These boots aren't made for walking. Strap in, kids. Lisa Henry brought'd it!
These boots? These boots are definitely not made for walking. Kyle’s been wearing them for two hours now, he can’t feel his toes anymore, and the twinges of pain radiating out from his spine are making him see flashes of white.
“That’s it,” Al says in an undertone. “That’s good.”
Kyle’s been crushing on Al for months now, which is the only damn reason he’s here at all. Al is a regular at the club where Kyle tends bar, and Kyle has slung so many free drinks his way it’s a wonder he hasn’t been fired, but Al still hasn’t noticed him. When Al put the word out that he wanted models for his latest shoot, Kyle figured why the hell not?
Except it hurts. It legitimately fucking hurts, and Kyle has no idea why Al is still taking photos, since he knows he sweated off his makeup under the hot lights a while ago, and the only facial expression he’s actually capable of right now is a grimace. How is that supposed to sell boots?
“Just a few more,” Al says, his voice low in Kyle’s ear. Kyle jerks in surprise at the unexpected sound, the movement sending a spasm of pain up his spine. He winces, stumbles, and only Al’s hands on his hips keep him from falling forward. Al keeps one hand on his hip. Slides the other around to his abdomen, and tugs him gently backward.
Kyle freezes under the bright, hot lights.
“Just a few more minutes,” Al says. He splays his fingers. “You can do that for me.”
Kyle nods, not sure if he believes it or not. He struggles to maintain his posture when Al releases him again. “These photographs won’t sell many boots though, right? I mean, I’m not making them look comfortable.”
The click and flash of the camera. “The people buying these boots don’t want their boys to be comfortable, Kyle.”
Kyle squints into the light. “What?”
Al is close behind him again, warm hands sliding down the quivering muscles in his thighs. “The people who buy these boots want their boys to cry.” He rubs a finger down the cleft of Kyle’s ass, pushing him up impossibly higher onto his toes. “Can you cry for me, Kyle?”
Kyle squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy,” Al says, his voice low and pleased.
Well, he guesses he’s got Al’s attention at last. It’s going to be a long night.
About the author
Lisa likes to tell stories, mostly with hot guys and happily ever afters.
Lisa lives in tropical North Queensland, Australia. She doesn't know why, because she hates the heat, but she suspects she's too lazy to move. She spends half her time slaving away as a government minion, and the other half plotting her escape.
She attended university at sixteen, not because she was a child prodigy or anything, but because of a mix-up between international school systems early in life. She studied History and English, neither of them very thoroughly.
She shares her house with too many cats, a green tree frog that swims in the toilet, and as many possums as can break in every night. This is not how she imagined life as a grown-up.
You can email me at: firstname.lastname@example.org
Or check out my website at: lisahenryonline.com
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