The Boots that Bother Me

I don't know if you care, but I'm going to talk a bit about my process.

You see, I'm not interested in writing the simple and straightforward erotica. There's plenty of that out there. I want to write the more cerebral stuff. I want to write the stuff that looks from a different perspective, that looks at the world through a different lens. Maybe I'm kidding myself about that, maybe I'm not. But take today's story: I could have focused on all the things that are actually happening to the narrator. Instead, I focused on the one thing that WASN'T happening, the one thing that actually BOTHERED him.

I hope you like it.

It's the Boots that bother me

            Strangely enough, I’m most bothered by the man at her feet. I can see him sliding his tongue up those delicious black boots, and it bothers me. It bothers me because he isn’t doing a good enough job. If he was doing a good job, she’d be smiling. She’d be paying more attention to him. She wouldn’t be tapping her foot. She wouldn’t be staring at me.

            I think she knows that it bothers me. I think that’s what is making her smirk as she puts the long stem of her cigarette holder up to her ruby lips and takes a long drag, the smoke caressing her face with the tenderness that the tongue on her boot should be showing. It slithers along her skin, passing over her eye shadow, up to the little hat perched so delicately on her hair.

            Behind me, more grunting. He’s close to finishing. Whoever he is. I stopped paying attention a while ago. Stopped counting at twelve. I’ve long since stopped wondering if that drip down my back and down my legs was sweat or cum. I’ve stopped whimpering, knowing it won’t change anything.

            As the day went on, as it turned to evening and into night, I’ve lost everything. I don’t feel the leather straps of the sex swing anymore. I don’t feel the violation of unknown cocks fucking me in the ass, pounding away until I’m so loose I can barely feel them anymore. I stopped blushing in embarrassment when a groan escaped my lips, or when my eyes rolled back. I don’t feel ashamed of the number of times I’ve cum from strangers grabbing my hips and cruelly fucking me like some kind of hanging doll.

            In fact, I’ve accepted that. I am some kind of hanging doll. I’m a fuck toy, a receptacle of cum, a thing for men to use and use. I can hear them tossing change into my bucket. I can hear them snickering at me. I can feel the marker against my flesh as they draw little pictures, or write words, or sign their names. I know there’s not much skin left blank anymore. But that’s okay. It doesn’t bother me. I’m accepting of my position. I’m not bothered by the swing. Not bothered by the endless procession of men.

            I don’t complain when she brings me something to drink, when she takes my gag out. I don’t beg to be released anymore. I don’t ask to be let down. I don’t question what’s in the glass. I don’t wonder what liquid, exactly, she’s pouring down my throat. And I don’t resist when she puts the gag back in. She tells me to do something, and I do it. I’m her slave, and that’s how it should be. That’s how I want it to be.

            I look at the black and white latex outfit she has on, that delightful gangster style with the shiny black gloves, gloves that hold her cigarette so lightly, and I know that I’d do anything for her. I’d kneel next to her, mouth open, ready to be her ashtray. I’d keep my mouth between her legs so she doesn’t have to get up from that comfortable couch. I’m hers, and I love being hers. I love the smirk she gives me as she watches another man cum in my ass. I love the chuckle that comes when the puddle of cum dripping out of me gets a bit bigger on the plastic sheet beneath me.

            And when she raises an eyebrow, that’s all I need. I don’t need her to threaten me, I don’t need her to tell me, I don’t need a word. With that eyebrow I know that, sooner or later, I will be let down. And I know that once she lets me down, it will be my responsibility to lick up the puddle of cum. I know that I will have to slurp the plastic sheet clean. I know that she’s going to throw it away anyway, but with that raised eyebrow I know that I will lick it clean first. And I know that I need to hold as much inside me as possible.

            Her wink reminds me that the cum used to be inside me, that most of the men have cum right up my ass. And when my gaping ass is suddenly empty, and my eyes get big for just a second before another cock squelches itself inside me, she lets out a little laugh. She takes another drag of her cigarette, leaving the long stem between her teeth as she smiles at me. She picks up the crop from her lap and taps it against her hand, then lightly taps the man in front of her on the head.

            And I’m bothered again. I don’t care about all the cum I’ll be drinking. That’s my place, that’s what I am. I don’t care about the hours and hours of getting fucked, don’t care about the endless procession of men coming in and fucking me. I don’t care that they could be leaving behind pennies. I don’t care that I’m just a fuck toy to them. I don’t care that I’ve had more orgasms than I can count without anyone ever touching my cock. I’m not ashamed that getting fucked turns me on, that someone pounding away at me gets me off. I’ve lost all of that concern, all of that shame.

            But those boots. They deserve better attention. They deserve to have a tongue pressed hard against the leather, a tongue pressed so hard that it gets into the pitting of the leather. They deserve to be cleaned deeply, not just lapped against.

            Never mind the drenching of sweat all over my body. Never mind the musky smell of manly sex that is so deeply permeated into my flesh that I might never smell any different. Never mind the names written on my skin, or the insults drawn on my flesh. Never mind that I couldn’t pick the guys fucking me out of a crowd. Never mind that when we go downstairs, when we finally rejoin the convention, I’ll be faced with at least a dozen pairs of eyes who have known me intimately, eyes that have watched me sweat, hands the have pulled my hair, cocks that have fucked me silly. I won’t know who is who, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if every single man in the world has lined up and fucked me. It doesn’t matter if when we go downstairs, all of them have fucked me. Doesn’t matter if they openly compare notes about me, or point out the place they drew on me. Doesn’t matter if they look at me with disgust, doesn’t matter if they spit on me. Doesn’t matter if they refused to even talk to me.

            I can handle that. I can handle being treated like property, being a bitch passed around like candy. I can handle the idea that none of them will respect me even a little. They have no reason to. I’ve been here for hours. For all I know, I’ve been fucked multiple times by the same person. Maybe there are tally marks. Maybe they laugh at me; I haven’t really been paying attention.

            None of that matters. None of it bothers me.

            But those boots. Those delicious black boots, with the strap over the top of the foot, with the sharp heel, with the gripping caress of those beautiful legs. They deserve a good licking. They deserve to have the heel sucked on like they’re the first water of for a man dying of thirst. They deserve to be licked hard, to be licked so clean that the tongue licking them turns black. I should be there, I should be pressing my tongue so hard against her that my jaw hurts. I should be sliding so slowly and so carefully that every atom of leather gets a nice coat of saliva. I should lick her boots until there’s no moisture left in my body, until I’ve sacrificed a piece of myself to keep them beautiful.

            Those boots deserve a good licking. They deserve to be licked so well that people will compliment her on them without having any idea why they felt the need to. They should be licked so well that they glow, that they shine, that they demand praise.

            But he isn’t doing it right. He’s not licking hard enough. He’s not putting enough passion into it. He’s just sliding his tongue along. Doing lip service to boots that deserve worship.

            I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care how much longer I’m going to be hanging here, how much more degraded she can make me. I don’t care how many men fuck me, I don’t care how much cum I have to drink. I don’t care if she takes me downstairs without getting cleaned up. I don’t care what happens to me.

            None of that matters. None of it bothers me.

            But the boots.

            The boots deserve better.

            The boots matter.

            I don’t matter. Only the boots. The boots deserve attention. They deserve love. They aren’t getting what they are owed, and that bothers me.

            I just want to worship the boots. I want them to be clean.

            For her.

            For me.

            For the boots.