Susan O'Malley had a long day at work in her retail job, on her feet all day. The 65-year-old silky haired blonde with the sinewy, lean body was ready for a drink. And maybe some action.
She walked the street near the store on the unseasonably warm fall day. It had started out cool, so she'd worn black wool trouser socks under her black slacks, which over the course of the day became soaked with sweat. She'd taken her shoes off at work every so often, wrinkling her nose at the wretched stench that emanated from them.
"Shame to waste that," she laughed quietly to herself, resolving to find someone to share it with after work.
She found a bar she'd visited before, quiet, friendly, with several high-topped booths affording privacy. She liked privacy. She could carry out her plan here, she thought as she walked in, spying the sparse clientele at the late-afternoon hour.
She went to the bar and ordered a bloody Mary, making note of a young guy sitting nearby who'd taken note of her when she came in. Smiling at him, she took her drink and gave him a quick nod. He smiled back and watched her walk around a corner, to a secluded booth.
Susan sat, sipped her drink crossing her sexy legs under the table and waited. Seconds later, the young man, all of 22 or so, well dressed and obviously a businessman of some sort, rounded the corner, beer mug in hand.
"Hi," he said brightly. "Mind if I join you?"
"I'd mind if you didn't, young man," she smiled back, moving over to pat the seat beside her as the young man was prepared to sit across from her. "Right here, right here. It's cozier."
"Uh, yeah, yeah it is," he said nervously, taken aback by her brazenness, sliding in beside her. "My name's Michael Kimball. But you can call me Mike."
"Susan," she said, shaking his hand. "Susan O'Malley. But you can call me Mrs. O'Malley."
His eyes widened, blinking at the smiling, sure older woman who's tiny hand was dwarfed in his.
"Uh...well sure, Mrs. O'Malley, whatever you say," he said nervously.
"That's right, Michael," Susan purred, snuggling closer to him. "Whatever Mrs. O'Malley says."
They chatted for a few moments about inconsequential things, Susan finishing her drink and ordering the young man to get her another. He readily obeyed, quickly getting it and returning. He found Susan sitting back on the seat, against the wall, her feet up on the seat, her pant legs riding up to reveal creamy, smooth shins above her black socks. She smiled and lifted her feet, motioning for him to sit. Unsure, he obliged, sliding in and watching as Susan plopped her feet onto his lap, making him jump as her heels punched his balls.
"OW!" he cried out.
"Sorry, darlin'," she cooed, taking her drink and sitting back to demurely suck the straw in it. "Well, not really, but it seemed the polite thing to say."
"No, that's...uh, that's ok, Sus...Mrs. O'Malley," he said uncertainly, watching her twist her feet in his lap, those heels digging into his groin where his cock started to swell. "You're...you're a little...forward, aren't you?"
"Oh, you don't like it?" she cooed, and before he could answer added. "Good, I like it that way."
He looked at her sitting against the wall, her blouse slightly open, a thick patchwork of sexy wrinkled flesh in evidence, curling from her neck to the cleavage below. Susan worked her feet harder down now, making him moan.
"Be a dear and massage my feet, boy," she said dominantly. "I've had a long, long day and they need a little attention. Go on, take off my shoes."
He hesitated and was rewarded with a downward pump of Susan's shoes, catching his balls and making him groan. Quickly, he pulled off her shoes and instantly was rewarded with a waft of sweet and sour air, acrid and sharp, from her sweaty socks.
"Frightful isn't it?" she giggled, wiggling her toes, causing the sexy, freckled calf muscles around her shins to crease and flex, the muscular balls of her calves rippling above her socks. "Don't be afraid, Michael. Dig in. Massage my feet."
She said it so confidently, so persuasively, he found his hands drifting to them, digging into the moist, stinky black socks, massaging and caressing them, watching her all the while as she watched him, sipping her drink.
"Mmmm that feels so nice, young man," she growled, wiggling her heels, feeling his dick stiffen against them. "So nice..."
He continued to work her feet, moaning as her heels caressed his fully stiff cock, a five-minute massage that had him nearing orgasm as she finished her drink. She held it up.
"Another," she said, swinging her feet to the floor.
He looked down at his crotch, his pants tenting before him.
"I...I can't...I mean right now..." he stammered.
"Do it," she said with a growl. "If you know what's good for you. Get your ass, and that beautiful young cock, out there and get Mrs. O'Malley a drink!"
He gulped and got up, bending over slightly to hide the erection she'd given him and showed no signs of abating. He quickly got her drink and returned, sitting next to her. She got close to him, putting an arm around his neck and with her other hand, cupping his hard cock, making him jump.
"You liked rubbing my stinky feet, didn't you boy?" she hissed, leaning in to lick his ear as she stroked his dick in his pants. "Admit it. You love my stinky socks!"
"Oh God yesssss," he groaned as she thrust her tongue into his ear and jerked him in his pants.
"Then you'll love this!" she laughed.
From under the table, she produced both her black socks and rammed them into his mouth, rubbing the stench into his nose and face, laughing as he sputtered, eyes open and watching her bony little hand smear the sweaty socks into him, holding his head still by grabbing a handful of his hair.
"Smell it bitch," she snarled. "And eat up!"
She forced his mouth open and rammed both socks inside, closing his mouth and putting a hand over it, forcing him to embrace the full funky flavor of her stinky socks, the sweaty, nasty odor permeating his sense of taste and smell. He resisted, but not very much, his mind awash in confusion, not sure if he should be enjoying it as much as he was. His stiff cock betrayed him as Susan grabbed his package, squeezing his balls and dick.
"Now then," she growled, unsnapping his pants and fishing his dick out to stroke it as she looked into his wide-open eyes. "Let's continue..."
She let go his cock and sat back, swinging her feet up and bringing them directly to his face, slapping it, wiping the sweaty, stinky soles on his nose. He inhaled deeply, desperate to devour her foot scent. She laughed and reached up to pull the socks from his mouth and let his anxious tongue wash over her wrinkled old soles, lapping up the sweat and grit, and then over the balls of her feet to lap her delicious, bony toes.
"Suck 'em, boy, suck those toes like tiny COCKS!" she hissed, eyes flashing in the dim lighting of the bar as the sun set outside. "Clean them, lick up the funk between 'em!"
He did, eyes rolling in the sockets, given completely to the task of being this crazy, sexy older woman's foot slave. He sucked each toe, nibbling the flesh, running his tongue between them, savoring the grit and grime and stench, before she pulled her feet away and dropped them down, instantly securing his cock between her solid, muscular calves. She stroked up and down, his copious pre-cum smearing the insides of her chiseled calves, and soon the quiet of their little corner was permeated by the obscene squishing sounds of her rapid calf fuck.
"Oh my GOD...Mrs. O'Malley...never...I never..." he babbled deliriously, looking down to watch the muscular wrinkled folds of her supple calves flow around his squeezed dick. "I'm...gonna...CUM!!"
"Oh no you DON'T!" she hissed.
Suddenly, her calves opened, her hand reaching in to pull his entire ball bag up around his dick, and slammed shut again, scissoring his balls and the base of his dick in the most painful grip he could ever have imagined. He opened his mouth to scream, but Susan quickly balled up her dirty socks to stick inside, cutting off his voice.
"You do NOT cum until given permission!" she barked into his frightened face, squeezing harder for emphasis. "You have so much more to do first!"
She relinquished her scissor lock on his genitals and swung her feet off him. Smiling at him as he writhed in pain next to her, she slithered out of her pants and spread her thighs, wrinkled and saggy but exquisitely sexy, and his eyes darted down to her copious, gray bush.
"It's all yours, baby," she cooed. "Now get under the table and get busy!"
Helplessly, he slipped under the table, as she pulled the tablecloth hanging off it over her lap, and looked into that bush, the funky musk washing over his face. The smell stopped him, a smell of piss and sweat and funk. He balked.
"It's not gonna eat itself, boy," she growled, impatiently reaching for his head and slamming his face to her cunt, wrapping her muscular old thighs around his skull, locking her feet and squeezing. "Make Mrs. O'Malley cum, bitch!"
He stabbed frantically at her old pussy, spearing the cheesy folds and lips and skewering her hole, tongue fucking her rapidly as her thighs tightened and she moaned in response. He lapped up and down, focusing on her engorged clit, sucking it into his mouth, dribbling it with his tongue, and her thighs scissored him harder as she neared orgasm.
"Damn, you're good, soooo fucking good," she cooed, pumping herself against his face.
He palmed her rugged, wrinkled thighs to pull them apart but couldn't move them, surprised at the muscle tone beneath that saggy skin. He lapped and sucked harder, eager to please her and be free of her leggy prison, when he heard someone speak.
"Another bloody, ma'am?" the bartender said, standing at the edge of the table.
"Yes, yes, that would be lovely," she cooed politely, quivering her meaty thighs against Michael's trapped face as he froze in fear, her sudden squeeze an indication he should continue, so he resumed his clit suck. "And another beer for my young man...who's in the bathroom at the moment.."
The bartender laughed and walked away. Susan moved the tablecloth from her lap and looked at Michael's face, red and sweaty in the clamp of her lusty old thighs.
