When She Was Good

by Tristan Taormino

  At these times, I say nothing; I don’t even look up at their faces. I just quietly smile to myself and kneel before them, already laying out my simple supplies before they inquire about price.

  Money is important to me; I’ve got bills to pay, but it’s not the sole reason why I shine. I do this because I love my job, I love to serve and if I can have some fun at the same time, then who am I to argue?

  This is what I sense from the woman stuttering in her gait as she walks hesitantly toward my stall the next day: that she has the same sensual need as me. Sometimes it’s too easy to spot a kindred spirit. I instantly picture her squatting at my side, spit-shining like a pro, as we polish the shoes of strangers together. We submissives have to stick together, is how I feel.

  She wears smart brown knee-high boots with a low solid heel and a classic shape. She has pale knees and long fine fingers. Her manner is polite but a little awkward as I wave away the money she offers me, before I even start.

  “Cold day,” I say. Small talk, but you have to start somewhere.

  “But it’s lovely and bright,” her voice is nervous and a little quavering. I bet she has dimples when she smiles.

  We are both silent now and I am left with the sounds of a thousand different footsteps ringing out loud and clear, taking over, as I start to work. This is the constant background music in my head and for a while, I am lost in the flowing melody that invades me when I am concentrating.

  Her boots are a little dirty, but not much; they really just lack a polished shine. I produce my sponge and saddle soap and set to work, stroking wide and slow, up and down the length of the leather, molding my hands against her boots.

  “You’re very good at this,” she remarks.

  This is something that I already know. I learned my trade from one of the best, from a friend of a neighbor, who was an ancient Cockney gent called Mister O’Connor. He had a real pride in his abilities and knowledge and told me how he used to work as a bootblacker back in the days when there was one on every street corner in Central London. He was eager to pass on his skills to someone and glad to know that a part of him would go out into the world, even if he couldn’t get out of his flat without breathing apparatus.

  He always used to call me “sweet girl,” even though I told him several times that I was a boi and that his endearment made me cringe. He never listened, and in the end it didn’t matter, because what’s important is that he taught me things that I didn’t have a clue about. He schooled me in all the extra little tricks you could do to earn a big tip, like how to give a mirror shine so fine that you could see up a Scotsman’s kilt, or how to set fire to the polish if you wanted to be really flash.

  I think it was O’Connor that made me realize what an honor it was to serve, and I’m sure he knew that some people appreciated that service in a very special way. He was definitely right; some of my regulars get off on the bootblacker thing in a reassuringly erotic manner. It’s not a problem for me; I love to serve, they love to be adored. The sight of a young boi kneeling in supplication between their thighs is a big turn on to more people than you might think and it doesn’t matter what they look like, or how expensively they’re dressed. We perverts are everywhere.

  Sometimes I can almost smell my customers’ arousal over the licorice scent of the polish. I’ll practically see the smoky curling aroma of desire that hits me at the back of my throat, making me swallow deep, gulping for air.

  Right now, I put these thoughts away, adjust myself between the woman’s ankles and pull on my latex gloves. I smear polish over her uppers, working in the compound with deft, long-practiced movements, using my fingers and then the horsehair brush.

  I always work diligently, cleaning and soothing the stressed leather until it’s smooth, buffing it until it shines, but sometimes, I’ll get a particular customer who’ll pay extra if I take my protective gloves off; they want to see the blackened goo ingrained in my short fingernails and maybe they like to know that later I’ll be scrubbing away at myself like a good little boi, cleaning my sticky skin after they’ve soiled me, made me dirty. Either way, it’s a special request and I don’t do that for just anyone.

  The woman above me is still sitting rigidly on the low seat and I smile at her.

  “It’s okay to relax,” I reassure her, and I gaze up into her kindly looking deep-blue eyes, see her own mouth crinkle into an embarrassed smile. She sinks lower into the seat and exhales.

  “I could stay here all day,” she sighs indulgently and my bashful smile grows bigger. I wish I had no need for money, and then I would sit here all day too. I would do a job that I love to bits and I would make people happy with my hands.

  I often go into a trancelike state when I work, and now as I continue to polish I allow myself to think back to a woman I once knew called Symphony. She was an ultrafemme girlfriend of mine and a top laugh; kinky as hell. With rich chocolate-brown skin, as sweet as you like, squeezable tits and a devious streak a mile wide, she dominated my tiny world and I was eternally grateful. She loved to drag me around the multitude of sleazy sex shops in Soho, spending a small fortune on the latest piece of equipment that would promise us both happy sex lives. She bought me a dildo for my birthday; I thought it was nothing special until she produced the short strap that came with it. It turned out to be a shoe dildo and Symphony fastened it to a pair of her very expensive, thigh-high, spike-heeled boots. I’d always adored those wonderful boots and the way she would transform into a warrior of a woman whenever she wore them.

  Symphony stood poised and regal, with her dressed-up foot raised on a small wooden storage chest as she instructed me to sit.

  I thought I’d seen a lot in the limited time that I’d been exploring my sexuality, but this sight was so beyond me. I must have been frozen in terrified shock, because she grabbed me by the scruff of my collar and yanked me down.

  Back then, I was still getting used to the whole gender-bending thing. It felt good being Symphony’s boi-in-training; my intense shyness made her swoon with motherly delight, but at that moment, I was plain petrified. Symphony had made me feel powerless, scared and intimidated like no one else ever had. She also looked about seven feet tall when she was angry and I felt about three inches.

  She made me kiss and lick the leather first and I ran my silent tongue up, down and all around her boots. My mouth was already dry from fear, but I did my best to let her know that I was devoted to her; I worshipped her.

  I peeled off my already sticky boxers and lowered my ass slowly onto the glistening black dildo, already wet from my saliva even before she had applied any lubricant. I inched myself down and tried to remember how to breathe as I attempted to steady myself while I ground myself against her foot. I felt embarrassed and awkward and thought that I must look like a dog shagging his mistress’s leg. I was also worried that I would squash her foot, but Symphony seemed to love having me impaled there. Seeing her proud ecstatic face, all fluttering eyelashes and heaving breasts, I started to get incredibly hot too. The wooden chest began to wobble as I pushed down enthusiastically on the dildo, plastering my burning face to the long, smooth leather of her legs, gripping at the insides of her warm sticky thighs with my hands, grunting, keening and biting at any bit of her flesh that I could reach, panting like an untamed creature. The only thing I didn’t do that night was bark like a dog, but everything else was up for negotiation. I behaved like an animal and Symphony seemed to like it. She grasped a handful of my short, spiky brown hair and pulled my head back painfully as I quaked and shook. The dildo was buried deep within me and the raised stitching of her boots rubbed happily up and down the length of my clit, making me curse under my breath with pleasure, so bloody good, so very bloody good…

  Suddenly everything flew sideways and I toppled from my throne of glory, while simultaneously coming in waves of lust mixed with panic. I gushed in spurts as I tumbled to the floor, the dildo painfully popping out of me. I clutched at my pussy, as if I could hold in the burning slammi
ng pulses of satisfaction that tore through me. I remember looking up to see Symphony trying to right herself in time, but she also fell, breaking the thin heel of her boot as she landed heavily on the floor next to me.

  To this day I don’t know if it was that broken heel, the bruised forehead she ended up with, or the unremovable stains I left in the leather that made her break up with me a week later, but whatever the reason, that episode gave me an appreciation for boots and shoes that has never left.

  I bring myself back to the present and realize that the woman above me is looking at me with a perplexed expression. I also realize that I am rocking against her slippery boots and my loose blue trousers are smeared with brown polish at the crotch. I put my game face back on and finish quickly, spraying the leather with a little water before wiping and rubbing with my polishing cloth until a nice sheen appears.

  “Don’t mind me mate, just reminiscing,” I say with ragged breaths, swabbing beads of sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrists.

  “You must have had a good time,” she says, as if she knows exactly what happened back then. Then I sense something; smell both our growing desires, mixed with the warm odor of peanut butter. We are turned on beyond reason and we both want more.

  She hesitates and finally says:

  “Do you think I could learn…about shining shoes?” Her voice is a bare whisper. “My partner would appreciate a special treat.” She is embarrassed, but I am glad that she asked.

  “I’ll give you some tips, sure.” I smile and I am happier than I’ve been in ages.

  The next day I see her familiar boots walking in my direction and I look up at her, take in the broad smile on her face, the jaunty swing of her wide hips. I know that she hears the special music now, when she is in service, bending over to please someone above her. She plonks herself heavily down on the seat and she lets me shine her boots. I know even before she opens her mouth that she had great sex last night. She leans forward, affording me a nice view of her cleavage, and then she tells me in detail how her first attempt at bootblacking went, how her girlfriend loved her amateurish efforts and how they both want me to come around and give private lessons. The woman presses a card into my hand, then surprises me by dipping down and pressing soft, plush lips to the inside of my wrist, in a single reverent, sticky kiss. She decorates me with the imprint of her dark red lipstick and dimples appear on her face like magic. Then she steps up and away, walking with a spring in her step, almost dancing to the escalator and out into the cold day. I look down to read her address on the card and pocket her very generous tip. When I gaze back up, trying to find her among the commuters heading out into the heart of London, I can’t spot her, but I don’t worry. I’ll see her again tomorrow morning, just after nine.

  SWEET NO MORE

  Radclyffe

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “No,” I told Phil, my best friend from work, for the tenth time.

  “Okay, then.” He said something I couldn’t hear to the bouncer on the door and then motioned me inside. We paid our cover at a window in a closet-sized vestibule, and Phil pushed aside the black vinyl curtain blocking the entrance to the club. “Have fun.”

  The minute we walked into the Ramrod, Phil and his boyfriend melted into the crowd, and I was on my own. I couldn’t complain. They said they’d bring me, they never said they’d babysit. I didn’t really think places like this existed anymore, post-AIDS—a warehouse-sized room illuminated by black lights, rough brick walls, exposed pipes in the ceiling, pounding bass beat, and wall-to-wall bodies, mostly naked and at first glance, mostly men. Bare chests, pierced nipples, chaps over naked skin, straining cocks beneath codpieces and jocks. I felt overdressed in my leather vest and pants, even though I had nothing on underneath either one. The place smelled like stale beer, acrid poppers, and the musky odor of sex. Lots of sex.

  It was exactly the kind of place I fantasized about while I jerked off, picturing what I thought might happen so many times it was getting tough to come that way anymore. I needed the real thing—or maybe I needed something I hadn’t yet imagined. Trying to look like I belonged, I wended my way toward the bar. I shoehorned into a place at the bar and worked not to stare at the guy standing next to me while another guy knelt in the cramped space and sucked on his cock with gusto.

  “Beer,” I shouted when the bartender glanced in my direction.

  When the guy next to me grunted, I automatically looked over just in time to see him yank his cock out of the other guy’s mouth and pump it frantically, his face a twisted mask of concentration. Then he smiled at me half-apologetically and came all over the guy’s chest.

  “Nice shooting,” I observed and reached for my beer. I drank half of it off to steady my nerves.

  “Thanks,” he gasped after he caught his breath and wiped his hand clean in the other guy’s hair. “You alone?”

  I kept my gaze on his face but I could hear the guy on the floor whining as he jacked off. From the sounds of things, he was about to unload a gallon so I inched away to keep the stuff off my boots. “Came with friends, but I lost them already.”

  “I brought a friend too.” He looked me over. “You a novice?”

  “No,” I lied. “Why?”

  “Because she’s not.”

  My clit shot out an inch and turned to marble. “Sounds just right.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “What are you looking for?”

  “I’m not here to look.” Praying he couldn’t see my hands tremble, I unbuttoned my vest and uncovered my tits. They were small and round with neat dark areolae, which made the silver rings through the center of each nipple all the more obvious. I gripped the rings and pulled, tenting my nipples until they turned white. “I’ve done sweet. Now I want something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I twisted both rings until my nipples wouldn’t stretch any more without tearing. The pleasure and the pain fused into a fierce ache in my clit and my knees nearly buckled. He watched my face and I knew he knew I was struggling not to moan. “I guess that will be up to her.”

  “I’m Jerry.” He stuffed his limp cock back into his pants and sidled away from the guy slumped on the floor. I hadn’t noticed him shoot, but the puddle between his legs and the come splattered on the bottom of Jerry’s pants lit up like neon under the lights. “Follow me.”

  It was the best offer I’d had so far, so I did. I didn’t bother to close my vest. I was just another body. Besides, my nipples were engorged after the twisting and so sensitive if they rubbed against the leather vest now, I’d have to go somewhere and jerk off. I wanted to anyway. My clit was pounding like I’d been working it for an hour.

  We went through the bar and down a hallway and into another room. The only music now was the grunts and cries and moans of people fucking and coming. Jerry paused for a second, then said, “Over here.”

  He led me toward the far side where a leather sling hung from the ceiling by chains. A young blond guy with smooth pale skin reclined in the sling with his head thrown back and his legs bent up to his body while a dark-haired guy whose face I couldn’t see stood between his legs, a fist up the blond’s ass and the other hand jerking the blond’s jutting cock. The guy doing the fucking was slender with finely muscled shoulders and a hairless back that tapered into a narrow waist, and he wore nothing but chaps that left his high, round ass exposed. His sweaty skin glowed beneath the lights as he rotated his forearm in the blond’s ass and worked his cock like a piston.

  The blond raised his head and stared at the hand jerking his cock, his face dazed and his stomach heaving to the beat of the fist in his guts. “I’m gonna blow,” he yelled. “I’m going to blow my fucking load.”

  The guy fisting him never stopped pumping the iron-hard dick as come arced into the air, the first shot hitting the blond in the face, the next couple spurts landing on his chest, and the last few squirts finally dribbling into little puddles on his belly. A third guy leaned over and licked up
the blond guy’s come, then took two steps back and shot his own load in the blond’s face.

  “Jesus,” I whispered, my clit twitching like crazy. I needed to jerk off now more than ever and wondered if I could just go lean against the wall like a few guys I could see and get a quick shot off.

  “That’s his lover,” Jerry whispered, pointing to the guy who’d just blasted off in the blond’s face.

  “Who’s their friend?” I asked, tipping my chin toward the dark-haired guy who eased his hand out of the blond’s ass, stripped off a glove, and tossed it on the floor.

  “That’s who I want you to meet.”

  Before I could reply, the fister turned to face us and I was looking at a woman so hot I forgot all about my stiff clit and needing to jerk off. Her eyes were dark like her hair and her expression remote, as if she hadn’t just fucked some guy for an audience. She had smallish breasts about like mine and stomach muscles that were etched and pumped from the work-out she’d just had. Her mons was trimmed, not shaved, and framed by her chaps, which were all she was wearing. From what I could see of her cunt, it was swollen and shining with come. If she hadn’t gotten off during the fisting, she must really need it bad now.

  “Ask her if I could please suck her off,” I said desperately to Jerry, having no idea what the correct protocol was, but I didn’t care. “Ask her please. Anything she wants if I can just suck her clit.”

  I stood still while Jerry made his way to her and said something. Then she stared at me for a long moment before walking over. I didn’t say anything as she held open the edges of my vest and stared at my breasts. She flicked one nipple ring with a long finger.

  “Are these for show?”