A moment in time
The room
had cleared out after the presentation, everyone rushing on to the next
session. Or maybe they just wanted to look like they were rushing out. I don’t
know. Don’t really care. My presentation is over. I’ve now done what I came
here to do; I can go to other sessions or I can just ditch the conference and
explore the city a bit. I’ll do the social thing later, try to impress someone
with how brilliant I am, in the hopes of maybe landing a job someday. But right
now, I just want to enjoy the presentation being over.
It had been
well received. A nice crowd. Some good questions. Only one jerk wanting to
prove he was smart and asking a question that really had nothing to do with anything
other than giving him a chance to brag about his own work. I’ve had worse.
I pack my
laptop into my bag and slide in the scrap of paper that I pretended to take
notes on when people actually asked real questions. I’m about to put the strap
over my shoulder and head out when someone calls my name.
I look up,
just on the edge of being embarrassed that I hadn’t noticed someone had stayed
behind. But embarrassment, and the language I’m supposed to be able to speak,
took one another hand in hand and ran away from my brain so fast I’m kind of surprised
I didn’t just pass out.
Gorgeous.
It’s a word, but not the right one. Not powerful enough. Not descriptive
enough. She isn’t a classic beauty, doesn’t look like a model. Not a goddess or
a perfect specimen of humanity. Her hair isn’t the silky smooth locks of
legend, and her lips are not so full as to demand attention. She has a mousy
look to her, her hair that weak shade of neither quite blonde nor brown, lacking
the luster of a red head and generally looking like it had just given up on
itself. Her face wasn’t quite round and wasn’t quite angular. For the most
part, really, she has a look that I would have called forgettable.
Until I see
her eyes. Once I see her eyes, it’s as if everything changes. That pale pink of
her lips is suddenly the perfect shade, and the hints of blush on her cheeks
are the perfect amount. The brown suit jacket suddenly fits her perfectly, and
the stockings don’t seem the slightest bit out of place.
Her eyes
are so full of fire, so alight with passion, that every other part of her
becomes somehow more perfect. Every flaw becomes a perk, and every imperfection
becomes something worthy of worship.
I clear my
throat, realizing I’ve been staring for what seems like several hours. “I’m
sorry, what did you say?” I ask.
“I was
saying that I really liked your presentation,” she said. “I thought it was very
clever. And very brave.”
I smile at
her. “Thank you,” I say.
“Is it
true?”
“Is what
true?”
“You said
you have a secret, one that you don’t want to share with anyone. Do you really
have that secret?”
I know what
she’s getting at, and I take a few seconds to think about it. Do I want to tell
her? I left the information out of the presentation for a reason. Should I just
let it go?
Somehow,
the debate doesn’t take long. “Yes,” I say. “It’s true.”
“It’s a
fetish, isn’t it?”
I frown,
not wanting to play a guessing game like this. I feel like she’s making fun of
me already. This is why I don’t usually share that information.
“For boots,
right?”
Her words
stop my rebuke before it can find its way into words. My eyes flick down to the
floor, where they are held frozen by the sight that greets them.
She turns
one foot on her toe to give me a view of the side, of the Victorian curve
around the toe, of the stunning laces and the slight heel, the straps that
should make the boots look less formal but somehow just add to their allure. She
lets me look at them for a while. Long enough that I know there’s no point in
trying to deny anything.
“How did
you know?” I ask.
“I saw you
counting,” she says. “As people were coming in. You counted each time someone
walked in wearing boots. Didn’t you?”
There were
sixteen. “No,” I say.
“Liar.” She
smiles.
I look at
the name tag on her chest, but she isn’t wearing one. So instead, I end up
looking at her breasts. Which she seems okay with.
I clear my
throat again, force my eyes back to hers, which hold me more tightly than a
pair of handcuffs. “Would you like to get a drink or something?” I ask.
“Why?” She
settles her stance, crosses her arms over her chest. Not to cover her breasts
though; if anything, she pushes them up and together, more prominent than
before. “So we can dance around the topic for a while and you can hope that I’ll
do what you already want me to do?”
“What do I
want you to do?”
She smiles
at me, a smirk that unbalances me as surely as if I’d suddenly found myself
completely nude. “You want me to tell you that I also have a boot fetish,” she
says. “You want me to tell you that I love to have my boots worshiped. That I
want them caressed.” She locks me in her eyes. “That I want them licked.”
She glances
down, then back at me, then down again. She raises an eyebrow meaningfully.
I glance at
the door. It’s closed, but not locked. Anyone could walk in at any moment.
People could look through the little window. Maybe another session was going to
start.
“I don’t
have all day,” she says. She puts one foot up on a chair and gently taps her
knee.
I’m already
on my knees, my hands gently rubbing her calf and my tongue already pressed
against the inside of her foot, before I realize that she never actually told
me to do it. She never actually insisted that I kneel, never actually told me
to start licking. She never talked me into anything, never even reassured me
that no one was going to come in and catch us. All she did, all she ever did,
was put her boot somewhere I could see.
She made a
happy sound, and I felt her fingers on my head. She was gentle, but there was
no denying her as she moved me around to her heel, then back around to lick the
other side of her foot. She let me slide my tongue like sandpaper over
concrete, all the way up the leather to her knees, then back down to the strap.
I licked around the buckle, curled my tongue up under the strap, and slowly
worked my way back down, trying to keep my satisfied moan below the level of
hearing that someone walking past might pick up. I didn’t want anyone to see
us, but more importantly, I didn’t want anyone to interrupt us.
The leather
tasted good, that special tinge that only real leather has, along with a gritty
brassiness that only comes with – actually, I have no idea where it comes from.
I just know that I like it. The tang of the leather, the tart of the buckle,
the grit of whatever else it may be. The soft rubber of the soles, the gentle ribbing
of the treads on my tongue, the feel of a still damp boot air drying and occasionally
pressing against my face as I worked on the second boot.
There’s
nothing else in the world. Not the conference, not the hotel, not the flight home.
There’s no boring sessions, no self-important idiots trying to sound
impressive. There’s nothing but her, me, and the boots. Nothing but her soft
sounds of pleasure, her soft movements guiding my head, and the taste of the
leather on my tongue.
Her boots
are my whole world, and my world is a wonderful place to be.
It’s a
perfect moment in time.
When it finally
ends, when reality crashes back down around us and the details of the universe
fill themselves back in, there’s a definite feeling of loss. My world expands
beyond the room we’re in, beyond the feel, the smell, and the taste of her
boots. My world grows, and as it grows, as it expands, I feel like there’s less
of it. No, not less world; just less important.
She takes a
deep breath, lets out a deep sigh.
I look up
at her. “So how about that drink?”
She laughs,
throaty and seductive. “Oh, I think we can do that,” she says. “I think I can
find something for you to drink.”
“Should we
go to the bar?”
She shakes
her head, and those perfect eyes glint again. “No.” She says. “I have a better
idea.”
And who am
I to argue?
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