The leather boots

A audio-memory resurfacing: a loud bang as two boots are hitting the surface of a stage. And the effect: a trembling traveling through my body, eyes zooming in on the black leather, they boots that become so much bigger in the mind.

A couple of weeks later, on another continent and another venue, with other perverts. Boots again, leatherboots on a man whom I know can be a mean bastard. I trust him to be absolutely nasty when he an. We are sitting on the floor and Zahara is being instructed on how to polish his boots. Bootblacking itself is perhaps not a thing of mine, but more the thought of loosing oneself in a task to produce a meticulous result, and doing it for someone. the eyes are drawn to the more and more shiny surface of the boots, their potential and stability. Boots are grounding, leather boots evenmore so, allowing the foot to rest against the ground, to move smooth and steady, to stomp, to kick, to walk. It is the action the boots enable, and the person who is wearing them become a possibility to act.
For all high-heel fetishizes out there: I’m sorry bu it is really not my thing. As an element of bondage and aesthetic, sure, but if I bottom/submit to someone and wearing heels, unless they say otherwise, I take them off. They are a liability in play, unless, again, that is the point. Same with when I dom. If I play physically, I don’t trust myself enough or my balance when wearing them. I want feet either bare or firmly placed, a stance that is capable or willing to move in what ever way is necessary. That freedom my friend, for me, does not come in heels. And yes, I’m pretty fucking good at wearing and walking in heels. But who ever came up with the thought that high heels are empowering/dominant must have never had to wear a couple for more than 12 hours. Although these ones are quite wonderful.

 

Boots on the other hand. Any kind of. Docs, Undergrounds, riding boots such as Königs, Cavallo, Pikeur or even better; properly used old school ones. Then there is the ones which makes you salivate just thinking about them,Corcoran, Wesco, et cetera. Laced up tightly, clean lines. Or the stealth ones, boots which almost disappears onto the person, so discrete but still so potent. Hugging the feet perfectly.

Picture found at Stompers Boots.

Trousers tucked in, or resting on top. A dress or a skirt, with a hint of lace from the petticoat contrasting the raw leather. A kilt, flowing movements of the fabric and then the stillness, the firm cut of a wellfitted boot.

It is in the end of the evening and my energylevels are completely down to zero. have eaten two cupcakes for dinner, drunk silly amounts of water, three awesome playsessions and steered off an idiot or two. A friend is getting off in one corner, his shoulders and hips tense, undulating with that frenetic movement of someone in such a state of pleasure that any other movement that does not seek to enhance that pleasure is impossible. I’m rather happy, contended, like a relaxed animal, a bit vulnerable in the tiredness and relaxation. If approached, I would expose my neck freely, surrender. Does that state of mind show? Perhaps it does because suddenly he has gripped me and thrown my body to the floor,the mind follows a second after. A faint smile and that kind of glint in the eyes. This is not going to be pretty. Earlier he had shouted at me to keep my fucking head down when he was flogging, now he does not say a single word. Just the glint in the eyes, the focus and then a stomp of his foot, right next to my head. It is a shining entity of it own when it is upclose like this. A threat and a promise. I’m pulled, pushed, pressed against the ground, he is moving my body where ever he wants it, and I can only try to follow, the best as I can. When he drags me over the floor, I keep up enough to not get a carpet-burn. Light kicks, the sole of his boot pressing down my arm, as he pulls my hand upwards. A knee compressing my chest. Stomps, fast and fluid movements. Some kind of tempo that is building up. In the end, I’m lying face down, with my arms underneath, almost bracing myself, I don’t want it to end, never do. Slowly opening my eyes, there they are, the black leather boots, shining, tucked into the cammo trousers and further up; that glint in his eyes. And a boot against the chest or the face, somewhere, somehow; that is just perfect.

 

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