From the beginning of My Leather journey, I've known that Leather boots are the only Leather I needed to feel sexy in My skin.
I was a devoted boot fan early, saving My middle school, DC trip money to buy My first pair of Dr. Martens. My grandfather showed Me how to care for the greasy leather so it stayed in good shape.
To Me, boots were My armor.
Boots meant security, utility.
They protected My ankles and held My calf in a warm embrace.
I would lace them up nice and tight and enjoy how they glowed from the mink oil My grandfather had taught Me to use.
When I was in high school, I found out about club kids in the late 1980's New York City club scene. Some of these performance artist club goers would laminate and screw together thick platform soles onto fashionable tall leather boots. They were walking, talking fever dreams of giant cartoon people imagining and manifesting their fantasy footwear. I was inspired.
The makeup, stunning.
The fashions, shocking.
The footwear, fascinating!
I was off and running, collecting any and all information I could about these platform knee-high boots.
Then I found Pennangalen boots. The dark wave and post punk scene in the UK hand spilled out onto Europe with emerging goth and industrial music subcultures. With it, came a renaissance for dark fashion (IMHO). Boots have always been de rigeur in any Dark Beauty's footwear collection. And did Pennangalen provide.
They Transmuter boots have been ripped off by many lesser brands since the UK-based Pennangalen shuttered. It was a loss for anyone who wanted platform boots in quality leather with real laces and no zipper. Whether winklepicker pointy toed boots or metallic platform heels or a thick platform wedge boots trussed up in D-rings, Pennangalen provided. I never did get a change to order from them.
Fast forward to 2005. I was making good money and saved enough to buy Myself a pair of John Fluevog Lucky Stud Angel Sole boots. The brand itself is quirky, colorful, creative, daring, and downright comfortable. The design and explanation on the Angel Soles endeared Me further to these boots. Each sole had 7 angels with a small sign that reads " RESISTS ALKALI, WATER, ACID, FATIGUE, SATAN". These beautiful black boots have contrasting white stitching making them a technical challenge for anyone who desires to care for them.
I have had many bootblacks drool over the shape these boots are in, desiring a challenge to restore them to their original condition. This is impossible of course. I have scuffed them, lost some of the studs, replaced the laces with kevlar lacing to ensure I never break another pair. They have been to Dallas, Atlanta, Tampa Bay, Phoenix, Baltimore, and the salty snowy streets of Toronto, Ontario. They've walked through Palm Desert when I was visiting My family, they've marched in Leather Walks, Street Fairs and in many Gay Pride Parades. They've been with Me through the death of My mother, My grandmother, My grandfather. They have endured joy and sorrow. They still lace and they still support. They mean a lot to Me, they have been My friends and have made My life transitions easier by tirelessly enduring the steady drumbeat of time and wear.
This history is part of what informs My boot fetish.
My boots have also been with Me during My first Pro Domme scenes.
They have been licked, worshipped, and meticulously cleaned.
They have trampled bois out on the San Francisco streets and in her dungeons.
When a tongue presses itself flat onto the inside of My ankle or My instep and gently works its way up the shaft of My boot, My flesh beneath is stimulated. That tongue and the restrained power behind it light a fire within Me. That leather is My second skin, so this tongue is worshipping My legs, ankles, and feet through the hide.
The pressure pushes solidly into My muscles like a massage.
I am in heaven.
A hot tongue and a pair of warm nimble hands can make for an absolutely wonderful time. Even if the owner of that tongue does not have experience, the owner of the boots can provide sensually delivered expert instruction so that the tongue has more direction. Anyone who wants to get near My boots will always bring politeness and complete sentences when submitting a session application.
Be on your best behavior and watch your tongue, I don't want bitterness licking My boots, I want your joy.
I want your enthusiasm.
I want you get high worshipping My boots.
And what do I see from above? What do I see of you?
I see a good-mannered boi. Kneeling, palms up on thighs, chest up, shoulders back and eyes meeting Mine. I smile warmly and a pleasurable rush fills My breast for what is about to happen. Upon giving you your cue to begin, you quickly lose composure. Your hunger is evident, you are starved for the touch of My boots. Their embrace around your neck when you sit between My Legs feels like home.
A lustful tongue makes love to My leather boots.
A half-clad coil of body, hands, and tongue, support My feet, massaging My boot shafts. You take time to tongue every piece of leather layered, stitched, and studded.
Your eyes are closed, mapping My boots and noting My anatomy with your tongue. I catch you with your eyelids aflutter rounding the curve of My leg.
You are in a reverie and for a moment, we are the only two people in the whole world.
Your hands, cradling My soles, holding the leather-clad ankle to your cheek with an extended tongue. Your breathing is steady, deep inhalations of the leather and hot breathy strokes of your tongue. It is a sight to behold, to experience, you at My feet, demonstrating your adoration. Your breath on My boots.
I miss this.