Kinky, I suppose, if you're not into this sort of thing. But, really, who couldn't be.

He'd simply been curious the first time, or maybe bored, didn't really remember. Just that they were there and Fraser wasn't. They always sat in the same spot, placed just so, perfect in appearance, rather seductive in their stance. 'Spare's' his best friend had called them; 'Do you mind if I store them here?' and he hadn't and he did so there they sat.

Pulling the stands out had made him feel guilty. Like when he was seven years old and got caught sneaking a cigarette from his uncle's coat pocket. Whoa. That was not the rush he'd been looking for that night. Then it was slightly Arthurish - like he was removing Excalibur from the sacred stone and everyone should bow. But there was nobody there and he felt silly brandishing the wooden stands like that.

About 2 sizes too big, hadn't realized Fraser's feet were so large, couldn't figure out the laces so didn't bother. He duck walked around the living room a few times, feeling silly and somewhat irreverent. Deciding that underwear wasn't respectful, he thundered into the bedroom and managed to drag a pair of black sweatpants over them, letting the elastic dig into his knees. He almost put on a red shirt, but that was too weird. Instead, he just walked back and forth in front of the mirror and admired the way the leather caught the light.

They had lifts so he was few inches taller. Made him want to puff out his chest and stand up straight. He wondered if Fraser felt that way, and stood in the corner and tried to think of protecting Canada. That got real boring, real quick and the game would be on soon anyway, so he pulled them off. A quick sniff, because he was still bored and he didn't know what Fraser's feet smelled like, cause the guy just didn't perspire. Not too bad, mostly leather and a vague sour sweatiness. Into the stone went Excalibur and back on the couch went Ray.

They sat there, like forever, just a pair of brown Mountie boots. Until the next time there wasn't anything on TV and Fraser had to work and wouldn't be by on his day off, and Ray was caught between bored and really bored. Remembering the looseness, he put on a few pairs of socks, bulked himself up a bit, before sliding in. Felt better and he strode around the room authoritatively until his ankle started to blister and his toes pinched. So, he sat on the couch, one booted leg outstretched on the coffee table and one leg, plus two pairs of socks, right next to it. Sniffed it again, gave an experimental lick, and spent the afternoon trying to get the taste of polish off his tongue. Fraser even asked what was wrong when he'd stopped by that night, but Ray shrugged and tried not to look at them mocking him from the dark corner.

Days turned into weeks and then months and Ray could have been a shoemaker's elf for the all the time he spent with those boots. Had gone from admiring to walking to sniffing and rubbing and now was having this fucking affair with them. Some days he could barely wait for the door to shut behind him and he was down on his knees, sniffing for the faint scent that Fraser left when he periodically wore them, oiling and stretching the leather. Like somehow, those boots had become a substitute Fraser, and he could do what he wanted and he wanted a lot. Wanted to rub himself against them, suck on the laces, and come from just feeling the leather, cold and sweet against his dick.

And then they were gone.

Fraser said that Dief must be chewing on them and wondered aloud about the stains. Ray admonished the incredulous wolf and promised that he'd take better care of them, if Fraser let them stay. But the Mountie had taken them anyway, with a speculative look in his blue eyes. Ray tried to get him to promise to bring them back when the laces had been replaced, but all he'd say was 'we'll see.'

'We'll see' became a week and then three and Ray was going out of his mind. He even dug a pair of classy leather shoes from his married days out of the closet. But, they didn't smell like Fraser or taste like Mountie polish and they fit perfectly. The right one left a rather large hole in his wall, behind the door.

He quit asking about them after the second week, when Fraser started looking at him like he was insane and Dief pissed on the GTO's tire every time he heard the word 'boot'. Eventually though, Fraser returned them to their dark corner of the apartment. But, when Ray went to welcome them back, it wasn't the same because they weren't his boots and somehow that made all the difference in the world. He knew because his boots had a little scuff on the toe, where he'd hit the edge of the coffee table once night when he came. The lace on the left one had a few teeth marks and the top edge was a shade darker from being in his mouth.  Fraser, he was positive, wouldn't even have seen the come stain on the right one, low on the heel. No, these weren't his boots.

He morosely wondered where they were all night.

Bleary-eyed and irritable he drove to the consulate, just to say hi. Not, he told himself, to ask about the boots. Didn't matter, because he suddenly knew exactly where they were. On his best friend's feet. Right out in broad daylight, where anyone could walk by and see them. And realize what he'd been doing. The GTO laid rubber for ten feet when he peeled away. And damn if Fraser didn't start wearing them everyday.

So, Fraser wore the boots, Ray covertly longed for them, and Dief openly watched this bizarre little scenario unfold, but remained thankfully quiet on the subject. As did Fraser. Until Ray almost ran the car off the road when Fraser had an itch on his calf and rubbed his legs together, one boot over the other, back and forth, back and forth.

He thought he'd come right then.

'Ray,' Fraser finally said, when the car had stopped and he'd unclenched his hands from the dashboard, 'this can't continue. Do you need the boots back that badly?' He almost denied it but really, Fraser was kinda smart, and lying might screw things up, so he settled for a vague shrug. 'Fine. Drive, please.' And he had and they ended up at his apartment, just in case Fraser really did intend for him to have the boots.

Once inside, Fraser took of his serge jacket and actually sprawled across the couch, legs open. Motioned for Ray to come and stand between those long legs. 'Strip,' Ray thought he heard and so did nothing, but Fraser said it again and confirmed that Ray'd lost his mind. Then a boot clad leg rubbed up the outside of his thigh, helpfully. He stripped. Stood there for a moment, trying to decide which bit needed covering; his dick, before it took out Fraser's eye or his own eyes because the boots were rubbing together again, right between his legs, much more lively than in his previous sole encounters.  But before he could pick, his dick choose for him, drooling a long spindly thread of juice straight down onto a square toe. The one with the scuff. Fraser looked at it with eyebrows raised and Ray just stared, not quite sure what to do. Did Mounties like precum on their boots?

The ankle flexed, the thread snapped and the same someone from before said 'kneel'.  Slid right on down, like a puppet with its strings cut, finding a leg pushed between his thighs, boot right under him, almost like a saddle.  The blunt toe wedged between his ass cheeks and the laces in front pressed into his balls and shit, it was warm.  Not cold and stiff like before, but warm and supple with body heat and he knew that these weren't his boots either.  But, they were Fraser's and that was suddenly better than okay.  

'Well?' and the other foot gave his dick a nudge and slid down his thigh, pressing heavy, digging in and it was gonna leave marks. He tried to look up but got no father then the bulge under the black Mountie pants and heavy hand that was rubbing it.  'Well' came again, with a flick of his mount and he was off on his own little Musical Ride.

Propping himself up, so he could rub the hard toe where it needed to be, laces catching at the fine hairs on his inner thighs, he took himself in hand.   Then Fraser dragged the toe of his free foot over a nipple and up, pressing his throat, before sliding it to the side.   Heavy on his shoulder but so easy to nuzzle against, to bite at an ankle, or lean forward and take the lace in his mouth. 

It was over too soon, a few quick thrusts against into his hand, letting the head hit the leather on the downstroke.  The sweet rush of completion, the sticky flow over his hand, and the spidery white pattern all over the boot.   Catching his fall with Fraser's knee, eyelevel with another softening dick that he hadn't gotten to watch, but smelling the come on the white Henley was almost as good. Fraser's leg slide off with a thud and they just relaxed there in comfortable silence.

Finally the boot underneath him moved and Ray fell to one side, watching Fraser look at the mess. 'Well, I'll never be able to wear these on duty, again, will I?' but Ray didn't think he needed an answer and only sighed sleepily.   Stumbled to his feet and into the bedroom where the cool sheets called. He might have muttered Fraser's name, but no one came and he drifted off, dreaming of boots and Mounties and other sticky things. 

Got ready for work the next morning and refused to look in the corner.  He took his time with his coffee and finally, on his way out, looked.

No boots.

But there was something else... A tangle of leather and a note, tidy with precise handwriting.  'Ray, would you mind keeping this for me?   It's my spare. Thank you kindly. F.'

Ray picked up the Sam Browne and held it to nose, gave an experimental bite. Who the hell needed boots?

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Disclaimer: These characters belong to Alliance and the author makes no claims upon them - no copyright infrigement is intended. This story is for entertainment purposes only and there is no monetary gain.