Boots

In a world which I find somewhat fixated on categorizing people as this or that, I seem to fall oddly in the middle, at least in some areas. For example, my choice of fuck buddies come from either gender. Physically I don’t really care one way or another but mentally if I’m just after getting off I’ll choose a male every time. Males get each other that way.

Being from trailer park origins I’ve been fucking since I sprouted hair between my legs. I’ve never really been over sexed but now at 26 I find myself becoming less and less inclined towards sex at all. Truth is I get more out of a weekend of good football on the TV, beers with mates at the pub on Friday night and a joint or two as I chill out in my own city side one bed.

 I work construction. Every day it’s physical and my zero fat frame shows it from a decade of hard labour. I’ve thought about going back to finish my mid-level education but I’m earning money, paid off most of my place and although it’s a working class suburb, I have a good life.

The open-air apartment campus where I live is a collection of 400 or more, concrete boxes. A relic from the 1970’s, the complex is showing its age and in places, its average build quality. It’s full of renters, it’s less than 10% owners. I don’t mind, most people keep to themselves and even if they don’t, no one messes with a built 6’2” guy who pulls in in his truck every afternoon, grubby from what’s probably construction.

When I say, no one messes with me, I mean up until six months ago. The fag three units down from my place is a little different. I can’t remember exactly when he moved in. Except for his long curly mane of blonde, I didn’t really notice him. When I did pause to look, I surmised he was actually very cute. Having said that, it’s tough to stand out in a town loaded with early twenties beach bum stereotypes.

I now realise his fixation on me had probably been going on for weeks, I just didn’t pick it initially. Gradually over time I’d see a curtain shift as I passed, or I’d encounter him linger just that little bit too long collecting junk mail. Not that anything changed when I did become aware of his attention; I simply continued to ignore him.

I’m sure I was some sort of ‘forbidden fruit’, the unobtainable straight redneck from unit five. Suited me, until I realised I was missing an opportunity to free up some time.

It began just on dark one evening when I’d had a particularly rough day. In a less than jovial mood I dragged the rubbish bins out to the curb only to find him loitering, while supposedly doing the same thing. He said something cheerfully inane to me which I took no notice of. As he went to repeat himself I looked him square and growled “you know your place fag”. I left; he remained frozen to the spot.

When I returned to my flat I sat at my kitchen table and sucked down the coldest of beers. It was fantastic to finally sit and chill. In my increasingly relaxed state, I gazed across the mostly gloss white room to my contrasting muddy boots, just inside the door. Work had been thick with the stuff all day, no wonder I was beat. The most random of thoughts flashed through my head, so mischievous and shameless I was totally intrigued by the possibilities. Suddenly, I had no choice but to act. I stood and picked up my mud caked footwear.  

The next morning as I opened my front door to leave for the day I looked down and found my steel-caps perfectly positioned on my door step, they were spotless. I sat, pulled them on and headed off for another day on site.

From then on nearly all work nights were the same. Get home, dump my boots out front of unit three on the way past and collect them spit and polished on my step next morn. I had myself a dumb servant fag. Most mornings, seeing my steel caps gave me a semi hard-on.

The boot routine went on for a month or so until I thought ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’.

As the end of the week arrived and I prepared for my standard Friday pub night, I pulled on my tight jeans and tighter tee. A final check in the mirror, I was a great package. I smiled to myself as I tossed a week’s worth of washing into a basket, held it under one arm and made my way out. As I passed fag’s place I left the task on his front door step with a simple note, ‘Sunday pm’.

The pub was packed as usual. It took me a good ten minutes to locate my friends sitting in one of the booths near the back. The night was standard fare, drink, eat, drink more and exit. Some of the guys paired up with their regular fucks, I passed up one or two opportunities preferring a good night’s sleep.

I woke completely refreshed the next morning thinking I should throw fag a little encouragement for his efforts. After a late breakfast I donned a pair of old cargo shorts which had seen better days. They were tight and worn. I didn’t bother with a shirt, it was already hot outside and besides, I wanted my abs on show.

Half an hour later I was covered in a film of sweat. I had dropped the oil out of my truck and was now bent under the hood completing the service. I was sure the fag was all eyes; his curtained kitchen window had the perfect view of my workspace.

By eleven I’d finished. I dropped the hood and caught sight of myself in the side mirror; I was smeared with grease, wet with sweat and actually a little hard in the knowledge that I was being watched. I grabbed the garden hose and drenched my head, the sun was hotter than warm, I was glad I’d started early.

When I arrived home Sunday afternoon from a day out I found my washing sitting on my front step. When I went inside I found it as clean as you can get work wear and all neatly folded. I had been worried that he might iron it and I’d have some explaining to do on the job but no such problem. Fag must have started on Friday night to have them all dry. Good fag.

The pattern of boots every day and washing over the weekend continued uninterrupted over a few months. It was luxurious. Once or twice my boots came back a little below their normal high standard. It didn’t matter a rats but I was curious as to what was driving the dip in quality. When it happened the third time and I saw a guy leaving the next morning I clued on that on the nights where he hooked up for casual fucks, he neglected his duties. I realised the situation could escalate.

The next Saturday morning I rang fag’s front bell at eight in the morning. He answered the door obviously just woken, clad in a pair of tight boxers. He worked-out I realised, who would have known he was actually built under his normal day to day clothes. He initially smiled and went to say something. I put my finger to his mouth cutting him off. I wasn’t interested in chat. I pushed past him and found myself in his lounge; his place had the same layout as mine. He was confused and sort of followed me pushing the door closed as he came.

I pointed to the floor in front of me. He froze.

“On your knees” I instructed. He was clearly unsure but he complied, albeit slowly. When he was in place I pulled out my hair clippers and tested them for ten seconds or so. I wanted to give him time to react, if he was going to. He just looked up at me as I gently gripped the entire top of his head in my left hand and tilted it away from my right.

He still didn’t obviously react. I pressed the clippers to his temple and in one swoop ripped a two-inch-wide buzz cut valley across the top of his head. Curly ringlets dropped to his shoulders, then the floor. I took a second and third swipe, there was no going back now. When I was done I stood back and looked at my handy work. I squared off the edges and I have to say, I did a better than average job. I was sure I’d already reduced his sex appeal.

“Stand” I commanded as I returned to fossick around in my kit bag, “get your gear off, hands on your head, feet apart. Don’t move a muscle”. I shook the spray can and over two minutes coated his underarms, pubes and lightly haired chest. For completeness I stepped behind him, parted his cheeks and coated his arse.

The depilatory crème stuck to him like glue and really started to foam. The instructions said five minutes and by six it must have been starting to burn. I let it go for seven. By then he was squirming. “Hit the shower” I said. He quickly scampered off towards the bathroom.

When he returned just dried I was amazed at the transformation. It took three years off him despite his muscles. He was in shock but still intimidated as I did a lap to confirm he was indeed hairless below the neck.

“On your knees” I said for the second time that morning. He lowered himself. “Jack yourself off”. He paused clearly torn. “Now!” I boomed as his right hand shot to his larger than average flaccid cock. “I’ll make it easier for you” I said as I lifted my tee to bare my six pack. He immediately doubled his efforts and was rock hard in minutes.

When he was too far gone to consider stopping I removed my phone from my tee shirt. I had videoed everything from the moment I rang the front door bell with the phone’s camera sitting above my chest pocket. Now I was obviously doing so. He stopped mid stroke when he realised what was going on. “Keep it up fag” I said flatly. He resumed pumping and within a minute was back up to speed. I decided part of him was getting off on it. He exploded and left a nasty mess on his lounge floor.

As he attempted to catch his breath I smiled to myself and slipped the phone away. “From now on, nothing below your chin” I said as I turned and left him speechless.