Under the Boot

The usual disclaimers:

• My experiences flavor everything I write; sometimes a fleeting image, sometimes a distinctly remembered scene. This story, however, is fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

• If it is illegal for you to read this story because of your age, location or some other reason, don't read it.

• This work is copyright by the author. Commercial use is prohibited without permission. Please do not republish any parts of this story without consent of the author.

• This story depicts unprotected sex. In real-life, be safe!

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Author's note (and spoiler alert): This story is an alternative point-of-view retelling of chapter 8 of BBC on Campus,' a serial I wrote for Nifty (you can find it under the same categories as this story). BBC on Campus' was written from the POV of Dillinger, the serial's main character. This story, Under the Boot... or Heel Hell,' is written from the POV of Shane, who is only in chapter 8 of the serial. I wrote this story at the suggestion of a reader who liked Shane's chapter in BBC on Campus.' If you would rather not have the plot spoiled, wait until the end of the story before reading chapter 8 (My plan is to have this story unfold in four parts). Either way, I hope you enjoy the story.

UNDER THE BOOT ... OR HEEL HELL

Part Two – Thursday evening – Jeron Stakes his Claim

Dillinger and I left Stian's apartment a short time after Dillinger detailed his fuck-buddy relationship with the Norwegian snowboarder. In my mind, I kept envisioning Stian's big smile and long blond hair as Dillinger hovered behind him, Dillinger's long dreadlocks hanging down as Dillinger got ready to fuck Stian. Something was definitely wrong with me if I kept perving on two guys having sex.

I'm sure Dillinger detected that I was stunned, acting like a kid from the sticks that had never been around anything but plain, old, heterosexual, missionary-position sex. Which, I had to admit, was a generally accurate description of me. I had deviated from the missionary position a few times with my girlfriend, but that all felt like something ordinary compared to Dillinger's tale about Stian.

The excitement of being in New York quickly distracted me from thinking about Dillinger fucking Stian on a weekly basis at Harvard. I was back to the wide-eyed innocent as we took the subway downtown. I had never been on any kind of a train before.

Dillinger had a short meeting at NYU and suggested I explore the city's tourist sites before meeting him later. I headed to Wall Street, both to see the landmarks and to make sure I knew how to get to my interviews the next afternoon.

I met Dillinger for dinner at a restaurant he knew in Greenwich Village. It was a small, quaint place, far different from the fast food joints I was accustomed to in Montana. For starters, the food was incredible, the décor fantastic and the service amazing.

I was shy of 21, but the waiter didn't card either of us when Dillinger ordered a bottle of wine and then a second. The waiter focused extra attention on us, but I assumed that was because of Dillinger's exotic looks. The more I drank, the more I stared, and the he talked, I was convinced Dillinger was amazing. Fuck, I was luckier than hell to be spending a night in New York with him.

As we left the restaurant, I made a comment about the waiter lavishing attention on Dillinger. "He wasn't very subtle, was he?" Dillinger laughed. "Even to the point of leaving his number on the credit card receipt. But he thought you were plenty hot, too."

"Me?" I exclaimed, "no way." It hadn't occurred to me than a man would think of me in sexual terms. That didn't happen in Montana. And compared to Dillinger, I was plain and ordinary.

"Well, his exact words were that you `look like you'd be fun when you're horizontal'," Dillinger laughed. "He has that right," he added with a grin. Embarrassed, I couldn't think of anything to say.

We walked through more of the Village. I was intrigued by the narrow streets, with small shops and bars tucked everywhere. Dillinger downed a bottle of wine with dinner, but he wasn't affected in the least; for all anyone could tell, he had sipped spring water. The wine didn't have the same non-effect on me; I was having trouble not stumbling over my two feet. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this," I gushed as we wandered the winding streets. "New York is so incredible. I can't thank you enough for letting me come along. This is great!"

We walked west to the Hudson, and on West Street we passed a small, dimly lit place that didn't appear to have a name or any signs indicating what it was. A guy outside gave us a lazy smile and blatantly stared at Dillinger. It dawned on me that I was invisible when I was with the dude. Men and women alike hungrily scoped him out with overtly sexual gazes. Nobody gave me a second look.

"Whassup?" the guy asked. I followed his eyes to Dillinger's crotch, which happened to be highlighted by a spotlight shining from the front of the building. I was startled to see a huge cock snaking down the inside leg of Dillinger's jeans. I was bigger than most guys, but Dillinger's dick looked massive.

What the fuck was I doing, staring at another guy's package?

The man assessing Dillinger's junk smiled and handed us a card, saying, "First drink is on the house, dudes. Come on in. It's your kinda place." The doorway behind him led to a bar, and I was intrigued by the thought of seeing some New York nightlife and getting a free drink. I asked Dillinger if we could go in, but I came off like a little kid whining, Please, Daddy!' Dillinger gave me a bemused smile and shrugged, so we climbed the half dozen stone steps to the bar. The card the bouncer handed us read, Welcome to the Boot.'

We sat at a high top table and Dillinger got drinks while I scanned the crowd in the Boot. I could safely say that not a single person looked like Montana. That wasn't surprising, given that half the clientele was black and the favored attire was leather outfits I associated with bikers. The bar's name fit the customers.

I was most of the way through my beer when it occurred to me that I had only seen guys in the bar. I tend to say whatever is on my mind when I'm drunk, and this time was no exception. Frowning, I blurted out, "There's no women in this place."

Dillinger raised an eyebrow and said, "Not unusual in a gay bar, Shane." Belatedly scanning the décor of the place, including a couple of posters on the walls that left little doubt about the clientele, I mentally chastised myself for not figuring out the Boot was a gay bar. I felt stupid, but I was getting used to feeling that way in New York, to say nothing of totally feeling that way around Dillinger.

Being in a gay bar, for that matter any bar, was another new experience for me. It was the first and likely the last gay bar I would ever set foot in, and I was curious. I reasoned it didn't matter that the Boot was a gay bar; it wasn't like I was looking to pick up a girl. With my inhibitions drowned by a bottle of wine and kept at bay by a beer, I was enjoying the novelty and sense of adventure.

Dillinger excused himself to go to the rest room. He had barely disappeared when a young black man swaggered up to me, smiling. Unlike Dillinger's caramel skin and long dreadlocks, this dude's skin was black as midnight and his hair closely cut. The guy's tongue flicked across his thick lips as he said bluntly, "Hey stud, wanna fuck?"

"What?" I exclaimed. I heard the guy fine, I just didn't believe what he said.

"I said, do you wanna fuck, hot stuff," the guy repeated with a cocky leer. Tall and slender, he looked to be in his early 20s, younger than most of the men in the bar. He was dressed in black leather, the Boot's costume of choice. The black of his outfit matched his skin; only his white teeth and eyes broke up the dark image in front of me.

"Tall, white boy like you, slim hips, muscular arms and a ripped chest, you'd look damn good in my bed," the dude said. "Jeron in the mood for a smooth, white twink. A cute little boy jus' like you." With lightning quickness, he reached for my bicep, copping a feel of my muscles as a grin broke across his face. His other hand traced a line down my jawline to my neck.

Fuck! I thought. Guys did not touch me like that, particularly not in public where everybody could watch. I was on the verge of shoving the dude's hands away and telling him to fuck off when I caught myself.

I was underage and shouldn't be drinking in a bar. I didn't want to make a scene and, worse yet, get into a fight. I could hold my own in most scuffles, but I was trashed and the black dude hovering over me was all muscle and bone. His wiry body suggested the sort of explosive power that was invaluable in fights. My admirer undoubtedly had plenty of fighting experience; his face showed evidence of two scars that could easily have resulted from a knife fight. I would have been embarrassed as hell if Dillinger had to rescue my sorry ass after he was only gone long enough to take a piss.

"I like boys with blue eyes, and you're pretty," the guy continued. "You got a damn pretty face. I wanna watch your pretty face when we fuck. I wanna see those baby blues sparkle and get hungry for Jeron when we're doing it. One round wit Jeron and you be spoiled; won't never want another man again."

I didn't want a man to begin with. Maybe if I told Jeron that I was straight he would move on. Somehow Jeron's demeanor suggested he didn't give a shit whether I was gay, straight, bi or something else.

"I like your skinny sideburns," Jeron said, moving closer. They weren't intentionally skinny; that was all I could grow. "You know what those burns tell Jeron? That you're not vanilla in bed, despite your lily white skin. No. I rip those jeans and T-shirt off your hot body, and you gonna be on fire. I'll bet you one horny, wild bitch when you're fucking. I can tell you're not scared of a little rough play like some white babies are. And Jeron likes to rough his boys up, slap his white bitches around a little."

He paused and then added, "I know your type. You can't get enough dick. You need it and it's your lucky day, because Jeron's got it."

I couldn't believe the dude was talking to me like he was. He licked his thick lips, his eyes still raking me over. "Up close I see you're hung, dude," Jeron commented as his eyes lowered to my crotch. Fuck, no! I thought. Surely I hadn't popped another boner. After my day of popping them nonstop, I popped one in the restaurant and was sure the busboy noticed. At least he took a damn long time cleaning the crumbs off the table. A quick glance down at my crotch reassured me that this time, at least, my cock was behaving itself.

"Don't see many white pups with the goods," Jeron continued, his eyes slowly returning to my face. "Not like you packing. And you got the best fuckable ass that's walked through here in a long time. A damn, fine ass. When you swished into this place, every man noticed that ass. Yeah, everyone lookin' at your hot, white bubble butt, pushin' agin those jeans, trying to bust out. Damn, boy, you hot."

Fuck, I didn't swish. At least I didn't think I did. My jeans, however, were a problem. I was still wearing a pair from high school, the consequence of my dire financial straits. They fit fine in the waist, but the bottoms were ragged, the knees almost gone and the rear threadbare. What remained of my jeans hugged my ass like a tight glove. My girlfriend liked me in the worn jeans, but I would never have put them on if I thought that guys would notice them.

Before I could react, Jeron reached out and squeezed my package. This time I instinctively shoved his arm away. He laughed but slowly his smile turned into a scowl and he leaned down until his face was inches from mine. "I can read you like a book, bitch," Jeron said. His voice was harsher and the tone had become vaguely threatening.

"Your baby blues tell me you want it bad," Jeron continued. "I can see into your soul and what I see inside is a slut that need a man's dick. You desperate for dick. Written all over your face. To hell with the dude you walked in with; Jeron's the man that'll give you what you want. He'll make you remember it for a long, long time, baby. He make you crave it agin and agin. I'm thinking we fuck right now."

I couldn't believe Jeron was making such a blatant pass at me. Sure I was in a gay bar, but Jeron was so forward and graphic that he left me wide eyed and bewildered. Maybe this explained why gay guys never seemed to have a problem getting laid. Perplexed, I mumbled, "Um, not tonight."

As soon as I said it, I feared Jeron would be pissed at being rejected, and I halfway expected him to punch me in the gut. Instead he gave me a big smile, his white teeth standing out against his coal black skin. "Okay, then," he said slowly, nodding with a sense of satisfaction as if we had agreed on something. Jeron apparently thought we had, because he paused but then said cockily, "You got a deal, hot stuff. The next time you here, you mine, stud. All mine. Jeron be watching. You won't stop thinking about sex wit me till then. I know. Jeron is in your mind."

Jeron took a step back, pointedly grabbing his crotch and suggestively squeezing his junk. He smiled and said, "Jeron got what you want, white boy, and you what I want. And ain't nuttin stops Jeron from getting what he want."

Jeron sauntered away, leaving me shell-shocked. My respite was brief, however, because Jeron took only a few steps before whirling around. He was in my face in moments, covering the ground between us in three long strides. His jaw clenched and his dark eyes furious, he said, "One thing you betta understand, white boy. I know you want me, but Jeron don't give a shit what you want. Don't matter what the fuck you want. I want you, and Jeron get what he want. If I have to take it, then I take it. You like it rough, but maybe not as rough as Jeron like it. Don't matter what you like, boy. Understand?"

Jeron paused, maybe waiting for a response, but I remained silent, thinking he wouldn't like having his speech interrupted. Plus, I had no idea what to say. How much longer was this going to go on?

"We can do it nice and easy, or we can do it rough and hard," Jeron spat. "I like it rough and hard. Real rough and real hard. Fuckin hard. Ain't nuttin better than using a whimperin white boy for sex after kicking the shit outta him. Either way, you mine, pretty boy." His gaze bored into me for a couple of seconds before he wheeled around and quickly disappeared.

I hadn't realized I was holding my breath, but I finally exhaled as Jeron left. I hoped nobody noticed my exchange with him, but glancing around, every customer in the bar seemed to be sneering at me. Wherever I looked, dudes were openly gawking at me like I had `wanna fuck?' plastered on my forehead. I might as well have been wounded prey surrounded by sharks closing in for the kill after a shark had taken a bite out of me. One enormous black dude leaning against the bar grabbed his crotch with a smirk.

What the hell I was doing in a gay bar, particularly one populated by black leather dudes who thought I was a piece of meat being advertised for their enjoyment? I was adventurous and always up for something new, but this was going too far.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Shoot me a note with any thoughts, ideas, criticism (I can handle it) or praise; I like hearing feedback. Coltonaalto@gmail.com