This was... different. Here, there was nothing to connect her personally with any of these men, no reason to think of them as dominant, or interested in her in any way, even disguised as a boy. They had nothing to offer her, other than their boots―they could not command her to perform sexually, they weren’t even allowed to do more than assault her with words! But she had to bestow all of her focus and effort to please them by cleaning, polishing and yes, licking their boots, all day, if they continued to come, in two-hour sessions interrupted by her enforced rest periods for food, drink, and a moment of privacy to use the bathroom.
Sweat dripped down her forehead onto the boot under her lips and she moaned, licking up the droplets as they fell. The warm hide under her lips was slick with her spit and sweat and she almost slid over the surface too fast for the erotic pace she was supposed to be setting. But maybe the guest didn’t mind; he was already discussing something else he wanted to be doing with his friend.
“... string his balls up with bootlaces and take turns pissing into the boot, what do you think?”
Coarse, approving laughter. Robin didn’t even hear which slave they had in mind. She switched to the other boot to start licking and felt the rough thud of a kick against her shoulder. “Enough of that, asswipe, I got better things to do. Maybe you can lick my piss off the boots later!”
The two men left, and for a moment, Robin was alone. She ground her teeth again and rubbed her shoulder, and then turned to look at the vista behind her.
It was like something out of a porn movie.
Muscledog was bound tightly in layers of rope to the fucking frame, his ass getting walloped by a short, thickset man wielding a braided cat. Clamps on his already tenderized nipples were hung with black fishing weights which swung with every thud of the cat against his body. The bondage couldn’t keep him from jerking in pain, and the wide arc of the swinging weights tugged at him mercilessly. There was a man standing over his back, just running one hand all over the muscular form of the slave, while he jerked himself off with the other hand. Luckier, perhaps, were the two men standing in front of the new slave, both of their cockheads squeezed into his mouth. Even at a distance, Robin could see the gleam of light off the spit-slicked condoms. Muscledog’s mouth seemed obscenely split open, and his eyes were closed in pain or concentration or maybe even bliss.
In the Jacuzzi, two men passed a slave someone else had brought to the party back and forth, slapping him and shoving his mouth over their nipples or under the swirling water, presumably on their cocks.
In the sling by the pool, a huge man, at least six and a half feet tall and covered with thick, dark hair, hooked one boot on Carl’s shoulder and yelled something at him―encouragement? Commands? It was hard to hear over the thudding music coming from the speakers all through the garden. But Robin could see Carl moving, shifting, in response. It didn’t look like he was using his cock―no. Carl was fisting the man in the sling.
Robin groaned in erotic torment and cupped a hand over Mr. Cushy, pushing the dildo inside her just enough to make it twist. She’d never asked Carl to fist her, even though she had learned to love it when Ken Mandarin was training her to take it. His hands were so big! At that moment, she would have said yes to his hand and probably was lubricated enough naturally to take it.
Men walked in and out of the house in various states of fetishwear or completely nude. She’d never seen so many naked male bodies before, such an array of cocks. But the leather, latex, and rubber were even more appealing, ranging from tiny thongs to heavy chaps over naked asses. One man was only dressed, if you could call it that, in liquid latex, painted over his body in stripes and signage. His chest had a target on it, under the tattooed word “TOILET” in black gothic lettering.
And along with all the sex and bondage and play were men just lounging and sunning themselves in the comfortable chairs, floating on rafts in the pool, and hanging out in small groups drinking beer and cocktails, acting exactly as they might at any other backyard party. One of the service slaves fired up the grill and was finishing Raul’s chipotle-marinated chicken wings and chorizo, the spicy, charred scent mingling with suntan lotion, leather, sweat, and of course the sharpness of shoe polish.
There was a handsome black man who must have been one of Eric’s model friends, dressed in brief rubber shorts and a body harness that caressed his lithe body so elegantly he made the garments seem almost formal. He was conferring with another, younger man, with Raul on his knees before them, listening and perhaps offering suggestions. The three of them vanished into the house, the black man taking hold of Raul’s collar with one hand while he walked. Raul, so calm, so strong and dependable and so very cool, stumbled after them, half on his knees, trying to keep up.
Well, he wanted to get to play, Robin thought. She groped between the chairs for her water bottle and sucked some down, lukewarm and tasting absurdly sweet in the heat of the afternoon. The acrid taste of polish and oil mingled with the water and she felt light-headed again. How could she stand a whole day of this? And what about the night? What would happen when the sun set and there was no use for a bootblack any more? No one had even hinted at what her duties would be after all of this cleaning, polishing, and bootlicking.
Someone smacked the back of her head and she yelped.
“No peeking at what you can’t do, little boy,” laughed her newest pair of boots. He heaved himself into the chair and slammed his harness boots down onto the upright supports. “Jesus, what are you, six-fucking-teen? No wonder they got you tucked away back here. These animals would fuck you to death if you were out there buck naked.”
Robin nodded―and ducked her head. And then she reached up to bring his jeans up over the tops of his boots and start, once more, the only job she was allowed to do.
* * * *
Muscledog made it back to his chair, his ass and back covered with welts and his lips already slightly swollen. Jimmy clipped a chain from the slave’s collar to the base of the chair and unhooked Robin’s chain, jerking a thumb at the house. “Half hour, bootlicker, then get your skinny worthless ass back here.”
Robin bowed her head to the ground in acknowledgement and took a few deep breaths before trying to rise. Muscledog grinned at her as a man scrambled into the chair in front of him. “Hey, slavemeat, you guys get to use the little fag?” the man asked, bracing one boot against Muscledog’s massive chest. “Unlike the rest of us?”
“Sometimes, master! When we’re very good.”
“Yeah? Is he any good?”
Muscledog grinned even wider as the man twisted his boot over his already sore nipple, and he growled with appreciation. “Not yet, master! But we’ll get him in shape so he’s good enough for you gentlemen, maybe the next time?”
Robin couldn’t help but sigh as she heaved herself to her feet, the laughter of the guest chasing her all the way to the house.
* * * *
The bacchanalian antics were as frenzied and erotic indoors as they were by the pool. Giant cocks and asses cavorted on the projection screen TV in the main living room, and right in front of the screen, Eric was shoving his cock down Raul’s throat while the black man who had taken him inside earlier was fucking his ass. For some reason, Robin felt almost embarrassed to see this, and tried to look away, only to see a young slave, perhaps only slightly older than she looked, being trussed up to the suspension chain, his ankles locked into an impossibly wide spreader bar. Another slave knelt outside one of the guest bedrooms, anonymous in a latex hood, the word “FLUFFER” printed on his chest in magic marker. Two men were energetically fucking in that bedroom, the door wide open, and the sounds of spanking mingled with the grunts and groans. The slave on his knees outside the door arched in his bondage, wrists high behind his back, and licked his lips.
Robin hurried past the other open doors of rooms set up for play, and past the slaves’ bedroom into their tiny bathroom, where she could lock the door behind her for a few minutes and take inventory.
Then, with a deep breath, she unlocked the door and went back down for her second shift.
* * * *
She never could place the exact moment when the chore turned into an act of eroticism. She thought it started when a man’s hand lingered as he gave a gentle cuff against her cheek in thanks for her brilliantly popped spit shine; she kissed the lingering fingers out of instinct at first and then moaned at the taste of his hand and lashed her tongue against the three deep creases in his palm. He laughed and patted her cheek, saying, “Down, boy! I know you must be dying for some cock about now, huh? Well, give those boots another swipe instead like a good boy.” And he pressed her head down, where she eagerly dug her tongue against the warm leather.
That was when he dug his cock out of his leather shorts and started to lazily jack it off, watching the scenes at the pool, and occasionally jerking a boot up to command her to lick harder. The rasping of her tongue seemed unnaturally loud, as did her breathing, as she bent to the task, and she felt her hips needing to jerk in the release of pent up sexual energy between her legs. This time, there was some amount of drool mixing with her sweat as she licked.
He came on her back, and in her hair, and chuckled as he shook himself, milking the last drops.
“Keep it up kid and you’ll be one hell of a cocksucker,” he said. “Fuck, I’d borrow you just for my boots.”
Or maybe the exact moment was when she finished off her bottle of water and realized she wanted the taste to be more earthy, more like the shoe grease that evoked primeval forests and ancient loam. More like the slick surface of the patent leather stovepipe boots worn by the man in the soft leather cavalry uniform.
But without a doubt, she knew that true moment of joy, the discovery of pleasure mingled with pain, shame and delicious hunger, when the man in the ten inch Danner uniform boots planted one foot right over her button fly and ground it down over Mr. Cushy.
The jolt of near orgasm shook her like an electric shock and he grinned around the fat cigar in his mouth.
“Keep working, punk,” he growled with a genial, sadistic sort of glee. And she did, her hands shaking on her spray bottle of water, the rags and brushes unsteady all of a sudden. This would hurt, too, she dimly thought, and groaned as low as she could, horrified to find it sounded more like a whimper.
“Nothing more worthless than slave dick,” said the man, twisting the toe of his boot. “Especially little slave dicks. Am I right, cocksucker?”
Robin nodded with an eagerness to please that made her dizzy again. “Yes, master,” she rasped. She couldn’t help it; the intensity made her flush from ears to toes, and she shifted her hips. The pressure on Mr. Cushy angled just a little with her awkward shift and―Yes! Yes!―the dildo inside responded to the pressure and angled forward right against her G-spot.
The man in the chair rocked his foot, snickering, as her arms grew weaker. “I said keep working, you lazy punk-ass boot-slut. You’ll never do anything but this if you don’t learn to focus and make your masters happy.”
It was a desperate struggle. Robin found herself almost crying with the effort to maintain her concentration on the job. What came next? Were the boots too dry? Did she spray some water, or not? Where were her rags? Where was the ball of panty hose she used for buffing?
Where are my wits, she asked herself. Jeeze, girl, pull it together! Sweat dripped down her back and over her ribcage, and the wetness of her pussy now started to seep down the insides of her thighs and along her asscrack; she felt drenched, drowning. The scent of ejaculate in her hair seemed overwhelming now, and she licked her lips, tasting the salt of her own perspiration and layers of boot grease and polish.
When she managed to finish the first boot, he merely dug that one into her crotch while she worked on the second one.
She needed to come so badly that she trembled when she bent over to lick the man’s sun-warmed and well polished leather. The sharp acetone smell of the edge dressing did actually make her head almost bounce against the shaft of his boot; he mistook it for affection and ruffled her hair briefly before he got up to get back to the party. “Good boot slut,” he crooned, as he walked away.
With no one to take his place and no instructions to the contrary―orgasms were allowed today, in fact, encouraged unless instructed otherwise―Robin dropped one hand over her button fly, cupped her complex package and rocked forward. Almost instantly, she came so hard she saw deep colors behind her tightly screwed eyelids and her toes slammed hard into the ground behind her. It hurt; the dildo slid and rocked inside her and would not stay still, and her mouth and throat were dry despite copious drinking and drooling. “OK, OK,” she muttered to herself, trying to gather her resources and focus again. I can do this. Oh, my God, but this is so... hot.
And, as Muscledog often pronounced―harsh!
* * * *
Her second break came after a lengthy period of very little work, and when she got to the bathroom, this time she showered. Grease, sweat, come―she was just soaked like a washrag and plastered with layers of dirt and crusted bodily fluids. Sitting on the toilet seat as she dried off, she sucked down an iced sports drink, wondering why she never liked the taste before. One more shift, and then she’d have a two-hour break to eat and close her eyes for a while, and then... what? She still didn’t know.
On the way out of the bathroom, she adjusted Mr. Cushy with an unconscious grab, unaware that she was swaggering just a little bit.
* * * *
The late afternoon shift was light, as most of the men who truly wanted their boots done had rushed the chairs early on. But a few came by, including two who had already changed clothing and boots and wanted their new pair done up right. Muscledog admitted he had only gotten to complete three pairs of boots―and what a shame, too, because he loved boots and feet and all things related to them. But his pumped-up form was too much of a draw, his latex singlet stripped off by careless hands. His already well-beaten body had been brutally striped and welted by belts and whips; his tender nipples looked raw. Still, his good-natured smile never faltered, and his cock, while not hard, did manage an impressive tumescence from time to time as he was so cheerfully abused.
“You gotta feed this scrawny-ass bitch more vitamins or something,” the man in Muscledog’s chair said, as he eased his way in comfortably. Robin almost panicked before she realized that in this case, “bitch” was derogatory for more than the usual reasons. “Protein drinks, more weight lifting, something. Christ, he’s got nothing there, poor faggot.”
Muscledog laughed and nodded. “We’re sure workin’ on it, master. But Rob’s stronger than he looks!”
“Yeah?” The man, bearded and scholarly looking despite his rubber vest and jockstrap, peered down at Robin and shrugged. “Then get him over here. Let’s see how strong he really is.” He lifted his feet and pointed, and Muscledog grabbed Robin by the shirt and pulled her over.
“What?” Robin started to ask, but Muscledog merely shoved her down onto her hands and knees in front of the chair, between the
footrests. One heavy boot came down onto her back, resting on her left shoulder, and the other settled in on her right. Instantly, Muscledog knelt over her ass, his sculpted legs on either side of her as he leaned in to start working.
Robin gasped and planted her arms firmly against the grass. Stronger than she looked? She didn’t know if she could make it through the cleaning process, let alone polishing! Indeed, her arms trembled as Muscledog rubbed and buffed and the man in the chair dug his heels into her back. The vest, shirt and compression garment seemed to do nothing to pad her against the pressure and she groaned as she struggled to keep in place.
This is yet another thing hotter in books, she thought for a moment. Being used as a footstool hurts! But then, to her amusement, she realized she as wrong.
It was hot. It was amazingly hot. With her head ducked down under the legs of one man and another man straddling her body, these wonderful smells surrounding her, the casual disregard for her feelings and even her usefulness, oh, it was one of the hottest things she’d ever done. This realization almost made her laugh, and she bit her own lip to keep silent, knowing her laugh would give her away in a second. Instead, she braced her arms and dug her fingers into the grass, struggling to keep still while she was used as a surface to clean boots on.
Perhaps it was the novelty, perhaps it was the sight of Dog’s huge, muscular ass over Robin’s relatively tiny, round one, the contrast between his nakedness and her jeans, but before long, they had voyeurs. One man brought over a flogger and swiped it at Muscledog’s ass, and when the tails smacked Robin as well, it was hardly his fault, now was it? There was much laughter to accompany this illicit use of the off-limits bootslut, and Robin tried desperately not to work her hips back for more of the sweet thumping.
The Slave Page 43