The Barefoot Wench

The rain beats down on the determined Scotsman, pushing against the headwind funnelling through the steep sides of the valley. As the road rises out of the valley, he peers up through the wind, seeing with relief the outskirts of a small town, and before him a ramshackle tavern. Plodding up to the door the warm glow of fires and lanterns draws him in, lured by the promise of a hot meal, and with any luck some desirable company. As he steps in, he looks up, seeing the name "The Barefoot Wench" he smiles, whispering a word of thanks to the Celtic gods who brought him here, and enters The Barefoot Wench.

The Scotsman, exhausted from his travels, sits by a roaring fire; observing the buzz of activity in the tavern, as the conversations around him rise and fall. Wenches wind back and forth between tables and the bar, one wench in particular catches his eye, his gaze wander hungrily from her voluptuous breasts down to the flashing bare soles of her feet.

Smiling with appreciation at the accuracy of the tavern name, he looks around, all the serving wenches are barefoot! Strolling around the room naturally on strong, if filthy, feet. He instantly forgot about his long cold journey, was it getting steamy in here or was that just his sodden kilt? His eyes returned to the barefoot wench. Intensely following her around the room as she served drinks and food with her bare feet slapping against the grimy wooden floor. It had been many moons since he'd had a wench like her. Feeling the coins in his sporran, he wondered how many groats she'd take for a quick shag around the back? Her immense cleavage almost spilled out of her ill-fitting garment. As she knelt down to stoke the fire next to him, she raised her skirt slightly and he got the perfect view of the naked soles which has so enchanted him. His cock stirs pushing the table before him up and endangering his pint. In surprise he catches it, slopping half onto the floor, directly on the feet he had been watching so closely. Glancing up, she notices his erect cock tenting his kilt. A small wet patch spreading from the pinnacle of the tent, perhaps it's raining she thinks. His muscular calves tense with embarrassment under her curious gaze. She looks up into his face with a smile, "so are you gonna fuck me or wot?" she asks.

"Och aye, if you're willing lass, how much?"

"Ooooo you cheeky bastard! Bag of pork scratchings and a pint of ale wouldn't go amiss though", she winked.

The Scotsman immediately hailed another wench and orders 2 pints of ale and a bag of pork scratchings. The barefoot wench turns to him,

"'Ang on big cock, I've got to finish me shift first! You stay here, finish these drinks and I'll be back in half an hour."

He rests his toned arms on the table in front of him, once again watching her feet flash through the room. He strokes his beard, wondering idly if he can manage a sneaky wank under the table, hidden by his sporren. Glancing around the room he decides against it, it's a bit busy.

At the bar the barefoot wench turns to the other barefoot wench, exclaiming:

"look at the sexy teasing bastard, with his kilt like that he's making me wetter than the floor of the fish market."

"Don't fuck him totally dry though, I want him when you're done."

The girls cleared the last of the tankards and glanced up at the Scotsman lounged across a chair, his legs suggestively parted to accommodate his enormous cock. Sauntering over to him, the barefoot wench planted herself in the chair across from him and drew her feet up onto the table giving him a spectacular sight of her filthy soles and her bust bursting at the ties of her dress framed the perfect view. This was almost too much for him, he very nearly made a mess of his kilt.

"So big boy, 'ave you got me scratchings?"

"Aye lassie" he said, pulling them from under his sporran, "with extra flavour."

But before he tossed her the extra-large bag of Mr Nibble's pork scratchings, he asked her in turn, "what do I get for it?"

"Why don't you whip out that monster from under your kilt, and I'll let my feet do the talking."

He obligingly pushed aside the last fold of his kilt, she gasped nearly choking on her pork scratchings. It was hideous, like all cocks -that last turkey in the shop look - but she knew by looking just what it was capable of. She slid down in her seat, raising her feet higher towards him. He stepped forwards as she began to stroke his throbbing member with her filthy yet soft soles. Squealing with bliss and disbelief the Scotsman took a sip of whiskey. She brought up her other foot, squeezing the dripping head of his penis with her toes like she was wringing out a sponge. Still munching on her scratchings, she switched her grip to hold his cock between both of her feet. Relishing the feel of his hard shaft between her soles she was happier than a pig in mud. She rubbed his cock, and her mind wandered, wondering what it was that made these pork scratchings taste so good.

Suddenly something flew into her scratchings, it was warm, sticky, was it...?

She glanced up at the cock, it was now wet and steaming like a recently fired cannon, and into the face sheepish Scotsman.

"Sorry" he mumbled.

"I was expecting more than that from a great big Scotsman like you."

"I've only just started."

With that he dropped to his knees under her dress. His beard caressed her thighs on the way in. His tongue probed and searched insistently, snuffling around like a pig looking for truffles. She reached down and turned his head slightly, directing him towards her clitoris. With renewed enthusiasm he went to work on her pink pearl of love. Before long she was moaning in ecstasy, her vaginal juices running into his beard, like the scented oils he used to soften and condition his beard daily. He flicked his tongue across her vulva, teasing and exciting her to fever pitch. Until she came, shuddering and screaming so loud the whole town could hear her. In her hunger, she grabbed him, stuffing his penis in her sopping vagina and thrusting underneath him as his erection grew in strength. The chair was not substantial enough for this amount of action. He pulled her up, carrying her still attached to his now pulsating penis over to the bar. Throwing her across it as she gasped and writhed with pleasure. In a pause between thrusts, she spun herself around to hang on to the far side of the bar as he pounded her like a 24oz prime Aberdeen Angus steak. Tenderizing her vagina.

With a last thrust that nearly threw her over the bar, they came in unison. The milk of lust dripping from them both. He pulled out and it pooled on the floor, making a sticky puddle. The barefoot wench jumped off the bar, both bare feet landing in the puddle. She slurped the juices off each of her feet in turn, and grabbing the bag of pork scratchings, she headed for the door. The Scotsman slumped back into his chair, almost dead from exhaustion, his penis glowing with the effort and ecstasy it had just been through. The second barefoot wench walked in with a lustful glint in her eye, and he sighed.