You are sitting next to Jack, drinking his nasty beer and half-heartedly watching whatever sport this is, and you find your eyes drawn to him.
His powerful, sweaty Odo is almost hypnotizing. You gaze at his wide, masculine chest and thick arms and wonder what he looks like under his clothes.
You undo your shoes and kick them off into a corner, stretching and yawning. Jack doesn't seem to notice.
'Hey, Jack. Those boots look pretty heavy. Would you be more comfortable with them off?'
His eyes are glued to the television, and he only gives a vaguely affirmative grunt.
You kneel down by his huge boots. The dull black leather is grimy with mud and terribly scuffed. You begin undoing the stiff laces, loosening the boots, then you hold them by the slimy soles and pull them free.
The stink of Jack's sweaty socks, free from the tight moist confines of the boots, hits you like a jackhammer. His gray socks are almost dripping with sweat, and have holes in the toes and sole. The smell of musky, ripe sweat is making your pants uncomfortably tight.
You look up at Jack, who is still watching the game indifferently. He takes a deep chug from his drink, then looks down at you, a sneering look on his face.
'Well, if you're going to be my personal foot valet, you may as well take my socks off too. My feet are killing.'
You cannot help but grin. You gently rub the sides of Jack's socks, the greasy, sweaty cloth leaving their stink on your skin. You roll them down across his ankles, and pull them from his feet, dropping them in a heavy, damp lump.
Jack's bare feet are a state. They are huge, and filthy. His wide toenails are yellowed and cracked, and the tops of his feet have short wiry hairs. Little pieces of wet black cloth from the socks still cling to his skin, which is shiny with sweat. Jack stretches his toes, and yawns.
You look up at the wide expanse of his chest above you. Jack is still wearing his white work shirt; though it isn't really white any more. The armpits are stained a nasty, dirty yellow, which over months without washing has leeched into the rest of the cloth, making it a uniform beige. One of the buttons on the front is missing.
'A shirt is sort of formal just for sitting around the house, Jack. Wouldn't you be more comfortable without it?'
Jack looks a little unsettled. He glances away and back, before gruffly replying in a low rumble.
'If you're offering, I guess. I often go bare-chested anyway.'
You reach up and slowly undo each of his buttons, letting the shirt fall open. Underneath, his muscular chest is covered in a thick growth of short, tough chest hair. His belly is quite large, and rounded, but is hard as rock with muscle. You hold the cloth and pull his shirt up over his head, Jack lazily raising his arms to help. As he does so, the smell of his filthy armpits gets to you, his hot animal-like musk. The sweat is clinging to his armpit hair, in small sticky beads. Your pants can barely contain you right now.