Sarah lay in the exact center of my master’s living room, her black hair spread out around her as if it were part of the intricate pattern woven into his rug. Her hands stretched above her head—I’d tied them together and attached them to the coffee table I’d moved out of the way for the occasion. Her breasts were too full to point upward when she lay on her back. They spilled out to either side, as though her torso could not contain their abundance. Her stomach quivered visibly in response to my master’s movements. She’d spread her legs wide at his request, but she was obviously struggling to keep still. Her thigh muscles twitched occasionally, and her toes wriggled.
He returned his boot to her cunt, blocking my view of her exposed wetness. Sarah whimpered, and her right foot pointed sharply.
I sat as I’d been told to, silently, legs folded under me, hands laced together and resting atop my thighs. I was naked, and I could feel my cunt dripping onto my right heel. It was so tempting to shift a few inches so I could get more pressure from that heel where it counted, but that wasn’t in the line with the spirit of what I’d been commanded to do, so I remained still and watched.
My master stood between me and Sarah. His boots shone in the way of highly polished black marble, and that was my work. I’d spent hours on those boots before Sarah came over, bent over his feet while he relaxed. For some of it, he watched me or ran his fingers through my hair as I stroked the leather with tongue and cloth and conditioner. At other times, he leaned back in his chair and scrolled through his smartphone, mostly ignoring me. For parts of it, he rested his other boot on my back, holding me close to the floor.
I still ached—between the shoulderblades, in the forearms, at the root of my tongue. But after this and many other mornings of such attention, those boots felt as much a part of me as my own fingers. With my tears, my labor, my saliva, my love, I’d poured my own life into them, and that energy flowed forth from them now.
Sarah’s legs jerked toward each other, and my master’s boot stopped moving. “Keep them spread, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his tone dangerous. “Don’t hide that pretty cunt of yours. Especially not while I’m playing with it.”
She groaned and walked her heels out wide again. She had gorgeous feet—supple and expressive. Even if I hadn’t known what my master was doing to her, I might have guessed at her ecstatic agony from the lines of her arches. Her feet curled and uncurled in rhythm with his motions.
I wasn’t touching her physically, but my body tingled as if my nervous system connected to the living, breathing leather of his boot. I shivered, knowing in a deep way that her entrance rippled at that moment around his booted toe.
She gave one sweet sigh, and he pulled back. It must have been his signal to switch from giving pleasure to giving pain. The polished boot shifted to rest on her bare thigh. “Are you going to hold still for me?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she moaned.
He applied weight until she sucked in her breath, then switched to the other thigh. I could see a red mark on her flesh where his boot had been, and that belonged to me, too. Pain made her feet flex. Her toes strained toward the ceiling, and her calf muscles went taut. My legs tightened in sympathy.
“Good girl,” my master said, and went back to stroking her pussy with the boot. I knew how soft that leather was, and how it would absorb the warmth of Sarah’s body and feed it back to her, along with the warmth I’d given it and the warmth radiating from my master’s toes.
Sarah’s breath hitched, and I heard the distinct sound of a sob.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” he murmured. From where I sat, it looked like he wasn’t moving at all anymore, but I could imagine the tiny movement of his boot, the toe rocking just within her, as gentle as the lap of water against the sides of a mostly still pond.
“Can you keep being good, even if I untie you?” my master asked.
Sarah gave a tearful sound of assent.
“Come,” he said to me. “Get her free.”
I crawled quickly to loosen Sarah’s bonds. She’d played with us before, and knew we preferred for her not to acknowledge me. I liked the scents, sounds, and sights of sex. I loved being a tool that facilitated it. But I did not want the hole that was fucked to belong to me, and I did not want to be the person applying a fucking directly. My master’s positive attention pleased me, but my favorite moments were when he seemed to forget me, when he trusted his boots to me without acknowledgement or correction, when he treated me as an object that functioned perfectly without any need for intervention.
So I untied Sarah’s hands smoothly, careful to give her a little rope burn in the process because I knew she liked that. And I put the rope away neatly and then returned to my corner as my master gave Sarah permission to ride his boot.
She clung to his leg and dried her tears on the fabric of his jeans. Her position was awkward—back arched, straddling the floor, ass thrust out to give her the angle she needed to rub her clit against his toe. She closed her eyes and began to rock her hips, and she was fucking me now, taking me in, taking pleasure from the leather I had made soft and supple for my master as well as for her.
She grunted rhythmically as she rutted against his boot, looking gorgeous and depraved. And then, like a rare jewel falling from a tightly sealed satchel, a single moan escaped my master’s lips. The sounds from the two of them washed over my whole body, and a deep satisfaction lodged in my lower belly in a way that was no less intense than the orgasm that took Sarah a few minutes later.
My head was dizzy and my thoughts caught up in both of them. The taste of leather still lingered in the corners of my mouth. The sharp, clear scent of Sarah’s cunt spread through the room and washed all else away. Her feet moved frantically as she struggled through the last moments of her orgasm.
Then she went still, body curled around my master’s boots, one foot tucked tightly against the other. For a little while, none of us moved. Pins and needles tingled in my lower legs, but I wouldn’t be first to break the spell. At last, my master nudged Sarah gently with his toe.
“Kiss them,” he said.
Sarah pressed grateful kisses to each of his boots. Then, without being asked, she began to lick, cleaning her juices from the leather. Her movements reminded me of a kitten, quick and tender. I felt strong and indefatigable while licking those boots, but Sarah performed the same action with playfulness and vulnerability.
I looked forward to tasting that mood the next time I touched my own tongue to the leather. I shivered with pride, thinking of all those boots are, were, and could be—for me, for my master, and now for her as well. They were part of all of us, and so I was part of both of them.
My master praised Sarah for her thorough work, and then took a seat in his usual chair. “Use your mouth to take off the boots,” he said. “And then leave them next to the chair.”
Sarah couldn’t do that smoothly, but I enjoyed watching her, sweaty, sated, and a little clumsy. She bit laces and tugged them loose, and my master ran his fingers through her hair as he let her figure out the nuances on her own. Her feet moved in sympathy as she concentrated on his.
At last, the boots were off, and he leaned forward and gathered her naked body into his arms. Without a word to me, he lifted her off the floor and carried her toward the bedroom, but I knew they hadn’t forgotten me, because there the boots waited beside the chair, well-fucked and well-used, well-prepared for all my tender ministrations.
I crawled toward them and bent my head to breathe them in—the scents of Sarah’s cunt, her saliva, my master’s feet. Underneath all that was the animal scent of leather itself, a wildness that sometimes seemed to me to be responsible for the passion that rose up within us. I kissed the boots myself, enjoying how warm they felt against my lips.
As soft moans reached me from the bedroom, I held the boots close and set to work to make them shine again.
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