Date: Wed, 27 Jan 2016 17:36:27 -0700
From: Colton <coltonaalto@gmail.com>
Subject: Under the Boot... Or Heel Hell - Part One

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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