– A Horny Short Series –
The latch popped and the compact’s liftgate rose with the dual whir of struts heaving-ho. Ari stepped forward and immediately noted the absence of his boots in the small the cargo area. He stared momentarily at the dusty rubber mat, blinking as many of us do when trying to compute how we could have possibly lost track of something we so habitually use and—in this case—significantly bulkier than a key fob or pair of Ray Bans. Philip graciously did not leave him in his dumbfounded state long.
On watery legs, he crunched up behind him, the oily slick of his extremely recent runaway excitement lubricating his legs and underwear as he approached. “‘Morning, Ari,” he said, cringing at the unsteadiness of his voice. “If you’re looking for your boots, I’ve got them.”
As Ari turned from the car to look, Philip raised the clutched boots in proof of his statement. He adjusted his glasses on his cheek. “Hi. And yes, I was.” He hesitated. “And why do you have them?”
Philip offered him the defiled footwear toes first, careful not to reveal the soggy interior of the left shaft. With any luck, Philip could distract him with pointless conversation and Ari would be none the wiser as he slid his foot into the sticky neoprene recess. And of course, Philip would have a front row seat, a thought that burned with a shocking ferocity given how he had opened his pressure valve only moments earlier.
Philip shrugged and tried a bit too hard to seem casual. “Saw them on the ground behind your car when I was getting ready to leave last night. You weren’t anywhere around, so I just threw them in my truck so nothing would happen to them.” He stopped momentarily to gawk as Ari backed his right foot from his Wally, which deflated slightly as it was vacated. Gathering a fold of his canvas pants behind the heel, Ari drove the socked foot into the right boot, which hissed with the satisfying sound of a thousand loops of woven cotton scratching against neoprene lining. “So, uh…I figured I would see you first thing to return them to you today.” Ari left foot disembarked its Hey Dude. “And here we are,” Philip concluded.
Ari paused with his white sock in the mouth of the left boot to look up at Philip. “Here was are.” He smiled weakly, as though he was sure the awkward exchange should have warranted it, yet he wasn’t convinced. He looked back down at his foot as he pressed it into the waiting boot. Philip’s breath nearly caught in his throat as he tracked the curve of Ari’s heel while it descended the shaft. He imagined his coagulated shame gathering against his ankle as it slid past. Did he feel it? Philip scanned Ari’s face, watching to see him register a sensation he couldn’t place, but his face remained relaxed as he methodically adjusted his pants. He rested the boot on the rear bumper and begin to roll the shafts into cuffs.
Philip froze, his heart somehow ending up outside of his ribcage. How could he have forgotten that Ari liked to roll his boots down? Only a kernel of logic told Philip he should walk away, and quickly, like a single burning ember of self preservation. The rest of his mind was engulfed in a firestorm of stupid curiosity. What would it be like to not simply know, but to actually see that Ari was wearing him? “I took another look at the retention pond specs last night,” he practically blurted as Ari grasped the lip of the boot and flipped the lining out. A blend of giddy anticipation and a compulsion to continue in diversion had reduced him to a prepubescent brand of idiocy. “I think we can retain the small island of trees on the north east corner if we elongate it a little…”
As Ari peeled the shaft down toward his foot like a bright orange foreskin, the retention pond wasn’t the only thing elongating. Philip almost groaned in audible frustration as his body was usurped yet again. He dithered on, the words sliding out haphazardly like books cascading from a shelf. “But then we’ll have to revisit the layout of the back parking lot…”
The small glint of Philip’s silvery seed appeared and scrolled down Ari’s leg like it was on a conveyor belt as Ari finished pulling his cuffed shaft in place. Philip shuddered in a mix of fascination and horror as Ari’s wrist near his watch band briefly made contact with the semi-congealed deposit, the spiderweb-like thread pulling away from the neoprene as it did exactly what it was designed to do—cling tenaciously to another’s skin. Ari glanced up at him, absently wiping his wrist on his thigh. “I’m sure we can look at that if you think it’s that important.” He adjusted his glasses before repeating the ritual of cuffing his right boot.
Philip was momentarily dumbstruck, staring at the small dark smear left on the front of Ari’s crisp canvas pants and the shimmering dribble near his heel. The sudden realization that he had been transferred all over this beautiful man brought a dawning eroticism unlike one he had ever dared manufacture before. He stood slack-jawed at the sudden mental image of sailing arcs of his semen slapping against Ari’s legs and chest, his semi-hard cock drooling uncontrollably into his already-saturated briefs. Fortunately, Ari was bent over and too absorbed in aligning the seams of the cuff on his right boot to notice Philip’s trance-like state.
Before he could embarrass himself, Philip murmured something about seeing Ari over at the retention pond and hastily dismissed himself to the cluster of plastic outhouses beyond the parking area. He retreated into a cloud of nose-burning toilet chemicals that were scented like cloying licorice, slammed the door behind him, and flicked the lock.
There was a childish sense of protection inside the plastic cocoon. In spite of its obvious foulness, the polymer shell somehow harkened back to Philip’s youth, when his sister’s playhouse stood in the backyard on hot summer days. But far from taking ice cream orders or playing gas station, he now found himself with his jeans around his ankles, wadding scratchy toilet paper against his sticky briefs in a vain attempt to save his wardrobe and buy some time to gain the upper hand in the battle waged by his hormones.
It wasn’t exactly an unfamiliar fight. Since Philip was a teen he recognized rubber boots as a source of consternation. Back then it had been Bryce—the college kid who worked afternoons one year at his father’s car dealership keeping the stock on the lot clean. Philip could still see him in his gray coveralls and tall brown rain boots, crouching on the gleaming wet pavement next to a soaped up tire. He remembered the glistening rubber tubes rippling against Bryce’s strong calves like molten chocolate.
And should Philip stop by the dealership and Bryce wasn’t at work, he would always find a reason to end up in the small workroom off the garage where the boots were parked, quietly waiting for those feet to return and reanimate them. Even staring into their dark empty shafts had been confusingly sensual for him. But while the ensuing fantasies had come fast and furious, they had always remained just that—fantasies. Ones that remained neatly folded into the bedroom or the shower stall and never dared the slightest dribble into reality.
Unlike now.
By the time Philip had lowered the heat from a rolling boil to a gentle simmer and emerged from the plastic hut, Ari had already ventured a quarter mile north toward the stormwater retention basin. More trucks were streaming into the immediate area, emptying their occupants into a frenzied choreography of hi vis green vests. Philip waded through the hubbub, nonchalantly tipping his hardhat when acknowledged and trying not to acknowledge the hard-on threatening to return at the sight of the various dusty wellingtons and moc toes that clomped by. It was funny how his own fastidiously-conditioned copper Red Wings never seemed to have the same effect being on his own feet.
He passed by McGary hanging out the open door of an excavator, travel cup in hand and talking to a passerby. Philip walked by the muddy treads of the machine and came eye level with McGary’s 8 inch boots—the orange badge at first intersection of laces proclaiming them to be Brunts. Philip tried not to turn his head as he stalked past, his eyes tracing the turns of the paracord up his leg. The boots weren’t tied, and their rugged leather walls flared out on either side of the padded tongue, holding up the hems of McGary’s drab olive work pants like a woman gathering up her long bustled skirts. Philip supposed that securing boots wasn’t a matter of necessity when they pushed pedals in an earth mover all day—a thought he instantly regretted as it pulsed through him. McGary’s textured composite toes grinned maniacally at at him as the damned boots finally slid from his peripheral vision. The entire job site was a minefield.
When Philip had finally picked his way across the rutted and barren landscape to where the naked ground gave way into a rough approximation of the massive elongated bowl that was the future stormwater collection system for the site, he found Ari inspecting one of the precast overflow drain stacks. He was crouched near the top of the crumbled clay embankment, scrolling through specs on the small tablet he always carried with him. Morning fog had started to burn off in a strengthening sun that promised another scorching autumn day, and Philip could see his mark on Ari’s boot cuffs catch the warm yellow light like silvery snail trails. A fresh drop bloomed from him. He both silently cursed and marveled at it. How could he have poured so much of himself out over this man—his boots—and still not feel a retreat in the shameful ache?
Almost as if wondering the same, Ari shook his head. “Something’s not right,” he murmured. He spread his thumb and index finger, widening the view on the digital specs.
Philip stood behind him and peered over his shoulder. “What is it?” His eyes ran over every pucker of Ari’s canvas pant leg and plunged into the dark crevice at the fold of his boot, where his hand itched to go. The dramatically-angled sun that splashed across the rubber vamp at Ari’s foot highlighted every move he made within, and Philip could feel the spin of a groan within his chest threatening to break free.
Ari held the tablet aloft for Philip to view. “The specs show an eight foot rise to the top of the overflow.” Philip willed himself to focus on the screen.
“Okay…”
Ari stood and surveyed the cube-shaped concrete structure that rose before them from the orange clay. “Well that can’t be any more than six feet. That’s a pretty drastic difference in capacity.” Philip was pretty well-versed in the complex formulas that went into calculating these drainage areas. Storm water was to be held on site as much as possible, allowing it time to slowly drain into the water table naturally rather than let it wreak havoc on the local sewer system. A two foot difference in the drain equated to thousands of gallons the pond would not hold even though it was designed to. Ari pushed the tablet into Philip’s hands. “Here, hold this. I need to check on this.”
“What are you going to do?”
Ari had already ventured a few steps down roughly-sculpted slope, his pristine black boots quickly taking on a mahogany sheen as their chunky treads sank amongst the great clods of clay. He paused and turned, squinting at Philip as he reached for the tape measure at his belt. “Measure,” he said simply.
Philip was vaguely aware that he was nodding dumbly and gaping as Ari turned away and continued his descent. But he barely managed to keep his mouth closed when Ari reached the bed of the pond and his right foot sank several inches into the tentative ground. Ari paused and backed out of the indentation, looking distastefully at the sodden boot. Still clutching the tape measure, he pushed his glasses up on his nose before bending and flipping the shafts of his boots up, tugging at their hems to pull them taught against his calves. Philip thought of the drying semen in the left boot pressing into his leg as he did so. Thankfully, Philip was wearing an oversized work hoodie—the sticky damp patch at his crotch had undoubtedly soaked through his jeans by now.
Ari straightened and proceeded onto the pond bed once more, his weight driving him four, six, eight inches into the gooey clay as he rounded the precast drainage stack. The rigid rubber portion of his boot bottoms had all but disappeared beneath the mire and great smears of sticky earth were gathering at the neoprene tubes at his legs. He stood wide-legged and braced himself in the muck as he extended the tape measure along the smooth face of the concrete structure. Unbidden, Philip’s cock began to pulse.
“Yep.” Ari studied the tape measure as Philip studied his legs and the glistening globules that quaked around them as he moved. “Six feet. Just what I thought.” He shook his head as he retracted the tape and clipped it to his belt. “I don’t know where that screw up happened”
Philip fought to keep his voice steady as Ari retraced his steps back to the embankment. “You sure it’s not just a grading issue? Once this gets sculpted…” he trailed off as the mud uttered loud, hollow belches each time a boot reused one of its deep divots. Ari was shaking his head.
“No, I’m pretty sure we are seeing the whole stack here.” He scrambled up the slope and hoisted himself onto the top of the overflow. Mud quietly slid from his boot tops onto the grating like the yolk of an egg escaping a shell. His damp boot treads protested loudly on the steel rungs as he crouched and peered inside the stack. Philip’s throb became insistent. “Yeah—this is definitely six feet. Max.”
“So now what?”
Ari gazed across the roughed in pond. “We’re going to have to order a new drain. And I can’t imagine they’ll have one lying around, so will have to deal with the delays of having one made.” He adjusted his glasses. Philip noticed that the muddy heels of his boots were soiling the seat of his pants as he crouched. Ari turned and looked at him. “You still want to talk about those trees?”
Philip shrugged. “It’s now or never. I’d hate to lose the only mature trees that are left standing on this lot.” The last thing he wanted to talk about was trees.
Ari nodded as he stood and moved to the edge of the drainage stack. He jumped down into the valley between the concrete overflow and the embankment. While only a two or three foot drop, Ari fell much farther as momentum plunged him through an area of a particularly pasty consistency. He windmilled his arms violently as his left boot was fully swallowed by the clay and it clamped a greedy hold on his knee. “Whoa!” Ari exhaled a chuckle. His right foot clambered on the slope for purchase as he fought for balance. “Guess I found a soft spot.”
“I guess you did,” Philip mumbled, feeling far from soft himself as Ari jerked and tugged at his left boot. His cock began to dance as he imagined that beautiful white sock slamming against the top of the boot’s inside, that orange lining imbued with his seed pulling against Ari’s leg as he tried again and again to free himself. “Wow, you’re really stuck,” he narrated almost wistfully as Ari leaned back against the concrete drain and strained against the suction, his face contorted in the effort.
With a sound like a sigh, Ari’s socked foot popped free from the captive boot and bobbed above the ground as he panted from the exertions. “Shit,” he hissed, pulling his arm across his forehead. The neoprene shaft had clapped shut against the heavy mud.
“Wait,” Philip heard himself say. He trudged down the embankment, ignoring the soft yield of the ground the clung to his own rubber soles. He approached Ari, who stood with his chest heaving and his foot frozen above the perilous quagmire looking somewhat like a cornered animal. Philip dug one foot in firmer mud just above Ari’s position and braced the other against the concrete drain, straddling the space above the trapped boot.
He bent and plunged his hands inside it, the creamy goo gathered in its rim transferring to the tops of his fingers. Ari’s warmth radiated from the soft orange lining. He grabbed two handfuls of boot and heaved against the earth, not attempting to stifle a groan as he did. His efforts were rewarded by the surfacing of an only an inch of clay-saturated neoprene. Philip paused and gasped, both in need of oxygen and a reprieve from the once more unbearable pressure that centered in his widespread groin.
Ari’s suspended foot wobbled as he fought to keep it from plunging into the ooze. It dangled just before Philip, who began to wrench at the stubborn boot again when he saw it—his mark: the chalky smear along the hem of Ari’s pants. Philip felt his breath catch in his throat, felt the threat of another orgasm become an inevitability. He was only a small move away from tearing open—and slight twist or bend, the lightest movement of his pants straining at his crotch. He felt the flutter in his anus, a coiling spring ready to snap free.
Philip glanced at Ari, who seemed to be staring into boot shaped cavity in the muck.
The only way out was through.
Leaning forward, he grasped the limp boot again, but this time as a means to a glorious end. One more tremendous yank not only dislodged it, but gave Philip both the momentum and the excuse to crash into Ari, whose precarious stance was not difficult to upset. Their two bodies slapped into the soft ground together, Philip’s crotch coming to rest on Ari’s foot as it sank into the mire. Given the context, it wasn’t questionable for Philip to cry out in this moment.
And he did.
With something between a grunt and a whimper he came, his pants quickly growing sticky both inside as and out as the two men—intertwined—received a muddy embrace.
Of course, Bryce had attended the company picnic that summer. It only made sense. But what hadn’t made sense to Philip that day was how much he couldn’t stop looking at him. It’s not like he was wearing the standard coveralls or the boots that he obsessed over. In an untucked linen shirt, trim denim shorts and pale canvas sneakers, Bryce had looked the part of the quintessential picnic-goer. So why did this torment him?
He worked at not staring at Bryce all afternoon. Not when he sat in a lawn chair with a foot crossed over his knee, a tanned wrist resting on his shoe. Or when he played corn hole and beanbag plopped on his foot. And certainly not when they came to stand side by side at the beverage table, and Bryce asked him if he had decided on any colleges he’d want to attend yet.
As he erupted later that evening in a youthful climax picturing Bryce’s hand resting in his sneaker, the textured gum sole nodding at him as its owner absentmindedly wagged his ankle, Philip was even more confused. He was only recently coming to grips with how stirring a rubber boot could be. That this feeling could transfer to the wearer was terrifying. Exhilarating.
It was like finding keys to doors he hadn’t even known were there. How many more were there?
Philip brushed the remaining dust of the morning’s incident off as he trudged past the line of work trucks to his own that evening. Having endured—what—five orgasms in a fourteen hour span and the shock of what he had done to Ari had finally chastened him.
Both of them had been fairly mud-christened, but since they had fallen sideways, they hadn’t sunken inextricably. The sides of Ari’s legs had been coated in a russet paste—Philip had a sticky stripe that extended up the front of his left leg, crotch and stomach. Ari had graciously laughed it off, even though Philip knew how fastidious he was about his appearance, and had even thanked him for the rescue.
Not the event was a sleeping mountain—impossible to ignore, seething somewhere below, but for now no more than an undeniable presence. Yet Philip knew the next eruption could happen anytime. Likely at an inconvenient one, if history could inform him.
He passed a lowered tailgate and paused. Two eight inch Brunt mocs smiled at him, tongues curling toward him like expectant dogs. McGary’s.
There was almost no hesitation. Pinching the pair together at their padded collars, he savored the sensation of them under his dusty fingers, felt their weight as he plucked them from the truck bed, and whisked them to his waiting F150.
There was a knock at the door. Philip wasn’t expecting anyone. In fact, he had been planning an evening with a certain pair of eight inch Brunt mocs because—amazingly—he still felt a stirring when he looked about them, even after the day he had.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, he slid them against the foot of his bed and padded down the hallway of his small apartment to the front door. When he looked through the peep hole, Ari’s dark eyes stared back directly into the tiny aperture, framed by his glasses. Philip’s heart lurched into his throat as he fumbled with the chain and opened the door.
Ari was still in his work clothes. Dusty streaks of orange clouded his canvas pants like an impressionist’s sunset. He wore had changed into his Hey Dudes, but Philip could see a bright rust-colored sock resting in the right one.
“Hey,” he managed. “What are you doing here?”
Ari slowly cocked his head, either studying Philip’s face, considering the question, or both. Finally, he replied.
“I saw you take McGary’s boots. I think we need to have a little talk.”
Shoe Horny 