Boots on the Bench

Daniel almost left when he saw the boots.

Black. Tall. The kind with a shine that meant someone had put time into them and expected the time to be noticed. The man wearing them was at the end of the upstairs bar, leather jeans, harness over a bare chest, grey at the temples, maybe forty-six. He looked at Daniel's jacket, the cheap one, and then at Daniel's face, and the look was not kind. It was interested.

"First time up here?" the man said.

"Second," Daniel said. He was thirty-nine. He had walked past this bar for a year before he came in. "I didn't stay."

"You stayed long enough to come back. I'm Marcus."

"Daniel."

Marcus tipped his glass at the bench along the wall. "Sit. If you want the boots, ask. If you just want a drink, say that instead. I don't do guessing."

Daniel's mouth was dry. His cock was not. "I want the boots."

"On your knees, then. Not in the middle of the room. End of the bench. People can look. That's the point of upstairs."

Daniel went down on the boards. The leather of Marcus's jeans creaked when he planted his feet. Daniel put his hands on the boots because he had thought about this in his car and in his shower and at his desk, and the reality was warmer, heavier, smelling of polish and weather. He bent and kissed the toe. Marcus made a small approving sound and set a hand on the back of Daniel's neck.

"Tongue," he said.

Daniel licked. The leather was smooth and bitter at the seam. He worked the toe, the cap, the side where the shine caught the red lamp, and his cock pressed painfully against his fly. A man at the bar watched and did not come over. Marcus let it happen. He shifted his other boot forward.

"Both. Then the jeans. Then you ask before you touch my cock."

Daniel did both boots until his jaw ached and his knees complained. Marcus opened the leather jeans himself. No underwear. His cock was thick, heavy, already wet at the tip, and the harness framed his chest when Daniel looked up. Daniel waited, mouth open, hands still on the boots.

"Ask," Marcus said.

"Let me suck you."

"Better." He took himself in hand and tapped Daniel's lip with the head. "Hands stay on the leather unless I move them. You drool, you keep going."

Daniel took him in. The taste was salt and skin. Marcus did not thrust at first. He let Daniel work, slow, then deeper, until Daniel's nose met the hair and his throat clicked. Marcus's hand tightened in his hair. He fucked Daniel's mouth in short strokes, boots planted, leather creaking, and Daniel moaned around him and palmed himself through his trousers until Marcus noticed.

"No. You come when the boots say. Up."

They took a room because Marcus wanted the door shut for the rest and the bench had done its job. Inside: a bench, a hook, a mirror. Marcus told Daniel to strip to his socks and then lose those too. Daniel stood naked, cock flushed, while Marcus stayed in the harness and the open jeans and the boots. He pushed Daniel onto the bench on his back and set one boot on the wood beside Daniel's ribs.

"Hold it," he said. "Other hand on your cock. Stroke. Don't come."

Daniel held the boot and stroked. Marcus watched, then swung a leg over and fed him his cock again, fucking down into his throat while Daniel gripped leather and leaked onto his own stomach. Spit ran into Daniel's ear. Marcus pulled out, dragged him up, and bent him over the bench.

"You been fucked in leather before?"

"No."

"You will be now. Colour if you need it. Red stops. Yellow slows. Green means the boots stay on."

"Green."

Marcus slicked him, opened him with two fingers, then three, and pushed his cock in while Daniel held the edge of the bench and stared at the boot in the mirror. The stretch was mean and then good. Marcus fucked him hard enough to knock the bench, harness buckles ticking, one hand spanning Daniel's hip. He made Daniel reach back and grab the boot again, awkward, perfect, and fucked him like that until Daniel was begging.

"Come on the leather," Marcus said, and pulled out.

Daniel turned, dropped, and stroked himself over the offered boot. He came in stripes across the shine, gasping, and Marcus swore and finished on Daniel's tongue a moment later, bitter, thick, holding his jaw until he swallowed.

After, Marcus sat and looked at the mess on the toe.

"Clean it," he said, almost gentle.

Daniel licked his own come off the boot until the leather was only spit-bright. Marcus buckled his jeans, left the harness on, and kissed him once, deep, tasting both of them.

"Downstairs in ten if you want a drink," he said. "Boots stay on. You can look. You don't touch unless you ask."

Daniel nodded. His knees would hate him tomorrow. He did not care.

He used the room's small sink, rinsed his mouth, and looked at himself in the mirror. Hair wrecked. Lip swollen. A red line on his hip from the bench edge. His cock gave a tired twitch when he glanced at the boot print of water on the floor, Marcus having walked through the spill without comment. Daniel dressed slowly. Jacket last. When he came downstairs, Marcus was at the front bar with a soda, harness hidden under a coat, boots still the loudest thing in the room.

Daniel stood at his shoulder and waited.

"Ask," Marcus said, without looking over.

"Can I stand here?"

"Yes." A pause. "Hand on the boot if you want it. Over the denim is fine. No kneeling down here. They get precious about the floor staff."

Daniel set his palm on the leather at Marcus's ankle, under the bar lip where most people would miss it. The warmth came through. Marcus drank. A song changed. Daniel's pulse stayed high, stupid and happy, and when Marcus finally looked at him the look was the same as upstairs: not kind. Interested.

"Thursday," Marcus said. "Same boots. Bring a cheaper jacket. I don't want to scuff that one when I put you on the floor."