Bootlegger

The beautiful, young woman in boots and leggings walks confidently up towards me and shoves her right, booted foot into my face, ordering me from on high to lickshine it clean so that she can see her pretty face in it!

I spend the next 10 minutes or so duly lickshining her black leather, zip-up, calf-length boots before she crouches down to ask me how I am liking the taste of them? Are they sufficiently bitter-tasting to my tongue, and do I think the dirt and grime on her boots complements the taste of her boot leather? I humbly and respectfully reply in the affirmative to both her sarcastic questions.

She then gloats further over me by asking me if I would like to see what sort of socks she is wearing deep inside her boots? I, of course, confirm, most humbly and contritely, that it would indeed satisfy my prurient, footslavish curiosity to observe the mistress’s socks hidden inside her boots, if she would be so kind, and she gently obliges me by taking off her right boot and shoving a stinky, blue-socked foot right into my face, even requiring me to kiss the moist and dark sweat stains on the outside of the sock.

How she laughs at me as I am obliged to kiss her dirty, warm sock, and, when she eventually turns to walk away from me, having put her right book back onto her sweaty-socked foot, she leaves me with the bitter aftertaste of her dirty, black leather boots in my mouth; the lingering stink of her sweaty, blue cotton sock up my nostrils; and the sound of her triumphalist, female laughter ringing in my ears. And well might she laugh at me – a girl’s public bootlicker and sock-kisser.

Nevertheless, it was a privilege and an honour for the likes of me to see the socks of a superior, young woman such as this – and not just to see them, but to touch them with my menial mouth!