There is just something about them that piques my kink-dar in a way no other article of clothing has. Then again, boots can only loosely be described as “clothing.” Indeed, they are much more.
My first pair (that I remember) came when I was a freshman in high school. My mother randomly bought them from Target without my consultation. This was a risky gamble on her part; for as long as I can remember, I’ve been quite picky about my style. But, when I tried them on, I felt something shift. Walking around in those mid-calf department store pleathers, I somehow felt larger, stronger, powerful. I wore those boots til I out grew them, the sole worn away, my feet starting to ache with each use. It was around the end of my senior year.
My current boots, the first pair I ever bought, have been dubbed the “go hard or go home” boots. Supple black leather, tracing all the way up my calf, stopping just below my knee, are handmade by Son of Sandler. Pewter rose hooks, fluer de lis leather accents with each flower, and red laces I bought especially for the boots, playfully display my favorite color, the intermix of black and red. Even at $500, they are worth every penny.
I love my boots. It took me less than a day to fetishize them, feeling the faint touch of the memory of the leather tight against my skin, the next morning dreaming of being in them again. I’ve worn my boots while playing, the rose buckles catching on fallen ropes. I’ve traced my hands over their smooth surface, massaging and caressing every inch of this second skin. And, at DO Summer Camp, I had the pleasure of getting them bootblacked by International Mr. Bootblack 2011. I moaned under his manipulations, bent to the will of his hands, and his tongue, on my boots.
Beyond just my glorious pair, I love boots in general, but I especially adore them when they are worn by people for which I carry affection. I had the luck of attempting my first bootblacking on my Big Bro’s pair at camp. Guided by a classmate (I took the bootblacking class with IMBB 2011), I gently cleaned and caressed his leather. He was encouraging and kind, with the usual Dom-ly twist.
Deliciously, part of my scene with Graydancer, during my first full night at camp, involved licking, kissing, and caressing the pair he wore as he beat me to tears. I mentioned to him earlier how I enjoyed boots; I felt I needed to because the subject had never come up. He obliged my wanting, making me quickly clean them early into our scene using just paper towels and my saliva. Later, when he had me hogtied, he stood mere inches away from my face. I wriggled my body, wanting nothing more than to have my lips on his leather. He let me kiss and caress them again before he began his beatings anew. Part of my aftercare (stage 1, there were 3) was nuzzling up to his boot while he untangled his ropes. I felt safe there, cared for, cherished at his heel.
Why this one object can have such a hold over me is both obvious and perplexing. Yes, leather and boots are sexy, but why? Is it the confidence it helps people exude? The strong black leather’s barrier between the wearer and the admirer as something that is a challenge to be broken down? Or maybe it’s the simple fact of it’s ubiquitous appearance in fashion, both kink and vanilla?
I have no answer. I just know, for whatever reason, I am hooked and have no plans to let them go.
Categorised as: BDSM
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