Zeke is home from a cattle ride, and he needs a new pair of boots. When a bootmaker makes a startling offer, Zeke finds himself letting a flamboyant stranger worship every inch of his rugged feet and nasty old boots!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Read it soon as an ebook!
Zeke Lightman strolled into Cheyenne hoping his limp wasn’t too obvious. This was a rough-and-tumble town, the kind of place where a man with a limp was liable to be robbed, where the tumbleweeds outnumbered the ladies of proper virtue — and not because there was lotsa tumbleweeds.
He looked like the town smelled. He was dry and dusty, sun-choked, burnt to a deep tan like hushpuppies overfried in underheated fat. He was tall and lanky and ropy-muscled, with more power in his compact frame than an observer might have thought. He wore a dusk-colored wide-brimmed hat to keep the keen Western sun off his eyes.
Wyoming Territory was a harsh place, unforgiving in weather, unforgiving in the temperament of the locals, unforgiving in the relentless onslaught of it all. Zeke wouldn’t have it any other way. A man oughta have a struggle, he thought. He just felt sorry for the women, of whom there were many and who was hit hard by the toughness of the territory. A woman shouldn’t have to endure.
His pants was brown, and brown again from caked-on mud that had done dry with a layer of desiccated dust on top, weighing his legs down. He clomped in heavy black boots that stretched up his ankles with a flaired tip, grayed with time and overuse. They was nice and expensive when they was new, but that was years ago, they was nothing more than oft-foxed stogies now. The colors done faded, the designs now invisible, the looping lines carefully etched by the shoemaker now smoothed while Zeke’s cheeks had grown weathered and wrinkled. His boots was as worn out as a fire fading into coals. The fabric was frayed and perpetually moist, fragrant like spilled wine baking in the sun.
Zeke had known before the cattle-ride he needed new boots, but he wanted to earn some money so that his new boots would be as nice as his old ones was when they was new.
But that hadn’t worked out. His boss, the rancher Jeremiah Goodman, had stiffed him, claiming Zeke owed money on account of some equipment that he broke accidentally a few months back. Zeke disputed that vociferous-like, but to no effect.
So here he was, with barely a penny to his name. He was going to have to buy boots on credit or borrow the money. A nail had poked through his left boot, and he had a blister. That was more painful than an ornery bull.
A sallow man with a dense beard nodded as Zeke passed. “Lookin’ for a lady to spend the night with? Huh? I got womens of e’ry kind, cowboy-“
“Hush, box herder, I’m no cad, I don’t bed slommacks, and I don’t slope out on a lady,” Zeke said, his voice a quavering twang that rose above the rustling crowd. He looked down his nose at the sallow man and his dense beard.
“I know that ain’t true, nosir,” the man said with a leer. “Ruby is available for yer delectation, suh! I know you like her-“
“I’m flat broke,” Zeke said. He looked down at his feet, unable to conceal his shame or the bulge in his trousers. Thinking of Ruby did get his manhood a-stirring like a sudden wind.
He had done come out west to earn a fortune, but somehow he never got enough to pay for anything more than the necessities. And yet now, he couldn’t even pay for that. He got no boots, no horse of his own, not even a change of shirt right now, he was down to the blanket, not a tailfeather left. Once he used up his ammunition, he’d be all out of that too.
Maybe if you didn’t spend so many nights in Ruby’s arms…
He walked past the saloon Lipsweet. The blacksmithing man had no interest in anyone without money, so as soon as Zeke said he was broke, he faced away and called out after the next man on the street. He curled his lip at Zeke.
Zeke looked down at his feet until he reminded himself that made him look weak. He kept his face up. How his feet ached! He wanted nothing more than to take these boots off and dip his sore feet in a cool stream, like the one that ran past the Goodman ranch. He adored the feel of clean water up to his ankles, sandy stones spreading beneath his toes until his gnarled feet was nearly buried.
The boots, those he wanted to burn.
They had been usable until very recently, but when they went bad, they want bad in a hurry, turning rancid as quick as uneaten eggs. Now they was anti-goglin all to pieces, all-fired falling apart. He had started off this past cattle-ride confident he had a good couple weeks of use left. Two days in, he had realized his situation was dire. There was no foxing the boots now.
He had a blister developing. He’d been favoring that leg so he kept pressure off it, and he wrapped it up just like his mama taught him. But it was only going to get worse the longer he used those boots. He tried to conceal the limp now, lest he seem a likely target for a hustler or a gorilla.
He went into the bootmaker’s shop — it was called a shoe shop, but the only shoes sold there was boots, so everyone just called it “the bootmaker’s”. There stood a youngish man with an odd, wavy haircut and sparkling clean clothes.
“Hi there, how can I help you?” He had a strange accent too, full of zing and verve. He was from out east, that was clear. He stood out like a sore tit here in Wyoming Territory.
Zeke was hesitant. He wanted to buy boots but had no money, and he had no wish to seem a tatterdemalion to this bootmaker. The growing blister on his foot ached like a thousand bitches, smarting up his side. He fingered a pair of nice leather boots. They looked comfortable as anything.
“So, uh, I reckon, sir, I need these right bad,” Zeke said, hat in hand. He chewed on his lower lip and ran his fingers through his dusty hair. He had shimmering blue eyes that shone from under the dimness of his burnished skin and slightly yellowish whites. “And, uh… I don’t know, uh… if you got some kinda loan system you offer, on account of, uh… I find myself a little short of greenbacks at this very moment. Just a temporary, uh, sit’ation I find myself in, reckon.”
“Oh, oh, I see, that’s terrible,” Miles said. He smiled. “I could loan you the money to pay for them. The shop would collect the money from you over the next year, at a reasonable interest rate.”
“That sounds right nice, mistuh-“
“But there’s another option. You don’t have to pay a single solitary penny for those boots. I’ll even throw in a second pair.” Miles came closer to Zeke, uncomfortably nigh, so close he could smell the traildust and sweat clinging to Zeke’s filthy clothes and close enough Zeke could smell the cleanful soapiness of Miles.
“What do you expect me to do for two pairs of free boots?” Zeke asked. He remained very suspicious because he thought Miles was going to ask him to do something terrible like kill someone or steal some horses. Two fine pairs of boots was worth an inordinate sum, especially in a town like this where everyone needed them and only one shop sold them.
“I’d like you take off your clothes — especially those old boots — and just go it strong all over you.” Miles knew he would get a better reaction from Zeke if he was more circumspect, but he was too horny — he caught a whiff of those boots and the intensely masculine musk wafting off them — to think of anything better.
“I…” Zeke’s eyes opened wide. “You wish me to treat you in… that manner? In the manner of a beggar? Are you a sappy saddle bum?” He laughed.
The flat reaction on Miles’s face told Zeke was wrong, or to be more precise, he was right that that was what Miles wanted and wrong that Miles would would realize he had misspoke when Zeke rephrased his offer in cruder terms.
But no. Miles blushed, and he gave a barely perceptible nod.
That frown sat heavy on Zeke’s face. Nobody wanted to service a filthy cowboy, right? Only a hobo would do such a thing, and Zeke was no hobo. But the strange bootseller wished to be the hobo, not the man, and Zeke found that alarming and disturbing.
What kind of man wished to be treated like a bed-fagot?
Not knowing how else to respond to Miles’s leer, Zeke grabbed his cock through his pants, just to ensure again that Miles knew what he was offering and what he would get. Miles came closer still, and he touched the bulge in Zeke’s denim. The cock underneath was soft now, but warm, throbbing, thick, and sensitive enough to twitch when Miles touched it.
There used to be a bed-fagot like Miles — a man, a desperate man with an effeminate way about him — who came with the cowboys of Goodman Ranch on cattle rides. Around the fire at night, he would go from man to man, swallowing down his manhood, handling his creamy seed. Only in the dark. Only on cattle rides. Anything else was for convicts and sailors.
But a man must do what must be done. It is for women to beg for mercies. Zeke could withstand the moral blight of unresisted lust, and it was Miles herein who truly sinned. He was the one motivated by lust. Zeke was motivated by need, and even a jackleg preacher would acknowledge the difference between them two.
So when Zeke could think of no other response but to agree, he cocked his head to the side. He locked the door to the boot shop. “I don’t much cotton to this kind of b’avior.”
“Your approval is not necessary. You don’t even have to be very involved in most of it,” Miles said. “Lemme at those boots.”
Zeke finally sat on the chair by the counter, and he scowled at Miles. “And for this you will buy me two pairs of shop-mades?”
Miles nodded with eagerness. “I am a skilled cordwainer, and I will make you the finest boots you have ever slipped your feet into. I know everything about the foot, good sir, and nothing will ever fit you better.”
“You talk big,” Zeke said with a chuckle. He still didn’t get why Miles was fixated on his ratty old boots. He was vaguely aware that some men liked women’s dainty, clean feet, but he had never heard of a man preferring the opposite.
He just snorted back some phlegm — relieved to know now he would get the new boots he needed. His first boot clomped heavily onto the floor, and Zeke sighed as he wrinkled his now-bare toes, which was gnarled, pale, sweaty and fragrant with muskiness. He frowned in confusion at the sight of Miles picking the boot up, ramming his face in it and inhaling loudly. Zeke’s eyes opened wide.
“Well… Tarnations! You really gettin’ deep in there, huh?” Zeke said.
The smell was potent and astringent and it brought tears to Miles’s eyes. It reeked of Zeke’s body and the years of sweat that had accumulated there. There was layers of smells to unpack. Miles sniffed like a bloodhound searching for a trail.
Miles reeled at the potency of the scent. He could have gladly bottled that taste and drunk it. His tongue snuck out, daintily flickering over the fabric and sucking down whatever drops of fluid he could get to. Was it water? Mud? Spilled beer? Or tobacco-flavored spit? Or maybe it was just plain cowboy sweat.
It stank of horses and soil, sunlight and mud, muck and sweat and sandy rope. It stank of rutting in the wild, campfires lingering at dawn and slow-baking beans around the fire. Zeke had worn these boots on a hundred cattle-rides from here to New Mexico and back, and every single one of them had added a new fragrant aroma to the well-worn leather of these boots.
“Damn, pardner, you got a real hankerin’ for mah foot…” Zeke blushed. “That’s jest madness, yessuh.” As he unlaced his second boot, he tipped his wide-brimmed hat to cover his eyes. Watching Miles smell his foot-funk was starting to make Zeke more and more aware of his own smell.
The more it happened though, the more he struggled not to look. Miles was too involved in making sweet oral love to each gag-inducing boot to respond to him.
Zeke’s second boot hit the ground. He would have taken his socks off now too — cowboys wore very tight socks that stretched well up his ankles — but his eyes had opened wide, and he was still having trouble processing what Miles was doing. But Zeke don’t want to look like some sheltered git. When he first came to this area, he asked if there was any nice girls here to court, and the men had laughed at him — they still talked about it, the tale exaggerating each time until it was a story about how Zeke snootily demanded the prostitutes be taken away so he could savor the fruits of a more delicate lady. Zeke ain’t realize that this was not a region where nice ladies lived.
So he don’t admireta do nothing that would contribute to that reputation.
Miles stuck his face in the boot. He had spit and drooled all over the inside, and still it stank of Zeke’s manhood. It was exhilarating, full of layers of flavor that could never seemingly go away. The leather was moist even before Miles started sucking on it.
Eventually, however, the boot tasted more of Miles’s spit than of Zeke’s funk, and the leather was slick with saliva. He dropped the boot and it thumped onto the ground. Zeke’s feet was bare now, and Miles ain’t take in them bare feets until now. He dived down hungrily, sticking his ass high in the air so he could kiss Zeke’s foot.
It was tan and reddish right now because it was overworked and overheated, crammed into that tight boot. Gnarly hairs ran up the top of it. You could tell it had been in an uncomfortable boot, Miles thought, and he could sense how good it felt for Zeke to get out of it. There was a burgeoning blister on the side of his left foot.
“Ah… Pardner, you are one odd duck,” Zeke said with a nervous chuckle. He watched Miles lower his pants and take his dick out.
Zeke wrinkled his nose, removed his own shirt and lowered his pants as well. Soon he was stark naked, watching with his limp dick pressed sweatily against his thigh as Miles went sniffing around in the pile of clothes on the floor. Miles loved feet most of all, but he inhaled whatever he could from the armpits of Zeke’s shirt and the crotch of his leather pants.
Then Miles plopped his ass on the floor to worship Zeke’s feet, which he picked up with both hands to slather all over with his tongue. Zeke still just sighed as though this was no big deal. He even lit a cigar that Miles had on the counter. Zeke wasn’t a huge smoker, but it felt good to have something to do, since this all seemed to have little to do with him.
He wore nothing but his cowboy hat and the plume of smoke rising from his face. So when his dick got hard, he seed it happen even if he was shocked — he ain’t feel aroused. There was no lady in the room, and this whole situation reminded him too much of manhood to be erotic.
“Ah, shit, my man, yessuh, you makin’ my prick stiffen up,” Zeke said, watching his dick as though he had never seed it before. It throbbed, despite nobody touching it the slightest bit.
A gurgling moan escaped from his lips as Miles’s tongue snaked between his toes. Miles slurped grime off the bottom of his feet, and somehow Zeke found his cock throbbing in his hands. He handled it up and down with first one then both of his callused mitts, but he don’t wanna shoot his wad too soon, so he leggo.
Miles soon took over, however, reaching out and stroking Zeke with both hands while sucking on his toes. Zeke sighed and closed his eyes.
This, he thought, was disgusting and strange, the sensation odd and not pleasant — not unpleasant, but vaguely ticklish and vicariously gross. But he needed only to submit as Miles slathered his feet with spit, then sucked it all down, until his foot tasted of little more than cloying saliva and precum.
Miles ran his tongue up Zeke’s muscled legs, and he popped his knob in his mouth. Zeke’s eyes opened wide as a gushing river, and Zeke’s chest rippled.
“You into that, pardner?”
“Hmmm…” Miles didn’t answer. He slurped up the sweat and traildust clinging to Zeke’s filthy dick, and he ran his tongue down the shaft. Miles’s own cock touched Zeke on the leg, just below his knee, and precum dabbed his calf hair.
When Zeke didn’t complain, Miles rubbed his dick on Zeke’s ankle, then moved lower, to his foot. The whole time Zeke was more focused on the pleasure arising from his own manhood, giving little thought to what Miles’s own cock was doing.
Finally Miles reached the point where his dick was on Zeke’s foot, and then Miles sat back. He lifted Zeke’s foot so he could hump the underside of it, his toes touching Miles’s cocktip. A few drops of precum slicked up Zeke’s callused toes, and more prejizz coated the sensitive red circle of that blister developing on his foot.
Miles soon got both of Zeke’s feet on his shaft, his hands holding them in place so he could rub them up and down in sync with each other. Miles looked up to see if Zeke was upset, but Zeke leaned his head back and covered his face with his cowboy hat, as if he was pretending this wasn’t happening. So Miles continued using Zeke’s two foul feet as a toy to play with.
Soon Miles was spewing precum on both of Zeke’s feet, and Zeke would surely have been disgusted if his eyes were open. He prolly woulda gagged. That meant Miles smirk as he humped his dick on both of Zeke’s bare feet. His own dick leaked a few drops of pre-wad onto the red spot — Zeke’s almost-blister — and Miles wondered if that would make it better or worse. The new boots would surely make it better, he thought, and in any case, Zeke was done with the cattle drive and had a few days to let his foot recover.
Before he shot his wad too early, Miles pulled his dick away from Zeke’s feet, no matter how much he wanna finish his own self off now. Miles put Zeke’s feet down, and he leaned forward to kiss Zeke right on the cocktip. It was firm yet fleshy, throbbing, slimy with fluids that poured out the piss-slit. Zeke screwed up his face, aimed down at Miles, like he ain’t understand what was happening or why he was hard.
But Miles ain’t stop at kissing his dick. Miles ran his tongue up and down the shaft, and his hands massaged the dust-dappled muscles of Zeke’s thigh. That sent a visible shudder of pleasure to move from Zeke’s crotch to his head. A baritone moan chambered outta Zeke’s throat, and he leaned back to give Miles easy access to his manhood.
“Hmm-hmm, pardner, you got a heckuva mouth on you,” Zeke said. He ain’t add that Miles’s mouth reminded him of a prostitute. It was true, but he thought it would offend Miles and in any case, Zeke don’t want a reputation as a man who visits whores. He don’t do that, after all. Just a couple times when he was drunk and young and his dick was so hard it hurt.
Kinda like right now.
Then, as Miles’s own body was wracked by spasms of pleasure — his cock was spurting precum like a fountain — he kissed a trail up Zeke’s body. His lips traveled from his crotch to his flat belly, to his powerful chest muscles and then continued even higher.
Zeke grunted. Soon enough, Miles was kissing him on the neck like a woman would, and his whole body pressed against Zeke’s. Miles’s dick smeared precum over Zeke’s thigh, while his hands explored the firmness of Zeke’s back and asscheeks.
His tongue rammed into Zeke’s mouth, and Zeke wrinkled his nose but allowed it. Miles had to stretch his upper body to kiss Zeke, who stayed still like a statue at first. Once his inhibitions vanished, Zeke treated him more like a woman, kissing him back with such passion that Miles swooned in his powerful arms.
That whole while, he kept both hands on Zeke’s cock, stroking it slowly, then swiftly, then slowly, until it precum coated the shaft like a flash flood. The fluid flowed into Zeke’s crotch hair.
When Miles, sensing how close Zeke, licked a trail from his face down his chest to his dick, Zeke moaned. Miles slathered his chest in saliva before moving more slowly down Zeke’s thigh to his ankles. He slurped his own precum off Zeke’s feet.
“Ah, tarnations! Open up, pardner, lemme fill you up!” Zeke raced to ram his cock down Miles’s throat, waiting not a moment for him to react. He just grabbed Miles by the hair, pulled his tongue off his foot and jammed his cock in with Miles’s tongue still curled as though around his little toe.
For just a moment, they stayed like that, with Zeke motionless, dick throbbing on Miles’s foot-coated tongue. Then Zeke forced his cock down Miles’s throat, as deep as it would go and then a bit farther, and a long moan came outta Zeke, so intense it sounded painful. A burst of salty, creamy cum sprayed into Miles’s mouth, followed by a second one, then a third.
“Ah, boy howdy!” Zeke let out a chest-rattling laugh and a roar as he filled Miles’s throat with his creamy seed. Wads of it overflowed and coated Miles’s face.
Great waves of pleasure wracked Miles’s body as he shot his own wad onto the filthy stack of boots and rag socks. He had rarely experienced something so intense, so potent, the flavor cooped up like a thousand cowboys were combined into this one. He was already dizzy when it began because of the intense smell of Zeke’s unwashed feet, and this explosion of flavor in his mouth only made it better.
Finally it was done, and Miles collapsed into a limp heap on the floor. He clutched Zeke’s boots, nuzzling them like they was his lover. His tight grip awakened new smells from hidden reservoirs of funk in the leather, scents of sweat and cattle-hide and urine from when the leather was tanned so many years ago.
Miles swooned and closed his eyes. He was only dimly aware of Zeke wiping his dick off on Miles’s face.
Then Zeke just shrugged and took his new boots. He ain’t even get dressed first. He wanted to get away from that weird man, now sleeping curled around his old rank boots. Zeke stepped out into the street, cock hanging free. That was odd, but not unthinkable in Cheyenne, so he ain’t attract that much attention.
He just smiled as he walked to the tavern, dick dangling, two fresh pairs of boots and a stack of dirty clothes in his arms. He hoped there would be a non-whore woman around. Any one would do. Soon as he smoked some tobacco and had a proper drink, he’d be ready to lay with her until the cows came home.
This trip to town, he thought, had turned out better than expected.