The Collector’s Riding Boots

As I wrote in an earlier post, another thing that he asked me for my birthday was to tell him two fantasies.

Now, I generally don’t like to give the Collector fantasies because it allows him to put his foot in the door, psychologically speaking.  Our BDSM interests are similar enough that they overlap, so I’m sexually content.  You tell someone your private fantasies, and it’s like they’re reading your diary or dream journal.  It’s one of the reasons I respect my clients: sure, they’re paying top premium for a luxury service, but, at the same time, MOST (not all) of them are making themselves very vulnerable.

But, I agreed to do it, so I did.

The first one was the tamest thing I could think of, but still be legit.

I’ve documented my attraction to men’s footwear in the past (here, here and here ).  Now, I know the Collector used to play polo when he was young–you know, that rich-person sport that’s like golf on a horse?

I asked him, with trepidation but a longing I could barely control, if he still has his boots.

He made me wait for about a week, because he’s a calculating fucker and he also likes to spring surprises.

I came in the house and he was cooking dinner (of course.  I know it’s a wholesome hobby, but this guy has a really weird relationship with food.  I say that as a former anorexic.), dressed in a male riding habit sans helmet.

I was hypnotized. Picture Peter O’Toole in riding boots and just shoot me now.

Now, this guy is a sick fuck, like most of the sick fucks I fall in love with, except even sicker, but I  can’t deny that I’m very sexually attracted to him. Like most of my long-lasting relationships, it’s sort of the glue that keeps us together (well, he does love art, and he’s a fascinating conversationalist).  That and my Daddy issues, which are probably going to ensure I never reproduce because all the guys I like are geezers.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him and his boots.  They even made a little rapping on the hardwood floor as he walked around.

“You…you look beautiful,” I mumbled, staring.

He was chopping radishes for the salad.  He has a big knife rack that is magnetic, a  magnetic strip down the wall.  When he uses the knife, he doesn’t even have to look down.  He can follow his fingers. I find it terrifying and very erotic.

He smirked at me.  Yes, the Collector Condescending Smirk.  If there is anything this guy loves in life, it’s knowing he has someone by the proverbial balls.

He laid down his knife.

“What do you think you can do for me, Margo?”

I took off my dress, dropping it to the floor, and sank down to my knees.  There was a time, years ago, I would have been self-conscious about doing this, but I’m not anymore.  I don’t have any shame.

He marched past me, heels rapping, and had a seat on the sofa in the big room.

“You can worship me,” he said.

I immediately scrambled over to kiss his shoes and breath in the leather smell.  I laid down on the floor so that he could press on my exposed neck.

“They’re 20 years old and they need to be serviced.  Do you think you can do that?”

“Definitely,” I panted.

“You’ll do it every week then.  And I’m going to teach you how to ride.

You can masturbate now. Let me see it.”

So I did.


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