The Taste of Boot Leather

Paul’s knees were beginning to hurt. The floor was hard.

A sufficiently harsh punishment, the maîtresse had said. Too harsh, he thought ruefully, given he’d been entirely innocent. Or almost entirely — Pasha’s charge that he found the maid attractive could not be completely denied.

Post-orgasmic seismic tremors fluttered somewhere deep inside his body. The counteragent of discomfort was the strange intimacy of the dark space under the maid’s skirts.

Still, his doubled-over position was beginning to cause aches and pains in unexpected places. It was a strain on his ankles and his hips were complaining. The brutal little thumbcuffs were chafing.

Gwyneth, thankfully, mostly kept her feet still; when she fidgeted, the thin tough boot laces abraded his neck and compressed his throat.

He had found a tolerable position by worming forward slightly, keeping her toecaps against his knees, but even so he had to lift his bum very slightly all the time to avoid pressure on his Adam’s apple. It was tiring.

The role of arousal in bondage games intrigued him. Enduring some discomfort was much easier when his libido was high and he was hoping for pleasure. After an orgasm it was a different story — the bite of a cuff and the strain of a tough position became harder to tolerate.

“Hey, are you having fun down there?”

The maid’s crisp voice, cutting into his thoughts, was accompanied by a small outward movement of her ankles. It was deliberate, a way of demonstrating that she could hurt him if she wanted to.

“Ow! Don’t do that!” Paul complained.

“You mean… this? Or is it this I shouldn’t do?”

As she spoke, the maid taunted him by first swivelling her ankles outward, tightening the cord around his neck, and then pressing her feet together, gently rubbing the sides of her boots against his ears. The switch happened before he could call out.

The momentary shock of being throttled was instantly replaced by the comfort of leather-clad feet cradling his head. The contrast made him breathe faster.

Harshness and tenderness, it was a combination that always stirred his loins, even so soon after an orgasm.

He was all too aware of the ‘accident.’ The jism in his shorts was wet, cold and clammy. He had soiled Pasha’s gorgeous pink knickers; indeed, their silky smoothness had contributed to his helplessness when it came to controlling ejaculation.

When they changed later the wet patch would remind Pasha (not, he thought, that she would have forgotten) of the latest ‘unauthorised’ orgasm. There would be repercussions.

Dualities. He marvelled at being under skirts and petticoats, like a wretched pagan admitted to a sacred sanctuary, even while he was in discomfort.

It was as if he was in a gloomy cave, captive but safe. There were faint but tantalising fragrances; the pleasant pressure of the maid’s boots holding, almost caressing, his head; the stricture of being so helpless on the floor; the bite of the steel thumbcuffs holding his hands behind his back — he felt an unfamiliar gratitude, or gratification, at being so cruelly treated.

It was as if he could taste the boot leather.

Feelings of both joy and fear swirled inside him; he hardly knew who he was any longer. A part of him wanted to be totally subjugated, brought completely under Pasha’s control, reduced to a toy, a pet, an object. Another part clung to his other identity — retired runner, knowledge seeker, Delhume’s financial manager.

His identity turmoil was occasional, fleeting thoughts that came and went. It was easily and reliably overwhelmed by the sensations of bondage and subservience.

“I think you like it down there,” the maid said, moving her feet apart just enough to free his head without tightening the noose.

He had no witty comeback. It was true. In spite of the little aches, he felt at home.

“If I was your mistress,” the maid went on, “I would turn you into a gimp. A hood, fist mittens, rubber and leather from head to toe, that’s what you would wear, 24/7. I would keep you in a small cage in the corner and make you eat from a bowl on the floor. I would lock your cock in steel, permanently, and milk you once a week. You would pleasure me with your tongue, like a dog, and you would never have another orgasm. Ever.”

The maid’s words were startling. Almost impassioned, although her voice was crisp and clear, as sharp as a knife, as sure as running water.

He believed every word. He believed she was capable of such things. The power of such perversity, aimed directly at him, was astonishing. His whole crotch ached.

The arousal was almost painful, as if he cock and balls were not ready to be reignited but could not help themselves.

Did he really crave such cruelty? How could it turn him on so much?

Even while his loins burned he felt the need to respond, to assert himself somehow. He had to swallow and calm his breathing before he could reply.

“That’s rich coming from you — you’re locked in a steel chastity belt, you’re a servant.”

“I am. And that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to have slaves of my own. Don’t you know that female submissives make the harshest mistresses?”

This was a new idea to Paul. A hierarchy of Dommes and subs — an overlord ruling with an iron fist, the basest creatures grovelling in chains, and between them a class of cruel, straitlaced vixens suffering their own erotic torments while inflicting depredations on the lower lifeforms.

An old precognition had burst into flames; he understood immediately how unrelentingly strict a submissive mistress would be. His balls ached at the thought. Shame ran through him, hot in his cheeks, at the realisation that his desires were deep and depraved, more perverse than he had ever realised.

As if to prove a point, the maid began swivelling her ankles apart. It was done so gradually that it was a moment before Paul realised that the cords around his neck were growing tighter and tighter.

The pressure on his throat increased. One of the laces, as it got taut, began to push on his Adam’s apple.

He opened his mouth, gagging. In a matter of seconds he had been changed from a contented lapdog into an impotent bottom struggling to speak.

He squirmed forward urgently, looking for relief, but the maid’s legs were as strong as posts and the tough thin cords held him tight.

Gasping, almost frantic, he begged her to stop.

The maid subjected him to a last, even harsher movement of her ankles before suddenly clasping his head again between her boots, holding him still.

Unseen under her skirts, he panted with relief, his eyes smarting. His heart did tumble turns. He feared her, he craved her. He wanted her cruelty and her tenderness in equal measures.

The maid’s voice floated down from above him.

“There is a good chance, I suspect, that you will find yourself at my mercy again before the weekend is out. So be careful what you say about me. Don’t throw me under the bus, you will come off second best.”

This is part of Kissing Leather, chapter 2 of book 6 in the Grey’s Chateau series.

Kissing Leather and the other books in the Grey’s Chateau series are available on Amazon.