Miles pulled his socks off, and the funk of his feet grew even more intense. They were pale by nature, but slightly yellowed — from urine, dirt, disease, or whatever, Miles didn’t know. They were creased and worn from the tight socks, which Ramblin’ Joe probably hadn’t removed in days, if not weeks.
His voice faded to the back of Miles’s mind, as he licked and sucked on every inch of Joe’s feet. He took his own cock out as he did, stroking himself off. His tongue explored the crevices of Joe’s foot, glancing up to see him telling a story and ignoring Miles’s tongue.
His name was Ramblin’ Joe — t’was what the whole world always done did call him — and he knew damn well how to ram a goledarned sissy. They want it hot and hard and relentless. He had a jutting square jaw, a crooked nose and two cauliflowery ears, looking like a prize fighter despite his small size.
