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!

I appreciate readers' reactions; send me any thoughts and suggestions. Thanks! Email: coltonaalto@gmail.com.

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' is 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 only appears 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 plans are to have this story unfold in four parts). Either way, I hope you enjoy the story.

Caution: Part three of this story (hopefully posted in a couple of weeks) includes a short scene of nonconsensual oral sex; if that bothers you, skip that part or move on to another story. I do not condone or in any way encourage nonconsensual conduct; it happens, but that's no excuse. As they say, do not try this at home (or anyplace else).

UNDER THE BOOT ... OR HEEL HELL

Part One – Thursday afternoon, New York - Stian's Story

Professor Westbrooke pulled me aside as I walked down the hallway of Westcliffe's faculty office building. "Shane," he said, "that was a great point you made in my Marketing class this morning. It was remarkably insightful. Keep up the good work. By the way, have you given further thought to New York?"

Westbrooke looked like the Marlboro Man, the epitome of a rugged, handsome cowboy. I was too young to remember the Marlboro Man in commercials, because cigarette advertising disappeared before I was in diapers, but we studied tobacco marketing in one of my college classes and it was hard not to notice the similarity between Westbrooke's looks and the classic images of the Marlboro Man. Westbrooke's family settled in Montana before statehood and donated the land beneath Westcliffe University's picturesque campus, along with the funds to construct the first college buildings. He was rumored to be among the wealthiest men in Montana, so why he taught business classes at Westcliffe was a mystery. But Westcliffe was lucky to have him; he was by far the best professor in the business department, perhaps in the entire university.

Westbrooke had taken a liking to me because I was the University's top business student. He pulled strings in New York to land me interviews for summer internships at two of the top investment banking firms in the city. All I needed to do was to get to New York for the interviews, but time was running out. I appreciated Westbrooke's efforts, but I hadn't conjured up a way to afford the trip.

"I'm still looking into the arrangements, sir," I replied. I didn't admit to Westbrooke that I was flat broke and in debt up to my eyeballs in student loans. Dealing with a mountain of unexpected medical bills, my parents had nothing to spare, either. My dad worked for the airlines, so I could fly for free, but the price of hotel rooms in New York was staggering, and restaurants and transportation to and from the airport wouldn't be cheap, either.

Westbrooke frowned and started to say something, but was distracted by a man striding down the hallway. The man stood out in a dramatic fashion in lily-white Montana. He was black, although his skin was on the light side, and he had dramatic pale-green eyes, almost like the eyes of a wolf. His nose was long and straight, and he had a matching long, straight jawline and full lips. Most eye-catching, however, were the man's long dreadlocks. They hung over his shoulders and cascaded down his back. Long hair on some guys looks feminine. On this man, it gave him a raw, feline masculinity that was wildly sexual. He seemed like a caramel Tarzan. Women probably couldn't resist the guy. In fact, I knew a couple of coeds that practically swooned whenever they got near him.

"Dillinger, I have someone I want you to meet," Westbrooke said, pulling the tall black man aside. Westbrooke always wore cowboy boots and they made him over 6'4". Dillinger was an inch or two taller. Despite being 6'3" myself, I was looking up at the two men, feeling out of place. It wasn't only their height; their looks, presence and just about everything about them was part of it.

Dillinger smiled, his white teeth lighting up his Café-au-lait face. He looked like an exotic Brazilian model. I had a sudden, weird thought that, if I ever did it with a guy, Dillinger would be the guy.

Damn, that was crazy, because there was no reason to suspect Dillinger was gay, and I wasn't gay either. I lost my virginity when I was 14 and during the six years since I had seldom lacked for pussy. Getting girls to go out with me – and put out – was not a problem I encountered. While I considered my looks nondescript, a string of hot women had disagreed. Even this morning, I said something mildly disparaging about my face, and my girlfriend laughed and said, "Shane, I'm happy you don't have a big ego. Most men would if they had your looks. Handsome, masculine face; riveting physique; killer light-blue eyes; and a strikingly long, straight jawline that makes you look like a model. I'm glad you don't realize you're totally hot." I didn't completely buy it; I suppose when you grow up thinking of yourself as a skinny, pimply geek, that image dies hard.

I hadn't met Dillinger before, but everyone on campus knew who he was. He was working on his doctorate with Westcliffe's resident star, Professor Wang, and on top of that, Dillinger was rumored to be some sort of child genius, having graduated from high school a year early and then skated through Harvard. That meant he was barely a year older than me, but he carried himself with the confidence and presence of a man 20 or 30 years older. A man Westbrooke's age.

Dillinger and Westbrooke were both wearing jeans, and so was I, but in the cheap polo shirt I was wearing I felt underdressed. I had owned it since high school. The shirt was one, perhaps two sizes too small, and hugged my torso far too tightly for my taste. If I had an extra dime I would have replaced my threadbare wardrobe.

"Dillinger, this is Shane," Westbrooke said, introducing us. "Shane's my top business student and has an opportunity to interview at both Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley in New York for an internship next summer. I keep telling him he's crazy not to jump on the idea. You know New York, so maybe you can convince him. I have to run to the University Regents' board meeting, but see what you can do." Westbrooke shook our hands and hurried toward the board room.

I felt the need to apologize. "It's not that I don't want to do the interviews," I said glumly, watching Professor Westbrooke disappear. "I don't know where I'd get the money for the trip, unless I decide not to eat next semester. I can fly standby `cuz my dad works for the airlines, but hotel rooms in New York cost a fortune and I don't even have a suit."

Dillinger gave me a faint smile. "It sounds like a great opportunity," he said.

"I'll kick myself if I can't take advantage of it," I said, "but I'm not certain how to make it work."

Dillinger didn't respond immediately. He seemed to be assessing me, his eerie green eyes looking right through me. He finally broke the silence by saying, "Look, I'm headed to New York in a week for some academic meetings. I'm leaving on Thursday and coming back Sunday. I'll be staying at a friend's apartment who's going to be out of town, and if you want to come along, you wouldn't have to spring for a hotel room. I can't help you with the suit."

"Seriously?" I exclaimed. I immediately felt silly. I had reacted like a little kid at Christmas.

"Yeah, no problem," Dillinger said. We exchanged contact information and I watched Dillinger disappear down the hallway toward his office, his fluid movements masking his lean muscles. His body had the same shape as mine. My girlfriend nicknamed me V' because I had ridiculously wide shoulders that tapered like a V' to my waist – all 30 inches of it. Dillinger's torso had the same shape, maybe even more pronounced.

I had no excuses now. The excitement of my first trip to New York, having Dillinger show me the ropes, and getting a crack at a dream job kept me on cloud nine for the rest of the week. I pillaged my bank account to buy a cheap suit for the interviews. It was bottom of the barrel, but would have to do. Maybe the interviewers wouldn't look too closely. I tried the suit on four or five times, puzzling at how different it made me look. I wasn't used to seeing my lanky body in anything but worn jeans or shorts and a faded T-shirt. Other than my new suit, my entire wardrobe was a candidate for a thrift store.

The flight to New York was a chore because we had to get up before dawn, drive a long way to the airport and change planes in Denver; nothing that flew from Montana to New York resembled a nonstop flight. However, we lucked out and got upgraded because of my dad's airline connections. Or maybe it was because the gate attendants thought Dillinger was someone famous, like a model or movie star. He certainly looked the part. Dillinger took it all in stride, calm and confident.

Taking a cab into the city from LaGuardia, I was an excited newbie, staring out the car windows at the packed buildings and dense traffic, and, in the distance, the iconic skyline of Manhattan. Dillinger had to collect the keys to his friend's apartment at a law firm in midtown, but we only had light, carry-on luggage, and Dillinger suggested that we walk to his friend's apartment from the firm. I was in awe of the city and happy to explore on foot.

The apartment was miniscule. It was a studio, with a tiny kitchen occupying one wall and two small windows looking out on a narrow airspace separating two buildings. I wondered if Dillinger's friend had seen anything interesting late at night in the windows across the way. In Montana, my dorm room windows offered expansive views of the red cliffs that gave Westcliffe its name. Far different in densely-packed Manhattan.

The studio was furnished sparsely, nothing more than a king-sized bed, a recliner in front of a huge flat-screen television, a small table with two chairs, and an enormous music system. Each corner of the apartment was occupied by a massive stereo speaker. Three snowboards were stacked on one wall.

I scanned the apartment and without thinking blurted out, "There's only one bed..."

"Duh," Dillinger replied. "What'd you expect? A first year lawyer with a four-bedroom, six-bath apartment in a pre-war building on Central Park? This closet probably costs Stian more than it would cost to rent an entire apartment building in Montana. And he probably feels like he's lucky to have it." I blushed, feeling like an idiot.

With the single bed, I assumed Dillinger expected me to sleep on the floor. I couldn't complain about free lodging, and Dillinger had picked up the cab fare for the trip into the city from the airport. Dillinger obviously wasn't worried about the accommodations, so I wasn't going to whine about them, either.

Trying to recover as Dillinger hung up a couple of shirts and I rescued my brand-new suit from my backpack, I asked, "How do you know Stian?"

"We were friends at Harvard," Dillinger said. "He's from Norway and before starting law school he was on the professional snowboarding circuit for 10 years, starting when he was 16. He won two Olympic medals along the way." Pointing to a framed photograph of a lanky kid on a medals stand with his snowboard, Dillinger added, "That's a picture of him from the Olympics. His medals are probably around here someplace."

"Cool," I commented, staring at the photograph. Stian had pale blue eyes, long blond hair and a dazzling smile. He looked like a dude that smoked pot and partied rather than a guy practicing law, but maybe I was showing my biases. Every snowboarder I knew was a big partier.

"We were regular fuck buddies for two years in college," Dillinger continued nonchalantly. I frowned. Fuck buddies? What was that? Maybe Dillinger meant he and Stian went out together scouting for women to pick up. It wasn't a term my friends used.

I didn't have long to ponder what a fuck buddy was before discovering I was 180 degrees off in my guess. "The dude has an awesome ass," Dillinger commented casually. "Sex with that boy was something else."

I stared at Dillinger with my mouth agape. It hadn't crossed my mind that Dillinger was gay. I knew gay dudes on campus and was fine with it, but Dillinger?

"Stian and I met at the beginning of my junior year," Dillinger said. "He was starting his second year of law school and was older than most students. That attracted me. Plus, I have a thing for guys like Stian, with the swagger and fearless confidence that comes from being successful in something like snowboard jumping that is so physically challenging. For his part, Stian was intrigued by me because there aren't many black men in Norway. Or in snowboarding, for that matter.

"Turned out Stian is all about color," Dillinger said. "Well, color and dick size. For Stian, the darker the better and the bigger the better. But color is his main criteria. Even if you're hung, don't bother applying if your hair is blond or brown."

Dillinger looked at me closely as if he was noticing my hair color for the first time and shook his head, saying, "Sorry, Shane. You're out of luck. That light brown hair won't fly. Too bad, because dick size would easily have gotten you in the door."

My dick size? I nervously glanced at my crotch and my face flushed red as I saw my cock plumped down the right leg of my jeans, leaving little doubt of what I was carrying. Damn! I hadn't fucked my girlfriend for five days because she'd been out of town, and all day I'd been trying to keep people from noticing the boners I constantly sprouted. They had been worse than in high school. Obviously my efforts to avoid anyone noticing hadn't succeeded. I never whacked off, but I was going to have to take care of my cock before my interviews tomorrow.

Happily, Dillinger didn't comment any more about my dick. "In his whole life Stian's probably never given it up to a guy with hair as light as yours is," he said. "Plus your skin is about a hundred shades too pale for Stian. For Stian, you need black hair and dark skin. But if you've got that, you've got the golden ticket for free admission to Stian's ass."

I was taken aback by Dillinger's suggestion that I might be interested in sex with Stian, or any guy for that matter. I started to say something about being straight, but Dillinger continued before I got any words out. "You wouldn't detect it from looking at him, but Stian is a total bottom and, as I said, into dark meat and big cocks like mine. I like smooth, tight asses like his, so we were a perfect match. It wasn't romance or love, just sex. A lot of hot sex."

I stared, still trying to make sense of what Dillinger was telling me. Information was flying at me too fast and my brain felt like mush.

"I ran into Stian at a party one night," Dillinger said as he finished hanging the last of his clothes. "I had my eyes on another guy, and Stian was with a black basketball player, but we talked and in passing Stian bemoaned how tough it was to get laid during the week, even though it was easy on weekends. With all the studying required, chasing down a hot guy on a Tuesday or a Wednesday was too time consuming. Stian admitted he was so horny by the middle of the week that he had a rough time concentrating on the books. I didn't have problems getting sex in college, but I was sympathetic to Stian's dilemma and he was right about it sometimes taking too much time.

"Stian proposed the obvious solution that we hook up during the week. Wednesday afternoon – hump day, of course – made the most sense. Stian was funny about it, because before we fucked the first time he looked me in the eyes and, totally serious, said, `I've never met a stud that was more clearly a top than you, but I want to make sure you're okay with me exclusively bottoming.' I laughed and told him I could work with that.

"Our first fuck session quickly transformed into a weekly event. Stian's classes were over by early afternoon, and after my last class I would jog to his apartment, which was near the law school. He would already be naked, with his fine ass lubed, ready for cock and open for business. Stian would have my cock out of my jeans practically the moment I walked in the door, and he'd start blowing me like his life depended on it. That boy has sucked more than a few dicks in his life, and he gives great head.

"Stian would get me rock hard in no time and I would have to pull him off in order to get into his ass before blowing my load. Whether I eased my cock into his hole or slam fucked him, Stian loved it, and once I drilled into him and started riding him, he'd lapse into Norwegian and beg me to pound his ass. Fucker loved the way I dicked his hole, and for me it was a tight, perfect fit.

"I usually juiced Stian's hole pretty quickly in order to take the immediate pressure off my balls. Then we'd start studying, but sooner rather than later Stian would climb into my lap and stare at me with his pale blue eyes. He'd wiggle his bare ass and tell me he didn't like his hole being empty when there was a big black rod that could fill it. We'd spend the night studying and fucking, studying and fucking, with only a short dinner break.

"I don't know how much studying Stian did on Wednesdays, but I wasn't very focused on the books. The fucker never wore a stitch of clothing when I was at his apartment and his body was damn distracting. He liked studying in bed on his stomach, with his books on the floor. He'd put a pillow under his hips to support his back, but the only thing I saw was an awesome ass lifted high in the air. It was hard to concentrate on studying. I'd pump four or five loads into Stian by the end of the night. The arrangement worked great for both of us. By the time we graduated, I had dumped a river of cum in the boy's fuck chute."

I was stunned and speechless. Staring at Dillinger, my blue eyes betrayed my shock. My mind whirled with the revelation that Dillinger liked guys, the idea that two guys could be casual fuck buddies, and thought that every Wednesday for two years Dillinger balled the blond stud in the photo nonstop.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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

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