by Alison Tyler
Now, I just admit that I kept putting them on and wearing them whenever Noah wasn’t around because I wanted to know how it felt to wear them…not physically (that feels fucking awesome) but emotionally.
See, there’s something special about these boots. They’re magic. The way they look on me, and the way I feel in them, tells me just how important and powerful I am. And that’s sexy as hell.
If I’m seriously going to dominate my husband—and I plan to—then I’ve got to feel good about how I look in boots, right?
But it wasn’t easy. I would wear them around the house, and get so comfortable in them. It’s not that I would forget I had them on—no, that seems almost impossible. I’d just get so damned turned on. I’d be doing household tasks or just kicking back and reading, or whatever. I’d get really turned on and I’d have to fool around a little bit. With myself, I mean. Not the goal-oriented kind of fooling around…just the yeah, this is good kind of fooling. I’d get lost in the pleasure of touching myself, feeling them on me, thinking about all the things I would do to Noah when I granted him his fantasy.
The son of a bitch almost spoiled it. He almost caught me twice. I would get so distracted by touching myself that I wouldn’t hear him come home, or wouldn’t realize he was awake. Twice just this past week, as the anticipation drove me crazy and I got more excited and bold about wearing my boots, he almost caught me in them. That would have ruined everything, wouldn’t it?
But both times, I managed to evade him and hide them—once under the bathroom sink, once under the bed—where they could later be retrieved and returned to their hiding place at the top of the closet.
I got to know my boots pretty well. I got to know how good it feels to wear them, especially when I’m not wearing anything else. It’s a really strange feeling to be naked in boots. It took me a while to take myself seriously in them. The first few times, I had to wear a bra and panties. I tried them with a garter belt and stockings, but it seemed like kind of a mixed metaphor.
Finally I would wear them with shorts and a tank top, around the house, feeling the pleasure of their weighty power on my feet and tight around my calves. I started to regularly polish my boots, buff them, caress them, smell them. It became exquisitely natural to feel their supple touch against my fingertips. I became more and more comfortable with the pleasure of the boots on my feet. I would kick cabinets closed just to feel the power of my boots against them. Then I’d toe the cabinets open again. I’d climb stairs just to climb them. I’d gotten mild blisters the first few times I wore them, but those had vanished long before I’d gotten comfortable taking off the tank top…let alone the shorts. But that happened, too. I finally got the hang of walking around nude in my boots. My heart would pound, at first. I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror, for fear I’d look silly. I did, the first few times. Before long, I realized that I didn’t look silly at all. I looked hot.
I can’t be sure what changed. At some point in the last month, the power of the boots just sort of seeped into my body…and my soul. In that wonderful month, as Noah and I were having truly magnificent sex—probably because I’ve been in a state of constant arousal—the power of my pussy and the power of my boots just melded together and turned me into some kind of weird hybrid superhero.
Now the boots feel so exquisitely natural on me. And they feel far more natural when I’m naked.
I’m glad for the times I hid them from Noah, wore them when he was asleep or not around, all the times I touched myself wearing them, feeling their power and their scent suffuse my sex. It helped me learn just how perfect they were for me, and it made me perfect for them.
And it was worth it. When Noah walks in the door, he just about loses it.
He finds me in my “throne,” wearing nothing but the boots. Most days, most nights, this is my favorite armchair, a big cushy thrift-store monstrosity with a hideous green checkered pattern, tilted at just the angle at which I love to loaf. It emits the faint aroma of incense and weed from my stoner roommates three houses back, before I even met Noah or ever knew I’d need my “throne” to be my throne. I always called it my “throne,” as a joke, and that’s why Noah finds me there.
It isn’t a joke anymore.
Tonight, my throne has a black silk sheet over it, because I don’t want candle wax on my favorite chair. And a few other things are already dripping, if you catch my meaning. I’m naked except for my knee-high boots, and I’m so turned on I could scream.
The front door opens, and Noah sees me. He’s got our mail clutched in his teeth like a dog. His eyes go wide. His jaw drops. Mail flutters everywhere. His briefcase slips from his grasp. It hits the floor with a thunk. Noah stands there, staring.
I’m stark-raving naked except for these beautiful, glorious boots. Of course, I’ve got makeup on, and these trashy hoop earrings Noah inexplicably loves. I’ve got a bracelet or two and my wedding ring. And I’ve got a faint dusting of body glitter across my breasts; with the way I’ve cocked the carefully calibrated lights at just the angle to accent the tone of my flesh, the glitter really makes my skin “pop,” and I mean that in a good way. But what it really does is make the boots seem even more supple and shiny. Since I’ve just finished polishing them, I know they’re at their best.
I’m sprawled, as if he caught me in a casual, relaxed moment, which he didn’t. I’m on pins and needles, but the sprawl is important to the tableau. One leg is down, one boot on the floor. The other dangles in midair, as I’ve tossed it over the black-shrouded arm of my throne, my leg bent casually at the knee.
That means my legs are spread, my hips raised a little, my sex open and visible to my husband.
And anyone else out there who happens to walk down the street.
“Close the door, will you? The cat might get out. And I think there are better ways to meet the neighbors.”
I’m amazed at how confident and calm my voice sounds. Even making a sarcastic crack, I’ve got that sonorous purr that I’ve practiced for weeks, always while wearing the boots.
Noah’s eyes are all over me, his tongue lolling out. He’s practically drooling. He fumbles his wingtip back and kicks the door closed.
“You went back and bought them,” he said.
“Yes,” I say. “Get over here and show me how grateful you are.”
That voice again—irresistible, hypnotic. It seems to emanate from the power in my feet. Maybe the voice is theirs, not mine. Maybe it’s they who stop Noah dead in his tracks as he crosses the living room from the front door, making it halfway to my throne before my hand comes up with the supple black rod aimed at his face.
It’s one of those toys we’ve played with, but he could never handle it for very long. Or maybe I could never handle it. It’s a very heavy pain toy—a weighty, flexible rod that snaps like a bitch and sends an agonizing thud through the victim’s body. We tried it a couple of times. Noah said he liked it; he likes heavier pain than I’ve ever given him before. I know that should be enough, but I’m just not that nasty a bitch, you know? My nerves get a little ragged when I hurt him. Noah screamed like a girl when I smacked him with it. I felt terrible and haven’t been able to use it again.
Something tells me I’ll use it tonight.
More importantly, the black rod is a kind of totem, like the boots. As soon as Noah sees it, he knows I’m serious.
“Uh-uh,” I say. “Have you forgotten your place?” That voice again—it’s magic. “How does a husband greet his wife?”
A shiver goes through Noah’s body. He shrugs, and his suit coat goes sliding down his arms and falls to the hardwood floor. His dress shirt joins it. His pants go next, and then his undershirt. At some point he’s kicked off his wingtips, but by then I’m fully distracted as I lower my left leg and situate the boots where they belong—sturdily on the ground, twelve inches apart.
Noah, still kicking off his socks, drops to his knees and putts his mouth up against them. “Wait,” I tell him. Noah looks up from my boo
ts, eyes frightened, mouth wet with spittle. As he watches, my hand dips down beside my throne. It comes up dangling a heavy strip of leather, studded with chrome. From its clasp, there depends a padlock.
“Show me your throat,” I tell him.
He obeys me, tipping his head back so I can secure the collar around his neck. His breath comes tight and hard to his spit-wet lips. I clasp the collar and close the lock. The padlock’s mechanism is stiff; it has never been used. I press it tightly together, and it closes with a sharp clicking sound.
I push Noah’s head back down.
“Now you can say ‘Hello,’” I tell him.
Noah’s mouth presses to the supple leather again, and he begins to kiss it. Seeing him worship those boots sends a charge through me. I feel the pressure of his tongue against my instep, against my calf, against my knee. He licks up to my thigh, and starts kissing his way up toward my pussy, drawing a deep breath of my scent.
I push him back down with the tip of the rod.
“When you’ve earned it,” I tell him.
I can see the shadow of his cock, stiffening between his bare thighs.
I guide him back down to my magic boots. His mouth molds to the leather again. I caress my husband’s back and head with my hand and with the tip of the black rod, reminding him what’s to come if he doesn’t satisfy me—satisfy them. Reminding him what he’ll face if he fails to pay the proper obeisance to my magic boots.
But that’s not going to happen, because he’s worshipping them as if it’s all he was made for. He kisses; he suckles; he licks. He caresses them lightly with his fingertips, and gently strokes my calves as he bends down low to lick the arches, the tips, even the soles.
My husband makes love to my boots with a heartbreaking tenderness. I watch him intently, feeling the erotic power coursing through me.
My pleasure mounts higher with each wet, drooling kiss he gives my magic boots.
It isn’t long before he’s earned the right to lick higher, worshipping my pussy—and that’s when the fun really begins.
My magic boots demand obedience, and they always get what they want.
Luckily for me, my magic boots love to share.
ONE ROPE
Graydancer
I am the rope that binds.
Every time he picks me up, I wonder if he’ll be able to control me. It’s not that I don’t want to help; I don’t want, period. I’m a rope. I have no feelings except those that are put into me. Frustration. Admiration. Lust. But we’ve been together a long time, he and I, and sometimes the magic happens, and sometimes it doesn’t. Lately, it does, more often than not—especially with this woman who sits in seiza before us. I wonder, idly, if this will be one of those special times when his will and her passion transform me from this cold coil into a warm, tangled, sweaty mess on the floor.
Time will tell. He stands behind her, somewhere between protective and predatory. I feel him take me up, fingers confidently finding a tiny loop, and with a sure flick of his wrist he releases me. I fly out across the smooth tatami mat, a loop falling across her upper thigh gracefully bared under the hem of the silk kimono. She tenses, slightly, under me. It changes to a subtle shudder as he draws me across her skin, warming my fibers measure by deliberate measure. His eyes are not on me; they focus on her body, noticing this beautiful anxious anticipation as I move across her. Her breathing deepens, her eyes flicker up to his, then down again, coy but eager.
His eyes are present. No thought of future, or of past, here in this moment with me, with her, and that awareness strengthens the will that I feel coursing through his hands. I catch a glimpse, as he draws my doubled lengths through strong fingers, of what he intends to do. How he will connect to her through me.
This is going to be one of the tangled, sweaty times. I can tell.
Finally his hands reach my end, two tiny knots, my entire length slightly warm from my journey across her flesh and through his grip. He reaches back to my midpoint, where I fold over, and holds that loop as he stretches me taut between his clenched fists, slowly pulling me wider until his arms can pass over her head. She watches me as my line passes down in front of her line of sight, and licks her lips in anticipation. She wants me. She wants me on her skin again, tight, holding her, caressing her, hurting her. But I can do nothing, until he does it to me.
There is a pause, pregnant with his intention and her anticipation. Then he moves. He presses the length of me painfully tight across the kimono, digging into the upper swell of her breasts. I can feel the expanse of smooth silk interrupted by her hot flesh exposed at the collar. He pulls harder drawing her whole body back against him, and I feel her heartbeat accelerating. She is caught between the unforgiving painful line of me and the heat of his muscled chest. We hold her tight between us for a moment, ensnared by rope and man. Her breath catches a bit, then steadies as we wait.
Then he moves quickly, a hand pulling my running end through the bight behind her back so I encircle her completely. I hold her closer as he pulls tighter, feeling her body tense and then surrender into my embrace. I am not vicious, I do not clench. I am soft, adjusting to her smooth curves under the silk. But I am also relentless. As long as he holds my ends tight I will not release her.
He pulls harder and I squeeze, biting into her arms. She moans and he smiles. He loosens me slightly and again my embrace is soft and secure. He draws the length of me up, over her shoulder and down again between her breasts. Like our first lay he draws this fast behind her body, his chest pushing harder against her back, and now I am the one sandwiched between them. I can feel both their hearts beating strong and quick with the passion we now share. The sexual connection charges through me as he loops and twists me tight across her torso again, encircling her breasts and traveling down. I run tight down her soft belly, feeling it tremble with constricted breath as I am drawn tight.
As he winds me around, I stroke her with every slight exploration as she feels the limits of the cage he has created out of me. She stretches an arm, pushes a leg out, but I am firm. If he were less skilled, less pure of purpose, I would let her go, let her find the tiny niches such sloppy rope work inadvertently leaves.
But not this time. His desire was that she be bound, and I am the instrument of his will. Still holding my ends in one hand, he pulls me tighter across the kimono, roughly opening it in places so that it is no longer a barrier to her flesh. Her breast is exposed, then the other, skin flushed as they push between my wraps, each tipped by a rippled cone of pink desire. He adjusts me slightly and now I can rub rough against that pinkness, listening as she makes keening sounds of desire, every breath pushing her flesh harder against me.
He shifts suddenly, gripping her upper arm and pulling her sideways. She cries out, unable to catch herself as she falls the short distance toward the mat, arms tight in my loops. We catch her instead, his fist anchoring me as I hold her torso hovering inches from the floor. I am looped rather than knotted and gravity squeezes me tighter, holding her breathless just inches from the floor.
We wait to feel her surrender, that moment when her body relaxes into helpless trust of his skill and my strength. Then he gently lowers us to the mat. As she lies on her side the short kimono rides up higher on her thigh.
The exposed skin seems to inflame him, and suddenly I am again moving quickly under his hand, unwrapping one length, two, her breath releasing with gasping cries as he draws her leg in and winds me tight around shin and thigh. I creak as he cinches me in against myself, her bound leg drawn up against her chest. I hold her there, unrelenting, as his free hand flips the ends of the kimono open. His nostrils flare as the aroma of her engorged sex fills the room, and I feel his grip tighten.
With a quick jerk he pulls me tighter, lifting up her hips. He slaps her cunt with an open hand, the wet cracking sound reverberating through the length of me still taut between her body and his fist. She cries out at the impact, but as I hold her exposed I feel her hips lift higher. She craves the sen
sation, wants more against her clit and mons. His next slap, and the next, bring more heat to her core, and I feel a slight trembling aftershock from each blow slowly building throughout her body. His eyes are focused with sensuous cruelty on the soundless ecstatic O of her mouth.
He pauses, letting a bit of slack into me, and I feel the shudder go through her entire body with each throbbing breath. A deep moan comes from her center, trailing into a whine of need. She and I are both charged through every wrap and twist of fiber and flesh with the burning lustful need to cum. Knowing his tastes, I wonder if he will let her. He is sometimes mercifully generous, delivering orgasm after orgasm to the ones I bind, and sometimes he deliberately withholds that release. There is a certain piquant satisfaction to that starved desire, knowing that later the woman will furiously rub one out while lost in the memory of my harsh touch drawn by him on her skin.
But now his hands move, one drawing her leg open while the other pulls me deliciously through the luscious wet folds between her legs. The electric charge of pleasure surges through us both as her juices cover me. I swell and soak them in.
This is different. This is not what he usually does, when we play together with his willing prey. I realize that my world has changed, because I am no longer his. Her body’s desire has covered me, and that means I will never tie anyone else. I am bound to her permanently, and that makes this moment of crushing passion all the sweeter.
He draws me tight up behind her and I dig deeper, pressing through the soft curls of her mons hard against her pubic bone. My twin strands lie like electrified steel just to the left of her throbbing clit before driving down into the sweet, hot, juicy cleft labia. Deeper down I press roughly against the tender rosebud of her ass as he pulls my knotted ends hard. The tension lifts her ass slightly from the tightly woven tatami. Her hips grind against me, frantic, transforming friction to pleasure in an alchemy of lust and pain. She presses harder. His grip is firm as she dashes her need against my Charybdisiac bonds. He is motionless, caught in the present, touching her whole being surface to core through me.