Boot Fetish Party

I was given a challenge. Obviously, I love writing about boots. And obviously, I don't mind making them the focus of the story.

But a story with a lot of different kinds of boots, with a lot of specific things being done... Well, it wasn't a difficult challenge. Just a fun one. It was a bit difficult to do 'light' humiliation; I prefer mine much more intense. But I think I managed. I hope I did.

Requests like this make me happy. When someone asks you to write about your own fetishes, it's like winning a contest.

Which, of course, inspired this tale.

The Winning Boots
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I don't know how many other people entered the contest; all I know is that I won. I won the opportunity to be a part of a fashion play party. Better still, a fetish fashion play party. Best of all, a boot fetish fashion play party.

When I got there and signed in, they asked me if I wanted to engage in the play, or if I just wanted to be there. I could have just walked around and looked at the various boots, the ones that looked like they were put together out of duct tape, the ones that look like corsets, the patchwork leather, that latex skins – it didn't take me long to decide I wanted more than just to be there.

Once I told them that, I was brought to the registration table, where a young woman in a business suit, complete with vest, pencil skirt, and ankle booties with the kind of heel that would make Sam Spade blush. She smiled at me, which seemed almost out of place with the severe bun in her blonde hair. “So what do you want to do? We can register you as dominant, submissive, or slave.”

“What's the difference?” I meant between sub and slave.

She smiled again, this time with a bit of mocking. I think she knew what I was asking. “Dominants get served by submissives and slaves. You'd wear a special badge, and any submissive who wanted to serve you would come and offer themselves. You would discuss what you were going to do, and then you could decide to play together. Or you can go to a submissive and request service, following the same process.

“A submissive is given a white collar. This allows everyone to know your status. You can serve anyone who gives you permission, and it is up to you if you want to serve those who ask.” She stopped talking and gave me another smile, this one even more evil than before. She wanted me to ask.

“And a slave?”

She took a deep breath. “A slave gets a black collar,” she said. “Slaves don't get to negotiate or say no. You agree to doing certain things to anyone who demands it. Anyone who wants to will take advantage of those things. But only the things you specify. We do want to be safe.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Oh, you know.” She pulled out a clip board and started going through the list. “Whether or not you'll boot black, or lick boots, if trampling is okay, how much pain you can take, whether or not you can handle humiliation, spitting, toilet play, fisting, pegging, whatever.”

“What if it gets to be too much?”

“You just say 'white.' Everyone knows that's the safeword.”

I nodded and took the form from her, agreeing to be a slave and checking off what I was okay with.

I was put in the back room during the actual fashion show, which was fine by me. I needed time to get used to my uniform anyway.

On one level, it was very simple. I had the black collar on, and there were colored stripes drawn down my back. The black stripe went all the way down along my spine. To the left was a short blue stripe and a short purple one. To the right was a long red stripe and a short gray. I don't know what they mean, but the girl assured me they were the right colors, given what I filled out.

That wasn't the hard part. The hard part was the boots. They put ballet boots on my feet, which more or less guaranteed I'd be on my hands and knees. But then they put a pair of boots over my hands. Big chunky toed boots with platforms so thick I could barely feel the floor beneath me. They zipped the boots up to my elbows, then used zip ties to make sure they wouldn't come off.

That was hard to get used to. I effectively have no hands, no fingers. Just two heavy and clumsy boots at the ends of my arms. I love the feel of the leather, and the helplessness of it isn't lost on me. But it's still difficult to handle.

The girls start coming back from the show slowly. The first one to come back is wearing a pair of knee high boots that would be combat boots if not for the three inch clunk heel. There are veins of bright red outlining the seams of the boot, and the tongue beneath the laces is the same color. She walks back and takes one look at me, then smiles.

She snaps her fingers and walks over to one of the couches. She sits, crosses one leg over the other, and snaps her fingers again, pointing at her feet. I crawl to her as best I can. “Clean these,” she says.

I'm sliding my tongue over the curve of the sole, just in front of the heel, when another girl sits down next to her. I open my eyes enough to see the neon straps that serve as laces, the platform soles with the metal plates, and the shiny purple leather. Then I close my eyes again and continue licking the first pair of boots, getting the dust from the runway clear.

“Do you think he knows he's the only one?” The new girl sounds younger than the first. She has an accent. Sounds vaguely Asian. Maybe Hmong or Chinese.

“He probably does now,” the first girl says. Then I hear steps behind me.

“I love the hands,” this voice is older. “Was that Terry's idea?” laughter. “Brilliant.”

Then I feel a finger scratch down the lines on my back. “Interesting choices,” she says.

“Will you go get the toys?” the first girl asks as she uncrosses her legs and then crosses again, giving me the second boot. She nudges me with the toe. “Start on the sole,” she says. “Then move up.”

“Yes Ma'am.”

She pushes her foot against my face. I don't pull back, just let her crush my lips against my face a little bit.

“You're not here to talk,” she says. “You're just a slave, and slaves should be used, not heard. Nod if you understand.”

I nod.

“Good bitch. Now get back to work.”

Read the rest in Book Three: Boots and Bondage