Friday, February 22, 2013

Learning more, letting go, licking boots

If you've been following this succubus novel so far, you'll see that there is a jump in time between the last section and this section. I've decided to leave out some of the story parts, so that there's actually a point to reading the whole thing when it's done.

So instead, I give you what I think is a nice tender scene. It's another scene of boot licking, and I know I've done that a lot. But I like it. So I'm okay with it. I hope you are too.

How I got his ring
I found him right where Kevin said he'd be. He was half way into the bottle, holding the very ring I needed to get. His hair was disheveled, and he clearly hadn't shaved in a few days. Didn't seem like he'd bathed much, either.

I slipped onto the stool next to him and just sat there for a few minutes. I didn't order a drink, didn't say anything. Just sat there and kept my nose open.

He didn't smell horny. Didn't smell anything, not really.

“How long has it been?” I asked, bumping my shoulder up against him.

He turned towards me with bleary eyes. Partially it was him being drunk, partially it was that he'd been crying.

“Six months.”

I nodded, as if I knew what he was talking about. “I can't,” he said. “I just can't.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “You don't have to,” I said.

“Yes I do.” He drained his glass and waved the bartender over to refill it. “I have to.”

I squeezed, and his scent changed. He was getting aroused. “Tell me about it.”

He sniffled, wiped his arm across his face. “She didn't want to go,” he told me. “She didn't want to go, but I couldn't keep her here. I couldn't.” He put his head down on the bar.

My heart broke. I felt like such a horrible bitch. Here I was, about to fleece this guy out of a wedding ring, out of his wife's wedding ring, not half a year after she had died.

“Were you happy?” I asked.

He nodded. “We tried to make it work,” he said. “She tried. She really did. And so did I. I tried to pretend I was happy, to pretend I didn't need it. What's wrong with me? Why am I a freak?”

Wait. What?

He took a deep breath, and it shuddered on its way out of him. “I thought it was a phase,” he said. “I thought I'd grow out of it. I thought I could be happy just being normal. Or that I could get her to experiment a little. But she couldn't. She tried, but she couldn't do it.”

“Couldn't do what?”

He bit his lip and downed the drink as soon as the bartender put it in front of him. “Anything,” he said. “A blindfold, scarf bondage, anything.” He sighed again. “What's wrong with me?”

I smiled at him as pieces started to fall into place. “Nothing,” I said. “There's nothing wrong with you at all.”

“What?”

“It's the way you're wired. You two just weren't compatible. That's all.”

“But I loved her.” He shook his head. “Love her.”

“Love has nothing to do with sex,” I said. “You can't be happy together, no matter how much you love her.”

“But--”

I put a finger on his lips. “How about this,” I said. “We go somewhere private, and I give you a little taste of your fantasy. I'll show you that it's normal, that it's okay. Get you some closure so you can move on with your life and find happiness.”

“What about my wife?”

I shrugged. “You decide what to do,” I told him.

“And what do you get out of it?”

I leaned close and whispered in his ear. “I help you move on, you prove to me that you have.”

“How?”

I smirked at him, took his hand, and walked him out of the bar. He threw some cash on the bar as we left.

We didn't go far. Just out to the alleyway. “Let's start simple,” I said. I set my feet apart. “Do you like my boots?”

He nodded, and I smelled his arousal grow. A lot. “What do you love about them?” I asked.

“Everything.” He could barely talk.

“The look?” he nodded. I lifted one foot and rolled my ankle, making the leather creak. “The sound?” He nodded again. “How about the smell?”

He looked confused, but I could smell the truth. He just didn't want to admit it. “Why don't you check?” I raised an eyebrow at him and smiled, that same smile that always melted hearts. “Go on. Bend down and take a smell.” I put my foot up against the wall, just high enough that he didn't have to get on his knees. Yet.

He looked at me. I smiled at him. “It's okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”

He bent down quickly, took a quick whiff. Looked up at me with a bright blush.

“Again,” I said. “A nice, deep smell. Smell that leather.” He bent down again. Took a deeper breath. “There you go,” I said. “Good boy. How does that feel?”

He made a sound. It was half way between a moan and a sob, like he was doing something he'd so desperately wanted to do for so long. He smiled and closed his eyes.

“Taste it,” I said. “Taste the leather.”

He pressed his tongue against the leather and began to lick my boots.

It was my first time having that happen. No one had ever licked my boots before. I'd never felt the warmth of someone's hands on my ankle as the pressure of their tongue slid along my leg. I took a deep breath, inhaling the arousal that poured off him like water through a broken dam.

He kept on, moaning softly. I watched him go, watched the lines of worry on his face smooth out, watching a calm settle down, one that looked like it had been missing for a very, very long time.

I whispered sounds of encouragement as he worked his tongue up over my ankles, as he licked at where the leather of the boot met the rubber of the sole. Then he licked over the laces, his tongue pressed against the tongue of my boot. He made love to the leather, and I found myself moaning as he went.

He was down on his knees when he gently put my foot down and picked up the other. He was so careful, so gentle and so loving. He lifted my boot and rested the tread against his chest, carefully supporting my weight. He licked the second boot with tears running down his face. Not tears of sorrow. Tears of such intense joy, such incredible relief, that I almost cried too.

I let him work, let him take his time. He licked my boots like a starving man finally getting food, like he'd been given water after weeks in the desert, like he was seeing the sun after years in prison.

When he finally finished, I knelt down in front of him and I put my arms around him. I held him close as he started to cry, as he began to sob. I held him, whispered to him that it was okay, and rubbed his back. I don't know how I knew what he needed, but I knew what I had to do. I held him, I told him he had done a wonderful job, and I thanked him.

“I've never done that,” I said. “You're my first.”

He laughed and wiped away tears, sitting back on his heels. “M-mine too,” he said.

I reached out and gently rubbed his cheek. “How did it feel?”

He laughed again, then took a deep breath and blinked away more tears. “Thank you.”

I smiled at him. “Are you ready to let her go?” He nodded. I held out my hand. “Then give me her ring.”

He looked like he was going to refuse. Like he was going to yell and scream. I saw the anger flare up. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “You're right,” he said. “You're right.” He reached into his pocket and then put her ring into my hand.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Will I see you again?”

I smiled, then leaned in and kissed him. “I'd like that,” I said.

I left him there in the alley, taking nothing from him, and walked away. I knew I'd find him again. Or he'd find me. Whatever the case, I knew I'd help him have those new experiences. I'd help him explore that part of himself that he'd kept locked away so long.

It wasn't altruism. I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it, because it turned me on more than I'd ever been.

Maybe he wasn't the only one keeping things locked away.

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