He planted his tongue on the bare top of Goldforge’s left foot, and Miles let out a moan as the taste of footy funk assaulted his senses. Even before his tongue touched the foot, he could taste it and smell it, the freshly sweated scent ramming into him, bringing tears to his eyes.
The sweat had poured over his foot when he wore those boots, and now it was slick all over. Miles slathered every inch with his tongue. He spat up on to the top of the foot and then sucked his spit down, gasping at how deliciously nasty the taste was — it tasted like stale spit and a locker room and a bit of cum.
Miles’s nose pressed into the layer of hair on top of Goldforge’s foot — he had moved onto the fresh right foot, and this time, he didn’t lick the whole thing. He savored it, dragging it out. He just licked the hairy top surface of the foot, getting up all the sweat that was there before he moved onto the toes.
He loved toes. The cracks between the toes was delightful, it was where sweat collected and never went away. So Miles could taste everything Goldforge had done since the last time he bathed — which was weeks ago. He could taste the hours he spent in the forge and the metal he had worked over and over; he tasted scorching sparks and moist, mildewy fur boots, and spilled lager and whiskey.
As he moved on to the bottom of Goldforge’s foot, licking up all the dirt that clung to his skin, Miles’s eyes roamed upward. He had to laugh at the shocked look on Goldforge’s face.
“Zanzibar’s axe!” Goldforge said with an annoyed grunt. He hadn’t expected this to feel good. “You are… You are licking my feet?”
From The Filthiest Alphas in Boots, Sneakers and Sandals
Tag: sweat
Benji and Dwight
Benji and Dwight both groaned and sighed. Dwight’s turn was next, so after taking a deep steam-filled breath, he said, “Dare.”
Marshall smiled. “Put your face in Benji’s armpit for a full minute.” He was gonna add ‘without puking’, but Benji cackled in his big-ass baritone way, and Dwight groaned. Benji was big and hairy for a twenty-year-old, which was cuz he was part-Egyptian, supposedly, that was what Marshall heard. His chest was coated in black fur, and his ass and the small of his back and his arms and thighs and even his shoulders were hairy too. His armpits made him look like he was smuggling skunks.
To his credit, Dwight did it, and Marshall ain’t even gotta make him — as a team captain, he had the right to do that. A man’s gotta do what he’s committed to, even if it’s just a game of truth or dare. Dwight rammed his face into Benji’s sweat-silkened armpit hair, and a ferocious retch came outta him.
“Ooh-“
“Don’t pull away, don’t pull away. One. Two. Three.” Marshall stopped counting cuz he laughed at the frenzied wriggling of Dwight.
“Ewww — ihh — ell — ell — eye — -iiiiiht!” That last word was ‘shit’, for sure, but neither them caught the resta what Dwight said. Salty sweat trickled into Dwight’s mouth, and he gagged again.
There was no clock in there — and this was decades before cell phones, mind you — clocks was still expensive then — so Marshall had no way of measuring a full minute. He laughed too hard to count off. In any case, it wasn’t manly to niggle, so he didn’t complain when Dwight pulled off and spat up like a cat with a hairball, even though it was probably less than a full minute.
In any case, before Dwight had even stopped gagging, Benji grinned and tousled Dwight’s hair. He said, “Dare.”
“Ewhck, man, ewhck,” Dwight said. He picked an armpit hair outta his mouth. “You are so nasty, Benji.”
Benji’s big round cheeks blushed. He shrugged. “It was Marshall’s dare.” Then Benji repeated himself. “I said dare, c’mon, Dwight.”
Dwight had to regain his composure still. He wiped sweat off with both hands, not that it had much effect — Dwight’s hands were sweaty too. Everything in here was sweaty. Dwight looked at Marshall, who sat there with his cock sticking to his thighs. Dwight grinned.
From Marshall the Coach