Now You Can Feel My Boots

  Last year, I went to a party at a bar in the Flatiron district to see a few friendly acquaintances.

    Once I arrived and made the rounds, one of the hostesses asked me if I’d like to keep company with her boyish date while she performed on stage.  She was an excellent and established sadist.  Her date was young, hazel-eyed, and obedient.  

     I instructed him to sit on the floor by my feet while we watched the show.  After a few minutes, he relaxed, and stopped paying attention.  He leaned his body against my leg and put both his hands on my boots.  

     I turned on him whip quick, stepping away from his body and grabbing a fistful of his hair.  I kicked him in the thigh.  

     “Did I give you permission to touch my boots?” I snarled at him, turning his head up so that I could see his face.  I remember that he did not resist–not one whit.  It was nice, impressive.  I thought: this one is well trained.   

       He said he was sorry.  

      “You want to touch my boots?” I asked.  I pulled him, by his hair, back and then down to the floor.  It had to have hurt him.  I appreciated the way that he moved his body where I was  pulling.  No resistance.  That delicious complicity, compliance.  Makes me want to do more of it to you.

       I had him pressed down on his belly, with his cheek against the filthy floor of the bar.  The people around us had gathered to watch.  Hungry.  I am not inclined towards exhibitionism, but I found the attention exciting.  

      I pressed the sole of my boot onto his face.  Told him to keep the palms of his hands flat on the floor.

      Here, now you can feel my boots.  

One thought on “Now You Can Feel My Boots”

  1. Very sexy, Miss Margo. “That delicious complicity, compliance.” That phrase just took my breath away. You certainly grasp what it means to be a top.


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