The move to Cloister Abbey continues, and I’m amazed at the number of treasures discovered while going through boxes full of articles accumulated over the years. Imagine my delight when my manservant Clive dropped not one, but seven wardrobe boxes full of boots in front of me. I could not take my eyes away from the leathers, heels, toes, and shafts protruding from each. The old smell of sweaty feet oozed from each box, and from several old boots I could see signs and stains of fun had with each pair. I giggled when I pulled an old jockstrap from one of my favorite pair of Sendra boots. Its owner, forgotten, but the memory of a night full of fun still intact.
Anyone who’s spent time in my boudoir knows I like my gentlemen booted. There’s something alluring about a pair of boots that makes a man look like he’s ready for anything – even me! The allure of the old West, a sweaty, shirtless country boy in the middle of summer, or construction worker getting off the job are part of the mystique. One doesn’t have to be hyper-masculine or muscled to look good wearing boots. It’s more an attitude, a look, a sense of self-assuredness that comes from the stomp of a heel on pavement to the pointed toe that state boots are no ordinary shoe.
It’s a fetish — yes! But it is no ordinary fetish. I’ve had many a time with a man, stripped off our garb, admiring each other and our boots while rubbing shafts, pressing a heel up against a hungry crotch. In public, I’ve traded my favorite boots under a table, unbeknownst to diners around us, in anticipation of play after dessert. In bars and salons, stepping on another man’s boot is a sign of staking my claim, ownership; there’s a clear understanding of who’s the object of desire.
I’ve no preference for the type of boots I wear. Like my taste in men, I don’t limit my choices. Western, equestrian, combat, lace-ups, high-liners – boots are all sexy to me. Even my manservant Clive, when he wears his Wellingtons while working in the garden arouses in me a feeling no pair of athletic shoes can. I’ll sit at the window for hours, watching as the midday sun tans his skin, sweat dripping down his back, as he moves around determined around the garden wearing his green rubber boots. I anticipate the way he smells when he comes into the house for a glass of lemonade, looking flushed and harried, but sexy – oh, so sexy.
Come booted, or don’t come in at all, I say. Let’s admire each other’s shafts, the smell of leather, the heat emanating from within. Let’s press toes and heels to where we feel it most. And let’s abandon ourselves to our lust for the passion a man in boots arouses.