By SockgaggedJason
Owen was bored with his office job at a large design firm. He piddled about, unsatisfied that a newly earned college degree from an Ivy league school wasn’t bearing fruit. Perhaps majoring in Art History was a bad idea. As he came to and from the elevators to work every day, he paid little mind to the chaos in the lobby. A large suite on the first floor adjacent to the lobby was under heavy construction. Noise, dust, and a flurry of dirty laborers going in and out of a large plastic tarp draped over the entrance to the area.
Several days in to the mess, however, one of the construction workers caught Owen’s eye. The blue-collar worker was young, maybe just a few years older than Owen. Lean and handsome. Clean cut. Perhaps a mix of white and Latino. Always in a basic t-shirt that showed off his muscle toned arms, blue jeans, and a baseball cap turned backwards. And, the same pair of beat up large work boots. Size 12 or 13?
Owen took as many smoke breaks as he could to justify trips through the lobby or an outdoor area where he often saw the stud. He barely even smoked and never at work.
He secretly took pictures of the sexy broey man. Pretending to be texting on his phone. Particularly his footwear. The thick, tan work boots were scuffed up and well used. Owen had a “foot fetish.” He dreamed of licking his smelly feet.
I have been serving the Foreign Legion for 7 years, aged 17 to 24. After a couple of years of Service I was a Brigadier Chef, the equivalent of a Corporal. With a couple of mates, Legionnaire or Lance corporal or Corporal, we used to have a night leave at times, and we were enjoying spending our free evening in a Café by the old Roman Theatre. Place was quiet and the owner was rather friendly, as were customers.
