The last couple of mornings I’ve woken up to a crispness in the air that tells me that autumn is edging nearer. I find the first tell-tale hints of the cold weather to come to be incredibly sad and depressing, but Master’s eyes begin to sparkle. Why? Because the first thing that crosses Master’s mind at this time of year is, of course, that it’s the beginning of boot season.
Nothing excites him more than the chance to see boots coming at him from left, right and centre on our autumnal weekend supermarket trips and he’ll gleefully point out anything that stirs his fancy from two hundred paces away with a booming announcement of, ‘Sweetie, look! A boot slut!’
I never thought I’d be owned by a man with a boot fetish. Shibari fetish, metal restraints fetish, even a dreaded cane fetish were all things I had thought I might have to deal with, but boots? It never really crossed my mind at the beginning, but in an effort to mold me into his ‘ideal’ slave, over the last two years I’ve been educated in Master’s private ‘boot camp’.
The last time I counted I had something like 24 pairs of boots. Out of the 24 pairs, he classes approximately 17 pairs as ‘nice day boots’ because (a) the stiletto heel is not high enough (b) they don’t have pointed toes or (c) they don’t reach at least to the top of the knee.
These are all my day boots lined up in a row (yes, I know I need a hobby…)
Finding a pair of boots that is worthy of the title ‘slut boots’ is like searching for the ball off your barbell in shag pile, but if you somehow manage to fill his vision with a pair of 6 inch stiletto-heeled, thigh-high leather boots, his Masterly superpowers inevitably begin to wane and he turns into a kid in a candy store.
Lining the slut boots up took considerably more time than the day boots…
I managed to set a record at my last place of employment for 4 months of daily boot wearing. Everyday I turned up to work in a chosen pair of my ‘nice day boots’ and in doing so, earned the nickname, ‘boot girl’. It wasn’t until it starting getting unbearably hot that I asked for dispensation from the daily boot grind. Dispensation gets me out of wearing boots to work in the summer months, but nothing gets me out of wearing boots at home at any time. Inside-the-boot sweat is something that I place right up there with under-the-boob sweat in terms of discomfort.
Boots are an integral part of our play and ravishings always start with nakedness and boots. Whenever Master is feeling frisky, the call will come out of the still air:
‘Bitch! Nakedness and boots.’
And I know I’m to present myself usually in the black thigh-high leather boots (third from the left in the pic), suitably naked and on his bed where he can wrap his legs around the boots, pin me to the bed and thread his finger through the ‘o’ ring at my throat immobilizing my head ready for the interrogation:
‘Whose boot bitch are you?’
Yours Master, yours.