These Boots are made for Talking

Sorry about the pun. Couldn't help it. My brain is a bit loopy. I actually wrote two stories today. The one you're about to read is one of them.

The other is a special story, one that will be available ONLY in the printed version of the second book. Once photography is done for the cover, I'll put that together on Lulu. And that cover will be the big hint; the new story is all about what's happening on the cover. But we'll get to that later.

First, we have today's tale.

I was asked to write an interrogation story. A torture tale, but one that used boots to torture and break the prisoner. There were more elements, and they might show up if there is a sequel. But I focused primarily on the idea of the boot being used to make someone talk, boots for talking instead of walking (hence the pun).

Enjoy the story.

A Question of Boots

I opened my eyes and saw the flame, the single candle. The light danced around the room, against the bare walls. Over my bare skin. Over the dark leather of her boots. It reflected up the eyelets, showing me the laces. I let my gaze slide up the boots to the leather pants. Over the buckle on her pants, off the metallic buttons of her uniform, off the badge on her chest. Then, finally, off the dark lipstick of her grin and the evil look in her eyes.

Then came the pain. My shoulders, aching from supporting my weight. The handcuffs dug into my wrists, just tight enough to hurt, even though most of my weight rested on the shackles beneath the cuffs. My hands were safe from everything but the pain. They clenched the tennis ball, just in case.

“You have been a very bad boy,” she said. She reached out and nudged me with her boot. I swung, just a little. I wasn't high enough to be completely off the ground. I could still stand, just barely, on my toes. “Tell me what I need to know.”

She opened the laptop. The light of the screen made the emptiness of the room all the more apparent. “It's just one word,” she said.

“Is it?” I looked at her and smirked.

She laughed. Then she kicked with the toe of her boot, making contact on my thigh, just above the knee. The muscle in my leg tightened into a solid knot of cramp. I winced, and the smile fell away.

She nudged the other foot, taking the floor out from under me. The pain in the wrist didn't increase; she had been careful not to have any of the weight on the cuffs themselves. The remained of the weight stayed on the shackles designed to hold my weight without hurting the fragile bones. So the pain didn't increase there. Just in my shoulders.

“How many words is it then?” She stepped forward, locked eyes with me.“Two?” She laced her fingers into my hair. “Three?” She yanked my head back. I winced again.

“I don't remember,” I kept my teeth clenched against the pain. We were just getting started.

She laughed and let go, took a step back. I regained my footing, pulled some of the weight off my shoulders.

Then her boot came up again, the toe of it clipping my left testicle. It wasn't the solid impact she could have made, just a light clipping. That made the pain sharp, made it jolt through my body, made my throat tighten and made me cough and groan in pain.

She dragged a chair and set it in front of me. Just out of reach for me to stand on. But sturdy enough for her to stand on. She stepped up, her crotch right at the level of my face.

And then she kicked again, right into the solar plexus. I gasped, and she kicked again, this time with the side of her boot, like she was kicking a soccer ball. The air blasted out of my lungs.

Then she pressed the sole of the boot to my chest, pressing hard and pinching my skin between the treads. She pushed me away, looking down at me with her smile back in place.

Then she let go, and I swung back towards her. My shoulders moved, loosening for the first time in what felt like hours. That did nothing to decrease the pain.

She stepped down and moved the chair to the side. “Remember now?” She asked.

I gasped for breath. Groaned. “Still,” I cleared my throat to try to put the strength back in it, so she could hear me. “Still not clear.”

Find the rest of this story in Book Three: Boots and Bondage