The Joy of Her Boots

Alexandra and I were listening to music tonight. Mostly my selections of 60s and 70s r&b.

We’d had a series of conversations about minor conflicts and confusions about our shared lives.

Part of my mind was steadily focused on the black PVC knee-high boots she was wearing. I knew I wanted to finally go down and adore her with my appreciation of them.

Alexandra was having a series of stomach discomforts. I awaited her recovery. It came and I slid from the couch and knelt on the floor.

One of her legs wrapped itself over my back. I’d planned to beg - or at least ask: the distinction isn’t that neat - to lick her boots. Having her take control was just as good.

My tongue caressed and my lips pressed along the boots surface. At times the pressure my worship would elicit an audible response of enjoyment from her.

At last I was back where I needed to be, where we both wanted to have me.

Nothing to match carried away fantasies of slavery but all I needed to reaffirm my sense of myself as her property and my delight in pleasing her.