"We have reason to believe that man first walked upright to free his hands for masturbation."

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

All Male Fiction: The Work Boots

By: Tommyhawk1
 
 
 
I was glad when my next-door neighbors moved out. Noisy, drunken, abusive and screaming at each other every Saturday night at 2am. (Sunday morning, that is).

The apartment was vacant for a month, and then suddenly it was occupied. I knew this when I walked by and saw that the windows, which had been shut with blinds closed, now stood with blinds open and things piled inside. Our two apartments shared an alcove and our doors faced each other. As I walked by, I craned my neck to look in the window when I nearly tripped over a pair of work boots.

My new neighbor had left his work boots on the mat at his front door. Large, round- toed, size-13 work boots, dark brown, badly scuffed, with a yellow rectangle that said "Caterpillar" on their outsides at the tops. I lurched, caught myself, put them back into their original side-by-side position and went into my apartment. At the time I saw those boots, I was mostly annoyed. The alcove was small enough, and now I was in constant danger of tripping over his work boots. But they were gone in the morning when I got up to go to work, and so I figured I could live with it.

For days my neighbor was an enigma to me. I knew nothing about him besides the fact that he wore work boots to work. I could look out my window beside the door right into the window of his apartment (the usual scatter-brained design of such cheap buildings) but for the fact that the drawn blinds stayed drawn; I saw nothing of him other than an occasional shadow against the blinds at night. Not that I was especially looking back then, mind you.

But the weather grew warmer rapidly, and the apartments had no air-conditioning. I knew he would eventually be forced to do what I had done, open the blinds and the window. First during the day only, but in the heat of July and August you had to leave every window open at night or roast inside your own apartment.

It happened, first the window was opened, then after a few days of that, the blinds went up and I could, at night with both our lights on, see him just fine - god, it was the really hot guy that I had seen at the pool a couple of times. I thought he lived up on the second floor. I could see the shapeless masses that were his furniture, some sort of mattress, a bean-bag chair, and a television set seeming to be his only possessions. My own weren't much more than that.

I had seen him at the pool, hair glistening from the recent dip, and him lying on the patio chair, his black hair lying neatly in place, his well-defined chest formed of his strong pecs, ovals topped by two off-centered brown nipples, then the lines of his abs down to his narrow waist, and the nice package that formed below. His legs were nicely shaped without bulging, widened areas showing the muscles. His toes were...

"Like what you see, faggot?" was his sardonic comment when he had spotted me looking at him. I turned and walked away, muttering, "jerk" under my breath, and after that, when he was at the pool, I stayed indoors, and vice versa.

Shit, now the guy was right next door to me. I thought about it, snapped off the lights in my apartment. If I hadn't known he was next door to me, odds were he didn't know the same about me. Hidden in the darkness of my apartment, I stood and watched him.

He was in that beanbag chair - I suppose it was - he had a Western-style throw over it, making it an undefined mass, but it let him slouch low and watch his television. I couldn't see all of him, but I saw he was bare above the waist, and that he was watching television, which was his only light source. It was spewing that off-brown color all over him in rippling movements that made it clear he was watching porn of some kind. His arms were down in such a way that I wondered if he was playing with himself! I leaned forward, but I couldn't tell. It seemed like it. Would he do that, whack off with the blinds open?

I thought about it and stealthily opened my door and went over to peek inside. Just a quick look to tell me if he was whacking off or not, and I would dart back inside, before I could be spotted.

That was my plan, anyway. I tripped over those damned work boots of his again and darned near fell down. I cursed under my breath and went back indoors, and back to my window again. His arm was moving kind of funny. If only I could see just a little lower down. I got my old steamer trunk I had picked up at a garage sale and pulled it over to the window and got up on that. I could see.

Yes, he was whacking it! God, that hard cock of his was a monster! He was making long strokes up and down that shaft, which must have easily been ten inches! Watching the screen, whacking his meat, wearing only a pair of black baggy shorts that he had lowered to mid-thigh, stretched out, his window absent of its coverings, feeling secure enough to whack off like that, he was watching and he was stroking.

I reached into my own shorts and pulled out my dick and pumped it, intending to shoot when he did, if I could. But I had no more than gotten it out when, without any sort of movement from him, no thrashing or groaning I could spot, he suddenly shot his wad onto his stomach. It took me a moment to even spot the quick small jets as they arced over. And he was done and wiping his stomach with a corner of that Western-style throw. I wondered if it was thick and stiff with his loads; it seemed to be. He finished cleaning off, turned off the television with the remote, and was in darkness. Show over!

But I was left with a hard-on and nothing but a few brief memories. Damn, if those work boots hadn't been out there I would have gotten a good look at him! Those fucking boots had ruined my fun... or had they?

I pulled up my shorts over my hard dick and opened the door. They were out there, alright. I grabbed the right one and took it back to my place.

He must use the outdoors to air them out, because they were pretty funky-smelling. I got a whiff of it - which was partly old leather but a lot of male-sweat - and grinned evilly. Call me a faggot just for looking, who the fuck did he think he was? I'd show him, even if I hoped he'd never catch on.

I pumped my cock, turned on by the brief glimpses of the worked-out, big-dicked stud and the thought of what I was going to do to him. Turned on by the furtiveness, too, I got to the edge pretty quickly and I grabbed that boot in my free hand and I pumped my wad right inside that grungy work boot. Thick clumps of my jizz made it inside, along with a couple that only hit the outside of it, but when I caught my breath and looked, I had plenty of it inside there like I wanted, clustered around the heel.

I lifted it up and let the sperm flow down into the toe, and it did, like syrup, a clump on the outside falling in a splat on my floor. Then I carefully opened the door and set it back beside its mate. The sperm would dry before morning, and my nasty, hunky neighbor would go to work while walking on my dried cum. And he'd never even know it! Revenge is sweeter (and safer) when you take it anonymously.

But I decided the next day, after I was sure he hadn't suspected a thing, that one load of jizz wasn't enough. I needed to put another load in that boot's mate. That would be it - he would know before much longer who his neighbor was and any suspicion about the stains in or on his boots would be a dead giveaway. Safety lay in knowing when to stop. A load in his other work boot and I would stop entirely.

I was confirmed in this decision when I arrived home from work that evening to see him just getting home as well, taking off his boots by his front door. He gave me a look – more of a snarl actually - as if he was wondering what the hell I was doing there, and then I heard the word "Shit!" and his door slam as he watched me enter my apartment. I peered through my window and saw the blinds had been drawn and the window closed.

I had never heard him go out in the evenings, not during the week anyway, so I decided to go ahead and get the rest of my revenge for his one-word insult at the pool, and put an end to it. I waited until it got dark and then I stepped out and grabbed his work boot, making sure this time I grabbed the left one, and darted back inside.

This time, it was harder for me, without the stimulation of the recent sights and the lesser fear of danger. I beat my meat for a good long time before I managed to get off. Only the realization that if my neighbor noticed his boot was missing I'd be stuck with it and have to toss it someplace discreetly, gave me the impetus I needed to finish the job. This time I held the boot up to my crotch and shot the entire wad right inside it. I got a few globs on the inside of the tongue, but the rest spewed inside. I think I coated its insides thoroughly, from the drainage of the last slow spurts onto the tongue where it oozed down inside.

I was done and slipped the work boot back outside, left my own door open. No more reason to hide, my neighbor knew I was here.

His door opened about five minutes later and my heart jumped. He grabbed his work boots and I saw to my horror that he was about to put them on, bare-footed! Some quick trip to the store or something, I guessed. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Leather tends to soak stuff up in a hurry. Maybe...

"Ah, god damn it!" my neighbor yelled. "Shit! What is that? God damn!"

I settled myself in my chair and grabbed up a book. He muttered some more and then I heard him walk over to my door - clomp, pat, clomp, pat, clomp, pat. One foot shod, one foot bare.

I looked up with what I hoped was innocence, seeing him standing there red-faced and angry, wearing those black shorts and a red pullover, wielding the left work boot.

"What the fuck did you do to my boot?" he demanded.


"What do you mean?" I replied innocently.

"God damn you!" he yelled. He was sure of himself by now. "You think this was funny? You... you..."

I cut him off before he could hurl an insult again. Trapped by my lie, I stuck to my protestation of ignorant innocence. "What are you talking about?" I said, defiant on the outside, scared as hell on the inside.

But it was useless, he had it all figured out. He walked inside, over to me.

"Hey!" I said standing up trying to act tough.

He shoved the boot at my face. "Take a good whiff of that!" he said.

"What?"

He shoved the boot's opening right at my face. "I said take a good whiff of that! You did that, you bastard!"

I had the boot in my face and I got the smell alright – the heavy, unmistakable smell of cum, of course.

"God, that smells awful." I made a face and backed away. "What happened?"

"You happened, you little shit!" he said. "You got the hots for me? Was that it?"

"No!"

"God, I stuck my foot right into it! You got my boot and you jerked off into it. You got a thing about boots, shithead?"

"Listen, get out of here!" I said. "I'll call the cops on you if you don't leave right now!"

"Look at me and tell me you didn't do this," he said. "Then I'll leave."

I looked at him and cursed in my head that my mother and grandmother had raised me not to tell a lie, because I couldn't do it. "I was getting back at you."

"For what?" he snapped.

"For calling me a faggot at the pool that time."

"Shit!" he said. "God, my only pair of shoes and you do that?"

"You shouldn't leave them outside your door," I said weakly. "I've tripped on them at least three times." Only twice, but I was in bad straits here. "I was mad at you and when I tripped on them again, I... I saw my chance to get back at you."

He stood there, looking at me, breathing heavily, looking like he was contemplating punching me in the eye.

"I'm sorry!" I said desperately. "I'll make it up to you. I'll buy you a new pair of boots come payday."

"Payday? When's that?" he asked.

"Next Friday," I groaned. Ten days away.

"Shit, I can't wait until then."

"Well, I don't have any money to buy them now," I said. "But I promise as soon as I get paid I'll…"

He walked over to me before I could finish. "Get down!"

"What?"

"Down on your hands and knees!" he snarled. "Do it or I'll beat the shit out of you!"

I gulped, did as he said. His foot came up to my face. "Lick it clean."

"Huh?"

"You got your jizz all over it, so lick it clean."

I looked at that foot. I didn't mind the idea of eating my own cum. I had done it lots of times before. But I really wasn't into feet, and the idea of licking his foot was even more off putting because I had smelled his work boots before I came in them and they were pretty rank. I could only imagine what that meant about his feet. It wasn't going to be pleasant. I looked up at him, and then I reached out a tentative tongue and I lapped at his big toe.

He was unstable on one foot and when I lapped him a couple more times, he staggered and stepped back, then went over and lay down on my mattress. "Get back to licking my foot," he said. "I want it completely cleaned up by you, you understand me, fucker?"

"Yes, sir," I said, contrite. Let's face it, I had gone too far. I owed it to him. He deserved it. And, I never thought I'd get any closer to him than just watching him whacking off, so at least it was physical contact, even if it was just his foot, stinky as it might be. But more importantly, doing this was better than having the shit kicked out of me!

I went over and started sucking on his toes, first that monster big toe which stood proudly alone on his wide foot. Surprisingly (and thankfully), it wasn't that bad. He must have taken a shower after he got home. Sucking on that big toe was like sucking a short, stubby cock and that was how I treated it. Then the toe next to it, running my tongue down between it and its close partner, pulling lips around it and working it twice, then I took the middle toe in as well and went down on the pair of toes, raising up and down again, sucking them clean and dry. Then the last two toes, running my tongue between them as I held them in my mouth.

Done with that, I went over to the top of the foot and licked it in long, smooth arcs, stopping and moistening my tongue with each stroke. I could taste the salty sperm here and there on it and I gave those spots extra attention, sucking them clean, then over to the side, running my lips and tongue over that sensitive arch, and he groaned appreciatively.

"Oh, God, yeah!" he said. "Give that foot a good washing, you son-of-a-bitch! Clean it all off."

I went to work with a will, lapping the hard cushions of his foot as they segued into softer patches and ending with the heel, and then, looking up at him, seeing his hard cock distending the black silken shorts, I reached up for it.

His hand intercepted mine before I so much as felt it, yanked it away. I was bold enough then to reach with my other hand and he caught that one before I could make contact.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?" he asked.

"Please?" I begged.

"Why should I let you?"


"I want to make it up to you."

"You cleaned off my foot," he said. "You've finished."

"No, sir," I said. "I jizzed in your right work boot last night."

"What!" he said.

"I want to make it up to you," I said. "Please?"

"You figure a blowjob will make up for me walking around on your jizz all day long?"

"I think it's a start."

"There's just one problem," he said.

"What's that?"

"I'm not a faggot, like you!"

At that particular moment, I didn't care that he had called me a faggot again. I had other things on my mind just then, and in fact used his assessment of me to further my own agenda.

"Getting a blowjob from another guy doesn't make you a faggot," I said as I scooted up closer to him. He had both my hands, but he also had taken his own hands out of commission by doing so.

"You're only a faggot if you give a guy a blowjob or take it up the ass; otherwise all it is to you is a mouth on your prick."

I got all the way up to his crotch as I spoke, and with both my wrists held firmly by him, I lay face down and gnawed at his basket, chewing at that thick cock through the shorts.

When he groaned, I knew I had won, so I began to nuzzle that thick pole, wondering if his shorts were baggy enough to let me push the legs up and free that otherwise unfettered piece of man-meat.

It took some work, but I made it, his shorts leg pushed up to the groin and me sucking on a ball that had worked free. He let go of my wrists and fished his cock out through that leg for me and I happily went to work on that long, luscious prick. I scooted around to get better access, my hand stroking his cock as I did so.

"Don't even think I'm going to suck yours, shithead!" he grunted as my crotch came into his sightline.

"Just getting a better angle," I assured him and showed him by taking that meat down my throat now that the curves matched up.

He groaned and I wasn't too surprised when his hand felt for my crotch. Plenty of the hard-nosed varieties are just looking for some sort of excuse. But he didn't do anything more, just felt it through the cloth and I knew it would be a long time before he would take it in his mouth - if ever.

With his hand manipulating if not pounding my cock, I assaulted his with renewed vigor, giving him the blowjob of a lifetime (my own, too). I was so turned on by this scene - him totally in charge, collecting on the debt I owed him by having me suck him off. I gave him full value, deep-throating that wonderfully long, thick cock, and when he groaned, and I felt his salty wads pumping into my mouth, I was almost disappointed. His hand had a death grip on my dick now as his enjoyed what appeared to be quite an intense orgasm.

When he was done unloading, he quickly removed his hand from my crotch, pulled his cock from my mouth, and tucked it back into his shorts. I was both relieved and disappointed that the vice-like grip he had on my rock hard cock had come to an end.

As he stood from the bed, I did too, immediately shoving my hand inside my shorts and pumping my throbbing meat. "Can we do this again?" I asked.

He looked at me playing with myself inside my shorts. "I don't see why we should," he said.

I knelt down in submission at his feet. "Please, sir? I want more!"

"Get out of my way, cocksucker," he sneered, and I knew then what to do.

Yanking the front of my shorts to below my balls, I blasted my wad right onto his leg, the one without the work boot. He stood paralyzed in shock and disbelief as I blasted onto him like that.

Then, when it was over, he caught up to the scene. "God damn it!" he shouted angrily and cuffed at my head. "You son of a bitch! All over my leg! Christ!"

"I'll lick it clean for you, sir."

"God damn right you will!" he said, grabbing my shoulder and forcing me down on my knees. "Clean up your mess, faggot!" he said as he grabbed the back of my head and pulled it forcefully. "Yeah, that's it, eat your own fucking wad!" he almost moaned as I licked my jizz off his leg.

When I was finished, I kept some of my cum in my mouth and let it dribble down onto the work boot he was wearing on his other foot.

"Fuck! You just got jizz on my other boot, cocksucker! You owe me more than ever now!" he shouted. "More than ever, you understand me?"

"Come back tomorrow and you can collect," I said.

He looked at me, scowling, and then the face cleared just a little. "You better believe it! You're gonna service me daily until you can replace these boots for me, you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Bastard," he muttered and walked out to wherever he was going. But I caught just a hint of a smile as he turned.

I lay back. At least ten days to payday. Of course, I did already have plans for all of that money, my bills and such. Then rent would come due again. You know, it might end up taking longer than ten days for me to buy him those new work boots… a lot longer!


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