Boot Service and More – Chapter 1
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So it was Sunday and I was sitting on the deck next to my single wide looking through Craigs List for truck parts and tools, when I decided to look at the "Women Looking for Men" personal ads. In the boondocks of Edison County, there is almost never an ad close by and the only ones are women in the city looking for "generous" men. After my divorce, I was lucky enough to be left with my trailer home and truck so I wasn't about to spend any of the cash that I didn't have on a woman that didn't live nearby.
For shits and giggles, I clicked on the "Men Looking for Men" section. I ain't gay but wanted to see if there were any gay guys out here in the sticks. Surprisingly, there were a couple of ads for guys in the area but most of the ads were for men in the city. One ad title from the city caught my eye because it was different than the rest: "Looking for Boot-Wearing Bikers and Blue-Collar Men." Well, I wear boots for my construction job and have another pair for when I ride my motorcycle (I am paying my buddy back over the next three years for the old Honda that he sold me). The full ad said:
"I am a generous man looking to service the boots of a motorcycle rider or a blue-collar working man (factory worker, construction, farm/ranch, etc.). No costume wearing gays – I desire a real working-class man. No reciprocity desired – I will come to your home, service your boots, and then leave."
Truthfully at the time, I had no clue what parts of the ad meant, but I knew "generous" meant cash and "no reciprocity" meant that I didn't need to do much of anything. I also really needed my motorcycle boots polished and if some gay dude wants to pay me for the privilege of shining my boots, how could I go wrong.
So, I sent the guy a message: "Hi – I am a construction worker who also rides a bike. I could use some generosity and have boots that haven't seen much care lately. How generous are ya talking? And I'm str8 so I just want my boots taken care of and no funny stuff."
After about 10 minutes, the ad writer responded: "Sir, can you provide some proof that you are who you say you are? Perhaps a pic of yourself. What is your boot size? Please provide a description of the boots and pic(s) of them as well. I am very generous for the right individual."
Remember I was 28 years old, divorced, barely living on my own, and probably just stupid, so I sent a message back: "I wear 10.5 size boots. I have Chippewa biker boots – I think they are called engineer boots. I have several pairs of work boots, Red Wings, Thorogood, Rocky, and some of them are pull-on and some of them are lace up." I attached a pic of myself sitting on my motorcycle that a buddy had taken during a ride a few weeks back. Then I walked into the single wide and set up all of my boots in a row, even the crappy ripped ones, and took a pic of them.
Boot guy responded: "Sir, Thank you for the pictures. I would be honored to service your boots. How generous may I be for the honor of being below your boots? Your Boot Boy"
I didn't know what to make of that last response. I shot a message right back: "How old are you? I'm not into children or any of that type of shit!"
Boot guy responded: "Sir, I am 46 years old and am not a child. But I am very sincere in desiring the honor of servicing your boots. Your Boot Boy"
With that response, I was relied that I was getting into any weird stuff. I wasn't sure how much cash should I ask for – if I ask for too much, I might get nothing. I am getting my boots serviced, whatever that means, and if that means he will use a lot of polish and sealer, then all of those cost something. At the time, I had a construction jump which was mainly framing new houses and earning about $17.25 an hour. In this case, I am not doing much other than sitting still so I decided that I should ask for something close to that.
I wrote back: "How does $15 sound? How long do you usually take to service boots?"
Almost immediately, I received a response: "Dear Sir, I would be honored to service your boots for that amount. The length of time is up to you and I would enjoy any length of time that you allow me to be at your boots. Is there anything else that I can provide besides my service and this small amount of generosity? Your Boot Boy"
I really didn't know how to take most of that message other than it sounded like he agreed to $15, but it sounded like this Boot Boy would be okay with sweetening the deal. I quickly wrote back: "Add a six-pack of Bud Light to help me relax while you work on my boots."
Boot Boy responded: "Dear Sir, I would be honored to bring you beer as well. When may I have the privilege of visiting your home and being under your boots? Your Boot Boy"
I still didn't really know why he was calling polishing my boots "servicing." Well, it was Sunday and I really didn't have anything going on the coming week after work so I responded: "How about Tuesday night after work? I get home about 5:30, eat some chow, and then chill out watching a ballgame or something. Would 7:00 work for you? I live outside of the city in rural Edison County."
Boot Boy quickly responded: "Dear Sir, it would be my privilege to come to your home on Tuesday night at 7 PM to service your boots. I will contact you on Tuesday morning to confirm my service appointment with you. Your Boot Boy"
I responded back with: "Okay"
On Tuesday morning at 10 AM, I received an email from Boot Boy: "Dear Booted Sir, I am contacting you to confirm the privilege of servicing your boots this evening at 7:00 PM at your home. If my service would please you, please send me your address. Your Boot Boy "
I didn't know what to think of "Dear Booted Sir" – what the shit does that mean? I didn't think much about that at first, but why was this 46-year-old man calling me "Sir"? And now I started to get paranoid about having a stranger come to my house. Did I really want some stranger off the internet coming into my single wide? I don't have much, but I can't replace what I have - my hunting rifle or shotgun, or my big TV. I decided that I would move the small TV from my bedroom out on the deck and have this "boot service" happen out there. It was April and the weather turns warm in early spring so it would be warm enough until 9 PM or later. I wrote back to him with my address and reminded him to bring cash and the six pack of Bud Light.
Boot Boy responded: "Dear Booted Sir, I will arrive at your home at 7:00 PM with said cash and beer. It will be my pleasure to service your boots. Your Boot Boy"
Just as I finished reading the last response, my boss yelled at me to get back to work. It all still sounded a little weird to me, but if we keep it all on the porch, there shouldn't be an issue. For the rest of the day, I was too busy to think much about this "Boot Boy" coming over.
After I got home from work and had some food, I moved the TV out on my deck and pulled on my engineer biker boots. By the way, I have a kick ass deck. When my ex-wife left me, my buddies celebrated by building me a deck which was as long and wide as my trailer. Even their wives came over and re-painted the inside of the single wide and helped to redecorate something with stuff that was more guy style than my ex-wife's style. They all said that my ex-wife was an asshole and they were glad that she was gone. They wanted my new life without her to have a positive new start. I never knew they thought that about her – I knew she was a challenge to be around for me but not for everyone else. So anyway, I have lots of deck and it is all covered. If I wanted to put up some plastic, I could probably use the deck for three seasons.
So, there I was just having a cigar while sitting in one of the big plastic chairs that a friend gave me for my new deck when a car came down my driveway. I looked at my phone, and it was exactly 7:00 PM. I was watching a baseball game on the TV and waited for the car to park next to my trailer. Think God I live out in the sticks because I would be embarrassed to have anyone see this guy's car. Not because it was a bad car, but because it was a car that was worth more than my truck, my single wide, the land on which the trail sits combined. Who the fuck was this guy driving out to the sticks to polish a redneck's boots. He was rich enough to pay a hundred men to polish his boots. I also thought maybe I should have asked for more than $15.
So now, I just leaned back in the plastic chair, watched this guy get out of his car, grab a six pack of Bub Light out of the back seat, and walk over to the steps to the deck. What was weird is that he didn't have a boot polish kit with him.
He was about 6 foot tall compared to my 5' 10". I am still sort of a wiry medium built guy given my construction work, but this man looked more like gym-built guy – wider chest and bigger arms. It was hard to see how big he might be because he was wearing a crisp white shirt and maybe suit pants. It looked he had just taken of his coat and tie before he drove over.
It only got weirder when this guy walked over to me, sat the beer and the money on the side table and then fell to his knees and hobbled over to where I was sitting and nearly fell on his stomach and placed his face between my biker boots. He wrapped his hands/arms around the boots and pulled then to his face. I nearly dropped my cigar when he did that. Then in a muffled voice, well he had his face drilled into the wood deck boards, he asked, "May I service your boots, Boot Sir?"
I was taken aback by that and just mumbled, "Yeah?"
So, I was sitting in plastic chair smoking a cigar with a guy who arrived in an expensive chair and wearing nearly a full suit licking the sides of my worn-out biker boots. These boots are about five years old, probably coated in road dust held on with gasoline and engine oil. Now I know why he signed his messages "Boot Boy" – very appropriate, and I guess I am a Boot Sir for him. I reached over to the side table and yanked a beer off the plastic collar.
Boot Boy licked the groves where the body of the boot connected to the soles. He would go from one boot to the other, slow licking from the heal to the toe of each boot. He then rose up some and started to clean the grove at the toe of my left boot and slowly worked around to the outside grove. When he completed a circuit back to the inside of the left boot, he moved over to the right boot and completed the same routine.
At first, I just smoked and drank the beer and watched the progress and then I thought "What the fuck, I got some cash and beer so let him get his jollies." I returned my attention the baseball game on the TV and just relaxed into my chair.
Boot Boy changed up and started licking over the top of the left boot toe. I looked down because I almost thought that I felt his toe pressure through the leather. The boots were well worn so the leather was sort of soft. I returned to the game. Soon enough I did feel his tongue when he worked it under the buckle and strap that goes over the top of my foot / boot. That felt nice – almost like a foot massage.
After a few minutes, I heard Boot Boy ask if he may slide my wrangler jeans up my leg so that he could get to the uppers of the left boot. I said, "Sure knock yourself out."
He slid up the left leg of my jeans and started to lick up the uppers of the left boot. This time I know that I could feel his tongue pressure through the leather – it was sort of hot. I don't mean that I threw a full bore boner, but I did chub up some. I cracked open another beer, but it sprayed all over the place, mostly on the back of Boot Boys pretty white shirt. I thought that I just fucked up the situation, but he just quietly said, "Thank you Boot Sir. Please feel free to spray or spit beer on me."
WTF! I was taking a swig of beer when he said that and I nearly choked on it. I guess this rich guy has lots of interests.
Boot Boy finished with the left boot and started working on the right one and once again asked to push up my wranglers, I said yep again. While he was working away on the right boot upper, there was a really great triple play in the game that I was watching I sort of jumped up and gave a shout, but also lifted both boots off the deck and dropped them back down but on Boot Boys hands.
Once, again I felt like shit that I squashed his hands with my boots but he just gave a moan and thanked me. He also said that I can walk on his hands any time I wanted. WTF again.
I looked down as Boot Boy was finishing up on the right boot. He gently pushed my boots together and nestled his face between them. He started to raise up his hips so I was guessing that he was finished getting his gollies from lick worn out boots, but nope, he was doing a crotch thrust into my dirty wood deck. He was actually humping the deck while licking the space between my boots.
I couldn't stop watching him – it was just too weird for me to imagine. Pretty soon the humping increased so I figured he was about to get his nut. His tongue was working overtime from one boot to the other. I could feel the tongue pressure through the leather and chubbed up again inside of my jeans over the crazy scene.
The humping continued to get faster until it stopped - hips stopped thrusting and tongues stopped rubbing. Boot Boy just slumped onto the deck like pudding. He was panting into the crack between my boots and I just sat there watching him. I didn't know whether to feel sorry that he was covered deck dirt or give him credit for knowing his kink. I know that I love eating pussy on a pretty girl and fucking like a bunny when I can, but this was all new to me.
Boot Boy sort of raised up and was still panting away. I looked down at him and just said, "Well, I think my boots are more than cleaned up. Thanks."
He replied without looking up , "Booted Sir, thank you for the honor of servicing your boots. It was an honor to be under your boots."
With that, this Boot Boy just hobbled on all fours over the deck stairs and then stood up. He was covered in deck dirt and grit. I don't think anyone could get that dirt out of his once white shirt and fancy suit pants, but hell, not my problem. He walked off the deck and to his car. As he turned to open the door, he didn't look up at me at all – don't know if it was from embarrassment or something else. But I did notice that his pants had a huge wet spot in the crotch. Yep, he came in his own pants! I bet I never hear from him again after that – how does a man recover from licking boots, humping a deck, and driving away covered in cum and dirt. Then off he drove.
I continued watching the baseball game and about 45 minutes later sort of wondering if all of that really happened when my phone pinged with an email. "Dear Booted Sir, thank you again for the privilege of servicing your motorcycle riding boots. I would be honored to service your work boots at your convenience. Respectfully, Your Boot Boy."
WTF! I guess it all is okay with him. I know I am okay – I got $15 in my pocket and nearly a drunk off of free beer. I responded, "Boot Boy, bring $15 and another six pack and you can lick my work boots on Thursday night. Would that work?"
"Yes, Booted Sir!"