Just Her Boot Slave
» Sketches
Images like this have been haunting my mind at night. I need to externalize them. Really, I need her. But I’ll have to settle for playing with words for now.
Chained in the Garage
We’d talked about buying or building a cage for her to keep me in. Being dilatory or too much of a perfectionist I’d never done either. One afternoon she decided to show me that iron bars weren’t necessary.
Another entry, another image by The Bishop. Bless him.
That was how I found myself sitting in the corner of the garage. And naked and chained. Bright steel chain was bolted near the top of the wall and led to a steel collar around my neck. Even as I shivered at the sight of that unbreakable collar I wondered how she’d bought it without me knowing.
Much smaller bands of steel hung slackly around my penis. She said it was to keep me from entertaining myself while I sat and waited for her. Her word alone would’ve been enough but not as humbling as making sure that masturbation was impossible and allowing myself to be aroused painful.
Hearing the lock turn in the door I quickly dropped to my knees and bowed my head. She’d made it clear that for me reality was to end at her knees when she entered.
As I listened to the click of her footsteps on the concrete floor I waited for her boots to come into my field of vision. Once she was standing still I bent and licked them. She stepped back and I followed to continue ministering to her boots. Having only a few inches slack in the chain it took care to not choke myself.
Tending to her boots caused my penis to swell but the rings along the shaft forestalled a full erection. The Gates of Hell were well named.
I was allowed maybe two minutes worship before they withdrew. I knew not to speak. Her last words had been the order to follow her to the garage.
When I heard the key locking the door I settled back against the wall.
That had been her third visit. Already I couldn’t tell how long it had been since she’d put me in the garage. Or the intervals between her visits.
Given that she’d left me a bowl of water it might be that she felt I needed to spend a very long time by myself. To make me appreciate her more? To give herself something laugh about as she relaxed in the house.
As I sat there it was impossible to know which I looked forward to more: the next time she’d present her boots or when she’d finally free me.
Comments
The description of the Scottish fake branding, with the heavy leather pad under the shirt and a well-coached actor as victim sounded delightful!
To make a real show of it, and really shake up a horror-show audience, try this: You have previously drawn the design of the brand on the skin of the victim, right under the pad, using aa bright red permanent felt-tip marker, with perhaps a few highlights in black felt-pen as well. (Idea: mark the edges of the wet pad with the thread you use to sew it in place, so you don’t miss.) Then, after the show is over, and the victim (I like to think of him as “slave,” but that’s as may be) has cried and begged forgiveness for his crimes, groveling and licking boots and all that — then you rip the shirt from his back and show the audience the finished brand, perhaps throwing a bucket of water on the slave as he crawls there … this will keep folks from wondering why there is no smoke rising from the “burned” skin.
If you rally want to finishs the job right, of course, you could introduce an optional bit of gentle (but real) flogging as icing on the cake.
All this, of course, would be part of some sort of pageant or show, perhaps for a Hallowe’en event (adults only, I think).
My, my, what jolly fun BDSM can be!
Posted by: boot licker | March 20, 2009 4:08 PM