Bobby Phillips was an eager young man of 20, working his way through college, picking up summer jobs at any place he could, mowing lawns, moving furniture, fixing things around houses in the upscale neighborhood near his, one a little more downtrodden on the other side of town. He got work by word of mouth mostly.
That's how he found himself in Beth Atkins big house by the water, through a friend of a friend. Beth, a 63-year-old silvery haired single woman living alone, needed her dryer vent cleaned, and it was too big a job to move it on her own. So she called Bobby, and he'd come over early one morning just as Beth was preparing for her morning run, dressed in silky green shorts, tight top, hair pulled in a ponytail, ball cap on her surprisingly pretty face for a woman her age, the requisite crow's feet around her eyes, wrinkles around her mouth and neck, but with a fairly muscular body honed by years of paying attention to her health.
They made small talk as Beth led him upstairs, Bobby nervously watching her marvelously muscular, freckled, tanned calves flex above her low white socks and sneakers, and she showed him what needed to be done. As he walked back to the french doors leading to her bedroom, he noticed to his left an open door to a huge walk-in closet.
There, on the floor, was his fetish laid bare, his passion, his undoing: Hundreds of pairs of shoes, expensive ones, cheap ones, sneakers, boots, slippers, in a sprawling spread of footwear. His cock stiffened. He had a thing for feet, female feet, and that carried over to shoes when he couldn't get the actual feet themselves. And that included shoes of houses like this one, owned by a very sexy older woman.
"It shouldn't take terribly long, and I guess you'll be done by the time I get back in an hour or so, Bobby," Beth said brightly, pulling each leg up to her chest to stretch as she talked to him at the top of the stairs, the thin legs bulging with muscle, as she hugged one knee, then the other, pressing each supple calf into the back of each sexy thigh, making the flesh wiggle and flex in older-woman muscle. He tried not to look, but looked hard as she walked down the stairs, at her white and black sneakers, imagining how old they were, how heavenly they must smell, and would even more so upon her return.
He set about his work quickly, moving the dryer, cleaning the vent and replacing it, eager for his reward. It was closer than he thought: In the tub near the laundry closet was a basket of clothes, which included his manna from heaven: A pile of soiled white socks, which she presumably had worn for her morning runs, some black trouser socks sprinkled in, that she wore under her business slacks, and panties of all color, skimpy, sexy and best of all, stained with her essence.
He was like a kid in a candy store, kneeling by the tub, pulling out socks, smelling the acrid, sweaty funk of each one, the white socks the smelliest of all, with the caked fluids of her run on each. He licked them, sucked them, eager to reconstitute the moisture with his saliva, tasting and reveling in the moment, as he rubbed his stiff cock through his shorts with one hand, finally relenting to the inevitable and pulling it out, jerking it after fastening one of Beth's moister white socks over it, stretching it to his eager balls.
"Oh, God, Mrs. Atkins, you stink, stink soooo fucking good," he heard himself moan as he now lifted black socks to his nose, inhaling deeply, rubbing his face with them until the scent stuck to it, a different aroma, not as powerful and sweaty, but softer, gentler, owing to them being stuck in work shoes all day and not nearly as wet and pungent as the others.
He worked his way to the panties, and one by one examined each, each dark and light stain, smelling deeply at the well of her GILF sexual essence, licking again to rework the dried stains to wet, and licking it down as if it were a fine caviar, unable to stop. He was nearly cumming when he realized heaven awaited in the next room, the closet with all those shoes.
He walked in, cock in hand, free of the sock he'd had on it, bare and bobbing, like a meaty dowsing rod as he surveyed the room, trying to decide. He picked up a pair of old, nasty sneakers, burying his face in one, fitting the other over his dick, fucking it, smelling the other, moaning at the foul, sour-milk smell, stretching his tongue to the fabric inside, tasting her foot funk. He worked quickly, knowing she'd be back soon, next going for a pair of well-worn leather sandals, the toe area deeply worn, the material yellowed from age and where her sexy old toes had dug in as she walked. It was a tighter fit for his cock, but he worked it over it, the heel slapping painfully at his swollen balls as he lifted the other to his mouth, lapping like a dog from crusty heel to that yellowing toe area, smelling every acrid inch.
He was a boy possessed now, working from shoe to sneaker to boot to slipper to sandal, knowing he had to cum soon, but torn by indecision of which to dump his load in, knowing he hadn't much time, would have to cum, enjoy the moment, clean the soiled footwear and return the room to some semblance of what it was so as not to arouse suspicion.
He saw his salvation in a simple pair of black, leather pumps with ornate floral design on the toe, with gray interior, at the toes of which was crusted the most marvelous layer of presumed foot residue, an old pair of shoes she'd likely worn daily, fresh with her funk. He knelt, trembling, lifting one to his cock, and fitting it into the shoe, dragging the slime of his pre-cum along the inside, and stuffing its thick head into the toe area, tucking his nuts into the tight heel, reveling in the pain it caused. He lay down now, pressing the shoe beneath it, fucking it quickly and hard, feeling his orgasm building, and lay his face into the other shoe, the smell the most powerful of all, of old sweat and dead skin and socks and nylons and anything else she had around those undeniably sexy feet.
"Fuck me, fuck me Mrs. Atkins!" he groaned, feeling his balls knot as he licked desperately at the crusted foot funk of the other shoe, feeling it flake into his mouth, tasting its elegant stench, devouring it, humping madly at the shoe surrounding his cock, his balls painfully compressed in the heel.
He shot his load, thick, lumpy, wet, into the shoe toe area, moaning, his young ass rising and falling, his young tongue licking harder into the other shoe, wanting more of its funky flavor. He felt his balls empty like they never had before, even at other houses with other sexy granny type women, not like this. Mrs. Atkins shoes and smell and sex overwhelmed him, draining him body and soul.
He slowly pulled himself to his knees, feeling his dick slip from the shoe around it, and smiled looking inside at the thick layer of hot cum blanketed there.
There was one of three ways Beth thought she could handle this, after coming up the stairs moments earlier, hearing his moans and camping out by the door watching his tight white ass hump up and down, fucking her shoe, smelling and licking the other. She could sneak back downstairs, make some noise to give the boy ample time to clean up and just forget it ever happened, perhaps being flattered by his slavish sexual devotion to her shoes and her smell. She could confront him, tell him of her disappointment in him, but understanding that boys will be boys and that she will just let it go, not wanting to harm his psyche in the long run, hampering his ability to express himself sexually, no matter how odd it may strike others.
Or she could march in, make him clean his own cum out of her shoe with his tongue and make him eat her hairy, sweaty pussy until she was satisfied, using him and sending him on his way.
She found the decision making itself as she found herself now standing behind him, angrily grabbing a handful of hair on the back of his head and bending it back to look into his astonished eyes, his wilting cock dripping a gob of spunk into the shoe below.
"You pervert, you disgusting young pervert!" she heard herself screaming, not feeling anger at all but intense, undeniable lust, never before feeling this way and loving it as it unfolded for her, as she shook his head in her hand. "You like fucking an old woman's shoe? You like her smell, you like my scent???"
She was all impulse now, acting on urges she didn't know existed, pent up perhaps from years of a dull, sexless marriage, and with her free hand slithered out of her shorts and panties, standing in white socks and sneakers. She bent his head farther back, until he was on his haunches, painfully, his face straight up.
"Then smell THIS!" she growled, stepping over his upturned face, her old butt cheeks quivering and wrinkled and sagging in sexy folds of pure white meat, yanking his hair until his face was buried in the funky wetness of her hairy pussy and asshole, slamming her thighs around his neck to secure his face to her fleshy ass, and crossing her socked feet to put on a brutal scissor squeeze with those powerful old legs. "Smell my sweaty asshole, boy, it should be nice and ripe after my run on a hot, humid morning!"
She let go with her hand, standing with hands on hips, feeling his thrashing, feeling his face be enveloped in the meaty grip of her sweaty, stinky ass. His nose was at the pucker, slipping into the ring of her asshole, wet and open, and she squeezed harder with her scissors, feeling his face devoured in her butt. She ground on him now, on his chin, her clit rubbing back and forth on it, using it. Bobby screamed in pain, the muffled vibrations pleasing her and she squeezed him harder to her crotch and ass, her dimpled white butt flesh folding and flexing, the wrinkles going smooth when she relaxed her grip, then erupting into a sexy mass of creased flesh when she pinched it tighter around him.
She felt it building, an orgasm unlike any other, and worked for it, grabbing Bobby's shirt with one hand and tugging up, reaching behind for his hair and doing the same, pulling his moaning face as deeply into her hunching, wrinkled ass as she could, her thighs, etched in older-woman muscle beneath her tanned, freckled skin, quivering as she squeezed his face blue in her scissoring grip. But she needed more. She let him go and he fell to the floor between her legs, looking up the gnarled muscles of her calves to the now relaxed and sagging hamstrings of her thighs that were just crushing his skull.
"Let's go," she snarled, kicking him to his knees, pointing him toward her bed. "And don't forget that shoe."
