.

“Oh, no. It’s just these shoes are really uncomfortable and they hurt my feet,” he said.

“Why don’t you take them off?”

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’d probably knock you out from the smell,” he said with a laugh. Then he removed his glasses and set them down on his desk.

“I’m sure they’re not that bad.”

“You’d be surprised in this heat,” he said, scrunching up his nose. “I’m sure I can manage. I won’t be here long anyway and I can wait until I get home to take them off,” he said.

“Why wait? Go ahead and take them off. I don’t mind at all,” I said trying desperately to see him in socks.

“I would feel more comfortable. Are you sure?” he asked.


“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said. I watched in eager anticipation as he untied his dress shoes and slipped them off of his tired feet. He wiggled his toes and rubbed his dress-socked feet on the floor. As I stared at them, I started to feel my heart beat a little faster. “That’s so much better,” he said. “I really need to invest in some better shoes.”

“You don’t wear insoles?”

“I used to, but I haven’t gotten around to buying more,” he said. “My feet really take a beating standing all day.”

“I can imagine,” I said. I tried to contain myself, but I was dying to get my hands on his feet. And when I saw my chance, I just went for it. “You know, I’m pretty good with my hands.”

“Pretty good with your hands?” he asked with a puzzled look on his face.

“I can rub them for you,” I said.

“Rub them? No, I couldn’t put you through that torture,” he said with a laugh.

“I’m serious.”

“Although the offer sounds urfa escort tempting, I couldn’t let you do that,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’d rather not make things awkward between us,” he said.

“Just let loose and relax. Trust me. It’ll feel good.”

“I don’t know. You seem pretty persistent,” he said. “Oh, why not? But first, close the door and lock it.” I did as he said and then I sat back down as he placed his sweaty socked feet in my lap. This has to be a dream, I thought. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’m sure.” I rubbed my thumbs up and down his arches, and I could feel how damp his socks were.

“That feels good,” he said. “I can’t remember the last time someone’s rubbed my feet for me.” He paused for a moment and said, “I have some papers to grade still. Do you mind if I get a little work done?”

“Sure,” I said.

“You can stay here. I’m quite enjoying this massage,” he said. I continued to rub his feet as he read over a few papers and wrote remarks on them with a red pen. All I could think about was how badly I wanted his feet.

“It’ll feel much better if I take your socks off,” I said and he paused from his reading.

“That’s okay. I can’t make you touch my bare feet. I mean, they’re clean, but I’m sure they’re pretty smelly,” he said.

“But I want to.”



“Okay, if you say so,” he said and I removed his socks slowly, revealing his gorgeously soft and sexy soles as the strong aroma wafted up to my nose. “Whoa, I can smell them from here. Are you sure this doesn’t bother you?”

“No, I can’t smell anything.”

“You must really like feet because anyone else would be headed for the hills by now,” he said.

“I don’t even notice.”

“Now I’m certain you have a foot fetish,” he said with a smile. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I find feet to be quite fascinating,” he said.

“You do?”

“Yes. I have a thing for feet too. But I wouldn’t call it a fetish.”


“I love having them touched. So what is it that you like about feet?”

“Everything. I like the way they look and feel.”

“How about the smell?”

“I enjoy it very much.”

“Now, is it the smell that turns you on? Or is it the humiliation of having to smell stinky feet that turns you on?”

“It’s a little of both.”

“I see,” he said.

“Have you ever sucked someone’s toes before?”

“No. I’d have to be pretty drunk to do that,” he said with a laugh. “I’m not into the smell or taste of feet.” I continued to rub his bare feet and I was starting to feel my cock twitch. We chatted for five minutes or so, but I was too distracted to pay attention to what he was saying. “You’re doing such a good job and I hate to stop you, but I’m curious to know, sinop escort would you like to smell my feet?”

“I’d love to,” I said and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Good. Get down on your knees and take a big whiff of them,” he said, raising his foot and wiggling his toes teasingly as I knelt before him. I slowly pressed my face into his sweaty sole, burying my nose deep between his stinky toes, and took in a long whiff and moaned. Then he raised his other foot to my face and let me inhale his intoxicating scent. And the more it filled my nostrils and lungs, the more I craved it.

“How do they smell?” he asked.

“Incredible,” I said as I started to moan louder and I could barely think.

“Good answer,” he said. I continued to sniff until I fell into a state of rapture and I could feel my cock becoming as hard as a marble pillar. “You know, I’ve never had anyone suck on my toes before.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“You’re right,” he said. I pressed my lips to his soles and gave them wet kisses all over. “I like the way that feels.” I kissed each of his toes and teased them a bit with my tongue. The anticipation of tasting them was driving me crazy. “Open your mouth,” he said. So I closed my eyes and felt his toes slide into my warm, hungry mouth. I sucked the sweat from them and the taste was orgasmic. “Oh, that feels amazing. I could get used to this.” I continued sucking like his toes were the last meal I’d ever have on earth. I savored the taste as I licked between them and cleaned them thoroughly until they were glistening with my saliva. Then I licked his wrinkled soles from the bottom of his heels to the tops of his toes and tasted their saltiness. I continued licking as I lost all track of time. Then I nuzzled my face against his wet soles and sniffed his toes some more. I sucked on them and moved on to his arches. I explored every crevice of his feet until my tongue was tired. With his foot in my mouth, I watched as Professor Morrissey undid his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his hard erect cock. Then he started stroking it as I worshiped his feet. When I could no longer contain myself, I unzipped my jeans, reached down into my boxer briefs, and pulled out my throbbing cock as well. We jacked off together and after a few minutes of hard stroking, we both shot out loads of cum. Afterwards, I continued kissing his feet as a way to say, thank you.

We cleaned up after ourselves and I was sad that our time had to end. I’d found comfort at his feet and I wished that I could’ve bottled up his foot scent to take home with me like cologne.

I put away Professor Morrissey’s copy of Eugene Onegin and was getting ready to leave when he stopped me.

“Take these with you,” he said handing me his sweaty socks. “Maybe they’ll inspire you to write some more foot poetry,” he said with a grin.

“Thank you so much,” I said as I held them up to my face and took a deep whiff of his aroma.

Professor Morrissey grinned and said, “I think we’re going to have a great semester together.”

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