Miles Palmer Rompenhauer loves feet! When he stumbles across a studly trucker in a diner, he never thought it’d turn into a foot-focused alpha-male explosion that just might be too much for him to bear!
Can he handle his newfound redneck friend’s grimy, filthy, nasty feet?!
Or read the whole thing here!
Palmer Rompenhauer smiled at the waitress, Polly, who smiled back at him. She placed the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him.
“So, Polly, how’s that boyfriend of yours?”
“Oh, he’s darling, sugah. He got a new full-time job, starts next week.”
“Really?! Oh that’s wonderful,” Palmer said even though he didn’t believe it. He was actually annoyed. He had rather hoped Polly’s boyfriend would still be underemployed. He felt bad thinking that. It wasn’t really true, he wished Polly and her man the best of luck, even if that stymied his mission here today. It was just disappointing for it happen right when Palmer had a plan to get what he wanted.
He had come here to the truck stop diner because the world’s most arousing short order cook worked here. He was a big black daddy-type with a marvelous mustache and big stinky feet that Polly had complained about on several occasions.
Palmer liked that. He liked dirty men — and their feet — and Polly had said her boyfriend was dirty to the max. She’d shown him a photo, and Palmer had seen pictures of him on Facebook. Those feet looked so good he could almost taste them through the screen. The funk, the filth, the aroma… It was enough to make Palmer’s dick hard. It didn’t make his dick hard, because he was saving himself — saving himself, he thought, for Polly’s boyfriend.
But now if he got a full-time job. That made it unlikely he would swing on the downlow for a couple dollars.
He had hoped that Polly’s boyfriend would still be stuck in a part-time cook job because then Palmer could pay him to worship his feet. She told Palmer about the full-time job — which sounded like a great opportunity that paid well — and then scurried off to attend to a table of rowdy truckers who needed the check.
That was when the door to the diner opened.
Another, less rowdy trucker walked in, burly and thick, fuzzy hair protruding from the fire-department tee shirt he wore, against which his fleshy arms bulged. He had on camo pants that Palmer could tell from looking at them had been worn so much they were stiff and funky. They were the kind of pants only worn by the kind of man who rarely washes his pants. Truckers often don’t wash their clothes because they are always on the road.
And oh god those feet. The glory of his feet! Palmer couldn’t even see them yet, and already he craved the taste.
The trucker wore heavy hiking boots, jet black and burnished, dull, flecked with muds and pale dots that were seemingly bleach stains. They were going to smell remarkable too. Palmer sniffed the air in hopes that he would catch a whiff of the shoes or the feet encased within them, and maybe he did, or maybe he was imagining it, or maybe it was the feet of one of the other truckers in the diner.
Or maybe it was Polly’s feet. Palmer didn’t like to think about that possibility though. He wasn’t into women’s feet, and women’s feet should be graceful and beautiful. They should smell like tropical fruits and sunshine. Men’s feet should be gnarled and hairy, sweat-soaked, gristly like a cheap steak. That’s what Palmer craved.
The trucker had a tired look on his face, and he stood there at the counter as he scrutinized the menu — that was a sure giveaway of a real trucker who was on a long haul: he didn’t want to spend more time seated right now. He massaged his sore legs as he stood there. He stretched each thigh, and he stood on his toes to stretch his calf muscles.
The trucker leaned over the counter, stretching his thunderous muscles and lifting each leg up one after the other. He glanced at the menu for only a few seconds before ordering something from Polly.
“Sure thing, sugah!” Polly said. Then she nodded at Palmer. “Need anything, Miles?”
“No thanks,” Palmer said. She called him Miles, cuz it was his first name. But most people called him Palmer. Polly was already off to the back of the diner to put in the trucker’s order.
Palmer wondered how he could land a taste of this trucker’s funk. He came across as so filthy that Palmer could already imagine his taste and the flavor and texture of his grime. Every man’s grime is unique, Palmer always said, and he wished to sample them all.
There was dirt in the trucker’s greasy hair, plus a few smudges on his cheek — it looked like he had rolled around in the mud and then showered only very briefly, so there were still clumps of soil attached to him and clinging to his hair. Older dirt stains had been rubbed into the clothes he wore, and his hair was slick and unwashed.
A lot of the truckers were filthy, but not all of them could pull it off. Palmer salivated as he finally caught a whiff of the trucker’s funk — the trucker raised his arm briefly, stretching his shoulders, which bared his armpit long enough for Miles to inhale deeply of the dizzying scent. It was warm and musty, like a cozy library and a campfire had a baby, and Miles wanted to suck up every drop of moisture of the man’s powerful frame.
He was tall and broad-shouldered too. A lot of truckers were pretty fat. He wasn’t big on skinny guys, and Palmer didn’t mind a little heft. That was why he had come here lusting after the cook — a former bodybuilder with biceps to die for — instead of any of the truckers.
But now, he thought, he had an option. This trucker wasn’t fat at all. He was deliciously chunky, and though he didn’t have that cook’s amateur bodybuilder look, he was still appealing. He looked like he might have played football in high school and probably still did it enough with his buddies to stay in shape.
He was built like a truck, with a face that was kind of squashed like he had been hit by a truck and a dull, metallic tone to his voice like a truck Transformer. He had probably been driving a pickup truck since before he could legally get a license.
Palmer had no idea if all those suppositions were true, but it felt right, and he was ready to find out. He left Polly a nice tip, then headed to the counter where that sexy trucker still leaned.
He had ordered oatmeal. Palmer wasn’t sure he had ever seen anyone order oatmeal in a restaurant — he didn’t get it: Why order something you could cook in a microwave in a minute, for a cost of like fifty cents? But still, it was adorable. That trucker shoveled it in his mouth like he was a starving child. His unkempt beard hairs moved up and down, capturing some oatmeal-bits that escaped his lips.
Palmer smiled, heart thumping. “Manky?”
The man looked at him and furrowed his brow. “What? Who are you?”
“My name’s Palmer. Are you the football player they called Manky?”
“Yeah” Manky was obviously proud of being recognized. He blushed. “Cool, uh… Cool.” Then his eyes opened wide. “Oh! You’re the dude I was looking for!”
“What?”
“I was told I should find you, man. You got something I want.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Manky wolfed down the last of his oatmeal and left some money on the counter. “You got Asian chicks?”
“Asian chicks?” Palmer followed Manky out of the diner and towards the rows of trucks in one side of the parking lot. The roar of the engines was loud here, and Manky had to raise his voice to be heard. But Palmer still didn’t quite catch what he said.
“Tits and that… All over… I’ve got… How do you…?… The back… I’ll do…”
“Oh, uh…”
Manky opened the cab of his truck and climbed in. The little sleeping area behind that looked cozy, with warm blankets and pillow all over, like a tiny opium den. It smelled of alcohol and cheap weed and sweat and Palmer wanted to go in there and cuddle up with Manky.
But Manky waited like he was expecting someone else to join them. Palmer stood at the door, while Manky looked at him expectantly. In the door of the truck, the sound of the idling engines was not as loud, and Palmer could hear Manky more clearly.
“Uh… Where she at?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The Asian chick?”
“What Asian chick?”
“I dunno man, ain’t you got her?”
Palmer shook his head. “I don’t have any Asian chicks.”
“Oh… Well, fine, I guess it doesn’t matter. You got blondes?”
“I think… there’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t have chicks. I’m just… a dude, I don’t have a flotilla of chicks following me around.”
“Oh… You’re not… the guy?”
“I guess not. I am a guy.”
“You’re not a pimp. You know a pimp?”
“A pimp? No.” Palmer shrugged. “Oh, wait, yeah! You mean Slipper? I know Slipper. He ain’t here, he got arrested last week. His girls are all on Craigslist now.” Palmer wished he hadn’t said that because Manky took his phone out and pulled up Craigslist. “Damn it…”
“So wait, if you ain’t think I was buyin’ a ho, why’d you follow me to my truck?” Manky asked. He didn’t look up from his phone until Palmer answered.
“I was hoping to pay you for something…” Palmer said coyly. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars to ram me. There’s a catch though. I-“
“Wait, what?”
“I’ll give you five hundred dollars to cornhole me. You gotta let me jerk you off. You gotta ram me in the ass. And you gotta let me worship your feet.”
There was a long pause. “What…? You mean me?”
“You.”
“Feet?” He lifted his heavy-booted feet up and wiggled it in front of Palmer.
“Feet.”
Manky blushed, the color mostly concealed by his scruffy beard hairs. “I, uh… I guess… Yeah.” He paused. “You ain’t gonna tell no one, is ya?”
“It’s our secret.”
Manky hesitated again. “So… like… you ain’t gotta be real detailed, but uh… do you like… want me to shower first? Or is it like… you-“
“I like it funky. Please do not shower first,” Palmer said.
Manky blanched and laughed to cover up his obvious discomfort. He let Palmer into the cab, and they climbed into the sleeper. It was basically just a bed with a few shelves on the walls for personal belongings, plus a TV mounted above the bed, though it didn’t appear to be hooked up to anything at the moment.
Manky laid himself out on the bed. He was trying to look casual. He didn’t want Palmer to think he was desperate or frightened, after all.
A lot of truckers spoke of messing around with males on the road. It was common. A lot of truck stops had male “lot lizards” — addicts would do any guy for a place to sleep and a hot meal. Manky wasn’t into that. He could often land a free woman, or failing that, a prostitute — his trucking route kept him on main routes where there were usually prostitutes available.
So he had never partaken. Older guys would do whatever it took to get their rocks off on the road. They said things like “it’s all pink in the dark” and “a hole’s a hole” and “it don’t count if you’s on the road”.
Manky didn’t say things like that. He was not part of that older generation.
“So, uh… what do you… do?” Manky asked, his voice trailing off because Palmer was already getting started. He hadn’t been immediately aware of that because he didn’t feel Palmer’s fingers on his boots, and Manky never really looked at his feet for that kind of thing.
But Palmer had already bent over and kissed the bleachy leather of Manky’s heavy black boots. They stank of cleaning solvents and mud and sweat, that last of which smelled so intense that Palmer let out a long, cringing moan.
“Damn…” Manky frowned like he was surprised to see this really happening. He found an old DVD player on a shelf — it wasn’t kept hooked up to the TV because Manky didn’t have a long enough cord. He had to rest the DVD player on the bedspread in order to plug it into the TV. He tried to ignore Palmer slathering his boot with kisses as he put in an Asian-chick porn. It wasn’t actually his favorite video, but this situation was already awkward enough that Manky didn’t want any penises on his screen.
That black boot was cold and salty. Palmer untied it as he licked it from tip to heel. The leather was old and worn, but it was real leather, not plastic, so that just made it better. Palmer could see the time-worn creases where the material bent frequently, right over the toes mainly, but also up by the ankle, on the side.
When he slipped it off, he struggled a bit, it was a tight fit and a heavy boot. It finally popped off and there was an audible, almost visible wave of footy funk that wafted into Palmer’s face.
“Aaaaaaaaaaah….” Palmer let out a long moan that overpowered the sound of the Asian women eating each other out onscreen. He could taste the foot aroma that came in waves over his face. He chomped at the air to eat it — that made him giggle, especially the way Manky scrupulously faced away and ignored him.
Palmer untied his second boot too and pulled it off, again sniffing loudly and savoring the astringent scent of his unwashed foot. It filled the air of the truck’s living quarters. Palmer wallowed in it, rubbing his nose through the dense fabric of both socks.
Manky’s dick twitched. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t show it because it was embarrassing — he told himself it was because of the porn. But a part of him worried that he was beginning to enjoy this foot-worship.
It was weird, he thought as Palmer pulled his dirty socks off, baring his big, meaty feet with a few highly visible hairs on the top. It was making his dick semi-hard anyway. Manky’s girlfriends often complained about his “hairy feet”, which he thought was unfair — they really weren’t hairy. There was a tuft of hair right on the bony part on the top of each foot, but it was maybe twenty hairs total. They were highly visible because they were jet-black and coarsely-textured.
His feet always smelled bad too. More than one girlfriend had said she wouldn’t have sex with him if he took his shoes off. He’d seen a doctor at one point, but the cream he was given didn’t do anything. Manky just avoided taking his shoes off as much as he could, and he wore these heavy boots all the time because they were basically airtight — he didn’t realize that tight boots meant the inside was warm and slightly moist, the perfect environment to make his feet smell even worse.
Or, from Palmer’s perspective, better.
He sucked the funk off those hairs and moaned at the sour, salty taste. His hands roamed up Palmer’s calves, and he massaged his leg through those camo pants. Manky took off his shirt unprompted, then gulped and pulled his pants off when Palmer asked him to.
Just think of the money, Manky reminded himself. It was weird to feel Palmer’s tongue on his feet. It was like getting a bath from a cat, he thought. It was off-putting but not exactly unpleasant. He just wished Palmer had wanted nothing more than to jerk him off — that would have been easier to endure. Just a handjob. No big deal.
Manky’s foot was ungodly funky. Palmer loved it. It was like mainlining sweat. He could taste every inch of Manky’s body, like the sweat he sucked down had collected all the flavors of his hairy redneck frame as it trickled to his feet.
Palmer’s hand gripped Manky’s cock, without removing his tongue from the bottom of Manky’s left foot. Manky’s whole body shook and his eyes opened wide, but he forced himself to remain focused on the porno. His dick had been on the verge of full erection for so long, twitching and throbbing in his dirty boxers, that he was virtually ready to explode as soon as Palmer finally touched it.
“Oh goddamn…” Manky’s deep voice echoed in the tiny living area. He stretched his legs, but he was too tall, so his feet bumped into the metal side. Pleasure spasmed through his body, and he held his breath through clenched teeth.
“Hmmm… You taste so good…” Palmer sucked down every drop of funk before letting his tongue run a trail up Manky’s hairy legs.
Manky was already on the verge of blowing his load. The delay had made him so horny he could burst.
His cock tasted like his foot, but a little cleaner. Palmer giggled at the taste and the sight of Manky’s ruddy face looking down at him — finally Manky was willing to tear his eyes away from the women onscreen.
“Shit, man, goddamn!” Manky shouted. He grabbed ahold of Palmer’s head and guided it down deep on his dick, until Palmer’s nose nuzzled his unkempt pubic hair. Palmer loved that — so many young men these days shaved their crotches, which Palmer found unappealing — he liked that big hairy bush and the stale scent it always had. Most men trimmed though because it made their dick look bigger since less of it was concealed by pubic hair. Manky had such a huge dick he didn’t need to worry about that.
His cock throbbed, precum flowing in Palmer’s throat. Manky would have been fine with cumming directly into Palmer’s throat, but Palmer had said he wanted anal.
The best thing about anal, from Palmer’s perspective, was that he could worship a man’s foot at the same time. If Palmer bent over, with his ass high and his face on the ground, a man could ram him in the ass with his feet near enough to Palmer’s face that he could step on his head if he wanted to — which Palmer would often beg his men to do.
That was difficult in this setting though. The tiny sleeper wasn’t big enough for Manky to stand up.
“Here, can you lean back right here? I’ll back up, see?” Palmer arranged Manky to sort of squat in one corner. It was awkward and ungainly and it stretched Manky’s legs — but that wasn’t a bad thing, he was always looking for opportunities to exercise his knees. It was only Manky’s calf muscles that kept him aloft.
Manky had only fucked one woman in the ass successfully — many backed out when they saw how big his dick was, but he had one girlfriend who loved it. So Manky was inexperienced with actually getting his cock into someone’s ass.
“Damn it, man, hold still,” Manky said. Palmer had trouble keeping himself in position because he was more interested in nuzzling Manky’s foot than in getting it up the ass. But he spread his cheeks and backed himself up to meet Manky’s cock.
A jolt of pain hit him, and Palmer lifted his head, just out of reach of Manky’s foot. As Manky drilled in, a little hesitant at first, Palmer lowered his head again despite the intense sensations coursing through his veins. There was an intense pressure in his ass, Manky’s entire girthy manhood stretching him to accommodate it.
At last, Manky was in him, and Palmer’s tongue was on the hairy top of Manky’s foot. It smelled more of spit than anything else now, but Palmer could still sense the podiatric funk emanating off it and enveloping his face in its goodness.
Manky had never felt anything like this. He whooped and hollered. His foot sent little shocks of pleasure up his body, which surprised him — he’d never been into his feet being worshiped before.
But he couldn’t deny that that tongue on his foot was somehow more pleasurable than any of the women he’d ever fucked. It wasn’t just the foot, but that definitely felt good — even more than that it was how Manky could simply ram as hard as he wanted. Palmer seemed willing to take anything, and indeed was more focused on Manky’s foot than the cock splitting his ass open.
Manky could use all of his power and his weight to piston his dick in and out, making the entire sleeper cab shake as he orgasmed deep in Palmer’s ass. Palmer clenched down on him, moaning into his feet, tongue lolling out over his toes.
Cum sprayed into Palmer’s ass, great gobs of creamy juices that had built up in his week or so on the road since he last blew his wad. Manky roared and pounded on his chest with one hand, while his other kneaded the flesh of Palmer’s asscheeks.
“Oh god!” Palmer moaned, his voice breaking. Waves of intense sensation wracked his body, and his hands tightened into claws that dug into the firm flesh of Manky’s body.
Manky just grunted, the sound loud and resonant in Palmer’s ear, a grunt that turned into an ear-aching moan.
Palmer squirmed as cum filled him up. He felt it seeping through his flesh and soaking into his body. Exquisite ecstasy coursing through his veins, Palmer shot his own load too, right into his hand. He hadn’t cum or even gotten a hardon since his setting out for the diner — hadn’t even thought about it — but now that he was with Knuckle, Palmer felt the stress melt away. A long chest-rattling moan chambered out of his chest, and still more and more jizz poured out of him. When he had finished, he let it slip out and onto the top of Manky’s foot. It plopped there hotly and Palmer’s tongue snaked out to slurp it all up. Manky watched with a shocked, disgusted look on his face, but this all felt too good to worry about a little cum on his bare foot.
“Well, shit, man,” Manky said with a chuckle. “You gonna pay me, right? Don’t stiff me.” He now thought he should have got the money upfront, but it was too late now. He was spent, breathless and sweaty, his chest hair matted to his skin.
“I won’t,” Palmer said. He curled up into Manky’s heavy arms. He sucked salty sweat off his bicep as he pulled out his wad of cash. It was all twenties and he knew exactly how much it was — five hundred dollars. But Palmer still made a big show of counting it anyway, because he liked being the center of Manky’s attention, and anyway, Manky expected him to count it. Palmer settled himself, ensconced in Manky’s sweaty arms, as he counted out the twenty dollar bills.
When he handed over the wad of dollars, Manky took the cash and grunted. Palmer picked up his limp dick and kissed the tip, then slurped off the fluids clinging to it. It was funky like Manky’s foot, but assy, moist and goopy. Palmer teased it with his tongue, making Manky throw his head back and moan.
“Shit, man… you wanna spend the night in my sleeper here wit’ me?” Manky said with an awkward grunt. It was hard enough to ask a girl out, he thought, asking a guy to spend the night in his sleeper was even harder.
But he was confident Palmer would say yes, and indeed Palmer giggled and nuzzled his chest even closer. His hand massaged Manky’s body.
“Thanks,” Palmer said. “I’m glad I ran into you. You have the greatest trucker funk I’ve ever tasted.” That was true, and Palmer was eager to spend the night here with him. The sleeper was rank with footiness and Palmer couldn’t wait to marinate in Manky’s body all night long.