– A Horny Short –

Not far outside of town is a decent walking trail. It meanders in and out of hollows and plays shyly with a creek, coming alongside it for brief moments before darting off again amongst the stands of birch and sassafras. And occasionally, when the leaves are at their fullest and where the path lays just right in the soft folds of the terrain, you can completely forget that the bustle of everyday life is only a stone’s throw away.

I used to frequent the trail. True, it seemed a ridiculous waste to drive outside of town only to park in a dusty stone lot and then hike across a field just to reach the trail, and yet once you entered the shady sinuous lane, it became obvious once again that the hassle was worth it. If you were to look at a map of the the trail, it would look kind of like a bean splitting open with a tender shoot emerging and reaching up toward the sky, because the trail consisted of two loops that met in the middle and a single spur. This dead end portion was called the Trestle Spur, so named because it wandered from the rest of the paths into a thickly wooded area and terminated at the creek under an old railroad bridge.

Most people seemed to avoid the Trestle Spur. Perhaps it was that it seemed foolish to have to walk to the end and then double back and retrace one’s steps. Maybe it was the return tip was uphill, whereas most of the rest of the trail was on fairly level ground, only occasionally gently undulating with the small twists and turns. But the relative solitude of the Trestle Spur made it my destination, as though the rest of the trail simply acted as bookends to this little stretch of path.

One summer afternoon when it was particularly hot and the air was close in spite of the green canopy overhead, I noticed a small path that peeled off from the Trestle Spur as I was about halfway down the sloping path. I would have missed it completely except that it cut so cleanly through a dense patch of ferns that had clustered just by the spur’s edge that the straight shadowy line caught my eye. And what could be more cool and inviting than the soft fractaled fronds of ferns on a hot day? It took no more than a second’s hesitation to veer from the familiar stone path and march through the damp undergrowth toward the unknown.

The footpath was no more than a absence of flora, but it was a clearly intentional avenue that wound between trees and around moss covered boulders. I delighted in the occasional soft place where my sneaker squelched in a rivulet making its way down the the creek and slid in the mud, scooping the shape of its tread into the earth. I could tell I was nearing the creek, not just from the sound but also the scent of the water and the light up ahead that meant the July sun was slashing though a channel cut into the woods.

Just before I broke into this light, however, and as the footpath lifted up over the roots of a thick tree rather than bending around the other side and plunging into the swampy territory of skunk cabbage below, a man’s voice interrupted the solitude. I froze next to the tree, and carefully peered around the other side.

He was sitting on the gnarled end of a tree that had fallen victim to flood waters in some previous storm. Just at the edge of the path, the ground dropped off sharply, having been carved away by a torrent of water. Below, the ferns and moss and leaves that had carpeted the ground along the path suddenly gave way to an expanse of black mud. The man sat before it, as though gazing upon it as one might expect someone to gaze upon a lake or a field of sunflowers.

I was about to edge my way by—his back was to me, and the little path would obscure me from view in just a few more steps where it ran behind more trees and curved into a hollow up ahead. But then he spoke again, and I noticed he cell phone raised to his ear.

“Yeah—I’m sorry. I know I said I would be home early. But I’ve just got to get this report done, then I can leave.” There was a pause, giving me long enough to reflect upon the only half I could hear of a conversation I had no business listening to. A report? Here? I saw no laptop. He wasn’t writing anything up here. Was he conducting some kind of soil samples or something? I scanned the area for a kit, test tubes, anything, but all that I spotted was a small rumpled knapsack that sat at the man’s side. He spoke again. “No, I think we should still keep our dinner plans. I don’t think I’ll be at the office that much longer.” Okay, so there it was. A lie. Why was he lying about being here? Was this a rendezvous point of some kind? I leaned into the tree as one nestles into a movie theater recliner. “I know. It isn’t fair. But I promise to be as quick as I can. Love you too, sweetie. Buh-bye.”

He pulled the phone from his ear, and I got my first clear look at his profile, now no longer obscured by his arm. It was a handsome face. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. It made me a little hard to think this guy was out here for some secretive reason. I was just thinking that seeing anything of interest would probably be too good to be true and that maybe I should just head back the way I came when I noticed a pair of rubber boots standing on the ground next to him. Oh, hello! Immediately all parts of me stood at attention.

I watched with a heart thudding in my chest as he bent down to remove a shoe. As he brought his up foot to meet his hand, I could see what my view had not previously afforded me—his khaki colored jeans,
and gray slip-ons with white soles. I couldn’t be sure from the distance, but they looked like DCs. The kind with the stitching that goes around the toe box. I would have given this guy another glance if I had passed him on the sidewalk. But to get to watch him take them off now was irresistible. As he pulled one off at the heel and placed it into the knapsack that sat on the tree next to him, I watched his black sock disappear again from sight. I backed around to the other side of my tree to see if the slight change in angle would be enough to get me what I needed: a live feed from the footcam of random hot guy. It was. From the skunk cabbage side of the tree, I could see the black socked foot dangling above the damp ground, and even the tracks the white soled slip ons had pressed into the soft ground before he had taken his seat.

He eased the other shoe from his foot—God, this alone was hot. If I had been in Famous Footwear and stumbled across a similar scene, I would have counted myself lucky. But to know that this was just a preamble to something else that involved rubber boots and mud was driving me wild with anticipation. I glanced over my shoulder and up the path to assure myself of the solitude that this guy had assumed he had, and pleased that there was no evidence of anyone else nearby, allowed my hard cock to tent my shorts as much as they pleased.

He pointed his right foot into a rubber boot, and I practically squealed with pleasure when I saw the telltale white rectangular label at his knee. They were Hunters! This couldn’t have been better if I had found it on YouTube. I felt a drop ease from my cock as I watched the dusty, dull boot spring to life with the shape of his entering foot. There has always been something highly erotic about the way a limp, floppy rubber boot takes on the shape of the foot and leg of its wearer, suddenly becoming an extension of their body. To see it in real life and without having to mask a stare was an unbelievable thrill.

I sadly didn’t get to see this process repeated on the left boot as his body was turned in unfortunate angle, but when he took his first tentative steps away from the fallen tree and was suddenly in full view, I had no regrets about my vantage point. Almost immediately, the ground began to yield beneath the dusty black domes of his feet. How many times had I seen the first titillating moments when rubber-clad feet succumbed to gooey earth in videos? More than I cared to admit. Yet nothing could compare to seeing it in real life, where the smell of the swampy decay filled my nostrils and I could see not just the man’s steps, but his face as he stared down at his own feet. The intense look in his eyes was almost as hot as what was happening down below. I adjusted my shorts around my cock and felt my underwear slide easily over my now well-lubricanted glans. As I did so, the man mirrored my actions. I could hear my exhalation whisper through my lips with the realization that he was enjoying this as much as I was.

He took another step, and I could see the adjuster strap on his calf knocking lazily against his leg. With a small gurgle, the ground suddenly opened up and swallowed his boot up to the Hunter label at near the rim. “Oh, fuck,” he murmured as he grabbed and massaged his bulge. He brought his other boot along for the ride, pressing it wetly alongside the first until the man looked like he simply stopped at his knees. His lips parted and his eyes widened as he took in the scene with a view infinitely better than mine.

Until this point, I had been happy to hit the mental “record” button and play it back later in the privacy of my own home while I worked my way to a fantastic release. But I found myself mashing my fist into my shorts at this point. My heart was beating in my ears.

The man struggled to wrench the boot from the sloppy jaws of the sucking ground. “Shit,” he hissed through his teeth as he grasped the rim with one hand while still using the other for more important purposes. He managed to free it, a slimy, glistening black mass clinging his lower extremity, when he planted it and started to work on the other, this time using a lateral swinging motion of his leg to widen the hole it was in. I found myself pumping my own fingers against my shaft through my shorts in synced rhythm to his movements.

When he finally extricated himself, he stood by the patch of swamp he had just marred, panting for the work, hands on his hips and beads of sweat dripping from his brow. Except for one small smudge of earth near his right knee, his Hunters had accepted the brunt of what the swamp had offered. The man could walk away now and no one would be any wiser for it except for the two of us. But something in his face told me he wasn’t done. He attended to his pants again and stared at the gurgling, chewed up path before him. Then he looked up and surveyed his surroundings.

Shit! I darted behind the tree like a nervous squirrel. Had I been spotted? I waited a moment against the back of the tree before daring to slowly resume my position. By now, he was back to staring at the ground. He gave a little smile, and then stepped back in.

I had to keep myself from moaning out loud as this time his knees were claimed in the process, and he exclaimed another “Oh, fuck!” His decision to forgo a clean escape had apparently been made. He pumped his legs and grabbed at his crotch furiously as the black paste worked its way further up his legs. Finally, he gave in completely and leaned forward, bending at the knees and letting the ground embrace his thighs and aching cock. He threw his head back and half laughed, half moaned at the sensation of the sun-warmed mud pressing against him, slowly soaking into his boots and through the cloth of his jeans.

I literally drooled on myself while gaping at the scene. He dug his hands into the ground before him and scooped a mound of paste over his thighs, exhaling another “fuck, yes,” as he did. Then he began to make love to the swamp. Literally. He rocked back and forth, an alternating pressing and pulling of the thick sludge against his sodden cock. He wasn’t looking down any more. He was staring into the tree tops with a dazed, out-of-focus look. I wondered if I looked like that as I hit the straight stretch approaching orgasm—as I was now.

As his breathing intensified, mine did too. I suddenly desperately wanted this to be timed to perfection. I wanted my cum to fly at the exact same time his did. He swayed back and forth with increasing intensity, the force driving him further into the soft ground. The paste was over his belt and climbing up his polo shirt. Something told me he wasn’t going to appear as though leaving the office late after this. He began to whimper, and I knew he was close, which pushed me all the closer.

And that’s when the crazy thought erupted in my mind. I suddenly pulled back. I stepped away from the precipice as he went hurling toward it, and I emerged from my hiding place behind the tree. I quietly stole to the fallen tree. The man was less than twenty feet away now. I could smell his aftershave mingling with the plant decay in the heavy summer air, and I could hear his moans as he built up like a pressure cooker. His back was to me and he was past the point of no return, thrusting against the wall of ooze like a trapped and panicked animal.

I quietly plucked his shoes from the knapsack. On top of my erotic buzz I felt a new thrill of forbidden pleasure. I was right—they were DCs. I put them to my nose and breathed in the scent of this man’s feet after a hot summer day, then slipped them over each hand like gloves as I skipped back onto the path. I sank behind the tree just as the man cried out in ecstasy. I was still hard, and already running to catch up with him now that I had his shoes on my hands. I brought the right one to my face. This is the shoe had pressed the accelerator to get this guy here. It’s the one I saw him pull off a few minutes ago. It had had a black sock and a foot in it that was now completely buried in mud. I turned and looked at his limp figure, panting on the ground, and that’s when I tumbled over the edge. Great quantities of what felt like searing hot semen pumped into my pants. I squeezed the soft canvas material of the DC between my fingers as surges of bliss shuddered through my entire body, bringing the damp woods around me in and out of focus.

I don’t know how long the man stayed like that before he crawled from the mud over to his bag to discover that his shoes had mysteriously vanished. But no sooner than the final waves of my own orgasm had crashed over me than I skipped back up the footpath to the Trestle Spur the way I had come, leaving the man and his beautiful predicament behind me.

I don’t go to the trail anymore. A housing development has gone up on the opposite side of the creek, and the Trestle Spur is no longer an isolated world. It’s become a destination for a lot more people, like the corridor of a shopping mall, and it no longer holds any magic for me. I do sometimes wonder about the little path cutting through the ferns, though. I wonder if it is still there, and if that man has ever dared to venture back out on it—especially since finding that someone had filched his shoes while he was euphorically writhing in the mud. I wonder how he got home that evening, and how he explained his sodden state to his wife. As for me—I still have his shoes. I’m actually wearing them now.