What Would I Do To You? #3 (Boot Cleaner)

What would I do to you this time?

We work together, in construction. It’s the summer, and a sweltering one at that. As we’re chatting one day at lunch, we realize that we both live quite close to one another, and since the site we’re working on is quite a distance away, and neither of us is getting paid the sort of cash we wish we were getting, I float the idea that we start carpooling to the site, instead of driving separately. I offer to drive, if you pitch in on gas, and so the next Monday, I pick you up, and we’re off.

My truck isn’t the nicest, the cleanest, or the largest, but it’s decent enough you suppose, since it’s saving you a good amount of money. The company isn’t bad though, and we have a nice conversation there, the hour long commute flying by. The day at work goes well too, and we seem to be forming a nice friendship–though we run into our first stumbling block on the drive home, when, before we leave, I take my boots off, chuck them behind the seat with a sigh, and drive us both home in the afternoon heat.

The smell is mild at first, but it only grows more intense. You ask if we could use the AC, and I confess it’s broken. The windows too–they only roll down an inch crack before not going any further, and you find it hard to focus as the stench from my boots behind you, and my feet below you, intensify over the next hour and a half, stuck in traffic on the highway. You don’t say anything, because you don’t want to cause any friction–it’s my truck after all, and I should be able to do what I like in my truck, but it’s…unpleasant to say the least. Finally, we get home, you get a breath of fresh air, and wonder how to break it to me that you can’t carpool with me if I ever take my boots off on the way home again.

You never mention it though. It keeps slipping your mind in the morning, and you’re too embarrassed about it on the ride home to say anything. Besides, how can you raise a complaint now that you’ve sat through it a few times? You seem to be getting better at tolerating it at least, but the next week, you say you’d rather drive yourself. I shrug, ask why, but you won’t say. Then tragedy–your truck is having engine issues that weekend, and the mechanic says it’ll be at least a couple thousand to fix it–a thousand you don’t have. You call me up, ask if the offer still is on the table, and I say of course. Come Monday, you’re back in my cab, and this time, you know you have to say something.

That afternoon, as we get to the truck, you confess it–how you want me to keep my boots on, because the smell is awful. But the conversation twists about, and I convince you, instead, to give it a try yourself. It is better, you admit. More comfortable. You even nod off on the way home, and I have to shake you awake. All week, you take your own boots off as well, but on Friday, you make a mistake, and when you go to grab your boots from behind the seat–you grab mine instead.

You don’t realize it until I’m gone, when you catch a whiff of them inside your place. Horrified, you stick them out in the garage…but the smell seems to haunt you. Saturday morning, you wake up and discover the boots are next to the bed…and your sheets are wet with cum–apparently, you had a wet dream. Sunday, the boots are in bed with you, right next to your face, and you’re so horny, you can’t help but jack off with your nose buried in my nasty boots, horrified at what you’re doing, but you can’t help yourself. All day, you keep getting drawn back–you’ve never been this horny in your life, that you can remember, smelling them, licking them clean, loving them like nothing you’ve ever loved.

Monday rolls around, and we laugh about your mistake, but I can see what happened, how my boots have been licked clean, aside from the few cum stains on them, from when you ground them against your dick until you came. That day, going home, you can’t help yourself, can you? Not when I start encouraging you to go ahead, take one of my nasty boots, tie it around your face, and jack off all the way home. How many loads do we get out of you that first time–Four, I think. You’re so horned up, you don’t even question sucking my cock–even if it doesn’t turn you on nearly as much as when I shove my nasty, unwashed socks into your mouth, and get a fifth load out of you.

I send my boots home with you every night now, so you can clean then and worship them properly. If you’re a good bootlicker during the week, I spend the night at your place on Friday and Saturday, wearing my boots for you, smashing your dick with them, using you as an ottoman while I watch TV, tying you up with socks in your mouth and my boot over your face, rubbing you off with the sole of the other until you cum hands free. The commute flies by now, with your face in my crotch sucking my musky cock, or down by the pedals, sniffing and licking my feet after I set the cruise control. But today, I have a new surprise for you.

I’ve told a few other guys on the crew about what a good bootlicker you are, and they agreed to send their boots home with you over the weekend, for a proper cleaning. You look behind the seat, and see six pairs–you know whose they are right away…because you’ve found yourself fantasizing about them more and more. Fifty bucks a pair, for the service, but I’ll keep most of it as a finder’s fee. Still, you aren’t complaining, right? You love your new side-gig more than anything, and it isn’t long before you’re cleaning the boots of every man on the crew–and quite a few of our more open minded neighbors–but mine will always have a special place in your heart. No one, after all, can work up a nice boot stench like me.