Babes In Toeland

Tune your dial to 1993. San Francisco heat sticks to Doc Martens and over-the-knee socks. Madeline and Bobbi, two blondes who run hot in indie bands, grind their soaked knee-socks inside leather boots while they tease the slacker at the record store counter. He stares at the muscle in their calves, imagines the salty stink their cotton socks have baked up all day. They sense the weakness and pin him—push him down until his face is level with their dirt-caked boots. One toe at a time, he’s forced to huff the leather, the salt-crusted cotton, until his mouth’s full of grit and his cock’s fighting the zipper. Madeline and Bobbi take turns walking over him, grinding boot tread into his chest, then stripping to bare feet slick with spit. They smash his shaft between sweaty toes, smear pussy juice and spit across his face, make him lick their arches clean while their free feet keep his dick trapped and jerking. Four feet—two blonde, two brunette—work his length until he’s shooting a thick, filthy rope between their toes, the mess left to dry on skin and cotton alike. The Mallard’s feedback-soaked garage-psych keeps the needle jumping in the background while the girls wipe their soles across his spent cock, leaving one last filthy print before they walk away.