I felt my toes break the fragile crust beneath me and tip forward as I crouched before his fly, which I expertly lowered and entered with my hand. I didn’t unbutton his trousers, as I didn’t want them to bunch around his feet.  Grant was hooked, his anticipation pushing out through the opening in his boxers to meet me.  He was still dry, and I cupped him, hot and smooth in my hand. My festering hatred of him momentarily forgotten, I savored the power my touch had over him—that with the mere brush of my fingers his eyes lost focus and his breath turned ragged.  

I would have lost myself to the intoxication of dominating Grant had I not glanced down and seen that the heels of his loafers had disappeared into the earth, galvanizing my plan.  And so, I began my well-honed ritual. I tasted his salt and felt him sway against my lips. I took periodic breaks to confirm that our dance was indeed driving him further into the soft ground. When the leather welted rim of his shoe was flush with boggy surface and the rounded leaves of the marigold sprouts had began to brush against the orderly weave of his socks, I could wait no longer to fumble with the button on my own pants. Timing would be everything. 

He was oblivious to everything happening at his feet—his head was back as if in silent contemplation of the treetops, their yellow-green haze brilliant against a porcelain blue sky.  I devoured him until his groans had turned to whimpered “oh, fucks—” which I had learned signaled that his tipping point was drawing nigh. It was my cue. 

I withdrew, a silvery thread of him spanning between us for a second before breaking and gathering on my lower lip. When I stood, leveling my face with his, he looked at me with glassy, confused eyes. 

“I want you to look at me when you cum,” I said. He was in no position to argue.  Spitting on my hands, I seized him with one hand and myself with the other.  Mouth agape, his breath caught in his throat as I squeezed his balls and ground his glans into the dent of my palm.  His gaze started rolling heavenward again.  

“Look at me,” I prompted. The command came out with a quiet intensity that surprised both of us. A furrow deepened between his brows. He bit his lower lip, the beginning of his “fuck.”

I made my move. 

I removed my hand—sticky with foregone conclusion—from my cock and placed on his chest, dampening his t-shirt. The first of his milky release was just blooming into my other palm when I gave him a push.  He stumbled back, one loafer coming along, the other remaining fixed in place. His blue and gold clad foot plunged out of view, a small bubble of mud erupting near the point of entry and spattering the cuff of his linen pants with brown flecks. 

Grant’s eyes widened as surprise crashed into ecstasy.  He gasped as a hot jet of semen flew from him, spurting up my wrist, and simultaneously his remaining loafer skidded beneath him, carving a deep trough in the mushy loam. 

By the time last of his climax had shuddered through him, I was nearly there myself. “My turn,” I said simply, and sank to my knees, which drove into the mire at Grant’s sunken feet. His juices on my hand mixed with mine as I gave myself a few final pumps.  A searing sensation tore through my prostate and I fought the urge to let my own head flop back dazedly as I lost control. Instead, I leaned forward, taking aim at Grant’s still shod foot, which was still slowly sliding out of view. 

There was no holding back this time. No softly cumming into my pants near his feet or furtively pumping into his shoe in the other room. It was my last chance, and all of my frustrations were funneled into one place. Grant unknowingly sweetened the moment when he tugged at his sliding foot to maintain balance and it popped free of the loafer. 

I cried out as every cell in my body contracted in concert and a pearlescent stream of pure want sailed from me and slapped against the top of his precariously dangling foot. I wish I could have seen his face, but I was too transfixed by the sight of my seed as it rolled down the silky stripes to his toes. Another wave of pleasure crashed over me, and a second volley struck the cuff of his pants, where it clung for a moment before dropping to the top of his scuttled shoe with an audible tap. 

Utterly spent, I collapsed against Grant’s legs, sending us both sprawling into the muck.