Content note: This post has descriptions of boot licking in the context of erotic D/S play.
The first time I curl up on the ground, my hot forehead leaning into the cool leather of her heavy boots, I know this is where I belong. At her feet, one of my hands cupping the heel of her boot like I sometimes cup her neck in a caress (in that exquisite place by her shirt collar where hair is fading into skin), the other hand loosely tucked underneath my body on the hard ground.
There’s no heated passion, no burning humiliation, just a deep sense of being in the right place. Of being right, exactly as I am.
This is not about ownership or exclusivity. I don’t belong to her, but I have no doubt I belong in this moment, created and shared with her. We have no claim on each other’s heart, but I know I have a place in hers as she has one in mine. And we have this.
She reaches down, pets my head with a warm hand, softly tells me I look very pretty down there. Down here, where I’m at peace. Where I don’t worry whether I’m doing everything right, whether I could, should be better than I am. Where I just am, and where that’s enough. Where that’s more than just enough. Where I never want to leave.
The welt of her sole presses up into my brow, my nose nestled along the curve of the boot. My field of vision is filled with blurry black leather, matte rows of stitching, perfect shiny roundness meeting hard-edged rubber, the floor gray in the background. My nostrils fill with the scent of leather and a faint note of sharpness from the shoe polish I’ve rubbed into it the day before, and my lips fall open. Something shifts. My exhale caresses her boot, my inhale draws in more of its delicious smell. My vulva is expanding along with my lungs, waking up, getting alert like a brain reacting to the first hit of coffee aroma in the morning air. Calm and contentment flip over into hunger, intensity heats up within me, between us.
My lips open a bit wider, I angle my head as if leaning towards her mouth for a slow-motion kiss. The corner of my mouth softly makes contact with the leather, and I sigh. She groans. I hadn’t realized she’s still watching me. I shiver, stay right where I am, and add an ounce of weight to my presence, just enough so she can feel it. She bends forward in her chair, leans down to me, grabs my neck, hard. I stiffen under her hand, let out a small whimper of want. “You want to lick it, don’t you?”
I don’t look up at her, just give a small, breathless nod.
I close my eyes, momentarily overcome with embarrassment for the force of my desire. Swallow my shame and whisper, “Yes, sir.”
“‘Yes, sir’ what?” She wants more than that. I know. I just wanted her to say it.
And now I have to say it. I take a fortifying breath. “Yes, sir, I want to lick your boot.” My voice is still small and a bit unsteady. I swallow again. “Please, sir.” No more hiding. Here, this is all of my desire, all of its urgency, all of my hope that you’ll want this, too. Asking for it makes me want it even more, as if hearing myself say what I want only makes me fully recognize the fierceness of my hunger.
“Do it.” Her voice rough with the emotion of this command. She gives my neck a final clench, then takes her hand away. I know she’s watching me now, can feel her gaze on my skin.
I feel very exposed. Very vulnerable. And very drawn to all the delicious leather in front of me that is filled by her. I touch my lips to the leather again, reconnecting with where I had been. I nuzzle my head at her boot, finding the right angle, inhaling her scent. Take a deep breath and then lick a bold, wet, wide stripe across the toe to the outside, making sure she can see my tongue as she feels it pressing into her foot. She groans, hisses, “Oh, fuck!” and that is all the satisfaction I need. There’s no hiding for her now, either. To me, she is as naked in her desire as I am in mine before her, even though she is fully dressed and I’m barely wearing anything anymore.
I draw my tongue back into my mouth, swallow the hint of street dust I’ve just licked off her boot, wet my lips so they will glide across the leather more smoothly, then lick her boot again, again, again, caressing all the curves and edges with my lips and tongue, tilting my head, draping myself around her so I can reach everywhere, following the shape of the leather in one long, long kiss. Her boots are not a barrier between us, they are a body part of hers. And I make sure she feels that I can feel it. We both know this is an act of pure sex, for both of us, and it doesn’t matter at all whether anyone else can see that, too.
“You look so fucking hot down there.” Her voice floats down to me, grabbing me in a rough caress.
I smile, thank you, sir, and keep licking. My breath gets harder and harder, moans float across the leather along with my tongue. My one hand is clinging onto the back of her foot, anchoring me in her, my other hand is splayed out, fingers pressing into the ground, arm muscles taut with the tension building in me, my whole body. I’m very, very turned on by now, from nothing but my tongue on her boot and her reactions to that, which I can sense more than I can see any of them. This alone might get me off, but I don’t really care whether I come or not at this point because all I care about right now is that she knows just how much I want her, exactly as she is.
Boots and all.
This is a post for the #Kinktober prompt “boot licking.”
Image source: Flickr/deejayqueue, CC BY-SA 2.0 (I love this photo of a pair of worn-in Corcoran jump boots a lot (the colors!), except for that scuff on the toe that I want to polish away very, very badly…)