A real fantasy

I have been really hard on myself lately. Stuck in my head, unable to write anything. I told myself I was waiting for inspiration, and maybe I was. But nothing was inspiring me. I used to write a story every day, and now I'm lucky to get one or two a week. I thought I'd lost my touch.

I can't say that's over; all I can say is that today, I was able to take an all important first step. And I was able to take it because a lovely and wonderful lady gave me a request. She asked me to write something 'real.' Something that was all me, with no obfuscation. No hiding behind anything else, no trying to tailor the story to anyone. She wanted a fantasy that was all me.

I might keep trying those, keep writing more and more of them. It might at least get me going a bit. But first, I have her story. The real me.

I, Bootlicker

            The leather chokes, just a little bit, before the buckle settles. I like that pinching feel on my skin, though not as much as I like the feel of the leather itself. I pretend I can smell it, and maybe I can. I hear the rattle of the chain as it grinds through the ring in the collar, focusing on that sound as the shackles are tightened around my wrists. I watch the little pad locks hook in to the loop in the buckle. The locks look feeble, but they’ll stop the shackles from coming undone without the key. Not effective for actually keeping someone locked up long term, but effective enough for now.

            I pull the chain, bringing one hand all the way to my throat, giving the maximum amount of slack to the other hand. But it still doesn’t go far. Still not far enough to stretch out my arm. Probably not even far enough to touch myself without some pretty uncomfortable acrobatics. I let the chain clink its way back to an equilibrium, leaving my hands up by my chest, naturally taking the position of a dog begging for something.

            I like that.

            She takes my cock gently in her hand, and I go stiff all over, holding back a whimper. I can feel the little metal spikes on her vamp gloves, and the possibility of her squeezing me is terrifying. I know it won’t happen. But it might happen. Fear doesn’t need to be rational. She lifts me away from myself and slips a plastic strip around the base of my shaft and my scrotum, pulling it tight. We know she can get the safety scissors in there to get it off, but until she does, it’s like I’m locked up down there too.

            She smiles at me, and I smile at her. She doesn’t slap me, doesn’t spit on me, doesn’t kick me or sneer. There’s only love in her face, and the kiss she gently blesses my lips with is warm, soft, and as comforting as a cup of hot cocoa after a day playing in the snow.

            “Are you ready?” she asks me.

            “Yes mistress.”

            Now the coldness comes into her face. “Then get down and clean my fucking boots,” she says.

            “Yes mistress.” My hands are on the floor on either side of the black leather boots, my face just an inch or so above the curve of her foot. Now I don’t have to imagine the smell of leather. It’s overpowering, omnipresent and delicious. They say that most of taste is smell, and as I press my tongue hard against the leather, hard enough to feel the little porous bits that are invisible to the naked eye, I know that it’s true.

            There’s something about the taste of leather. I don’t really know how to describe it, not in a way that does it justice. It’s soft but rugged, a husky gentle smoke, licorice with a tint of whiskey. I don’t know if any of that really captures the taste. I just know that sliding my tongue up around her ankle feels right, and that the leather tastes like poetry.

            I close my eyes, cradle her leg in my hands and lick my way up to the top of her boots, where the leather meets flesh, just under her knees. I lick in long strides, and it feels like sitting on a stool in a smoky bar, smooth jazz played under a dirty spotlight.

            I slide back along the tendon towards her heel, and I swear I hear her moan. It’s a soft thing, a gentle breeze of sound that she probably doesn’t realize she made. A sound that isn’t for me, but that runs through me with the kind of relief felt by a man stumbling out of a desert and into an oasis. My hands squeeze her leg a little, giving a bit more pressure to the massage my tongue is already delivering as I lick along the curve of her foot, carefully pressing the curve of her arch in a way that will feel good instead of tickling. I don’t want her to laugh. I don’t want her to pull away. I just want her to sit there and enjoy it.

            I sometimes wonder if she watches me while I do this. Sometimes, I look up, opening my eyes and trying to catch hers, hoping to see that slight and crooked smile of hers, hoping to catch her biting those deliciously devious thin lips. When I look, I feel guilty, like I’m not giving her boots the attention they deserve. I should be focused on my task.

            And if I watch her for too long, that’s what she’ll say. She’ll snap her fingers and point down at her feet, raise an eyebrow that imparts all the warning of a cannon across my bow. I’ll be embarrassed, and pulled out of the moment. Better to just focus.

            Focus on the way she lifts her foot, the way she points her toe so I can lick across it and really press into the leather. This is the most important part, the part that will shine most clearly when she walks around. This is the part that will make people compliment her on the way her boots look. She’ll thank them, she’ll say she just had them cleaned, and she’ll shoot me a sly look. Those who understand will know exactly what she means. Those that don’t probably won’t even register the look. But the look isn’t for them. It’s for me.

            Once the toe is shining black, once my tongue has covered every inch of it, she curls her toes and straightens her foot, pressing the heel forward. She does it slowly, so I can hear the creak of the leather. Sound may not be part of taste, but it’s certainly part of the experience.

            She doesn’t need to tell me what to do, doesn’t need to press the tread of the boot to my tongue. She just needs to hold it there. I’m tentative at first, expecting her to pull her foot away at any moment. She sometimes won’t let me lick the soles. What if she stepped in something? What if it will make me sick? I can tell her I don’t care as often as I like, but it won’t help. If she thinks it’s dangerous, she won’t let me do it.

            So I’m careful at first, kissing the sole rather than licking it. But she doesn’t pull away, and doesn’t press into my lips so I can’t get my tongue out. She just holds her foot there, waiting.

            I cradle her calf in my hands, the chain letting them just far enough to hold her there as I push my tongue into the treads of her boot. There have been times when I’ve dislodged little pebbles, but there’s nothing like that now. The treads are clean, or clean enough, and I just taste the tang of rubber, the way it gives just a bit more than leather. I curl my tongue around each diamond like shape, over the raised information about the shoe size, and I pretend that I can read it, like brail for my tongue. I lick around the heel, up the ledge with the sharp edges on the inside, around the crinkled rubber curving behind. I push my tongue into the treads of the heel, sliding back and forth along the lines.

            Finally finished, I kiss the sole of her boot, looking up at her as I do. The smile on her face sends a tingle down my body, a near miniature orgasm that only comes when I serve well.

            She takes the boot away from me and raises her leg, examining it while I take peeks of her bare leg and try to look up her skirt. She turns her foot this way and that, giving it a nice critical eye, as if looking for somewhere I might have skipped. But I didn’t skip anything. I covered every inch, every centimeter, of those boots. The only way I could have gotten more would be to pull out the lacing. I haven’t done that since she left me with a pair to lick clean every day while she was out of town.

            Finally, her inspection comes to an end. She smiles at me, looking satisfied.

            “Good doggie,” she says. She puts her foot down and extends the other one towards me, just a little bit. “Now the other one.”

            Those six words are, at this moment, the best six words in the entire world. That command is the best command. That opportunity is the best opportunity.

            The best reward for a job well done: the chance to do it again.