“Would you like to have your boots licked?”
Ummm. Hmmm. Maybe. Umm. These high, black leather motorcycle boots? Yeah, ok, I guess.
He knelt on the floor. He was balding, 40-ish. From Malta. I was at Pedestal, the Female Dominants and Male Submissives monthly gathering at Fire in Vauxhall, in London. It was my first time.
I’m not exactly a Dominant Female. I’m not NOT dominant, I just don’t identify as such. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m definitely not submissive. I don’t submit to anyone. I can’t stand girly-girl shit: those singers with their wispy voices, begging boys to love them. I refuse to relegate myself – or be relegated – to second-class status. I balk at any restrictions or proscriptions of who I am. Mostly, I grew up in mid-Century America, and I remember, vividly, what it felt like to be forced into a “female” role. Fuck that. So yes, you can lick my boots.
But I was not prepared for how hot it would be.
Here’s this guy I don’t know, carefully, devotedly licking my boots, up and down the leather, licking and kissing. Not slobbering. Cleaning them good, with his tongue. Damn, my panties started to get wet. I didn’t want to fuck him, but I didn’t want him to stop, either.
There’s something about having someone worshipfully groveling at your feet that is bizarrely, undeniably sexy: the power of it, the knowledge that the least part of you, the dirt on your boots, is being worshipped. The guy wouldn’t dream of any further physical touch. He wouldn’t presume to be allowed to touch my bare flesh. I was his Queen.
There was something so “fine” about it; something so perfectly reasonable. Of course I should be worshipped. Of course men would want to lick my boots. What could be more obvious and normal? I’m 57 and amazing. He’d be lucky to have the honor.
There were other guys there, better looking maybe, or younger, wandering around hoping for action, but this one had the grace and tact to ask, to behave with the utmost respect, to offer a service without a demand, to make himself useful (every girl needs her boots cleaned), and to know enough to never raise his head above mine.
If I don’t want to be subservient, why should I want anyone to be subservient to me? Here’s the difference between being female and being male, in my experience: no one is expecting him to submit. He’s not being pressed into it. He doesn’t have to submit to me, he wants to do it. He longs to be a second to my first. And that feels real good to my kinky, female-empowered self.
Talk about safety! That’s feeling safe. That’s feeling respected. That’s being in control, being in charge, calling the shots.
I deigned to show him some largess. I bent over and stroked his head. “Good boy,” I said, thinking “Good dog.” Wow. There I was, sitting along a wall with my three friends. We were nonchalant. We were sipping wine, and I was getting serviced by this stranger.
My pussy is reserved for my husband. But you? You can lick my boots.
The next Club Pedestal event is taking place on Thurs 24th Nov at Fire, 9pm to 5am. South Lambeth Road, London, SW8 1RT. You can book tickets here.
0 thoughts on
These Boots are Made for … Licking
Damn, that is a fiery story! did he clean the bottoms as well?