I knew that I had to keep his feelings secret, and that I needed to approach Uncle Wyatt with caution and respect, because that's the way my father taught me to look at authoritative men.

As I made my way downstairs, I could feel the weight of my Uncle's gaze upon me. He walked with purpose, his steps measured and deliberate, trying to convey the sense that he was in control. But as he drew closer to the hallway, he could see that Uncle had already noticed his attention.

It was a chilly autumn morning. I felt a familiar feeling in my body that alerted me to the presence of his attraction. It wasn't just any attraction, however. It was a deep-seated, primal desire that seemed to be rooted in my DNA itself. I couldn't explain it, but every time I saw Uncle's cowboy wearing his boots, I felt an inexplicable pull towards them.

"Something you want?" Uncle barked, his voice deep and full of amusement.

I swallowed hard, trying to gather my thoughts, "Just breakfast, that ok?" I mumbled. I thought to myself, "Did he notice I sniffed his boots last night while he was asleep? Did I misplace them when I put them back?", I wonder.

They were a symbol of everything I desired - strength, authority, and, most of all, dominance. The thought of being put in my place by Uncle, of having his desires fulfilled by someone else, was enough to make my heart race with excitement.

"What?" he aggressively replied, "We're working on the farm today boy, pull your act together or you ain't eating tonight".

He always does this, threatens me because I don't wake up bright and early or in a similar mood to him. It's 8am and he's already worked 3 hours, at the least. I wouldn't know, but he's sweating.

I'm 20 years old, and he's nearing his 40s, but looks a little older with his ruggid hair and clothes.

"Pass me my hat, would ya?" He points in my general direction, as I immediately hand it to him. "Be out in 5 minutes, you got it", he orders as he leaves the house.

I meet him outside, with my eyes fully fixed on his boots that he's owned for years now. They were battered and worn out, with scuff marks and cracks running across the leather. But there was something about them that I found irresistible.

"Eyes up here buddy. What's got you so stirred up these days?", he says. He had a mischievous glint in his eye, and he probably knew my mind was elsewhere.

"Pick up those beer cans under the truck, we'll get to work soon, I need to finish my coffee", Wyatt mentions. I do as he says, lying on the floor to notice that the cans are literally under the truck, "How did they even get there?" I thought. On my way out, I noticed my Uncle's and his boots were alot closer than they were before I went down. He spit between his legs as I came out, almost like he wanted me to see.

"Boy, look at how old my boots are. I need new ones, you think?". I remain silent.

"Sit down", he orders. He places a boot on my knee and throws a cloth, telling me to clean them while he makes a call. I do as he says. I can feel the warmth emitting from his boots through the cloth as I slowly rub them. "Spit on it", he shouts as the phone is ringing, "Don't be such a pussy".

A couple minutes pass by, "How about the soles, you done them?" he questions. I nod my head to indicate I've done it. "Next boot", as he switches, this time in a position where his entire boot is resting on my upper leg and almost pressing against my bulge. I think he noticed as he was slowly moving his leg up.

"Move your chair over here boy", he points to the bonnet of the car, "you're gonna do both of them at once." He hops on top of the truck, wrapping his legs around me so that each boot is resting on one of my legs. They are super heavy, and mud stains start appearing on my shorts.

"If they're muddy, take them off, I could use a foot massage", I get very excited by his request. I waste no time and pull them off to receive a very pungent, vinegary smell from his not-so-white boot socks. He pulled my hair back, "You like them socks? I know you do, massage em", as he throws my head forward as he loosens his grip.

I immediately get to it, "I don't think I like this", I mention, to not seem like a freak towards him out of fear he'll tell the family, "You better. In fact, take a whiff of those socks and tell me that again", he orders. The smell is overpowering, I inhale it with a giant smile on my face. He spits on me, landing on my shirt, "Yeah, faggot. Rank, isn't it?", I answer with a slight nod.

Then he tells me to get on the floor.