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SERVE THE BOOTS
I'm standin' way off from him and I already know he's lookin' at me.
He tries not to let it show and stays leaned over, tying his sneakers, tyin' and retyin', then snatchin' glances at me, fast ones, lookin' at my boots sometimes, sometimes lookin' at one leg or the other when he thinks it's safe. But I see what he's doin.' Every now and then he looks right up at my crotch, then down again and fumbles with his shoes. It kills me, the way these guys don't want to get caught lookin' at what they want to look at.
We're both outside in the road beside the empty Phoenix warehouse on a Saturday afternoon. The place is closed. He came by to drop off somethin' at the front office. Halfway back, he bent down to fix a shoelace as I turned the corner of the truck dock, goin' for my pickup. I saw him and somethin' made me wonder, so I stopped. I'm checkin' out what I got on my hands.
He's about 17 and retied the damned sneakers three times. I arch my back a little, stretchin', puttin' my hands back on my ass, leanin' forward, my dick pressed tight up against the crotch of my jeans. He's ready to cream in his pants, I guess. He must like men like me, 30, tall, rough.
I start movin' slow towards him. He don't move or get up or say howdy. When I get three foot off, I stop and run my hand through my hair; he sees my armpit real good reachin' up like that and I catch a whiff of myself after a full day's work drivin' around without air conditionin'. I think he smells it, too, because all of a sudden he takes a deep breath and gets in a glance at my arm.
I'm gettin' hard now. He looks like a hungry dog gettin' ready to sneak a steak off your plate. Or like that guy that come up to me in a bar once and said he'd give me $100 to suck my cock. I let him. Hell, why not; I like it. Queers are great that way. I'm figurin' that's maybe what this guy's up to, too.
I start movin' my foot in the gravel, makin' a scrapin' sound diggin' into loose asphalt. I start kickin' pieces with my boot tip. I send a few in his direction. He stays put. Pretty soon I'm kickin' pieces one after 'nother his way. A few hit his sneakers, one hits his leg; a pretty big one bounces off a hand he's still tyin' those God-damned sneakers with.
Fags know what you like and how to give it, no question. Babes usually grab your cock and give you a few strokes by hand before you put it up their cunt and there aren't a lot of 'em that like your dick in their mouth. I like gettin' head; cumin' down a guy's throat beats whackin' off any day.
Finally he quits tryin' to fake about the shoes. He's just sittin', lettin' me kick. He don't raise his head but raises his eyes, squintin' because the sun's right behind me. There's a smile on my lips. It's like target practice -- kick, wait, kick -- a little indignity each time I treat him like I want. We're gettin' our roles clear: I do what I want and you take it. Just gettin' things straight.
He's lookin' me all over now, at my chest, arms, at my face. Mostly he's lookin' at my crotch, the fuckin' faggot. My dick's hard as a crowbar and it shows big down the left leg of my Levi's. My balls are a big round pouch between my thighs. He's licked his lips twice.
I stare him at him now. Time to lock him in. I get his gaze, then he gets the idea: look at me 'til I tell you you can stop. He looks up. I don't blink. I stare like I'm lookin' into his soul, takin' it away piece by piece. His tongue's stickin' out a little now, like he's hungry, like a baby waitin' for a big nipple. Or a cocksucker waitin' for my prick.
I stretch out my left ring finger. Nothin' else moves and he watches me do it. He sees my gold weddin' ring and knows that I'm showin' it to him, showin' that my cock goes places his never gets to, showin' that my woman gets my meat 'most every night. He stares at the ring, probably thinkin' about how much he likes married cock. I love fags like that. He can suck on my finger if he wants, right down to the ring, whatever that means to him. He can lick and taste metal and salt and dirt, I don't give a shit. I'll put my finger in his mouth, I figure, to make it nice and round just before I fuck his face with my dick.
I fold my finger back under and start stretchin' out my second finger, my pointer. I'm signin' him to look down, down to where I'm pointin'. Finally he gets it. He don't need no words. My smile's back. Yeah, he's a good fag, I can tell.
I don't say nothin' but he hears me. It's about the boots, baby. Serve the boots.
He waits a while, checkin' we're still alone, and then he starts to crawl. His knees get good and dirty and he stirs up some dust crawlin' over. I love seein' dirt on a cocksucker's knees when he gets up after he's blown me.
He's halfway to me now. The wind carries some of dust in my direction and onto my feet. They're gettin' dirty and need cleanin.' Now he's right in front of me. I look straight down, down where he belongs, with the weeds and dirt and four-leg animals, down where my dog trots around. It's a good place to service a man from, down there; God knows I'm ready now.
He looks down, too. He don't need to look at my face any more 'cause he knows what I look like; he took that all in. He's lookin' at my feet now, and everythin' they mean. He leans over, his face forward and down, holding himself up on his hands like he's doin' push-ups. My boot is an inch away. He hesitates. I grind my foot impatiently side to side, like I'm stompin' out a cigarette butt. The grinding makes a hard, rough, dry sound.
There's a long pause. I love watchin' a man get ready to lose his last bit o' self-respect.
Then he sticks his tongue out and it touches my boot. It's a move that shows he understands who I am to him. He's beaten now. He's gonna be at my feet when I want him around and on my cock when I need to ejaculate. His purpose is gonna be to make me cum, and that's it. He's no man no more, and there's no way he can ever get his dignity back. He's shown me who he really is. Nothing can ever take back that he crawled over to me in the dust and licked my boots. It's like it's in our heads on videotape.
He reaches out with both hands and grabs both sides of my boot. He's wantin' it. He wants to feel what I feel like. He starts to run his hands around the leather, feelin' the sides of my foot. He's gettin' off on it.
Then he starts to whimper. It's pathetic.
Then he starts lappin' big time, cleanin' the leather stroke by stroke, makin' it all black and wet and shiny. He does it in big, wide, hungry slurps and I can hear him swallow as he takes it into him. He's tastin' dirt and leather and that leather smell is risin' in his nostrils and he's gettin' off on it. He's forgettin' who and where he is, he's just servin' me, his master, his mind focused on my boots and their taste and smell, knowin' my foot's inside and that I'm above him, that he's down there as low as you can get front of another man, right where he wants to be and right where I like 'em, down at my feet.
I throw my head back and smile.
This shit's gonna give fuckin' great blowjobs.