Off-duty security guard Gino Antonelli sort of liked Celestial Falls and didn't mind his job at all.
He knew that 95% percent of the job is the Uniform. The uniform must be pristine. The uniform must shine. Shoes must shine. Respect and air of authority must come from your uniform. That being said, someone in his position must always remember that he is a civilian---that he has no REAL authority. So, if you’re a security guard the uniform must speak for you.
It all seemed so corny. Still, he liked being a security guard.
What Gino DIDN’T like was times like this… times when he was off-duty and just so happened to be OUT of uniform. He also didn’t like the rather seedy areas he had to traverse through in order to Celestial Falls. He could have asked his pal Bobby for a lift, but Gino had gotten into the habit of not asking certain people for anything. Not out of hostility, but as a diacritic matter of pride.
He had just hit the corner of Pine Street, and suddenly a group of guys were surrounding him. A couple of hog riding bikers. He cursed himself for not remembering the notorious reputation surrounding this portion of the neighborhood. Two shaggy, wild-eyed young men--clad in all the regalia of two Hell Angels on a budget--came sauntering towards him from a shabby-looking house on the corner.
"What you doin' here?" The slimmer of the two demanded. Gino saw that this handsome lad was brandishing a metal tire iron.
"Just takin' a walk."
"Your ass is crazier than a dog in a cat factory! Who gave you permission to walk around here?"
"These," the off-duty security guard said evenly as he held up his fists, "say I can walk anywhere I want."
The other biker, the brawny one, was looking around furtively--as if he expected Gino's back-up to leap out from behind nearby trees and attack at any moment. The slim one, however, seemed to sense that the security guard was not a member of any club-that this burly stranger was all alone. His ice blue eyes narrowed with anger. Gino saw now that he was just itching to use the tire iron. Both of these scruffy, unshaven boys were exceptionally cute—the slim one looking like a nineteen-year-old version of Hugh Jackman while the other was a built twenty-year-old Mark Wahlberg. And they both sounded so YOUNG to the security guard. Modern nineteen and twenty-year-olds seemed a lot younger than those in his day. They had the modern conveniences and tech to grant them more information, but young peoples’ maturity level certainly had degraded in this current era.
"Not looking for trouble, hoss. Just passing through" The security guard said, almost amused by the lads. They were both wearing leather boots. He wondered what smelly, sweaty treasure was concealed in those boots and beneath their socks… if they were even wearing socks.
"My friend and I are thinking,’ that you should maybe point your Nikes back in the direction you come from…" Replied the biker. Did he mean his robust friend or the tire iron? Gino wasn’t sure, nor did he particularly care at that moment.
"Told you I wasn’t looking for trouble… why are you so intent on escalating the situation?”
He ignored the security guard's question. "When a bug collides with the windshield of a fast-moving car … that’s what we could do to you" the slim biker was swinging his tire ironexpertly from one hand to the other. Gino knew then that this young fellow couldn't be reasoned with. For almost anyone else it would have been enough that he and his friend had the clear advantage of numbers, combined with the fact that the security guard clearly was not looking for a fight; this punk just wanted to see someone get beat down. Utterly. Completely.
Well, Gino wasn't going to listen to this overconfident prick brag and make threats at him all day before he started beating him upside the head with that tire iron, so he did the last thing that either of the young men expected him to do. He calmly strolled over to the slim one, clenched his fist . . . and gave the youth such a powerful uppercut to the chin that his head whiplashed and his feet left the ground.
His adversary's gorgeous blue eyes rolled up in his head and he was out cold before he even landed. But there was no taste of victory in Gino's mouth: this hog riding punk liked to put on the paraphernalia of a tough guy, but he wasn’t a REAL fighter--he hadn't even sensed the punch coming. In fact, Gino didn't think either one of these guys were genuine roughnecks.
The other biker--the brawny one--looked on with his jaw hanging open in shock.
"What was that for?" He asked, kneeling over his fallen companion. "He hadn’t done nothing to you!"
"Well, he was contemplating it…" Gino said.
"But he didn't do anything!" The brawny miscreant insisted.
The off-duty security guard pointed at the metal tire iron that was now lying ownerless on the sidewalk. "He was going to use that to beat my brains out!"
"You're a greasy-haired wop struttin’ around mick territory like you’re the cock of the walk, Guido!" The brawny young man said rather boldly now. "He prob'ly figured you didn't have much brains to start with."
Gino thought that the statement was pretty funny, but he didn't laugh. He could have whipped out his concealed .45 Detonics revolver and busted a cap in both of these jerks. But he was sick of hurting people. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, Gino's street brawling days--if he could help it--were over.
Plus, as he'd noted earlier, these greasy wanna-be roughnecks weren't in a genuine biker club--he might have enjoyed a good throw-down with them had they been hard-core club. But these two weren't brawlers. Just a couple of penny-ante arrogant jerk-offs. The one he'd cold-cocked had been knocked clean out of his boots . . . they were clearly too big for the lad, so the situation was rather comical. But the smell that subtly wafted into his nose wasn’t comical, it was erotic. It was the pungent odor of the slim biker's unshod feet that was faintly evident in the warm air. For some reason Gino found this aroma of exotic foot-sweat almost pleasurable.
Gino shook his head to clear it, then glared at the muscular biker who was still conscious. "If you're smart, you'll shut up, take your punk-ass friend and get the fuck on!"
"Okay, guido, okay!" The brawny boy muttered as he reached down towards the prone form of his fallen friend. The security guard couldn't believe that the kid was still unconscious. Gino supposed he had hit the slim youth harder than he'd intended.
He did noticed that his right-cross was throbbing a little.
"Oof!" The brawny biker panted as he grabbed the limp form of his companion under both arms. He then struggled to haul him out of the street, the unconscious young man's white-sock-clad feet scraping on the asphalt. Moving slowly because of the weight he was dragging the brawny wild-eyed fellow trudged his way back toward the house on the corner.
Gino sighed, feeling a sort of baseless regret right then. He wondered why he felt guilty when--in all honesty--his hitting the slim young man had been an action that the young biker himself had forced? He didn't know the answer, and he felt guilty all the same. He noticed that the fallen biker's black leather boots had been left behind.
Possessed with a kind of curious lust he'd never experienced before, Gino picked up the recently abandoned boots, placed his nose inside each one of them and took a deep whiff. The fragrance of the biker's sweaty feet saturated the insides of the boots. The pungent, salty-sweet smell made Gino's mouth to water . . . and actually caused his dick to get hard.
He had just finished sniffing to his heart's content when he found himself confronted by yet another band of boy bikers. And this time he wasn't feeling so much guilty as he was terror-stricken. Still, he couldn’t help but to notice how cute most of them were. Not smoking-hot handsome, but baby-faced cute. Like teen models pretending to be tough guys in a school production of West Side Story or something.
"So you like the smell of feet, eh, guido?" the apparent leader said, yanking off his boots. His fellow roughnecks followed suit. It wasn't long before Gino was forced into a nearby alley and made to lie on the ground as no less than six handsome young roughnecks planted their smelly, sweaty sock-clad feet on his face. After the first foot was placed near his nose, the off-duty security guard was not afraid. In fact he took immense pleasure in being forced to sniff the sweaty toes of his adversaries.
But after a while Gino was hauled to his feet. One of the bikers … a big-eared young man … knelt at the security guard's feet and began to untie his Nike's. This simply would not do, for even though Gino enjoyed sniffing the feet of these vicious baby roughnecks, he would not allow them to tamper with his body.
The big-eared young man at Gino's feet had just finished untying one of the security guard's sneakers. He paused from his task to smile up at Gino and was just about to say something derisive when he suddenly felt Gino's weapon strike him full-force. The big-eared biker then slumped to the ground unconscious.
Gino cocked the hammer of the .45 he had unexpectedly pulled from his belt (the one he'd just used to clunk the youth who had been untying his shoes over the head with), and turned to face the other baby-faced roughnecks. "Look, don't make me have to hurt somebody else up in here-"
But the others rushed forward.
The off-duty security guard also charged forward himself. He maneuvered inside the reach of the oncoming boy-biker and used his revolver to hammer him to the side of his neck. Gino knew the deadly potential of this type of blow, so he delivered it with less than maximum force. Even so, the trauma to the carotid artery knocked the young man unconscious at his feet.
Next the security guard took out the short, blocky blond-haired pseudo biker who seemed to be the leader of the group. Gino had simply leaped panther-like into the air . . . and as he came down he sledgehammered the young man with the butt of his revolver. He aimed his blow at the soft area of the top of the young biker's golden-thatched head and hit dead-center. The blocky blond young man sat down hard, then slumped over onto his side and lay still.
Half of the baby-faced roughnecks were now out of commission, and the rest of the confused young cuties were starting to realize that something had gone terribly wrong. They took off running without looking back
Gino Antonelli was left in the silent alley with only the three unconscious young men whom he had thrashed senseless. He sat down and gathered all the boots that had been left behind by the fleeing roughnecks. For several minutes he pleasured himself by smelling the interior of each boot--absorbing the aroma created by the sweaty feet of all the young bikers who had earlier forced him to sniff their smelly sock-clad tootsies.
After a time, he tosses the leather boots aside and turns his attention to the sock-clad feet of the unconscious young men lying in the alley. He scoots over towards one inert fellow and takes both of his feet--which were clad in dirty white socks--in his hands. The off-duty security guard rests these size-nine feet on his lap and rolls off the socks. . . socks that were damp with sweat and upon which the imprints of the wannabe-biker's perspiring toes could be seen. He sniffs these socks for a time and eventually placed them in his mouth--hungrily sucking the salty foot-sweat from them and drinking it down like wine.
Gino then moved to another unconscious young man who was lying face down between two garbage cans. This biker had not only wore smelly socks for the off-duty security guard to suck on, but he also had incredibly sweaty feet. Though Gino had always been attracted to males to a degree, his love of masculine, sweaty, smelly feet was somewhat new and yet too strong to ignore. He pulled off the young man's socks and received the feel of warm bare skin--cupping the youth's feet in his hands. The security guard bent his head down and brushed the unconscious biker's bare arches with his lips, breathing warm against the young man's sweaty, smelly soles. He licked and nibbled at the biker's arches and insteps until both feet were cleansed of any foul odors. Gino had even licked and slurped away the fuzz and grime located between every one of the unconscious young man's toes.
After doing the same to last remaining unconscious biker, Gino prepared to depart the alley . . . with six pairs of sweaty, smelly white socks in his pocket. He had almost emerged from the cul-de-sac when he found himself confronted by the roughnecks who had fled earlier! These bikers had murder in their eyes and knives in their hands. Gino knew that there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he was going to survive this latest encounter with them, but-looking back on the pleasurable experience he'd had that afternoon-he could think of worst ways to go…
To be continued
