Miles hangs out in a biker bar until one studly man catches his eye, and before Miles knows it, he’s on his knees once more, worshipping a filthy pair of feet and the nasty boots they came in!
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Lipsweet was a down-on-its-luck biker bar near Abilene, Texas. It looked as shitty on the inside as it did on the outside, which Miles liked — it looked like a stinking turd of a building, like an archiectural marvel had crapped out a tavern on its way to its ritzy site. It was dark and graffiitied and cleaned and graffitied again, and it looked like night there even though it was late afternoon. Bars that looked like this were usually full of sterling men — and hot, raunchy shoes.
Or more often boots.
That was what Miles enjoyed. He was a keen appreciator of the male form, from head to toe but especially near-ish the toe. There was nothing more alluring for Miles than the filthy, unwashed feet of alpha males. That’s what he hoped to find when he walked into Lipsweet.
But it was only the afternoon, so not many people were there right now right now. The dimly lit corners of the bar were mostly empty, while a few tired-eyed waitresses put clean(ish) glasses away on a shelf behind the bar. No bartender was apparent at first, but after Miles went and stood at the bar for a couple minutes, the bartender did come in and ask if he wanted a drink.
The bartender was a girl, so she had nothing for Miles, foot-wise. The bouncer was a jock-ish prettyboy — think Arthur Swayze from Roadhouse but loud and charmless and not that handsome — rather disappointing from Miles’s perspective, especially in a pair of clean hiking boots, brand-new, it seemed. The muscles were nice, the wrinkle-free face was not, and the peachfuzz was not giving him a jawline. Arthur was his name, Miles heard the bartender call him that.
Miles sat at the bar. He was a beer distributor, and he sipped on a cheap beer from the tap. Miles said he wanted to supply them with a new range of beers being sold throughout this corner of Texas. The bartender was dour and unimpressed.
“This ain’t the kinda place where they drink a lotta them real nice beers or nothin’. Prolly ninety-percent of our orders here is ‘a round of whatever’s cheapest’,” she said. “So I dunno that we need any new brands. Mostly folks here don’t care about brands.”
“Sure, sure, I understand that. We have a low-priced basket of beers that would be perfect for your bar’s needs,” he said. “In fact…” His voice trailed off because the door opened, and a man walked in.
He was scruffy and hard and rough-looking, like he had been chewed on and spat out by the maw of life. His shoulder-length mane of greasy black hair was tangled and wavy, framing his unkempt beard and wild dark eyes. He had a squarish frame and shoulders the size of a dumptruck, swaggering through the doorway as though his muscles didn’t fit on his bones. He tottered slightly: still just a bit hungover, though he was sober now.
His name was Glasser, and he was mad before he even walked in.
Glasser walked a mile here in these ratty old boots, and he had little choice but to find his key. His motorcycle lay unusable at some fat bitch’s house a mile away because the key was gone. She swanned Glasser left it here last night, that that prettyboy-punk of a bouncer, Arthur, had refused to give him the key on account of his drunkenness.
Glasser didn’t think that was reasonable at all. If he hadn’t been so drunk, he would have earned his nickname — people called him Glasser because he was known to smash beer bottles in people’s faces when they displeased him — and smacked the pretty off that bouncer’s face. But he was too drunk to do much more than pass out in his girlfriend’s bathroom — he hadn’t even fucked her because he was too drunk.
That was why he was horny now. Sober and horny and ready to punch this prettyboy Arthur in his prettyboy face.
“I’m here for mah keys,” he said with a grunt. He narrowed his eyes to slits, and he aimed those slits in the direction of Arthur the sculpted-jaw goody two-shoes in clean boots, got his hair washed and combed, no acne scars, no wrinkles, no lines, nothing but bland curves and a stonefacing mug.
Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. He straightened his back, holding onto the broom in his hands as though he might use it as a weapon at any moment. He licked his teeth. “Don’t got it, Glasser.” He wasn’t from Texas, or even the South. He was a yankee. Glasser always forgot that and remembered it when he heard Arthur speak.
“Bullshit! Mothahfuckah, you think you gonna steal my bike? Huh? I don’t think so! I ain’t some punk-ass-“
“I don’t have ya key, Glasser! I told you not to drive home, and you said-“
“Fuck you! You lyin’! You lie like a lawn, boy-“
“You said fine, you said you only wanted to fuck that ugly bitch behind the dumpster, and you’d just pass out there-“
“First of all, I ain’t say she was ugly, I said she was fat-“
“She’s ugly too.”
“Second of all, you is lying right now, that ain’t happen. I said I wanna fuck her behind the dumpster, and then I wanna drive to her place so I can fuck her again-“
“Don’t got ya key, Glasser.”
“But you took my key, asshole!” Glasser said.
“Hey, uh, Glasser.”
Glasser saw the petite man with a lilting grin on his face and dismissed him. Men like that, he thought, were never important, and he was ready to hit this bouncer. I should have hit him last night, he thought. Glasser jabbed a finger in Arthur’s direction. “I’ll rip ya prettyboy face off and piss in your eye sockets, you little bitch, you best gimme back my keys-“
“Glasser? My name’s Miles.”
Glasser nodded and screwed up his eyebrows. “What? Shut the fuck up, man.”
“I just have something to say,” Miles said. He blushed. The late afternoon crowd at Lipsweet watch with quiet breath and calm eyes, waiting to see if the fight between Glasser and Arthur was nascent or moribund. Now they all looked at Miles as though annoyed he was breaking up the fight.
“I said leave me alone!” Glasser said. He shoved Miles to his ass on the floor. He scowled and growled. “Fuck off, pansydick! I used to cornhole pussyface bitches like you in prison.”
A chattering cascade of giggles escaped from Miles, dissipating the tension in the room. Everyone watched him sashay to Glasser and throw himself in his arms. Glasser caught him by instinct, holding him up like the hero on the cover of a romance novel.
“I accept!” Miles said.
“What?”
“Sorry, I thought you were offering to cornhole me?”
“No, man, get the fuck off me.” Glasser dropped Miles, who toppled to the ground at Glasser’s feet. Miles inhaled deeply of the scent of his leather boots. He wrapped around his legs.
“I can give you money. If you let me smell your feet.”
“Money? Yeah, fine, whatever.” Glasser was still trying to focus on the bouncer Arthur, who furrowed his handsome-caveman brow as Glasser kicked at the man at his feet.
“I can give you enough money to get a new key made,” Miles said. He kissed Glasser’s foot, smelling his toes through the worn leather of his boot. He reeked of spilled gasoline, strong enough to make Miles’s throat hurt, and the boot smelled of cheap women with fat asses in cheap panties, mulch, chrome, furniture polish and other mysterious scents Miles couldn’t identify.
Glasser grunted. “Look… How much you offerin’?”
“A thousand dollars,” Miles said. “Take me out back and ravage me like I’m your cellmate.”
After a long pause, Glasser said, “I wouldn’t cornhole my cellmate. That’s foolish. It’d make him mad, and it’s too easy to get stabbed when you sleepin’.”
Miles shrugged. “Okay, well… That’s not really the central point. Cornhole me like the cellmate of some other guy.”
“Yeah, I get it, fine. Yeah. You one them fruit pies, huh? You like a dick up the bootyhole?” Glasser sniffled and snorted, trying to look confident. If he looked like this was his first time — which it was, outside of prison and maybe a drunken night he didn’t remember very well — Arthur would tell everyone and his biker club buddies would all make fun of him for years to come.
Miles nodded. “I especially like feet.”
“Feet?”
“Feet.” Miles lifted one leg to show off the foot, since Glasser had a face on like he never had seen one before. “I’m into feet.”
Another long pause dissipated between them. Then Glasser said, “What? Feet? How can you be into feet? Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
Glasser frowned. “You want my feet… sexually?”
Miles threw his hands up. “No, I want their recipe for banana nut muffins,” Miles said. “Do you wanna make a thousand dollars or not? I want to lick and suck on your feet and boots and maybe socks a little. Toes and ankles inclusive.”
“Fine,” Glasser said with an aggressive shrug. “But not in here. I got a rep.” He walked stiffly, cautiously and as casually as he could handle, out of the back of the bar, into the gravel lot behind the building. It stank of cigarettes and garbage here. Miles loved it. Glasser hoped he looked like a man who was as liable to bottle Miles in the face as ramrod him. “You is one nasty pervert.”
Miles nodded. “I know. Your foot’s pretty nasty too.”
His boots looked utterly filthy, yet clean in comparison to the trash-festooned alley floor. Glasser snorted as if he thought feet should be gross. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag off it. The smoke plumed out of his hairy nostrils as he stood there like a statue, allowing Miles to unlace his boots.
Dropping to his knees, Miles sucked on each bootlace. They were filthy, and they tasted like the garbage that filled up the air here in the back of the bar. It smelled of rubber here too — from the stack of old tires by the gravel. They’d been there for years, and mice lived in them, grass growing high all around. Snakes too, most likely.
Glasser stepped out of his boots and swatted gnats from his face. He wasn’t going to do anything much on his own, he’d just let Miles do it all. But he thought he looked stupid standing there in his socks, so he pulled them off too.
They were tattered, off-white socks, which reeked of Glasser’s manhood. There were some threadbare spots because Glasser never really bought new socks if he could avoid it; he didn’t even know where these came from — had he stolen them from someone in prison? Possibly. Or in the parole house later on. He tossed them on Miles’s face as Miles bent over to inhale the scent of his boots. Miles didn’t remove the socks.
He just focused on smelling the boots. They reeked of manhood, engine oil and chrome. They smelled like the motorcycles that filled up the parking lot out front most of the time — a few bikers were just now appearing as the first drinkers of the day showed up. No one knew what was happening in the back, aside from the bartender and Arthur the bouncer — this was the kind of place where you simply didn’t talk about such things — no squealers here, no snitches, no punks, no loose lips, no sinking ships — so nobody had any idea.
Glasser was glad. He didn’t mind doing this, but he didn’t really want anyone to know. In a few months, he thought, he’d tell people — but he’d tell them he was drunk at the time.
Miles seemed to be trying to crawl into the boot. It smelled so bad it made him gag, but that didn’t slow him down. He sucked on the acrid leather even as it made his stomach churn and his nostrils wrinkle. His face disappeared into the foot of the boot.
Glasser watched with a dim-eyed expression. He really wished this pervert would hurry up.
Then, at last, Miles dropped the second boot and lowered his head. Glasser’s wide feet had plomped onto the gravel, which was sharp enough it looked like it should hurt to step on with bare feet. But Gravel went around barefoot a lot, and so he was used to it, the bottom of his feet all callused and thick now.
It was like hide, Miles thought as he lifted Glasser’s foot up and sucked on it, like sucking on an animal hide. Bits of rock stuck to it, piercing the outer layers of his footskin. It stank of funk and manhood, and Miles slurped down every bit of filth he could get to. Glasser remained standing, so he had to lean against the wall of the bar.
His dick stirred as Miles sucked on his feet. Glasser was shocked, he had no idea anyone would get turned on by this. He spat on Miles’s face as he slurped on his foot.
“You’re so fuckin’ nasty, perv,” he said with a throaty chuckle. He pressed his hairy big toe into Miles’s mouth until he gagged on it, and he didn’t let him wipe it off first, so there was still bits of gravel and twigs stuck to his skin.
Miles didn’t mind the dirt one bit. He gladly took it all, and he even moved his head to get the bitter ash that floated down dreamily from Glasser’s cigarette.
The sound of bikers filling up the parking lot grew louder, over on the other side of the building. Their roaring engines were loud enough to drown out their words, but their husky-voiced, cigarette-steeped voices were audible. They must have been comparing engines, Miles thought, because he heard them rev the same motorcycles over and over.
Glasser undid his belt without looking down. He wanted to get this over with, now that he heard his friends in there drinking. His pants dropped. Glasser liked the idea of not watching. For one thing, it would be easier to pretend it was a woman’s mouth on his cock if he didn’t have to see Miles do it. He grabbed Miles by the hair to get his attention, lifted his head up off his foot, and then used his other hand to pull apart Miles’s jaw.
“Open that mouth wide, bitch,” Glasser murmured. His mouth wide open, Glasser rammed his dick in — since he wasn’t looking, his head still back, so he could just use Miles’s mouth as a hole, he missed. His dick just jammed against Miles’s cheek.
“Lemme in there, pansy, c’mon, open up…”
Miles was heaving for air because he had refused to take a break while sucking Glasser’s feet, so he had trouble chasing after his cock, especially with Glasser holding his head in place by the hair. It hurt enough to bring tears to Miles’s eyes. Miles struggled and squirmed in his grip.
All Miles really wanted was Glasser’s foot. He liked playing with his cock too, and he didn’t mind letting Glasser abuse his throat, but that wasn’t the plan, wasn’t what he was paying a thousand dollars for and he’d like to at least be able to touch Glasser’s foot while it was happening. It seemed it never quite registered for Glasser that Miles was into feet, or maybe Glasser really just didn’t care.
In any case, as Miles sputtered and spewed, Glasser’s cock finally hit Miles’s tongue and rammed into the back of his throat. Miles’s hands clutched Glasser’s hairy thighs, then roamed down to his ankles and feet as Miles relaxed his throat.
“Swallow that shit, you little bitch…”
He let Glasser treat it like a pussy, and indeed soon enough, Glasser could forget he wasn’t plowing into some woman with a tight snatch. He didn’t even care what hole it was — since he wasn’t looking, it hardly mattered. He liked the feel of his sensitive cockshaft squeezing into a tight hole, and it was good that this wasn’t a woman because he could never treat a woman so roughly.
Besides that, a woman might want to talk.
“Ah, shit, man, fuuuuuuck, that’s how a bitch should take it, damn…” Glasser’s deep voice rumbled like distant thunder. He made no effort to be quiet — that would seem weak, he thought; he didn’t really want to get caught, but he wasn’t going to hide like a goddamn child. Pleasure spasms visibly up his body, making his chest muscles ripple and his cock throb in Miles’s mouth.
Despite Glasser’s threat, he ain’t intend to cornhole the stranger, simply cuz he ain’t get paid for it and thought Miles maybe would offer more for it. But Miles ain’t make such an offer, and as Glasser felt his orgasm approach, he realized no such offer was forthcoming.
But he really wanted to ram the shit outta Miles. “Lemme in that ass, bitch.” Hopefully Miles would beg him to stop.
“Wait-!” Miles cried out, but Glasser slammed his face on the floor. “I didn’t ask for-” Miles didn’t fight back when Glasser lifted his ass up, using his foot to keep Miles’s face pinned onto the floor.
“Shut up. I want some ass, you got ass, I’m takin’ it.” Then Glasser slipped his dick in with no warning or lube besides the spit and precum already clinging to it.
A shiver of pain ran up Miles. “Wait, lemme at your foot! Lemme at — ow!” Fear flooded him when he realized Glasser was not respecting his demands, but Miles loved the feeling of losing control of the situation. His heart raced like a lawnmower. The pain in his ass was accompanied by a low, melting pleasure that grew and grew as Glasser’s cock ramme dinto him.
“Shut up…” Glasser murmured. But since the freak was paying, Glasser did move his foot closer to Miles’s face. That way Miles could slurp on his toes at least as Glasser wrecked his ass.
Plowing into him hard, Glasser was relentless. His cock slammed at Miles’s asshole, and his balls slapped against his flesh. Miles’s cheeks jiggled with each thrust. A wave of pleasure and shame and desire and passion all flowed through Miles’s veins, and he opened his mouth to suck the grime off Glasser’s feet.
“Did you really cornhole guys in prison?” Miles asked when his ass had adjusted enough he could take a deep breath.
“Hell yeah,” Glasser said. He still avoided looking down.
“Like… a prison wife?”
Glasser shook his head. “I don’t do that shit, that’s some negro homeboy shit,” he said. “I rent bitches, tha’ss all, easiuh than taking a man as a bitch.”
“Hmmm… Tell me about it.” Miles cried out and moaned. His tiny body was wracked by pleasure, which grew with each thrust of Glasser’s cock at his ass.
“Well, like there was this fellah, Wilmer.” Glasser fishhooked one finger into Miles’s mouth, so he could see the tip in Miles’s cheek. “You want me to treat you like him. I declared him the fleshlight for the whole gang, just cuz somebody got to and I wanna see his ass get ruined again and again and again-” He rammed with all his might with each ‘again’.
“Oh god! Yes!”
“Shut up. Don’t say yes. You don’t got a say in this,” Glasser said with a chuckle.
He plopped onto the floor, no longer able to reach Glasser’s feet, except that every few seconds Glasser lifted his upper body off Miles’s back long enough for Miles to scamper away. Each time he did, Glasser growled and grabbed him and slammed him back in place.
“I’ll give you another five hundred dollars to give me a reacharound.” Miles’s voice was breathless and desperate.
“Deal,” Glasser said. He wrapped one callused hand around Miles’s cock. That immediately sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. Miles cried out for more, and again Glasser scolded him for presuming to have a say in how this happened. Despite that scolding, he did allow Miles to have another taste of his feet.
But mostly Glasser used and abused his ass, and he kept his hand working up and down on Miles’s cock. That triggered an orgasm right away, but the pain in his ass and the roughness of Glasser’s fingers slowed it down. Glasser had given a reacharound before, and he kind of liked the feel of a man’s body orgasming around his cock like a woman.
“You ready bitch, I ain’t cummin’ first, I’s makin’ you cum wit’ my cock in ya ass, so you know you is my pussy, now and forever more.”
Miles groaned and moaned and arched his back, as he did finally did shoot his wad into Glasser’s hand and onto the floor below. He cried out so hard it made him cry tears of joy, as pain and pleasure wracked his body in equal amounts.
“Get back on ya knees, bitch, we’s doin’ ass-to-mouth,” Glasser said. He sneered and cackled when he finally looked down and saw the blissed-out look on Miles’s face. A moan of intense pleasure came outta both men’s mouths.
He took his dick out, and Miles collapsed in a sweaty heap. He was too weak to lift his head, but Glasser neither noticed nor cared what Miles was doing. Glasser plopped his ass on the floor next to Miles, picked up his head and rammed it onto his dick like a fleshlight.
That triggered an orgasm from the moment his cock touched Miles’s tongue. Glasser let out a howl of ecstasy, and he forced his dick down Miles’s gullet.
A burst of hot creamy cum flowed into Miles’s throat. Women so rarely let him cum in their mouth, he wanted to see it now that he could. He watched with a sick sneer on his face as Miles stroked his cock off right into his own mouth. A vast flood of jizz overflowed from his mouth
It was so gross-looking, he thought, like watching someone guzzle snot, that it made him barely notice his orgasm or the waves of pleasure that wracked his body.
“Nasty-ass…” Glasser moaned, sticking his dick in as he finished cumming, playing with the puddle of cum there and making Miles gag on the last few drops spraying into the back of his throat.
Then Miles, when he was let go, spilled all that cum back out over Glasser’s boot. He hadn’t really meant to — it wasn’t an accident, he just didn’t realize how offensive it would be to Glasser. Miles choked again and again as his throat instinctively emptied itself.
“You stupid punk! Did you just spit cum on my boot?!”
“Sorry-” Miles’s voice was weak and wimpering, his own orgasm flowing through him as he sprayed his wad on the gravel.
He got punched in the face though before he was even done, and then again and again. Miles didn’t much mind. He let Glasser put him in a headlock, and Miles strained, wiggling in pain as he was buried in Glasser’s muscles, swallowing mouthfuls of armpit hair. Glasser’s pants were still around his ankles, so he was unable to keep his balance, and soon both men were on the ground.
Glasser realized Miles was enjoying this and rolled off him. He kicked gravel over Miles. “Fuckin’ pervert,” he said. He had a litany of threats ready, but Miles might enjoy most of them, so he didn’t say them.
He pulled his pants up, spat on Miles’s face, took the fifteen hundred dollars Miles had in his hand in crisp hundreds, plus the remaining cash in his pocket, and then walked into the bar. He kicked more gravel onto Miles as he did.
The back door into Lipsweet slammed shut.
There was a long empty silence in the gravely spot by the dumpsters in the alley. Miles savored every moment of it, the remnants of his prostate orgasm still flowing through his veins.
He lay like that until finally he felt capable once more of standing. Miles took a deep breath and wiped both blood and cum, not to mention dirt and gravel, off his face. After standing in that alley for a long time, he decided to, once again, head into Lipsweet for another go.