I was glad when my next-door neighbors moved out. Noisy, drunken, abusive and screaming at each other every Saturday night at 2:00 a.m. (Sunday morning, that is). When I saw their stuff piled in boxes through an open door, I smiled and went inside and didn't answer the door when the knock came a short time later. They'd want my help moving and I wasn't going to!
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The apartment was vacant for a month and then suddenly, it was occupied. I knew this when I walked by and saw that the windows, which had been shut with blinds closed, now stood with blinds open and things piled inside. Our two apartments shared an alcove and our doors faced each other. I walked over, still craning to look in the side window nearest my door when I nearly tripped over the work boots.
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My new neighbor had left his work boots on the mat before his front door. Large, round- toed, size-13 work boots, dark brown, badly scuffed, with a yellow rectangle that said "Caterpillar" on their outsides at the tops. I lurched, caught myself, put them back into their original side-by-side position and went into my apartment. At the time I saw those boots, I was mostly annoyed, the alcove was small enough and now I was in constant danger of tripping over his work boots. But they were gone in the morning when I got up to go to work, and so I figured I could live with it.
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For days, my neighbor was an enigma to me. I knew nothing about him besides the fact that he wore work-boots to work. I could look out my window beside the door right into the window of his apartment (the usual scatter-brained design of such cheap buildings) but for the fact that the drawn blinds stayed drawn; I saw nothing on him other than an occasional shadow against the blinds at night. Not that I was especially looking back then, mind you.
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But the weather grew warmer rapidly, and the apartments had no air-conditioning, I knew he would eventually be forced to do what I had done, open the blinds and the window. First during the day only, but in the heat of July and August, you had to leave every window open or roast inside your own apartment.
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It happened, first the window was opened, then after a few days of that, the blinds went up and I could, at night with both our lights on, see him just fine. God, it's the hairy hunk that I had seen at the pool a couple of times. I thought he lived up on the second floor. I could see the shapeless masses that were his furniture, some sort of mattress and a bean-bag chair and a television set seeming to be his only possessions. My own weren't much more than that.
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I had seen him at the pool, hair glistening from the recent dip, and him lying on the patio chair, his black hair and beard lying neatly in place, his well-defined chest formed of his strong pecs, ovals topped by two off-centered brown nipples, then the lines of his abs down to his narrow waist, and the flat plateau below. His legs were nicely shaped without bulging, widened areas showing the muscles. His toes were...
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"Like what you see, faggot?" was his sardonic comment then. I turned and walked away, muttering, "jerk" under my breath, and after that, when he was at the pool, I stayed indoors, and vice versa.
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Shit, now the guy was right next door to me. I thought about it, snapped off the lights in my apartment. If I hadn't known he was next door to me, odds were he didn't know the same about me. I turned off the lights and stayed away from the lights that came from the courtyard, and watched him. He was in that beanbag chair, I suppose it was (he had a Western-style throw over it, making it an undefined mass, but it let him slouch low and watch his television. I couldn't see all of him, but I saw he was bare above the waist, and that he was watching television, which was his only light source. It was spewing that off-brown color all over him in rippling movements that made it clear he was watching a porn picture of some kind. His arms were down in such a way that I wondered if he was playing with himself! I leaned forward, but I couldn't tell. It seemed like it. Would he do that, whack off with the windows open? I thought about it and stealthily opened my door and went over to peek inside. Just a quick look to tell me if he was whacking off or not, and I would dart back inside, before I could be spotted.
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That was my plan, anyway. I tripped over those damned workboots of his again and darned near fell down. I cursed and went back indoors, and back to my window again. His arm was moving kind of funny. If I could see just a little lower down--I got my old steamer trunk I had picked up in a garage sale and pulled it over to the window and got up on that. I could see.
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Yes, he was stroking it. God, that long prong was a monster! He was making long strokes up and down that shaft which must have been ten inches, easy! Watching the screen, whacking his meat. Wearing only a pair of black baggy shorts that he had lowered to mid-thigh, stretched out, his front window shuttered, feeling secure enough to whack off like that, he was watching and he was stroking.
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I reached into my own sweat-shorts and I pulled out my pud and pumped it, intending to shoot when he did, if I could. But I had no more than gotten it out when, without any sort of movement from him, no thrashing or groaning I could spot, he suddenly shot his wad onto his stomach. Took me a while to even spot the quick small jets as they arced over. And he was done and wiping his stomach with a corner of that Western-style throw. I wondered if it was thick and stiff with his jism; it seemed to be. He finished cleaning off, turned off the television with the remote, and was in darkness. Show over!
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But I was left with a hard-on and nothing but a few brief memories. Damn, if those workboots hadn't been out there, I would have gotten a good look at him! Those fucking boots had ruined my fun...or had they?
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I pulled up my shorts over my hard pud and opened the door. They were out there, all right. Feeling like a thief, which I was, I grabbed one of them at random and pulled it inside.
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He must use the outdoors to air them out, because they were pretty funky-smelling. I got a whiff of it, which was partly old leather but a lot of male-sweat, and grinned evilly. Call me a faggot just for looking, who the fuck did he think he was? I'd show him, even if I hoped he'd never catch on.
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I pumped my cock, turned on by the brief glimpses of the hairy stud and the thought of what I was going to do to him. Turned on by the furtiveness, too, I got turned on pretty quickly and I grabbed that boot in my free hand and I pumped my wad right inside that grungy workboot. Thick clumps of my jizz made it inside, along with a couple that only hit the outside of it, but when I caught my breath and looked, I had plenty of it inside there like I wanted, clustered around the heel. I lifted it up and let the sperm flow down into the toe, and it did, like syrup, a clump on the outside falling in a splat on my floor. Then I carefully opened the door and set it back beside its mate. The sperm would dry before morning, and my nasty, hunky neighbor would go to work while walking on my dried jism. And he'd never even guess! Revenge is sweeter (and safer) when you take it anonymously.
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But I decided that next day, after I was sure he hadn't suspected a thing, that one load of jism wasn't enough. I needed to put another load in that shoe's mate. That would be it, he would know before much longer who his neighbor was and any suspicion about the stains in or on his shoes would be a dead giveaway. Safety lay in knowing when to stop. A load in his other shoe and I would stop entirely. I was confirmed in this decision by the fact that he was home when I got there with his door open, and he saw me, and I saw him see me, go into my own apartment. I heard the word "Shit!" and his door slam, and looked and saw the blinds had been drawn and the window closed.
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I had never heard him go out in the evenings. Weekends, yes, but never on weekdays, like this was. So I decided to go ahead and get the rest of my revenge for his one-word insult at the pool, and put an end to it. I reached out and grabbed his workboot, making sure this time I got the right-hand shoe (I had jizzed in the left one, before) and darted back inside. This time, it was harder for me, without the stimulation of the recent sights and the lesser fear of danger. I whacked my meat for about twenty minutes before I managed to get off. Only the realization that if my neighbor noticed his shoe was missing, I'd be stuck with it and have to toss it someplace discreetly gave me the impetus I needed to finish the job. This time I held the shoe up to my crotch and shot the entire wad right inside it. I got a few globs on the tongue's inside, but the rest spewed inside. I think I coated its insides thoroughly, from the drainage of the last slow spurts onto the tongue where it oozed down inside.
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I was done and slipped the shoe back outside, left my own door open. No more reason to hide, my neighbor knew I was here.
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His door opened five minutes later and my heart jumped. He got his shoes and I saw to my horror that he was about to put them on, bare-footed. Some quick trip to the store or something.
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Maybe he wouldn't notice! Leather tends to soak stuff up in a hurry, I know I'd had to leave a visible stain on the left-hand shoe which wouldn't wipe off at all. Maybe...
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"Ah, God damn it!" my neighbor yelled. "Shit! What is that? God damn!"
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I settled myself in my chair and grabbed up a book. He muttered some more and then I heard him walk over to my door--clomp, pat, clomp, pat, clomp, pat. One foot shod, one foot bare.
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I looked up with what I hoped was innocence, seeing him standing there red-faced and angry, wearing those black shorts and a red pullover. Wielding the right-hand shoe and I looked at it, my confidence breaking down. I must have shown all my guilt in my face, because he didn't need anything else.
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"What the fuck did you do to my shoe?" he demanded.
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"What do you mean?" I said, licked my dry lips.
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"God damn you!" he yelled. He was sure of himself by now. "You think this was funny? You...you...damn it!"
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"What are you talking about?" I said, scared and defiant. Trapped by my lie, I was sticking to my protestation of ignorant innocence.
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But it was useless, he had it all figured out. He walked inside, over to me.
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"Hey!" I said.
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He shoved the boot at my face. "Take a good whiff of that!" He said.
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"What?"
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He shoved the boot's opening right at my face. "I said take a good whiff of that! You did that, you bastard!"
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I had the boot in my face and I got the smell all right. Heavy, unmistakable smell of human sperm, of course.
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"God, that smells awful." I made a face and backed away. "What happened?"
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"You happened, you little shit!" he said. "You got the hots for me? Was that it?"
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"No!"
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"God, man, I stuck my foot right into it! You got my boot and you jerked off into it. You got a thing about boots, shithead?"
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"Listen, get out of here!" I said desperately. "I'll call the cops on you if you don't leave right this minute."
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"Look at me and tell me you didn't do this." he said. "Then I'll leave."
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I looked at him and I curse that my mother and grandmother raised me not to tell a lie, because I couldn't do it. "I was getting back at you."
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"For what?" he said.
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"Calling me a faggot at the pool that time."
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"Shit!" He said. "God, my only pair of shoes and you do that?"
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"You shouldn't leave them outside your door." I said weakly. "I've tripped on them at least three times." Only twice, but I was in bad straits here. "I was mad at you and when I tripped on them again, I...I saw my chance to get back at you."
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He stood there, looking at me, breathing heavily.
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"I'm sorry!" I said. "I'll make it up to you. I'll buy you a new pair of boots come payday."
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"Next payday? When's that?" he asked.
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"Next Friday. Week from Friday." I groaned. Ten days away.
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"Shit, I can't wait until then."
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"Well, I don't have any money to buy them now, not big boots like that." I said. "What do you suggest I do to make it up to you?"
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He walked over to me. "Get down!"
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"What?"
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"Down on your hands and knees!" he snarled. "Do it, or I'll beat the shit out of you."
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I gulped, did as he said. His foot came up to my face. "Lick it clean. You got your jism all over it, so lick it clean."
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I looked at that foot, looked up at him, and then I reached out a tentative tongue and I lapped at his big toe. He was unstable on one foot and when I lapped him a couple more times, he staggered and stepped back, then went over and lay down on my mattress. "Get back to licking my foot." he said. "I want it completely cleaned up by you, you understand me, fucker?"
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"Yes, sir." I said, contrite. I had gone too far, let's face it. I owed it to him. He deserved it. And...and I wanted to.
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I went over and started sucking on his toes, first that monster big toe which stood proudly alone on his wide foot. It was like sucking a short, stubby cock and that was how I treated it. Then the toe next to it, running my tongue down between it and its close partner, pulling lips around it and working it twice, then I took the middle toe in as well and went down on the pair of toes, raising up and down again, sucking them clean and dry. Then the last two toes, running my tongue between them as I held them in my mouth, little hard knobs of man-flesh, with a funky taste to the nails, hard plastic-feeling arcs in my mouth. Done with that, I went over to the top of the foot and licked it in long, smooth arcs, stopping and moistening my tongue with each stroke. I could taste the salty sperm here and there on it and I gave those spots extra attention, sucking them clean, then over to the side, running my lips and tongue over that sensitive arch, and he groaned appreciatively.
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"Oh, God, yeah!" He said. "Give that foot a good washing, you son-of-a-bitch! Clean it all off."
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I went to work with a will, for his foot was otherwise quite clean, the carpet having lifted off any hint of dirt or sperm on the sole, but I lapped them, the hard cushions of the feet as they segued into softer patches and ending with the heel which I took as fully into my mouth as I could and then, looking up at him, seeing his hard cock distending the black silken shorts, I reached up for it.
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His hand intercepted mine as I caught it, yanked it away. I was bold enough then to reach with my other hand and he caught that one before I so much as felt it. "What are you doing, scuzz-bucket?" he asked.
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"Please?" I asked.
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"Why should I let you?"
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"I want to make it up to you."
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"You cleaned off my foot." he said. "You've finished.
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"No, sir." I said. "I jizzed in your left shoe last night."
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"What?" he said.
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"I want to make it up to you." I said. "Please?"
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"You figure a blow job would make up for me walking around on your jizz all day long?" he said.
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"I think it's a start." I said as I scooted up closer to him. He had both my hands, but he also had taken his own hands out of commission by doing so. I got all the way up to his crotch and with both my wrists held firmly by him, I lay face down and gnawed at his basket, chewing at that thick cock through the shorts.
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When he groaned, I knew I had won, so I began to nuzzle that thick pole, wondering if they were baggy enough to let me push the legs up and free that otherwise unfettered piece of man-meat.
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It took some work, but I made it, his shorts leg pushed up to the groin and me sucking on a ball that had worked free. He let go and fished the cock out through that leg for me and I happily went to work on that long, luscious pud. Just as long as I had thought, the arc of that scimitar made it hard work to get it into my mouth like I wanted. I scooted around and my neighbor groaned, "Don't even think I'm going to suck yours, shithead!"
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"Just getting a better grip." I assured him and showed him by taking that meat down my throat now that the curves matched up. He groaned and I wasn't too surprised when his hand felt for my crotch. Plenty of the hard-nosed varieties are just looking for some sort of excuse. But he didn't do anything more, just felt it through the cloth and I knew it would be a long time before he would take it in his mouth--if ever.
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With his hand manipulating if not pounding my cock, I assaulted his with renewed vigor, giving him the blow-job of a lifetime (my own, too). I was so turned on by this scene, him totally in charge, collecting on the debt I owed him by my sucking him. I gave him full value, deep- throating that wonderfully long, thin prong, and when he groaned, and I felt his salty wads pumping into my mouth, I was almost disappointed.
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I pumped my meat while he got up and I stood up with difficulty as he did so. "Can we do this again?" I asked.
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"I don't see why we should." he said, now pulling on his boots.
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I knelt down in submission at his feet. "Please, sir? I want more!"
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He was standing right before me, and I knew then what to do. As he said, "Get out of my way, cocksucker." I let go and blasted my wads right onto his legs and onto his workboots. This time, I soaked both of them real well. He stood paralyzed in shock as I blasted onto him like that.
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Then, when it was over and I was panting, he caught up to the scene. "God damn it!" He shouted angrily and cuffed at my head. It wasn't hard, I moved with the blow and laid back, smiling. "You son of a bitch, now they're dirtier than ever! And all over my legs! Christ!" He wiped them with the sheet on my bed and I watched him. "You owe me more than ever now." he shouted. "More than ever, you understand me?"
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"Come back tomorrow and you can collect." I said.
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He looked at me, scowling, and then the face cleared just a little. "You better believe it. You service me daily until you can replace these boots for me, you understand?"
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"Yes, sir." I said.
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"Bastard." he muttered and walked out to wherever he was going. But I caught just a hint of a smile as he turned.
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I lay back. At least ten days to payday. Of course, I did already have plans for all of that money, my bills and such. Then rent would come due again. You know, it might take longer than ten days for me to buy him those new workboots.
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A lot longer.