It makes me sweat, even in the drafty chill of the half-empty Greyhound, roaring its way through the winter countryside. I don’t want to think about the woman I called Master, all those years ago, and what I took from her belt and her whip, and took it like a man. I ate pain for her, made her breath come hard with exercise and desire, and when I was good she’d reward me with the taste of her leather while she murmured fond names like bootlicker and cocksucker and faggot in my ear. I’d press my tongue against the instep of her Wellingtons, trying to lick my way through the cowhide to her own soft flesh underneath, trying to imagine the even softer flesh between her legs that I was never allowed to touch. Loving her was dangerous, but I could love her boots. I never realized I had a fetish until a femme pointed it out to me, years later, and sent me links to web pages full of packers and lineman’s boots. Even now the taste of shoe polish is an aphrodisiac burned into my brain, but it’s a butch thing, as hard and exciting as a steel toe prodding the soaking-wet crotch of my jeans in the instant before she strips them off me. But it’s comfortable, too. It doesn’t have anything to do with shoes that look like they’re just as cruel to the beautiful woman wearing them as they could ever be to me. Your shoes.
I feel ignorant and sheepish. A girl would look at those shoes and say, Oh, they’re cute, where did you buy them, and she’d probably know they’re Manolo or whatever just from the sight of that two inches of black leather poking out from under the cuffs of your slacks. Me, I don’t know, maybe they’re not even shoes, they’re boots. Are they? comes the whisper in the back of my brain, and the thought makes me even crazier. Makes my mouth water. I’ve got a bottle full of flat piss-warm Coke rammed into my crotch and I’m twitching like a crack addict, all for those pointy toes.
I’ve never licked a pair of girls’ shoes. In my imagination, we’re alone in some city apartment, the stylish furnishings just outside my peripheral vision from where I kneel on the hardwood floor. I’m wearing my 501s and chaps and standard white T-shirt. Daddy clothes, but I’m not the Daddy now. On my feet are the same black engineer boots I always wear, polished to a high gloss and one size too big. You are towering above me in a very, very short black dress; I resist the urge to scooch down to see if I can get a glimpse of your crotch, but you can read what I’m thinking, anyway. Your smile widens; your dark eyes twinkle knowingly. Your hands are on your hips.
“You want to see my pussy, don’t you?” you say, your voice teasing, “If you’re a good boy, you might get what you want.”
My face feels hot. My gaze drops, embarrassed, and I am looking, again, at the pointy toes of your fashionable black leather boots. Boots. Short boots, barely above the ankle. My lips are sandpaper, suddenly, and I have to pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth to try to wet them.
“Are you a good boy?” you ask. You laugh as I stammer an unintelligible reply. You know what I’m staring at, unable to look at your face.
“Oh, you like my boots,” you coo, “don’t you?” I make a tiny “eep” noise, but you don’t laugh. They don’t really go with the dress, I know, or with the silk stockings. My inner straight guy obviously has no more taste than his legions of brothers feverishly poring over the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogs they ordered in their wives’ names. But it’s my fantasy, isn’t it?
“You can kiss them, if you want.”
I groan and reach for them, doubled over like a supplicant. The boot I cup my trembling hands around is warm and incredibly soft to my work-ravaged fingers. My skin is so rough it catches like Velcro in most girlie-type fabrics; with leather so buttery, I’m almost afraid I’ll scratch it. But you murmur an encouraging sound at me, almost inaudible over the pounding of my heart, and I bend my lips to it, and kiss.
The smell of leather is in my nose, soft, so soft, to my dry lips. It’s the smell of my Master’s boots, her pants, her biker jacket, so long ago, the smell of my own jacket, the left epaulet with its cock ring firmly in place. The tip of my tongue slips out to lap as gentle and tentative as a kitten.
“Yes,” you say, “that’s right.”
I shiver and stretch my tongue as far as it will go to sweep luxuriously across your instep, in my nose the scent of calfskin and polish and your soap and the slight, faint tang of your sweaty foot. I trace the outer edge, leaving a damp line, steering irresistibly toward the tip of your pointy, pointy toe.
Licking boots is like giving head. When I went down on my Master’s boots, I licked and sucked and stroked with my tongue, circling the round head of the hard steel toe, laving my way up the shaft, pressing, caressing, cupping the heel in my hands. I wanted her to feel it. I wanted to hear her groan with desire and yank on the back of my T-shirt to haul me up for more direct stimulation—oh, how I dreamed. I wanted to take my bootblack-smeared face and bury it in the hot crotch of her Levi’s, nuzzling her, driving her mad, and when she wouldn’t take off her pants for me, to be dragged up to face level for one perilously deep kiss.
Such soft leather; such impractical form. I’d thought that setting my mouth to such a feminine bit of apparel would make me think more of eating pussy than sucking cock, but I was wrong. Except for the sweet and sour pleasure of my long-term lover’s cunt, snatch-licking in the age of STDs has been stripped of much of its sensual delight and left with the clumsy nuisance of plastic wrap flapping out of hand at exactly the wrong moment. There always seems to be a panicky moment when imaginary headlines flash through my brain, LESBIAN SUFFOCATES DURING CUNNILINGUS, Safe sex the culprit, coroner says, story on page 6, with my partner’s imminent orgasm far more important than the grayness of oxygen deprivation creeping around the edges of my vision. I think of plastic wrap faintly bitter with the taste of lube from my own hand, my own spit welling and pooling and dripping on the sheets, and I know: This is not licking pussy. This is sucking cock, and for now, this small, soft, girlishly inutile boot is as much the seat of your power as the big swinging dick of any construction foreman in a hardhat is his. I run my tongue from root to tip, expensive Italian calfskin growing moist from my saliva, the taste of shoe polish and salt and the smell of leather and the heat of you all filling my mouth and nose, and I know for a fact, I am still a cocksucker, a pansy faggot cocksucker, no matter the gender of the top I’m kneeling in front of, no matter what she’s wearing.
You are certainly the most feminine of women, always gorgeous, always charming, your considerable power always reined in. You know the power of others’ desire for you; you know how to use it. You know your own power, too: that knowing what you want is the first step. You pay attention to details. You persevere. Everything else may be just packaging, but you know: The packaging matters. It seems to be your good fortune that the way you feel most at home in the world, as a feminine woman, is a role you can play superlatively.
I wonder, do you ever fuck it? Fuck gender? Pull on a pair of tight jeans with a strap-on outlined against the worn denim like something out of a Tom of Finland print, your long hair tucked under a leatherman’s cap, mirrorshades obscuring the amusement in your eyes? Would you stand wide-legged in engineer boots while some tough butch tried to tongue and gnaw that monster cock out of its denim prison? Would you smile that lovely girlie smile down at her while she tried to swallow that big rod, tried to make you feel every muscle in her throat and tongue, milking it, making the base of it rock against your pubes, so you could feel its belly deep and aching? So you might want to give it to her where it counts, ’cause I can’t come like this, rubbing myself against a plastic soda bottle in a half-empty bus dieseling down I-95, with nothing inside me.
I come to myself with a start, suddenly aware that the college kid a few rows back has woken up, and he’s staring at me. I hate myself for blushing. I turn to face front, as casual as I can muster, resisting the urge to give him the finger. I shift so both feet are flat on the floor. He can’t see the Coke bottle, and what’s he looking at anyway, the snot-nosed little freak? I leave it where it is.
My heart is beating fast
now, and I can feel its echo pounding in my cunt and burning up my face, ’cause it’s not the bottle that’s got me here, not the genderfuck cock in my mind, but those shoes, the calfskin hot against my tongue, the pointy toe I lick and prod and thrust my tongue under, trying to get you to pick it up, just a little, just enough to wrap my lips around it and suck. Your foot is small, I know I can take it all in my mouth, never mind the soles that have carried you through the filthy city streets, through garbage and grease and dog shit, never mind. I want it. I am a pervert for sure, a sick fuck who wants to lie belly down on the hardwood floor of your imaginary chic metropolitan flat and cradle that boot in my hands, tipped back on its heel, and suck on it, feel the point of that toe in the back of my throat, praying not to gag.
I imagine I can hear you breathe. I imagine I can hear a soft moan, and I can feel you shift in your seat—you’re sitting now, I don’t know where that chair came from. I already licked the other shoe, and with one hand I am fondling it like a spent lover when you shift your legs a little wider apart, when you slip down in the chair, when you lean forward abruptly and sit up.
You pull your foot away and step sideways, out of the reach of my mouth. You shake off my hand.
“Ah, ah, ah,” you warn. “You are a very good boy, aren’t you?” I am breathless and suddenly bashful. I can’t pick up my head to look at you. “But that’s enough, now,” you tell me from high above. “I want something else.”
You step around from where I am leaning on my elbows, head bowed. All at once I feel your foot on my back, between my shoulder blades, pushing me flat. I let my arms slide out and press my sweaty cheek against the cool floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see you looking down at me, speculating. I shut my eyes tight.
The heel of your shoe is digging in just to the left of my spine. I imagine the horseshoe-shaped dent it will leave, how ever will I explain it to my girlfriend? Just when the pressure becomes painful, you ask, “Is that what you want? Do you want me to trample you?”
I think of a porn shop I visited once, with a corner display geared to that infinitesimally small slice of the straight submissive male foot-worshipper subfetish who want women in really spiky heels to walk all over them. Literally. There were videos and magazines galore, with every cover a photographic variation on dangerous shoes gouging soft naked male flesh. Judging by the cover prices printed in pounds, I guessed it was a particularly British kink. Who knew? I was amazed. But was it me? I imagine your heel pressing into my back. I shrug. You take your foot away.
You nudge me in the ribs with one pointy toe, just hard enough to make me squirm. I’m very ticklish. I hope you don’t notice.
“Roll over,” you order. As I struggle to comply—I’ve stiffened up, and even in my fantasy I realize I’m really too old for this—you poke my butt encouragingly.
“Ah,” you say in response to the sound I hadn’t realized I made, “so that’s it.” I lie there looking up at you, panting. You smile knowingly. You are very tall. I could probably see up your short dress now, but I’m afraid to. You step between my feet, pushing them open until they are as wide apart as they can go and you are standing between my knees. Casually, idly, you touch my crotch with your toe.
I let out the breath I’d been holding in a rush, half sigh, half moan. Your smile is wider, your eyes are brighter. You rub your pointy toe up and down and around until I am nearly writhing on it. I want to grab your ankle and push your toe in as far as it will go through the thick seams, through the layers of denim and cotton underwear, into my very wet hole.
The bus is slowing, rumbling off the exit ramp. Behind me, there is a rustle as the kid gathers his belongings together, and I yank the Coke bottle from between my legs, startled and guilty. I sneak a look over my shoulder. He isn’t paying any attention to me. I stretch and try to get my heart to stop racing, thinking calm thoughts. What I’ll do when I get home to my sweetie and the dogs. Have some supper. Put in a load of laundry.
The bus station is not far from the highway; the kid behind me bumps his backpack down the aisle as we hiss to a stop. A few others slowly get to their feet and follow. It’s growing dark in the winter afternoon. I wonder how soon I’ll be getting off, and I blush ridiculously in the fading light of the nearly empty bus at my own double entendre.
My fantasy comes back to me in the deepening gloom. I imagine you standing over me, the sketchy details of that unknown apartment, the hardwood floor beneath my knees. My eyes track the headlights of oncoming traffic, across the median, but I’m not really seeing them. My hands are cupping the heel of your boot. My tongue tastes the leather. You nudge me and I roll over. Your toe touches my crotch, again, stroking. The Coke bottle is lying on the seat beside me now; I don’t need it. Your foot draws back, and in one quick, surprising kick, your toe lands exactly on my clit. Not hard—the sensation is an explosion of pleasure and pain and apprehension, that the next kick will be worse, it will hurt. I want to cover my crotch with my hands, but I don’t. You kick again; the blow falls a little lower, cushioned by my swollen labia, enticingly near where I want it, where I want to suck it in. You kick again. Again. My sweaty palms press against the floor. My eyes are closed. Every time you kick, I bark out loud with pain and pleasure and surprise, every time, and steady myself for the next one, until it doesn’t come.
“Be a good boy,” you tell me. “Take off your pants.”
I can hear your voice in my head. Amused but firm. There’s heat in it, also, and I know if I could just get close enough, I could smell your arousal. You want this, too.
I hurry to unbutton my pants, lift up, slide them awkwardly down, tugging at the legs to free them and kick them off. The chaps have vanished, and so have the boots. Even in my fantasy, my feet are cold, and I leave my two pairs of socks on, glad when you politely ignore them.
You are standing between my naked legs, pressing them apart, walking tiny deliberate steps as you do so, inching closer to my crotch. I am terribly frightened now that you will kick, but excited, too. I don’t know how much it might hurt. I don’t know if I want it. Oh, yes, I do. I can’t watch.
I am holding myself still, fists clenched at my sides, braced for the blow, when I feel the tip of your toe brush my pubic hair, ever so lightly. I shiver. I imagine your toe dotted with the wetness that has seeped down my luxuriant thatch. You tease me that way for what seems like an eternity, and when I finally squirm, trying to bring about actual contact with my aching, swollen clit, you draw your foot back.
“Ah, ah, ahhh,” you say. I open my eyes to see you wagging a finger at me, looking stern. “I want you to stay… absolutely…still.”
I try. I can’t take my eyes off you now. You go back to teasing, tickling, teasing. I hold my legs so rigid that when your pointy leather toe, already slippery with my juice, finally bumps my clit, I jerk like I’ve been zapped, and I yell out loud.
You’re rubbing against my clit in earnest now, and I’m glad you don’t seem to care anymore if I move. The toe of your boot moves back and forth, up and down. I’m rocking against it, bucking my hips, trying to get closer, closer. You stop moving and I do, too, when I realize that, ever so gently, you are pushing against my asshole.
“Is that what you want?” Your head is tilted, curious. Is it? It could be, I think. I’ve had things as large as your toe and maybe even as large as the ball of your foot in there before. I try to remember how big your feet are. I wonder what lube would do to that nice leather.
You smile and move your foot just a little, and the point of your toe comes to rest at the opening of my cunt. I don’t need any lube there, and you know it. For a fleeting instant the thought of latex crosses my mind, and I imagine working a rubber over the toe of your shoe. It has, after all, been treading those dirty city streets, and I don’t know if I could relax and enjoy a shoe in my cunt even in fantasy, without at least a nod to hygiene. I wonder if you’d make me do it with my mouth, the way I do with a butch’s rubber dick. I wonder if a regular s
ized condom would be big enough, or would I have to have one of those jumbo ones? I wonder if I should suck your toe like a cock after I put it on. Then I feel your toe pressing against me, forcing its way inside, and I stop thinking. I am nothing but cunt, opening for you, wanting to be filled.
The bus sways and turns, and I rock sideways, blinking in the bright halogen lights of the bus station. I wonder where I am, if I’ve missed my stop, but no, this is it. There’s my girlfriend on the sidewalk, waiting for me. I shake my head, shift in my seat. My crotch is uncomfortably damp. I grope for my briefcase that has fallen to the floor, find the book of porn I’d meant to finish. The lights come up, and I squint as my eyes adjust, getting slowly, stiffly to my feet.
In a few hours I’ll be in bed, trying to get the rest I need to get up at three A.M. and start the daily grind all over again, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep right away. There’s that film loop, waiting to run again. There I am, too embarrassed to look at your face. There are your pointy, pointy toes.
The Second Hour
L. Shane Conner
I spent the first hour of the party nursing exactly two beers. I wanted to be blind drunk and away from myself, but I couldn’t seem to put the stuff down fast enough. I finally made it to my third beer and sat down on one of those flip-a-fuck foldable mattress chairs in a corner. I shouldn’t have been tired, especially with the volume of the music. I didn’t really even know why I’d come except that I didn’t have anything better to do and some girls I met at a club the month before invited me. Moving to a new city’s a pain in the ass. I was thinking about looking for something harder to drink when a woman I’d never seen before came right up to me and put one foot down on the chair between my legs. I thought I was imagining it for half a second; then she leaned forward, pressing her weight down through the toe of one high black leather boot directly onto my clit. I stopped breathing for a minute or a day. The party was gone and there was just the light reflecting off this knee-high leather boot and my heart beating in my clit.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2005 Page 11