When Miles hears tell of the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia in jail, he heads right over to bail him out. It’s the raunchy Cooter Wilde, who’s willing to let Miles worship every inch of his dirty feet… with a little monetary persuasion!
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The blank page beckoned. Miles was trying to write a book, and it wasn’t going well. He only ever had ideas when he was driving. As soon as he sit himself down to write, he couldn’t think of anything. Literally all he had written so far was “hero… tall”
That wasn’t much to start from.
He was distracted by the cops who had just walked in. Miles was told by a writer friend that he should go to a coffee shop. “You’ll focus better that way,” that idiot writer friend had said, dumbly. Miles wasn’t focusing better at all. He had gotten more done that one time he tried to write drunk at home. What he wrote turned out to be incomprehensible garbage in the morning, but at least Miles felt like a writer for awhile.
“I don’t wanna buy any sandwich today,” one of the cops said to the second cop, “cuz I arrested Cooter Wilde last night. I still feel dirty, I don’t wanna eat nothin’ I gotta touch.” They both laughed.
“That boy is the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia. What’d he do? Sell meth again — I’m sorry, sell meth barefoot on the street corner — that oughta be even more illegal than selling meth in shoes. Fuckin’ nastier than a dead dog in heat.”
“Nah, all he did yesterday was show up drunk to Lipsweet and refuse to leave. He told me he don’t make meth no more cuz of something to do with the Chinese. I didn’t quite get it. He don’t like Chinese folk, or at least not Chinese meth-dealers,” the first cop said, snorting back laughter. “He was barefoot too, once again. That motherfucker…”
“They let him in the bar without shoes on?”
“I don’t think Teddy noticed his bare feet, he was too distracted by Cooter puking all over the jukebox. He tried to kick him out, but you know how strong Cooter is, especially when he’s drunk.”
Miles couldn’t resist that. He was already googling the local jailhouse and the procedures to bail someone out. If there was a filthy, perpetually barefoot hillbilly in jail, Miles was going to go worship his nasty, disgusting feet or do everything he could to make it happen.
So he drove straight to the jail. Miles loved foot worship. He loved everything about (male) feet: the funk, the nastiness, the smell, the taste, the texture, he loved them clean, he loved them (especially) dirty, he loved taking clean ones and making them dirty, he loved taking dirty ones and making them clean.
It was all he could think about when he tried to start writing this children’s book — which he was sure would be more popular than Harry Potter if he could just focus on it.
But who could focus on wizards and gremlins and a tall hero if there was a nasty hillbilly whose feet needed worshiping?
Miles drove straight to the jailhouse. He wanted to go right there to avoid any awkward questions if those cops from the coffeeshop happened to see him bailing Cooter Wilde out — that wasn’t illegal necessarily, but they might think the only reason Miles would do something like that was because he and Cooter were in business together (presumably the meth business).
So he went right there, while those cops were still sipping coffee and eating donuts. He had never bailed anyone out of jail. He went to the desk sergeant, who looked at him like he was an idiot. Cooter didn’t need to be “bailed out”, he had merely been cited for drunk in public, drunk and disorderly, open container violations and fourth-degree menacing. That meant thousands in fines but no jail time, so there was no bail. He was only in jail still because he was sleeping off the booze.
When Miles was led into the jail, his heart pounded. There were a couple hot guys in there. One young black man with massive feet attracted Miles’s eye.
But he managed to focus — finally — and went to Cooter Wilde’s cell, which he shared with a few other drunks sleeping it off.
Miles liked feet, so he wasn’t so worried about his men being imperfect in other ways. They could be a little fat, a little skinny, a little old, whatever, it didn’t much matter to Miles. But Cooter Wilde was absolutely perfect — Miles thought every part of him was hot.
He was short and thickly built but not fat; he looked like he wanted to be fat but didn’t eat enough, his oversized heft overflowing from overtaut skin. His thighs were muscular like a horse’s haunches. He had a big torso and no belly to speak of, though he was far from having a six-pack. Perhaps his greatest non-foot feature, however, was his beard, which was big and bushy like an Old West gold prospector. It was coppery — the hair on his head, a tangled, greasy mullet, was dirty blond, but his beard hairs were gray-tinged copper like a nest made of wire covering his cheeks and chin.
His feet were bare, and they were magnificent specimens indeed. Miles was an experienced connoisseur of men’s feet. He had massive feet, even bigger than seemed appropriate for his body, and there was a tuft of hair on the top of each foot and a few more hairs on each toe. His feet were dirty, literally filthy, covered in dust and and caked with dried mud, which it looked like he had scraped off over the night. Miles could still see it sticking to his skin though, a thin layer of dirt. He had been given jailhouse sandals, which sat, unused, by the door.
You could just tell at a glance that Cooter was the kind of man who did not wear shoes often. He had the feet of an outdoorsman. Miles saw the signs. Bet they’d taste so good… And you could lick them for hours, with calluses like that, Cooter wouldn’t even notice.
“Ya ain’t allowed to be barefoot in jail, Cooter,” the desk sergeant said with a resigned air — obviously they’d had this dispute before. His name was Officer Heartley, and he also had magnificent feet. Miles had partaken of their glory on a few occasions, when Heartley was feuding with his wife and needed a place to stay.
But his feet were never one tenth as filthy as Cooter’s. How did they even get filthy like this in a reasonably clean jail? Miles wondered but did not ask.
“I is layin’ down,” Cooter said without getting up. His chest rippled, greasy sweat glistening. “They say I can takes ‘em off when I lay my ass down.”
The cop didn’t dispute that, but he scowled. “You gettin’ picked up.”
Cooter hadn’t looked over to the door yet, so he hadn’t seen Miles. He thought that the cop was asking him a question. He snorted. “Ain’t no one gonna pick me up. Just lemme walk outta here.”
“You do got someone pickin’ you up,” the cop said. He held up his breathalyzer. “You think you can pass?”
Cooter sat up and furrowed his brow. He looked at Miles. “Who’uh you?”
“My name’s Miles,” he said. “I’m here to offer you a job. They said I’d have to pick you up at jail-“
The cop snorted, and Cooter laughed with him. “I ain’t the havin’-a-job kinda guy, Miles. Who told you to hire me?”
“It’s complicated,” Miles said. “But I’ll take you home whether you take the job or not.”
Cooter shrugged and agreed. The cop breathalyzed him — he wasn’t allowed to leave jail until he had a blood-alcohol-level low enough to drive, even though he wasn’t driving away from jail. He blew a .01, which was well below the cut-off. Cooter cheered like being sober was an accomplishment he had not often achieved.
Once they got out into the parking lot, Cooter winced at the bright light. Then he said, “Math can go fuck himself.”
“Oh.” Miles raised his eyebrows. “Math can go fuck itself?” He unlocked his car, and they both got in.
“I don’t owe him jack-shit, he ain’t need to send you,” Cooter said. He belched loudly in the passenger seat of the car. Then he winced because some of the stench of his burp stuck to his beard.
It was only then that Miles realized Math was a person. That made more sense. “I don’t know any Math,” Miles said. “But I am partial to some multiplication.”
“What?”
“Just a joke. I’m not part of… the same thing, the Math person that you know, he didn’t send me.”
“Then why’d you pick me up?”
“I heard you were the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia. Is that right?”
Cooter grinned. “I am as dirty as a hog in a brothel, yessuh, tha’s fo’ sho’,” he said. “But I ain’t make the acquaintance of e’ery hillbilly in West Virginny.” He slapped his belly and pulled his shirt off. He belched loudly. “So you pickt me up outta jail cuz you like filthy hillbillies?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Uh, I like the filth, and uh… I appreciate certain kinds of manhood. Well, most any kind of manhood really, as long as it’s, you know… a good one,” he said. “I just like the feet of men. I’m a connoisseur.”
“That ain’t a word I done got to know in an intimate fashion,” Cooter said. He had a deep-holler-heavy baritone that boomed and rattled. “But I is pickin’ up what you puttin’ down.” Cooter looked at him distastefully and belched again, this time aiming it right at Miles’s face. Miles winced at the rancid taste, but he actually found it a turn-on. His dick throbbed in his pants. “Don’t play, man, I can tell what you is like. Whatchoo want wit’ me?”
“I wanna lick your feet.”
There was a long pause. “I ain’t think that’s what you was gonna say. I ain’t predict that ‘t all. I thought you was gonna say you wanna buy meth.”
“Oh, uh… Yeah, I’m not into that,” Miles said. He blushed. “I like feet, and yours are so nasty and disgusting. Will you step on my face? Lemme suck on your toes.”
Cooter shook his head. “I ain’t down. I don’t much cotton to unbiblical affairs. I mean… not countin’ fuckin’ girls in the pussy, or in the butt or mouth, I mean. And… you know, beatin’ up punks and shit.”
“Oh, you’re a churchgoer? Well that’s cool, I don’t wanna make you-“
“No I don’t go to church. I… Okay, full disclosure, mothahfuckah, I ain’t all ‘bout the Bible, okay? No spillin’ your seed.”
“The only part of the Bible you believe in is the part about spillin’ your seed?”
“I… I don’t murder neither.”
“So two parts?”
“I gots a right to my beliefs,” Cooter said with a chuckle. He patted his jiggling belly. “You got smokes?”
“No. I’ll buy you some if you take your dick out.”
Cooter agreed readily and Miles pulled into a gas station. He bought the cigarettes, handed them over to Cooter and then had to go back in to buy a lighter — the cops had confiscated Cooter’s and never gave it back. When Miles pulled out of the parking lot, Cooter unzipped his jeans and pulled them down far enough to bare his massive dick.
“Shit… Why ain’t you come by the jail last night?”
“What?”
“You wouldn’t gotta pay me nothin’, I’d have been passed out,” Cooter said. He looked out the window, not looking at his cock or at Miles, who snuck glances at his massive, greasy hog while driving on the highway.
“I’m not into sucking unconscious feet,” Miles said. He slowly reached over to Cooter’s cock to give him a chance to say no. Cooter sighed but allowed it. Miles gave it a stroke and a shiver of excitement ran through him. “Can we go somewhere and I’ll suck your feet? I’ll suck your dick too, but it’ll be mainly the feet-“
“I ain’t… into feet.” Cooter said, facing still aimed intently out the window. Miles stroked his limp dick.
“That’s fine. I’ll pay you two hundred dollars.”
Cooter snorted like that was nowhere’s near enough.
“Three hundred.”
“Three grand,” he said. He looked at Miles finally, and waved the paperwork the desk sergeant had given him. “I owe seventeen hundred in fees, man. So you pay that and gimme three hundred on top of it, and you can do anything you want to to my feet.” He blushed and held his hands up. “Not anything. You can lick ‘em and shit.” He blushed even brighter and his eyes opened wide. “Not shit! You can’t shit on my feet!”
“That’s fine, that isn’t what I wanted to do,” Miles said with a giggle. “Just suck ‘em clean, and for that much money, me and you both have to cum on your feet and I’ll suck the cum off-“
Cooter looked like he might throw up. “I’ll cum on my feet, yeah, that’s fine. Gross, but fine. But you wanna cum on my feet too? I dunno, hoss, that sounds weird.”
“Well… I can’t dispute that,” Miles said. “It is weird. But for three grand…?”
Cooter shook his head and covered his face. “Fine. Yes. But you can’t tell no one.”
“I won’t. I doubt I know anyone in the same social circle as you anyway,” Miles said. “You got a place we could go?”
“Yeah, fine,” Cooter said. “Get off the highway up here.” He quickly directed Miles off the highway and onto a dirt road. It led to a cabin in the woods. It was a ramshackle old thing with no electricity — though there was a generator — nor even plumbing; it had an outhouse out back. There were no signs of habitation, but it did look like people came here regularly. Miles suspected there was a meth lab, marijuana field or something similar nearby; he didn’t share that suspicion with Cooter.
Cooter wore camo pants and a wifebeater, which he took off and plopped on the floor. He sighed and patted his belly. Then he blushed and looked at Miles. “So, uh… how do you… do this?”
Miles just dropped right to his knees and put his lips on Cooter’s left foot. Cooter grunted. Miles’s tongue lapped at the hairy spot there, leaving a layer of saliva, then his tongue moved down lower and lower, to his toes.
Cooter still stood there awkwardly. He hadn’t expected it to just happen. He wouldn’t have started standing in the center of the cabin like this. He wanted to sit, or lay down, but it looked like Miles was intent on licking his foot.
It had seemed gross right up until it began. Out in the car, Cooter thought it was disgusting, and couldn’t believe he had agreed to it. But now he realized it was just like a cat licking him — a little ticklish and not at all sexy, but it wasn’t nasty. He could just ignore it, stand here for awhile, blow his wad and make three grand.
Miles’s tongue slipped between his toes. Cooter lifted his foot to give him easy access to it, leaning against the wall for support. Miles sucked on each toe — making Cooter chuckle ticklishly a bit — as he got all the grime out from between the toes.
The bottom of Cooter’s foot was the filthiest piece of flesh Miles had ever licked. Cooter hated wearing shoes or socks. He kept them in his car because a lot of stores wouldn’t let him in barefoot. Because of that, he often wore the same socks on those occasions when he had to wear socks — he just kept them in his car and didn’t wash them.
So the bottom of his feet smelled like socks that were so dirty they never dried out, remaining perpetually moist with foot-scent. He was covered in dirt and bits of asphalt sticking to the padded calluses underneath his foot. He had thick calluses there, Miles could feel them like armor, especially under his heel.
Miles noisily moistly sucked every inch of Cooter’s left foot, while Cooter looked on dourly. Cooter’s heart raced but his dick remained limp.
Much to Cooter’s surprise, he did get hard slowly. He wasn’t even aware of it until Miles pulled those camo pants down and directed him to sit on the couch. Cooter’s big round face was bright red, and he panted a little.
When did I get turned on? Cooter realized only as he sat that he was eager to get a nut off. Up until now, he had been weirded out and grossed out and desperate to start drinking again — Cooter was rarely sober for long. But now his dick was erect and throbbing, and the touch of Miles’s tongue on his foot made him croon with desire.
“Shit…” Cooter said with a blushing chuckle. “You ready to jack me off?”
Miles nodded. He hadn’t even touched Cooter’s right foot yet, but he decided to leave that for the moment. He went straight to Cooter’s cock, planted his lips on it and blew a loud, moist raspberry. That made Cooter laugh uproariously before Miles began mouthing it off in earnest. It sent a thrill up Cooter’s spine.
His chest muscles jiggled, that unkempt beard shaking as Cooter bit his lip. He howled. He still felt a little queasy from his hangover — though that had mostly subsided — but this blowjob was already making him feel better. It made him hungry, which was always a sign that he had sobered up too much.
“Goddamn.” Cooter gritted his teeth. He touched Miles’s head, guiding it up and down on his fat cock. Miles’s nose buried itself in Cooter’s fleshy crotch, and then Miles pulled off to suck on his sweaty balls. Miles moaned so loud it made Cooter laugh again. “Shit!” Cooter said, shaking like this felt so good it hurt. “Get deep on it, man-“
“Are you ready to cum?” Miles asked. He asked it first with his mouth full of hairy ballsac, but that didn’t produce any intelligible words, so he let both balls spill out of his mouth, while Miles’s hand caressed Cooter’s left foot.
“Nah, man, it’s only been-” Cooter’s voice broke because Miles went back to slurping on the tip. He gasped. “It’s only been a minute, I don’t cum that quick.” He tried to laugh, but he was on the verge of orgasm so all that came out was a nervous tremor. “Shit, boy, damn!” He growled and plowed into Miles’s face just once before letting go again. Precum streamed down his shaft.
“It’s been like ten minutes,” Miles said, giggling. “Time passes when you have fun.” He placed his tongue out, right on the tip of Cooter’s fat prick. He tasted sour and salty precum, intensely funky, like semen that had been stored in a dirty sock drawer.
He used both hands to stroke Cooter’s cock as quickly as he could. Miles was an expert at getting reluctant men off even when they didn’t know how to do it, so he was able to bring Cooter to orgasm that way, aiming his dick right for Miles’s open mouth and his tongue.
But that isn’t where he shot it. Once Cooter grunted, closed his eyes and bucked his hips, one wad of cum hit Miles on the tongue. Then he pulled Cooter’s dick away and aimed it for Cooter’s right foot, the one Miles hadn’t touched yet. It was still sweat-covered, filth-encrusted and stinking of hillbilly raunch, with bits of who-knew-what from the jailhouse floor. There was paper and fuzz, a twig, clumps of something black clinging to his hairy feet.
Now there was a layer of cum too, ropy wad after ropy wad landing on his stinking foot. It slid over the top and between the toes, running in rivulets down the side to coat the bottom and the heel.
“Shit, boy, shit! You oughta give lessons!” Cooter wailed, a big barrel-shaped belly-laugh exploding from deep within him, voice breaking, orgasm making his hefty hillbilly body jiggle. He slapped his belly over Miles’s face before finishing his load, then he sighed and fell limp on the couch.
His whole body was spent, but his foot was perfectly cum-coated and nasty. The smell of the semen mixed with his natural foot odor, making them both more intense and more potent. Miles inhaled deeply before he got to work sucking Cooter’s foot clean.
It was so foul it brought tears to his eyes. Miles winced and gagged but kept going. He wanted to taste it all.
There was bitterness from those flecks of something black — plastic? Miles wasn’t sure, it had a certain human quality, like it was bits of pure body odor, but he suspected it was plastic from some kind of strap that had been over a person’s ass — it stank of ass. There was bits of cottony fuzz, soaked in foot-sweat — those were from the jailhouse slippers they made inmates wear if they came in barefoot.
The sweat and cum made a veritable puddle of fluids on every surface of Cooter’s foot. Miles slurped it down like the last bit of soda in a bottle. Again it made him gag, the snottiness of Cooter’s cum making the raunchy taste of his foot stick to Miles’s mouth. He thought it might never go away.
Miles kneeled in front of Cooter with his foot on his face. Cooter pressed down with his toes on Miles’s mouth because he thought it was funny. He had even forgotten that Miles hadn’t cum yet and that he had agreed to let Miles cum on his foot. He just chuckled as he played with the inside of Miles’s mouth, making him gag over and over.
And then Miles buckled, choking on the massive toe on his mouth. He stood, holding Cooter’s foot, aiming his dick at it.
Cooter groaned and covered his eyes. “Ah, shit, nasty, you is doin’ it…” His big cheeks were bright red from his orgasm, but now they went flush, the color mainly covered up by his redneck beard.
Even with his eyes closed, Cooter could feel sticky cum all over his foot. He had never touched another man’s cum, he thought, and it was just as sticky and creamy and stomach-churning as he had suspected it would be.
It poured over his foot, sticking to his skin and coating his toes. He felt it sliding into the intertoe area and groaned, assuming it would be there until he showered — which didn’t happen often, and this cabin had no plumbing, so it wouldn’t happen again until much later, probably when he next visited his mama — but then Miles sucked it all back up.
He didn’t miss a drop. Cooter had been looking away, but now he was intrigued and entranced, and no matter how much it churned his stomach to see a man slurping cum off Cooter’s foot, Cooter couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was so gross it felt good, and the sensitive flesh of Cooter’s foot reawakened his now-finished orgasm.
At last, Miles was done. He dropped Cooter’s foot, but curled up around him on the floor, hugging his ankles and nuzzling his left food. It just smelled like spit now, but Miles still liked it.
“Shit, man,” Cooter said. “That was a fine way to earn three grand.”
Miles giggled and nodded. He hugged Cooter’s feet closer and kissed each one. “Yeah. If you wanna come with me to the bank, I can get the money now.” He laughed. “Well… lemme take a nap first. You tired me out, Cooter.”
Cooter shrugged and agreed, cuz he seemed tired too. Miles fell asleep there, ensconced in the feet of the filthiest hillbilly in West Virginia. Despite the success in nabbing Cooter and his disgusting feet, a flurry of disappointment remained in Miles’s belly — he had not written a word in his book today, and it seemed clear he wasn’t going to.
A hero, tall.
