Date: Thu, 4 Feb 2016 21:33:06 -0700
From: Colton <coltonaalto@gmail.com>
Subject: Under the Boot - Part Two

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.

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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