Boots Stay On

 By Pappy Wolf

The towering bear was a furry symphony in red and black. Red mohawk, beefy black beard, lush black pelt and just the right amount of black leather. He entered the bar wearing a black leather trench coat but dramatically shucked it off to reveal a bulldog harness, jock, a strap on his left bicep, gloves and knee-high boots with red laces. Rocco’s eyes lingered on the boots. They had to be size 18 and at least triple-E in width. The thought of the powerful, hairy and doubtless musky stompers lurking beneath all that leather made the lithe Italian otter salivate. With his usual nervous gestures of fluffing up his wavy pompadour and running a hand over his broad mustache, he considered which strategy to use with this potential new conquest. Foot worship wasn’t something you just sprang on a potential trick – not until you were sure they were into it.

The stud was a retired minor-league hockey player named Marc-Andre. Most of the other bottoms in the bar knew jack shit about sports, and the ones who did weren’t familiar with hockey. Especially Canadian hockey. Only Rocco was. It had to be fate. One by one, the substandard cubs and chasers gave up trying to flirt with him and drifted away. Rocco was left alone with his prize.

The otter stroked Marc-Andre’s arms, chest and ego as the bear babbled about watching the Nordiques as a kid in the 90’s and getting signed by the Rouyn-Noranda Huskies in 2008. He was named Rookie of the Year. Rocco kept the conversation going with knowledgeable asides, but half of his attention lingered on the man’s feet. As the bear blathered on about his past, the tale took a dark turn. Marc-Andre suffered an ACL injury and got addicted to painkillers. From there he progressed to cocaine. At some point he was living off the grid, squatting in a trapper’s cabin somewhere in the Acadian Forest. Rocco found the whole melodramatic ordeal tiresome. He gave up paying attention to the details, but he continued to emit sympathetic noises while he plotted to get his hands on the bear’s feet.

Marc-Andre finally fell silent after alluding to some terrible experience in the forest. “You poor darling,” Rocco murmured, clasping his hand and squeezing it. “Whatever it was, you landed on your feet. And what feet…! What size are those boots, anyway?”

The bear perked up. “Size 20, four-E. Had them custom-made.”

Rocco felt woozy. “Well…! The old saying about men with big feet is definitely true!” He slid his other hand under the table and groped the Marc-Andre’s sizable bulge.

Marc-Andre snorted. “What saying? That our boots cost a fortune…?”

“Don’t you like your feet? I think they’re hot as fuck.” That was three remarks in a row about feet. He made a note to refrain from mentioning them again for a while. He could just let the bear talk about them for now.

After a pause, the bear sighed, “You wouldn’t if you saw them. That’s why I leave my boots on during a screw.”

“That’s hot too,” Rocco admitted. “I don’t know why but keeping one item of clothing on during a good humping is way hotter than just doing it in the buff.”

The hunk tilted his head back, as though appraising his companion. With a charming smirk, he growled, “Glad you agree, boy.” With that, he clutched the back of Rocco’s head and drew him in for a long, wet, invasive kiss.

They hooked up in the men’s room that night and the week after that. After a few more encounters like this, Marc-Andre asked him out on a proper date. Rocco had never worked this hard for a little foot action, but the bear’s epic paws were sure to be worth the trouble.

After dinner at a Moroccan place, they hit a few nearby bars, edging each other with hand stuff in corner booths but never retiring to the men’s rooms for fucking. The atmosphere was electric by the time Marc-Andre at last welcomed Rocco into his unassuming bungalow. Hockey and bear bash memorabilia decked the walls. Marc-Andre conducted a long-winded tour of the place, which Rocco begrudgingly submitted to. Impatient to get to fucking, he paid only scant attention to the words as he breathed in the powerful scent of pure Man that permeated the place. There were the expected notes of musky sweat and heavy cologne, as well as cigars and something more primal. A peculiar sort of animal smell, like a zoo or pet shop. It had to be his musk, Rocco realized. His foot musk.

When they retired to his living room, Marc-Andre queued up strangely baroque metal music from a band he said was called “Igorrr.” (“With three r’s,” he added.) The music vibrated through Rocco’s skeleton as the two men drank more cocktails and petted each other. After a while, Rocco became aware of a plaintive, high-pitched chittering, like a raccoon or some other small animal. It seemed to be coming from a large metal floor grate, the kind he’d seen in older houses that used gas heat. He was about to mention this when Marc-Andre exclaimed, “I love this song!” With one hand still on Rocco’s nipple, he reached over to the side table and used a remote to turn up the volume. As the bear mauled his nipples with his bristling beard and gnashing teeth, Rocco surrendered himself to bliss and forgot about the odd sound.

Just when he thought he couldn’t stand to wait any longer, the bear took his arm and pulled him into the bedroom. He flicked off the overhead light, leaving them bathed in a wash of neon from old beer signs advertising Unibroue, Dieu du Ciel and Moosehead. Rocco peered guilelessly into his eyes. Marc-Andre seemed buzzed and quite drowsy.

He decided to test his luck. “Let’s get you undressed, big guy,” he smiled. The bear stretched his brawny frame across the mattress and allowed Rocco to remove his suspenders, his flannel shirt, and his leather motorcycle pants with zippers up the sides. But when Rocco put his hands on the prodigious boots, the ex-athlete raised his head and slurred, “Boots stay on. That’s a rule, boy.”

“Silly me, daddy,” Rocco cooed. “I guess I forgot!”

They fooled around for a few minutes. Then the knockout drops Rocco had put in the bear’s whiskey finally did their job and he began to snore. Rocco wished Marc-Andre hadn’t been so stubborn. Foot play was more fun when his partner was willing, but he’d take what he could get. Slowly, carefully, he unlaced the left boot. The odor of leather marinated in sweat dazzled his senses. He had an urge to tear the boot from the bear’s foot and just start sucking on his toes, but he didn’t want to rouse him. With agonizing caution, he slid the boot down the leg. Marc-Andre’s hairy legs got hairier the nearer they were to his feet. He’d never seen anything like it. Usually, footwear rubbed hair off whatever skin it touched. This was a minor miracle. The hair was two inches long and very densely clustered. By the time it reached the ankle, it had lost its wavy texture and had grown thick enough to resemble fur. A dizzying mélange of scents assaulted his nose as he slid the boot all the way off and exposed the foot.

Stunned, Rocco just stared at it. His fingers lost their grip on the boot. It thumped onto the wood floor and startled him out of his confusion.

It was a gorilla’s foot, gray skin and thumb and all, somehow sprouting from the leg of a brawny human man instead of some silverback ape in the jungle. The toes were longer then they should be and protruded from beneath a thatch of shaggy black fur. The exposed charcoal-hued skin was leathery, the nails thick and long. Despite its ugliness, the foot gave off a very agreeable stench that made Rocco’s heart quicken. Before he knew what he was doing, he unlaced the right boot and slid that one off as well.

Two gorilla feet confronted him, both wafting a boot-flavored animal musk into his nostrils. Confounded by longing, he retreated to the doorway. He could go. He knew that. This might be the last chance he had to get out of the house and forget any of this had happened. But he’d have to put the boots back on the feet again, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength for that.

Everything in his line of sight turned wobbly, shimmering like it was a reflection in a lake. The feet beckoned him. They demanded worship, he knew, and he wouldn’t feel like himself again until he had paid tribute to them. Stiffly, he took a step forward. The next step came easier. And then he was on his knees, sucking on the fat toes, slurping the sweat from between them, tasting the pungent blend of dead skin and lint that lurked beneath the nails. He lovingly stroked the furry tops of the feet and massaged the calloused soles. “Igorrr” (with three R’s) still resonated through the house, taunting his solemn devotion with queasy, discordant violins and neurotically pounding drums. The toes flexed within his mouth. Blearily, he understood that the bear was waking. It should have been impossible; he’d been very careful with the dosage. But when his guilty gaze looked past the feet, he saw that Marc-Andre’s eyes were closed in serene slumber, his expression strikingly innocent, even beatific.

But the animal-like growth of hair had annexed his thighs, and it was steadily spreading toward his waist. As the musky raven pelt swept onward, his legs bulged outward, the muscle mass exploding, the bones creaking as they grew longer. In less than a minute, the shapely ursine legs were half again as long and rippling with dense fur, which was damp and odorous with perspiration. The rich animal scent filled the room, filling Rocco’s nostrils. When the fur hit the bear’s crotch, his foot-long, uncut shaft lurched into a vertical position. The glistening pink hue deepened first to crimson and then a lurid purple as it stretched out another eight inches and began to leak a thin white pre.

Rocco could feel his eyes bulging in terror, the orbs threatening to burst from their sockets, but his mouth refused to detach itself from the glorious simian foot. The foot owned him, he knew that now, and he wouldn’t be allowed to quit pleasuring it until it was satisfied. The other foot trembled and bounced on its heel to where its brother rested. Rocco knew what to do. He placed his flexible mouth over both big toes and slurped and sucked like his life depended on it.

The overwhelming musk stung Rocco’s eyes, making them water. As he labored on the feet, one hand groped for his crotch and squeezed it, pumping it in time with his sucking. But then his other hand slapped the first away. He wasn’t supposed to pleasure himself. That’s not what the feet wanted. In the edge of his vision, he was aware of the muscle and fur swarming Marc-Andre’s torso and arms. The bed shook and thumped on the floor as the bear’s expanding form spasmed. The swelling arms grew longer, too long, reaching down to the knees like an ape, and still Rocco couldn’t stop sucking. His delinquent hands flew to the feet and massaged the soles as his tongue bathed the salty, sour toes. The bear’s gentle snores deepened into ecstatic moans. The moans blended into a single growling, deafening roar.

Shaken to his core, Rocco felt the feet’s hold on his mind weaken, and he was able to look upward again. Marc-Andre, his human head looking comically out of place atop a monster’s body, opened his eyes. The eyes narrowed. And then the dreadful changes consumed the rest of him. A motley collection of discolored fangs and tusks pushed through his gums. His nose flattened and sunk back into his face, giving him two great, flaring nostrils like a gorilla’s. His furry jaw expanded, growing lantern-like and ungainly as his brow beetled and his hairline swept downward to join with a shaggy unibrow. The mouthwatering beard exploded in size, becoming a mane hanging down past his massive pecs, while the mohawk grew out into a red-tipped crest atop a sloping gorilla skull. Finally, Marc-Andre’s lovely eyes turned a toxic yellow, all humanity fading away, reducing his expression to one of feral rage… and lust.

The noise of splintering bone and tearing muscle fiber rose to an unbearable din. The beast was still growing, his form bulging outward in pulsing, painful-looking spasms. Through his tusks, the creature grunted, ululated and howled with mingling waves of pleasure and pain. The toes filled Rocco’s mouth, threatening to choke him. Desperate to escape, he found himself only able to let one toe slip from his mouth while he sucked even harder on the remaining one. The monster’s ballooning form filled the king size bed. Creaks from the bedsprings and frame warned of collapse. A rancid smell boiled from his pores, corrupting every square inch of oxygen in the room.

The sour fog seeped into his brain, moistly whispering to him that he wouldn’t seek out any other daddies. He was meant to adore this one and this one alone, to give every bit of himself to the brutish, simian beast. He was meant to give himself over to the musk and to let it take him, body and soul. As the musk trampled over his terror, tamping it down, he knew he was allowed one last chance to scream. The scream emerged as chittering.

A palm the size of a dinner plate cradled his scalp. Giant fingers, hairy and rough, clutched his fragile human head and extricated him from the toes. Rocco sensed this was not kindness. But he wanted this, didn’t he? He wanted to be lifted into the air and tossed onto the floor like a doll. He wanted his clothing to be ripped into hanging strips, like a banana’s skin, while a yellow-eyed, mindless ogre sniffed and licked his trembling bare flesh.

The overgrown cock was longer than Rocco’s arm and twice as thick, its color a shocking neon purple, gobs of opalescent jizz spurting from the tip. The room spun about as the creature bent him over the bed and unceremoniously plunged its shaft into his hole. Even to Rocco’s dulled perceptions, the ease with which he received the hot, slimy rod was alarming. His rectum expanded at once, welcoming the intrusion. The thing’s malodorous crotch slammed into his buttocks – somehow, his body had taken every inch of the freakish member. The next moment, his torso was bouncing violently on the bed as the ape thing humped him.

He lost track of time. A dull blue light filtered through the curtains. He felt the monster growing even larger… no. The thing was the same size as before, but he was shrinking. His shoulders narrowed as his limbs dwindled, growing lanky and covered in dense black fur. His palms, quite small now and tipped with long, nimble fingers, turned leathery and gray. Incredibly, he was changing like Marc-Andre had. But not into a creature resembling an ape. Into a monkey. As the monster shot its load, filling him up, a jet of fire shot up Rocco’s spine, melting the vertebrae and reforming them, giving him a hunched posture before a long, prehensile tail erupted from just above his pert monkey ass. His skull closed down upon his brain, which obligingly shrank. Clumsily, his monkey hands felt as his rapidly warping head. His ears were round and jutting, while his brow pushed outward to shade his eyes. The rest of his face remained unchanged, although the mustache disappeared and a scruffy chinstrap beard ringed his countenance. His intelligence, his memories, his sense of self… all these things were fading. In their place was nothing but devotion. He loved his ape daddy. He’d do anything for him. The ape daddy, mindlessly humping him, using the jizz as lube, probably knew none of this and wouldn’t care if he did. That’s just how daddies were, the little monkey man thought sagely. Best just to let them do what they wanted.

Marc-Andre awoke to find a small, black-furred monkey with a depressingly familiar visage playfully slapping his soft member. His heart sank. He had warned Rocco about his feet, but the deceitful otter hadn’t obeyed him after all. The little creature’s sparkling black eyes glanced at him and then it scrambled down his legs and tried to latch its mouth onto one pinky toe.

“Non,” the bear shouted. With a quick motion, he seized it by the scruff on its furry neck and pulled the little animal away. With his free hand, he stroked his newly overgrown beard and hair. He would have to fix both of those things today before anyone he knew saw him. Another annoyance. Sighing, he carted the mischievous monkey downstairs to join all the other partners who had disobeyed him.

The tiny monkey-men hooted and screeched in their cage for a minute before they went back to sucking and fucking one another. Marc-Andre held the former Rocco up and addressed him, although he knew the thing wouldn’t understand a word. “Les bottes restent sur mes pieds,” he said, shaking a hairy finger at him. The monkey-man answered him with a lazy yawn. Rolling his eyes, the bear deposited his treacherous date into the cage with his brothers and went back upstairs to make an appointment with his barber.