A boot licking psychology

I like when people ask me to write real stories. The kinds of stories that are about the way people really are, about the feelings and emotions behind the fetishes.

This one is for someone who has, whether he knows it or not, been one of my most important supporters throughout this endeavor to date. I hope he enjoys it.

Our Last Session

“Have a seat.”

I step past her and settle into the leather chair. Smile at her. Try not to look down.

Her foot bobs up and down, and I know it's a lost cause. I can't see the whole boot; most of it is covered by the leg of her pants, but what I can see is all black leather, hugging her foot and her ankle. A heel just high enough to shape her legs when she stands, but not high enough to be inappropriate. A heel wide but thin. There is just a hint that they go up her leg; the pants aren't tight enough to see the line of where they end.

“You're wearing those on purpose,” I say.

She nods at me. “Yes I am,” she says. “We've been talking about your fetish for a while now, but you still haven't come to grips with it.”

I shift in my seat. “It's not right,” I say. “Not healthy.”

She smiles. Her eyes glance briefly at the wall covered in degrees. “One of us is qualified to make that statement,” she says. “And it's not you.”

“You're not a doctor.”

She crosses her legs, putting one ankle on her knee. The pants slide up a little bit more, revealing another hint of leather. “Neither are you.” She smiles at me. “It really is okay,” she says. “It's not unnatural. It's not sick. It's normal. Healthy.”

I shake my head. “Normal people don't have these desires.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes I wonder if there are any normal people,” she says. “All these rules, all these restrictions about what is normal and what isn't. Do you know anyone who qualifies as normal?”

“Sure. Most people I know are normal.”

She reached down and put her hand on her ankle, pulling on the heel and making the leather creak in that way that sent a chill down my spine. “Wouldn't they say the same about you?”

Now it's my turn to shrug. “Probably,” I say. “But they don't know the truth.”

“So what's the say you don't know the truth about them?” She smiles at me. “Maybe they all have their own fetishes, and they're all afraid to tell anyone.”

I laugh. “Oh yeah,” I say, “Do you have a fetish?”

She nods. “Sure do. Several of them.”

I raise an eyebrow at that and give her a look.

She smiles. “Actually, that's something I wanted to talk to you about. I have an idea of how to help you.”

That makes me laugh again. “This I have to hear.”

She puts her feet on the floor and bends over, starts to roll up her pant legs. I can't look away, and don't have any desire to anyway. I watch her hands, the light shining off the nail polish. I watch as a strap across the top of her foot is revealed. She rolls again, and I see the leather hug her calf, another strap, this one with a buckle, peeking out from under the cloth. She rolls once more, and I can see the second strap and buckle right above the first. Then a few inches of leather before it gets to the nylon of her stockings.

Her hands move over to the other leg and start rolling the fabric there too. I lick my lips, only realizing what I'm doing once it's done.

“You said that I'm not a doctor,” she says. “And I'm not. I'm a qualified therapist. We've been talking for a while, and I have an idea. I think it's best if I stopped being your therapist.”

My eyes dart up from her boots to her face. “What? Why?”

She smiles at me. “Because,” she says. “I think I can help you best by showing you that your fetish is okay. That it's more than okay.” She takes a breath. “But I can't do that as your therapist.”

“I don't understand. Why?”

She stands up. “It's unethical,” she says. “So you have to agree to not be my patient any more.” She runs one hand over her head, over the hair held tight in a bun. “I've already done so much that's unethical.” She laughs. “I shouldn't even have brought this up. I should have stopped seeing you sooner.” She smiles at me. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I really shouldn't have let it go this far.”

“I still don't understand.”

She takes a deep breath. “My fetishes,” she said. “They cover yours. I should have stopped seeing you as soon as I realized that I had any interest in sharing this with you.”

My eyes, which had drifted down to her boots again, shoot up to her face. She laughs at my surprise. Then she bites her lip and looks away as her skin brightens with embarrassment. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to laugh. I just-- I figured you knew. I thought that I hadn't been hiding things well.” She grins, runs her hands over her hair again. “So anyway,” she clears her throat. “I can't be your therapist anymore.”

“So we can't see each other any more?”

She laughs. “I didn't say that. I just can't be your therapist.”

“But we can be friends?”

She nods. “And that brings me back to what I think will help you.”

She adjust her stance, setting her feet apart with one toe pointed towards me. “Your fetish is okay,” she says. “It's normal. It's even common. I like it.”

“You do?”

She nods. “In fact,” she says, “I love it. And I'd like to prove it to you.”

“How?”

She points down. “How about you come kneel right here,” she says. “And I'll tell you.”

She smiles at me. I lean forward, slide out of the chair, and soon enough find myself on my knees in front of her.

She reaches up and undoes the bun in her hair. Shakes her head in that perfect way that women all seem born knowing how to do, letting it free. Once down, the hair gives a softness to her features, taking those sharply angled cheek bones and making them attractive rather than frightening.

“I have a lot of fetishes,” she says, looking down at me with a smile. “Most of them aren't what you'd call normal. And I want to tell you all of them, so you can see that they're okay.”

I look up at her. “Um, okay.”

“But.” She points one finger down at her boot. “While I'm telling you about them, I want you to clean my boots. With your tongue.”

A shiver goes down my back as she says it. I can't put together an answer. It's as if I've forgotten how to speak.

“It's okay,” she says. “Go ahead. It's what you want to do. Just bend down and put your mouth against the leather. The rest will come naturally.”

I bend down slowly. I close my eyes, hoping it will help. But all I see behind the lids are her boots, the leather stretching around her legs. I take in a deep breath through my nose, smelling the leather and the hint of shoe polish. I press my face against the leather, letting the skin of my lips rub along the curve of her foot.

She was right. As soon as I feel the leather, as soon as I smell it, the rest comes naturally. My tongue slides out. I press it against her foot, and a moan slips from deep inside me. It's like a dam breaking. A feeling of relief. It tastes as good as I always imagined it would taste. And it feels as good to do it as I always thought it would.

“Bootlicking,” she says, “is one of the best, most primal displays of submission there could be. I love having my boots licked, because I like that feeling, right there.” She makes a pleased sound. “I like the feel of your tongue against the leather, the little bit of pressure I feel through the boot. It's like you're giving me a massage. But that's not why I love it so much.”

I move my tongue over the first strap, sliding my tongue from the edge of one sole up and across to the other one.

“I love it,” she says, “because of what it says about you. You're down there, using your tongue to clean my shoes. It's like worshiping the ground that I walk on, in a very literal sense.”

I let out another moan, and she makes another happy sound, almost a purr. “When you do this,” she says, “it's a gift. A wonderful moment. It shows me that you're a strong enough man to submit to me. To put aside all that stupid macho bullshit and let yourself be controlled, just sometimes, by a woman.

“That's my main fetish,” she says. “I love being dominant. I love it when a man who could easily over power me lets me be in charge. Lets me be in control.” I slide my tongue up the inside of her calf, my mind reeling at the idea that I'm actually doing it, that I'm finally getting a chance to do this thing I've been dreaming of for as long as I can remember.

“A lot of things come out of that,” she says. “I could whip you. Spank you. Hit you. And you'd let me do it. You'd let me to what I wanted because it feels good to serve. Because you like submitting. Even though you know you could take a whip out of my hand, even though we both know that you're stronger than me. The fact that you'll trust me not to injure you, trust me not to abuse my power.” She moans softly, runs her hands down her sides. “That is amazing.”

My tongue runs over the buckles, and I can't help but smile.

“It all comes back to that power exchange,” she says. “That willingness to put aside everything in you that shouts that men are more powerful, that men are supposed to be in charge. That's a wonderful thing.”

She sighs. “It's not about feminism. It isn't some bullshit about weaker or stronger sex. It's about being strong enough of a person to overcome your biology. To act the way you want to, rather than the way society has always told you to act, the way everyone has made you think you should. That's what's amazing about it.

“Humiliation is part of it,” she says as I slide back down to lick the back of her ankle, to slide my tongue down the heel and all the way to the floor. “Just like with the boots. You've always been told that it's humiliating to lick boots. That submitting to a woman makes you less of a man. But it doesn't. It makes you more than a man. Things are only humiliating because you think they are. Because you want them to be.”

I look up at her as I move from one foot to the other. She smiles down at me with a warmth that should be surprising, but somehow isn't.

“It's okay to want them to be humiliating,” she says. I press my tongue to the top of her foot and begin to slide along the leather. “There's something about that, something that makes people love it. Lots of people do, by the way. And you know why they like it?”

She laughs a little. Gives my hair a gentle tug, just enough to make me look up at her.

“They like it because it's wrong,” she says. “The like it because it's not normal.” She gives me a huge smile.

“And that,” she says, “is very healthy.” 

Then she winks at me. “Now get back to it.”

She doesn't have to tell me twice.