Page 39 of Hurts So Good

But not my boots. They gathered dust as I tried to imagine feeling powerful enough, strong enough, whole enough to wear them. They were patient. More patient than I was with this grieving.

I slowly took over more and more tasks in my household. I reconnected with friends, not speaking of my grief but gaining warmth and strength from their touch and presence. I watched the bitterness of winter fade.

Newness in the air, I dragged myself to a leather conference I had agreed to teach at long before he asked for release. After unpacking, I sat alone in my hotel room and blacked my Frye boots for the first time in years. Slowly. With care. Tears fell on the leather as I sat in silence and brushed on the saddle soap, cleansing away four months of dust.

More than any other piece of gear, my boots are the core of my self as a dominant. They are an integral part of my play, a deep symbol of hierarchy. With my boot on the back of a man’s neck, driving his face into the floor, there is complete clarity about who we are in relation to one another. Belly on the floor, abject before me, his mouth on my boots is a symbol of his reverence for my power. The sound of my boots on the floor reminds him of his place in my world. As the object of his worship, they are like bells in church, drawing his attention to the mystery of me.

With a dusky gleam on my feet, I stood in front of a large room, talking about kink I had not practiced in months, aware every second of the sensation of newly cared-for leather on my feet.

It was at this conference that I felt myself start coming back to life. I ached with new sensations, electric shocks of warmth moving through me. I felt my stride deepen in those boots, the sensation winding up my legs to my cock. I was conscious of it swelling as I moved through crowds, claiming space with the strength of my walk. I sat down in packed rooms, conscious of eyes on my boots, aware of the gaze of other men for the first time since.

I walked into the men’s room and as I was unzipping in front of a urinal, I noticed a man kneeling on the floor, looking up at me, clad only in a chain collar with a large lock, and a yellow jock, waiting, a sign around his neck reading “urinal.” His eyes were calm, as only one who has fully surrendered can be. I pulled out my cock and pissed on that calm face, watching the warmth run down his body as his eyes widened with joy at being used. I zipped up and then went to my room, where I removed my boots slowly and curled up on the bed, remembering the last time my former slave took my piss. I rocked, my arms wrapped round myself, knowing I had taken my first step back, and that was as much as I could handle right then.

A few months later, I went to the big party at a local leather weekend. Everybody dressed in their best gear. I went wearing no gear but my boots and a pair of denim shorts. I worked the volunteer shift I had committed to, the only thing that made me crawl out of my cave that night. And then I was free. I settled myself at a nest of couches and watched. I was greeted from time to time, but it was clear that I did not want to be approached. A man sat near me, in a chest harness, leather shorts, and lineman boots, with gorgeous large nipples. They called out to passersby, “Touch me” as they stood at attention. And many did. He was rarely alone for long. He would sit, an expression of serenity on his face. Within seconds, another man would approach him, greet him, and start working his nipples, sometimes grinding into his thighs or cock with boots, sometimes thrusting into his mouth with tongue or fingers, but always, always working those nipples, starting with fingers, stroking, then pinching, and soon moving on to teeth. He was floating in a sea of skin and hands, teeth and leather, and his expression did not change. He was rapt in prayer.

I watched him for a long time, my dick hardening. Then I walked over to the bootblack station. There was a boy working there I had been drawn to for awhile. Max was clearly too young for me, cocky (masking his uncertainty), self-centered, and rude to other submissives. Barely twenty-four, he was obviously not yet a man, perhaps not even interested in becoming one. Clearly in need of guidance and seeking intently. Someone I was utterly wrong for, and I knew it. I was not in a place where it even made sense to think of such a project.

Ever since my slave was released, Max kept appearing, whenever I emerged from my cave, offering himself. I was always sitting when he approached, sliding to his knees to speak to me, completely focused on me, sweetly recounting his escapades of late. I found it hard to keep my hands from rubbing his head as he spoke to me on those occasions. Touching him felt good, just right. Something would click into place as I put my hands on him. I knew he was not ready for me, and I definitely was not ready for him, but the draw was there. The last time I had seen him, just the night before, he had excitedly told me that he was bootblacking all weekend, a hopeful look on his face. As timing would have it, his chair was the only one free at the moment I arrived at the bootblack station. And so I sat, choosing to release some of this energy building between us in a controlled context.

His face lit up.

He was thoroughly pleased with himself, making conversation and fiddling with his tools. Then he started brushing on the saddle soap, the familiar smell drifting up to me. The sensation was so similar, and yet the energy was palpably different. This boy was intent on the job, focused and precise, and would pause, looking up at me, a sweet wide smile on his face. He always looked as if he had been caught in a moment of stillness between motions, just a pause before he would whirlwind around again. There was no serenity here, no contentment. Frenetic gladness, barely captured joy. That’s what he embodied. His hands on my boots were electric, and I could feel myself jolted back to life, my dick throbbing as I pictured capturing this Puck-like being, holding him still and forcing him onto my cock, his body trembling with joy, filling us both with this electricity.

His head hovered near my thigh as he started to apply the polish, and my hand reached out to stroke it, and bring it to rest there, watching him closely to see if my touch was unwelcome. He sunk into it, murmuring, “Thank you, Sir. Thank you for this attention. I would be honored by any attention you have to offer, Sir.”

I closed my eyes, feeling his hands on my boot and his breath against my cock. I could feel my boots springing to life as I casually stroked his face, my hand sliding against his lips. I breathed in slowly, feeling my dominance rising, a bittersweet sensation, and gripped my hand over his mouth, my eyes on his. His hands stilled on my boot, as I covered his airways, taking his breath. I watched that life surge, felt it against my palm, and held him, bringing him stillness. I released his breath and watched his eyes go starry as he found that lovely serene place. Then his hands resumed blacking my boot. I savored it, feeling myself surge, as I saw reverence fill him. He began to brush the boot, fumbling a bit, and dropped the brush a few times, apologizing softly. I pulled his chin up, meeting his eyes, my hand slowly stroking his cheek.

“Breathe, boy. I know you can do this.”

He swallowed, trembling under my hand. He obeyed, taking a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His frame stilled, and his eyes darkened. He nodded once, firmly, and pulled his focus in. He began brushing my boots vigorously, heating and sealing the polish, a seriousness in his gaze as he brushed one and then the other. His hand steady, he used the rag to buff each of them.

He paused, and put his belly on the floor, looking up at me. And then he put his mouth on my boot. This was not in his regular blacking regimen; I knew that. We had discussed how he only licked the boots of those he would offer his submission to. I knew exactly what he was offering. I took it, for the first time since. I reached out and held a man’s submission in my hand, savoring the feel of it.

I ground the sole of my boot into his back, using the heel to drive his mouth deeper into the leather, savoring the feel of a man on the floor under my boot. I could feel myself surging as his tongue stroked me, and I picked up and slammed my heel into his back, hearing his moan around my boot. I growled and rammed into his back, driving the heel in where I knew it was the sharpest, grabbing a yelp from him. I could see his hips thrusting into the floor, and I laid my boot heel on his lower back just above his ass, sliding the side of the boot into his crack as I wrapped his hair round my hand, pushing his mouth into my boot until I had his breath again. His ass shuddered under my boot and I watched him come, waiting to release his breath until it was over. His arms wrapped around my boot as he sobbed, and I stroked his hair lightly.

He stayed there for a few moments and then lifted his head to look up at me.

“May I please lick the other boot, Sir?” he asked.

“After you do something else for me. Am I your last client for the night?”

“Yes, my shift is over right now, Sir.”

“Pack up your belongings and come with me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He packed up his boot kit with trembling hands. He followed me to the dungeon, leaving the kit against the wall.

“Hands and knees.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He dropped instantly, and I immediately slammed my boot into him. I drove into him with rapid blows, ramming my boot into his thighs and ass.

“Move.”

And I kicked him over to the horse. I paused, and ground my heel into his inner thigh watching his face contort with pain. I looked down at him, holding his eyes, and took in the sight of him under my boot, submission open on his face.

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