Mike
02-28-2009, 08:30 PM
Famke was a nice enough girl but she had a temper. The tall lanky ex-model found it particularly irksome when her boots weren't attended to properly.
The 36-year-old Dutch girl came from a fine national tradition of domination. But for her it was not a professional choice. It was instead a need, a profound desire, an unquenchable thirst to humble males. At the end of a long day in the shark infested world of movie making Famke found nothing more relaxing or diverting, nothing more empowering, than to have one of the handsome men of her every increasing entourage attending to her boots.
At 5' 11'', Famke was rendered a giantess by her platformed soles and high heels. On her long legs the boots were even more pronounced. In her modeling days, Famke always preferred advertising boots and leather. Unfortunately, she got out of that business just as boots and leather started to become more popular. If she had stayed in it, she knew that she would be a very popular if privately worshipped fetish model. Instead, she chose the route of independent movie acting and keeping her fetishes to herself.
Her first name is Frisian for "little girl," but when Famke donned her boots she was the domineering, complete woman of a masochist's dreams. Famke favored boots, whose tops just ticked her knees. Black was her preferred color, to match her hair, and her moods.
She raised her leg from her reclining position and admired the length of the leather on her leg, and the curve of her calf coming out of the tight boots, and her muscular thighs, tensed by the high heel on her foot. She turned the boot to and fro, arching her foot, then bending the toe toward her. She smiled her ravishing, broad smile as she admired her boot. It was a new pair, recently shipped from a booterie back in Holland. The leather was of a particularly soft yet tough leather, black leather that glistened as if wet, and that clung to her legs as if sealed. Nor did the boot have that common boot flaw at the back of the ankle, where often the leather failed to gather correctly and wrinkled in an unsightly way. Famke didn't know how they did it, but her boots clung seductively to her in the rear of her ankle, no matter how she twisted and turned her foot. When she was standing, the leather breathed with her leg, edging slowing around her stockinged leg as she walked, or readjusting itself if she stood still.
The toe of the boot was squarish, but it wasn't in order to save her toes. No, she had plenty of pointy toed boots. Rather, with a square toe she could better monitor the tongue licking her slaves gave the boot. She could flex her toes and press them into the leather and up against the tongue of the slave, the leather prophylactically protecting her bare foot from the vile drool of the insensate slave. The four inch heel made for a sharp arch of the foot, but she didn't mind. A practiced boot wearer, Famke could handle even the highest heels with grace and ease. The leather gleamed on the arch, seeming tight and slick. The heels were long and square, a perfect bar to support her as she towered over the already humbled slaves, prostrating themselves even further onto the floor. The heel was of an expensive, exquisitely heavy wood that made a delicious thump as she walked across her hardwood floor, or on the tiles of the patio, where many a slave found himself bound to the wall out in the open as Famke went for a healthy swim in the noonday sun. It was a deeply satisfying sound, like the slamming of a good car door. One of her many criteria was that a good slave can swallow any heel of hers, no matter how long.
Famke especially loved the wrinkles around her upper ankle. Thanks to the folds, they were a blend of bright and dark. They required especial attention from the slave. His tongue needed to really dig in and remove debris, and clean those folds. She loved the way the slave's tongue, pressed for this hard duty, could actually pull the boot up her leg. She would smile down at the slave for a moment, flashing her teeth, but not so he could see. So engrossed in his humble cleansing was the slave, and crouching so tightly over the boot, there was no way for the slave to see her. She was safe. The slave was unaware of the sexual delight she was experiencing.
The long shaft of the boot up her leg was snug and soft and yet controlling. She loved the sensual contrast of the stocking coming out of the boot, and the pressure of the zipper up the length of her leg, tightening more as it approach her knee. The snugness was reassuring; and the pressure of the tongue on the already tight boot made it further better for her to monitor the slave's licking procedures. She had never met a slave who could just instantly lick boots to her satisfaction. She'd had to train them all. She owned their tongues for as long as they served her, and deviations from her precepts were frowned upon. After all, who knew better about the ins and outs of bootlicking than Famke, who had thousands of men at her boots.
Famke rose and looked at herself in the mirror. The boots glinted in the subdued light. Her long, lithe yet voluptuous figure was enhanced by a leather bustier and tight stockings. The bustier pushed her ample breasts upward, creating a provocative cleavage. Her breasts trembled ever so slightly as she twisted her torso to look at herself. Her thin, V-shaped torso sat atop long legs that were perfectly balanced and symmetrical with her body. The track lighting around the room, installed by one of Hollywood's greatest living cinematographers, was keyed to bring out the best in Famke, not that was hard. One of the most beautiful women in the world, Famke was tall, thin, elegant, sexy, and virtually flawless.
One of the people appreciating that beauty was the slave kneeling in the corner. The slave was Famke's latest acquisition, whom she met at a fetish party and recognized as a potential boot slave.
The slave was indeed a boot slave, as Famke knew, but he was also a Famke obsessive, something he was unwilling to tell her. Kneeling in the room, breathing her scent, observing her movements, his eyes darting from her boots to her body then back to her boots in an orgy of desire and expectation, this slave was living his dream. He neither expected her to be at the fetish party, and once recognizing her, he hardly expected her to invite him for a special session at her house at a pre-ordained later time. He wondered what Famke, one of the world's most famous women, saw in him.
What she saw was boot licking material. The way that the slave had gazed so longingly at her boots during the party, the hang dog sorrow in his face, the almost panting desire she sensed in him for her boots, a pair of black platform lace up thighboots with knobby toes and a delicious curve to the heel and instep, signaled to her that this new slave was indeed a boot fetishist.
So many slaves weren't. They liked to suffer. They liked to be whipped. They liked to be pierced or bloodied or bound in a small room for hours on end and not even permitted to gaze upon her stunning body. But to find a true boot fetishist was hard. Famke had exacting standards, among them endurance, carefulness, and a measure of creativity. Sure, a slave will lick her boots upon command. He has to. But rare is the slave whose sole reason to live is her boots, their care and maintenance, and for whom a prostrate posture before her boots is the highlight of his day, nay his life.
The slave was beside himself with ecstasy. In fact, he had already climaxed three times without ejaculation, and he was glad for that, because he assumed that if Famke knew she would punish him with dismissal from her presence. That he couldn't bear. In only the hour that he had been with her, the slave had fallen deeply in love, and was also in a state of almost constant arousal and orgasmic twilight.
Famke was fully aware of the effect her clothes, the lighting, and her natural beauty were having on the man in the corner. She was happy that she had seen fit to handcuff his wrists behind him before the session began. Otherwise, she knew, he would not be able to contain himself. He was a normal man, not overly fit, not decrepit. He was of average height, of unmemorable looks, and she had no idea what he did for a living nor did she care. She simply knew from the gleam in his eye that he was obsessed with her, and from the non-stop erections that he plagued him since she ordered him to disrobe and then manhandled him into the 'cuffs, that he was obsessed with her boots.
Famke had debated whether she wanted to allow him immediate access to her boots in order to assess his licking abilities, or to tease him to an even further stage of desire and frustration. Both had their advantages. The second afforded excellent torture of the male; the first provided immediate information about the slave's tongue strength. Famke had often wondered if it was the sensual feel of tongue on her leathern leg, or the power and sexual charge that came with standing over a humbled male whose sole purpose in life at that moment was to be on his knees before her and licking her boots at her command. Probably both, she always ended up concluding.
Famke decided on a blended plan of attack. She would taunt briefly, and then command boot licking. She strode across the long room, and then paused before the windows along the south wall. There, she flung open the doors, and let in the cool spring air. A faint whisper of honeysuckle drifted in. The warm air made the room cozy, and the open doors seem to suggest possibilities. Famke stayed in the triple-door frame, and posed for the slave. From a carefully placed mirror, one of many in the room, she could observe the slave without his knowledge while she pretended to ignore him. He was still on his knees, of course, but he was sagging at the chest. His torso was cover with a faint breathelization of sweat. His eyes darted. Up and down they went, from her boots to her buttocks to her boots to her hair, to her boots. She was a silhouette to him now, her figure against the lights of the city far down below. There was just a small smear of light along the edges of her bustier, the sides of her thighs, the edges of her boots. She swayed back and forth, as if listening to some inner music. He could hear the creaking of her leather boots as she swayed, and the swish of her stockings as she rubbed her thighs together. His whole body, his whole being was attuned to that sound. It was a subtle, exquisite creaking, like a hammock on a windy summer day, and the slave was starting to get dizzy with the sensuality of the sound.
He was jolted out of his cocoon of reverie when she turned suddenly and faced him. Her arms were akimbo, her hands on her hips. Her long dark hair danced on the breeze coming into the room. He couldn't see her face, only sense her eyes looking at him, a glint of white as she took him in. Then she strode toward him, the heel thunking against the floor. The slave, still erect, almost came again, but the pre-orgasm stayed in a zone of trembling expectation. Her hands slid off her hips, and her arms swayed as she marched toward him. As she got closer she got darker, until she was standing in front of him and without warning slapped him in the face.
That snapped him out of his lustful dream. Yet at the same time the action aroused him further, because he now knew her physical strength and that she was not afraid to use it to keep him in control. As he reeled from the blow, Famke took a collar and leash from the wall nearby and attached them to the slave's neck quickly and efficiently. She also did it brutally, showing him who was boss. If he had looked at her face, he would have seen a smile of satisfaction, at a job well done, and at the compliance of her willing slave, and at the inconvenience she had caused him.
Tugging on the leash, she led the slave to the center of the expansive room. Track lighting shined down on her, illuminating her from both the front, but also from a light behind, giving her an odd angelic cast. The slave was just in darkness. He stayed on his knees, his eyes upon her creaking boots as she swayed back and forth, and then began to pace in front of him in short marching steps. The light danced upon the folds of the boots, sending the slave deeper into his devotion to both them and Famke.
Famke began to speak. "Slave, I want you to listen up. Tonight is a test. If you pass it, then I may very well take you on as a new boot servant. That entails a lot of work. You have to be up for it. For one thing, I may summon you at any time, and what ever the inconvenience, you must come. If you miss but one summoning, you are off the list. Understood?" The slave knew enough to nod, rather than speak. "Good. Next, I have very strict requirements for my boot slaves. Versatility with the tongue is one of them, and that I may test tonight.."
Suddenly she stepped behind him, and the slave felt manacles snap around his ankles. Then, with a crude boot to his back, he was thrust forward onto the floor. He realized then that he was hog-tied with handcuffs and leg irons, with another cuff connecting the chains between his wrists and his legs. He was prone on the floor, his member wedged between his belly and the hard wood.
Then Famke stepped in front of him, her delicious black boots just inches from his face. She looked down on him from her towering height, and smiled with satisfaction. "First you have to pass a test. You have to show that you want to lick my boots." Then she walked backwards, her figure fading into the dark, then re-emerging. Then she sat in a large leather chair, which hissed under her weight. She reached over to a settee and took a large bottle of cognac and a glass. She poured herself a taste of the cognac. Then she raised her hand, and with her exquisitely thin fingers, motioned him forward.
The slave began to crawl. It was difficult under the restraints. His shoulders and knees scraped against the floor, and he began to work up a sweat as he struggle, wiggling like a fish out of water. Famke laughed at him as he struggled, and made very slow progress. The slave's muscles soon ached, and the scratches on his shoulders began to bleed. Famke laughed again, then finished her cognac. She looked at the glass, and then threw it to the floor.
The glass shattered along the hard wood in front of the slave. The pieces were both small and large and scattered in an arc in front of him. He would have to crawl through broken glass to lick the boots of his Mistress.
"Kruipen." she said, ordering him to crawl. Famke liked to use Dutch when ordering her slaves about. It irritated her that American men for the most part only knew one language. She knew five. It was time for them to catch up.
The slave struggle on. His brow beaded with sweat, he approached the first bit of glass littered. Famke saw him slow and hesitate, and frowned. This was a bad start. "Kruipen," she ordered again, this time more firmly and impatiently. She reached for a riding crop sitting on the settee, and began to tap it on the side of the boot she had crossed over her right leg. The tapping served as both a warning and a beacon.
The slave trudged forward. His head tugged like a mule hauling a great weight. The glass was now under him. There were splinters that embedded themselves in his chest, and large chunks that cut him. But he didn't stop. Except for the moments when he had to blink away the sweat, he kept his eyes on the boots before him, about 20 feet away.
His progress seemed interminable. Famke kept tapping. Occasionally she would consult a large aviator's watch on her wrist, the black leather band slipping down her thin wrist. She frowned at him. The slave started to leave a trail of blood behind him, like a slug. Fortunately, his still erect penis failed to catch any of the glass, but it was pure luck. Soon the slave was within three feet of her boots. His wrists ached from the handcuffs, and his torso and thighs bled lightly from 30 cuts. His knees and shoulders bore deep red scratches from the hard floor. But Famke waited. He still wasn't close enough. After panting for a moment, the slave proceeded. Soon he was within licking distance of her boots.
Famke tapped the tip of her black boot with the tag of the crop, and said, with exquisite slowness and superiority, "Likken mijn laars, slaaf," and then she took another glass and poured cognac into it.
This was the moment that the slave had been waiting for. But could he rejoice in it? No. He was bleeding. He was sore. He was aching from the wrists, thighs, neck, and ankles. He was sweaty and exhausted. He was bleeding porously. But did Famke care? No. She wanted one thing. To have her boots cleaned. She wanted her boots attended to with the best, most delicate instrument at her command, the slave's tongue. And she didn't care what he had gone through to reach her boots. Her boots and their state of health was more important to her.
The slave hung his head with exhaustion, but he was still game. His erection had not diminished throughout the glass, the bleeding, the hard floor, and the contemptuous, sneering, bored look on her face. This was Famke, his favorite actress, wearing his favorite attire, and she was ordering, as if she had to, to lick her boots.
He strained his head forward. His lips puckered. His tongue crept out from his mouth. The tip of the tongue found what it was looking for: the soft, yet hard, surface of her leather boot. He made his first lapping motion. He felt the hard boot, and tasted the chemical sheen and the leather and the flecks of dirt clinging to the boot. Famke looked down at him, and waiting for a sign that the slave knew what he was doing. It didn't take long. The slave didn't just lick her boots. He made love to them. His tongue explored every crevice, dip, angle, hard edge, seam, wrinkle on her foot. And he didn't rush. He lingered. It was as if every facet of her boot were new and lovely to him. Usually Famke had to order a slave, "kus langzaam" (kiss slowly) but this slave was so enraptured that she didn't have to say anything. She tilted her head back and rested against the back of her chair and let the sensuous feelings of the tongue on her leg let her drift into another dimension. She felt the tongue against her toes, then her ankle, and then up her leg, into the folds of the boot around her calf, and then long, slow laps up her calf to her knee. It took everything in her power to resist moaning as the boot slave pressed his tongue against her leg and lavished affection onto her leather. It was as if he were the master and she the slave as she drifted into a reveries of sexual ecstasy. She imagined, as if in a movie, scenes of war, of domination. She saw herself whipping legions of men before her as she conquered cities. She saw herself in the boudoir, surrounded by female slaves attending to her every need. She saw men on stakes and crosses littering the landscape, the victims of her purges. Again, she smiled as she let these images danced in her mind.
It seemed like hours later, but soon the slave was clearly spent. His tongue was sloppy. He was drooling uncontrollably. He kept licking, but even Famke could see that he was tiring. But what impressed her was that he would not give up. His tongue was married to her boot, and he refused to give up the love making. She had made a decision. This was the slave whom she had been looking for. The perfect boot slave, who lived for no other reason than to abase himself to her footwear and stay there for hours.
In her mind, she had adopted the male groveling at her boot, still lapping even though his tongue must have been swollen and dry, his senses dead after such a long session of boot licking. But he had impressed her. It was incredible, but it had happened. A male had passed the test. Not the normal, ordinary test that allowed a mediocre but passable slave access to her leather. But the larger, inner test that said here was a slave worthy of the name, truly worthy of the act of worshipping my boots. I think I'll keep him, she thought. I will keep him close and stave off the sloppy lovemaking that over excited fakes bestow upon me. Here is a real slave, and I shall enjoy torturing him and taking him on a journey deeper into boot slavery.
But to the slave, she said, as she yanked her boot away from him, "You'll do."
The 36-year-old Dutch girl came from a fine national tradition of domination. But for her it was not a professional choice. It was instead a need, a profound desire, an unquenchable thirst to humble males. At the end of a long day in the shark infested world of movie making Famke found nothing more relaxing or diverting, nothing more empowering, than to have one of the handsome men of her every increasing entourage attending to her boots.
At 5' 11'', Famke was rendered a giantess by her platformed soles and high heels. On her long legs the boots were even more pronounced. In her modeling days, Famke always preferred advertising boots and leather. Unfortunately, she got out of that business just as boots and leather started to become more popular. If she had stayed in it, she knew that she would be a very popular if privately worshipped fetish model. Instead, she chose the route of independent movie acting and keeping her fetishes to herself.
Her first name is Frisian for "little girl," but when Famke donned her boots she was the domineering, complete woman of a masochist's dreams. Famke favored boots, whose tops just ticked her knees. Black was her preferred color, to match her hair, and her moods.
She raised her leg from her reclining position and admired the length of the leather on her leg, and the curve of her calf coming out of the tight boots, and her muscular thighs, tensed by the high heel on her foot. She turned the boot to and fro, arching her foot, then bending the toe toward her. She smiled her ravishing, broad smile as she admired her boot. It was a new pair, recently shipped from a booterie back in Holland. The leather was of a particularly soft yet tough leather, black leather that glistened as if wet, and that clung to her legs as if sealed. Nor did the boot have that common boot flaw at the back of the ankle, where often the leather failed to gather correctly and wrinkled in an unsightly way. Famke didn't know how they did it, but her boots clung seductively to her in the rear of her ankle, no matter how she twisted and turned her foot. When she was standing, the leather breathed with her leg, edging slowing around her stockinged leg as she walked, or readjusting itself if she stood still.
The toe of the boot was squarish, but it wasn't in order to save her toes. No, she had plenty of pointy toed boots. Rather, with a square toe she could better monitor the tongue licking her slaves gave the boot. She could flex her toes and press them into the leather and up against the tongue of the slave, the leather prophylactically protecting her bare foot from the vile drool of the insensate slave. The four inch heel made for a sharp arch of the foot, but she didn't mind. A practiced boot wearer, Famke could handle even the highest heels with grace and ease. The leather gleamed on the arch, seeming tight and slick. The heels were long and square, a perfect bar to support her as she towered over the already humbled slaves, prostrating themselves even further onto the floor. The heel was of an expensive, exquisitely heavy wood that made a delicious thump as she walked across her hardwood floor, or on the tiles of the patio, where many a slave found himself bound to the wall out in the open as Famke went for a healthy swim in the noonday sun. It was a deeply satisfying sound, like the slamming of a good car door. One of her many criteria was that a good slave can swallow any heel of hers, no matter how long.
Famke especially loved the wrinkles around her upper ankle. Thanks to the folds, they were a blend of bright and dark. They required especial attention from the slave. His tongue needed to really dig in and remove debris, and clean those folds. She loved the way the slave's tongue, pressed for this hard duty, could actually pull the boot up her leg. She would smile down at the slave for a moment, flashing her teeth, but not so he could see. So engrossed in his humble cleansing was the slave, and crouching so tightly over the boot, there was no way for the slave to see her. She was safe. The slave was unaware of the sexual delight she was experiencing.
The long shaft of the boot up her leg was snug and soft and yet controlling. She loved the sensual contrast of the stocking coming out of the boot, and the pressure of the zipper up the length of her leg, tightening more as it approach her knee. The snugness was reassuring; and the pressure of the tongue on the already tight boot made it further better for her to monitor the slave's licking procedures. She had never met a slave who could just instantly lick boots to her satisfaction. She'd had to train them all. She owned their tongues for as long as they served her, and deviations from her precepts were frowned upon. After all, who knew better about the ins and outs of bootlicking than Famke, who had thousands of men at her boots.
Famke rose and looked at herself in the mirror. The boots glinted in the subdued light. Her long, lithe yet voluptuous figure was enhanced by a leather bustier and tight stockings. The bustier pushed her ample breasts upward, creating a provocative cleavage. Her breasts trembled ever so slightly as she twisted her torso to look at herself. Her thin, V-shaped torso sat atop long legs that were perfectly balanced and symmetrical with her body. The track lighting around the room, installed by one of Hollywood's greatest living cinematographers, was keyed to bring out the best in Famke, not that was hard. One of the most beautiful women in the world, Famke was tall, thin, elegant, sexy, and virtually flawless.
One of the people appreciating that beauty was the slave kneeling in the corner. The slave was Famke's latest acquisition, whom she met at a fetish party and recognized as a potential boot slave.
The slave was indeed a boot slave, as Famke knew, but he was also a Famke obsessive, something he was unwilling to tell her. Kneeling in the room, breathing her scent, observing her movements, his eyes darting from her boots to her body then back to her boots in an orgy of desire and expectation, this slave was living his dream. He neither expected her to be at the fetish party, and once recognizing her, he hardly expected her to invite him for a special session at her house at a pre-ordained later time. He wondered what Famke, one of the world's most famous women, saw in him.
What she saw was boot licking material. The way that the slave had gazed so longingly at her boots during the party, the hang dog sorrow in his face, the almost panting desire she sensed in him for her boots, a pair of black platform lace up thighboots with knobby toes and a delicious curve to the heel and instep, signaled to her that this new slave was indeed a boot fetishist.
So many slaves weren't. They liked to suffer. They liked to be whipped. They liked to be pierced or bloodied or bound in a small room for hours on end and not even permitted to gaze upon her stunning body. But to find a true boot fetishist was hard. Famke had exacting standards, among them endurance, carefulness, and a measure of creativity. Sure, a slave will lick her boots upon command. He has to. But rare is the slave whose sole reason to live is her boots, their care and maintenance, and for whom a prostrate posture before her boots is the highlight of his day, nay his life.
The slave was beside himself with ecstasy. In fact, he had already climaxed three times without ejaculation, and he was glad for that, because he assumed that if Famke knew she would punish him with dismissal from her presence. That he couldn't bear. In only the hour that he had been with her, the slave had fallen deeply in love, and was also in a state of almost constant arousal and orgasmic twilight.
Famke was fully aware of the effect her clothes, the lighting, and her natural beauty were having on the man in the corner. She was happy that she had seen fit to handcuff his wrists behind him before the session began. Otherwise, she knew, he would not be able to contain himself. He was a normal man, not overly fit, not decrepit. He was of average height, of unmemorable looks, and she had no idea what he did for a living nor did she care. She simply knew from the gleam in his eye that he was obsessed with her, and from the non-stop erections that he plagued him since she ordered him to disrobe and then manhandled him into the 'cuffs, that he was obsessed with her boots.
Famke had debated whether she wanted to allow him immediate access to her boots in order to assess his licking abilities, or to tease him to an even further stage of desire and frustration. Both had their advantages. The second afforded excellent torture of the male; the first provided immediate information about the slave's tongue strength. Famke had often wondered if it was the sensual feel of tongue on her leathern leg, or the power and sexual charge that came with standing over a humbled male whose sole purpose in life at that moment was to be on his knees before her and licking her boots at her command. Probably both, she always ended up concluding.
Famke decided on a blended plan of attack. She would taunt briefly, and then command boot licking. She strode across the long room, and then paused before the windows along the south wall. There, she flung open the doors, and let in the cool spring air. A faint whisper of honeysuckle drifted in. The warm air made the room cozy, and the open doors seem to suggest possibilities. Famke stayed in the triple-door frame, and posed for the slave. From a carefully placed mirror, one of many in the room, she could observe the slave without his knowledge while she pretended to ignore him. He was still on his knees, of course, but he was sagging at the chest. His torso was cover with a faint breathelization of sweat. His eyes darted. Up and down they went, from her boots to her buttocks to her boots to her hair, to her boots. She was a silhouette to him now, her figure against the lights of the city far down below. There was just a small smear of light along the edges of her bustier, the sides of her thighs, the edges of her boots. She swayed back and forth, as if listening to some inner music. He could hear the creaking of her leather boots as she swayed, and the swish of her stockings as she rubbed her thighs together. His whole body, his whole being was attuned to that sound. It was a subtle, exquisite creaking, like a hammock on a windy summer day, and the slave was starting to get dizzy with the sensuality of the sound.
He was jolted out of his cocoon of reverie when she turned suddenly and faced him. Her arms were akimbo, her hands on her hips. Her long dark hair danced on the breeze coming into the room. He couldn't see her face, only sense her eyes looking at him, a glint of white as she took him in. Then she strode toward him, the heel thunking against the floor. The slave, still erect, almost came again, but the pre-orgasm stayed in a zone of trembling expectation. Her hands slid off her hips, and her arms swayed as she marched toward him. As she got closer she got darker, until she was standing in front of him and without warning slapped him in the face.
That snapped him out of his lustful dream. Yet at the same time the action aroused him further, because he now knew her physical strength and that she was not afraid to use it to keep him in control. As he reeled from the blow, Famke took a collar and leash from the wall nearby and attached them to the slave's neck quickly and efficiently. She also did it brutally, showing him who was boss. If he had looked at her face, he would have seen a smile of satisfaction, at a job well done, and at the compliance of her willing slave, and at the inconvenience she had caused him.
Tugging on the leash, she led the slave to the center of the expansive room. Track lighting shined down on her, illuminating her from both the front, but also from a light behind, giving her an odd angelic cast. The slave was just in darkness. He stayed on his knees, his eyes upon her creaking boots as she swayed back and forth, and then began to pace in front of him in short marching steps. The light danced upon the folds of the boots, sending the slave deeper into his devotion to both them and Famke.
Famke began to speak. "Slave, I want you to listen up. Tonight is a test. If you pass it, then I may very well take you on as a new boot servant. That entails a lot of work. You have to be up for it. For one thing, I may summon you at any time, and what ever the inconvenience, you must come. If you miss but one summoning, you are off the list. Understood?" The slave knew enough to nod, rather than speak. "Good. Next, I have very strict requirements for my boot slaves. Versatility with the tongue is one of them, and that I may test tonight.."
Suddenly she stepped behind him, and the slave felt manacles snap around his ankles. Then, with a crude boot to his back, he was thrust forward onto the floor. He realized then that he was hog-tied with handcuffs and leg irons, with another cuff connecting the chains between his wrists and his legs. He was prone on the floor, his member wedged between his belly and the hard wood.
Then Famke stepped in front of him, her delicious black boots just inches from his face. She looked down on him from her towering height, and smiled with satisfaction. "First you have to pass a test. You have to show that you want to lick my boots." Then she walked backwards, her figure fading into the dark, then re-emerging. Then she sat in a large leather chair, which hissed under her weight. She reached over to a settee and took a large bottle of cognac and a glass. She poured herself a taste of the cognac. Then she raised her hand, and with her exquisitely thin fingers, motioned him forward.
The slave began to crawl. It was difficult under the restraints. His shoulders and knees scraped against the floor, and he began to work up a sweat as he struggle, wiggling like a fish out of water. Famke laughed at him as he struggled, and made very slow progress. The slave's muscles soon ached, and the scratches on his shoulders began to bleed. Famke laughed again, then finished her cognac. She looked at the glass, and then threw it to the floor.
The glass shattered along the hard wood in front of the slave. The pieces were both small and large and scattered in an arc in front of him. He would have to crawl through broken glass to lick the boots of his Mistress.
"Kruipen." she said, ordering him to crawl. Famke liked to use Dutch when ordering her slaves about. It irritated her that American men for the most part only knew one language. She knew five. It was time for them to catch up.
The slave struggle on. His brow beaded with sweat, he approached the first bit of glass littered. Famke saw him slow and hesitate, and frowned. This was a bad start. "Kruipen," she ordered again, this time more firmly and impatiently. She reached for a riding crop sitting on the settee, and began to tap it on the side of the boot she had crossed over her right leg. The tapping served as both a warning and a beacon.
The slave trudged forward. His head tugged like a mule hauling a great weight. The glass was now under him. There were splinters that embedded themselves in his chest, and large chunks that cut him. But he didn't stop. Except for the moments when he had to blink away the sweat, he kept his eyes on the boots before him, about 20 feet away.
His progress seemed interminable. Famke kept tapping. Occasionally she would consult a large aviator's watch on her wrist, the black leather band slipping down her thin wrist. She frowned at him. The slave started to leave a trail of blood behind him, like a slug. Fortunately, his still erect penis failed to catch any of the glass, but it was pure luck. Soon the slave was within three feet of her boots. His wrists ached from the handcuffs, and his torso and thighs bled lightly from 30 cuts. His knees and shoulders bore deep red scratches from the hard floor. But Famke waited. He still wasn't close enough. After panting for a moment, the slave proceeded. Soon he was within licking distance of her boots.
Famke tapped the tip of her black boot with the tag of the crop, and said, with exquisite slowness and superiority, "Likken mijn laars, slaaf," and then she took another glass and poured cognac into it.
This was the moment that the slave had been waiting for. But could he rejoice in it? No. He was bleeding. He was sore. He was aching from the wrists, thighs, neck, and ankles. He was sweaty and exhausted. He was bleeding porously. But did Famke care? No. She wanted one thing. To have her boots cleaned. She wanted her boots attended to with the best, most delicate instrument at her command, the slave's tongue. And she didn't care what he had gone through to reach her boots. Her boots and their state of health was more important to her.
The slave hung his head with exhaustion, but he was still game. His erection had not diminished throughout the glass, the bleeding, the hard floor, and the contemptuous, sneering, bored look on her face. This was Famke, his favorite actress, wearing his favorite attire, and she was ordering, as if she had to, to lick her boots.
He strained his head forward. His lips puckered. His tongue crept out from his mouth. The tip of the tongue found what it was looking for: the soft, yet hard, surface of her leather boot. He made his first lapping motion. He felt the hard boot, and tasted the chemical sheen and the leather and the flecks of dirt clinging to the boot. Famke looked down at him, and waiting for a sign that the slave knew what he was doing. It didn't take long. The slave didn't just lick her boots. He made love to them. His tongue explored every crevice, dip, angle, hard edge, seam, wrinkle on her foot. And he didn't rush. He lingered. It was as if every facet of her boot were new and lovely to him. Usually Famke had to order a slave, "kus langzaam" (kiss slowly) but this slave was so enraptured that she didn't have to say anything. She tilted her head back and rested against the back of her chair and let the sensuous feelings of the tongue on her leg let her drift into another dimension. She felt the tongue against her toes, then her ankle, and then up her leg, into the folds of the boot around her calf, and then long, slow laps up her calf to her knee. It took everything in her power to resist moaning as the boot slave pressed his tongue against her leg and lavished affection onto her leather. It was as if he were the master and she the slave as she drifted into a reveries of sexual ecstasy. She imagined, as if in a movie, scenes of war, of domination. She saw herself whipping legions of men before her as she conquered cities. She saw herself in the boudoir, surrounded by female slaves attending to her every need. She saw men on stakes and crosses littering the landscape, the victims of her purges. Again, she smiled as she let these images danced in her mind.
It seemed like hours later, but soon the slave was clearly spent. His tongue was sloppy. He was drooling uncontrollably. He kept licking, but even Famke could see that he was tiring. But what impressed her was that he would not give up. His tongue was married to her boot, and he refused to give up the love making. She had made a decision. This was the slave whom she had been looking for. The perfect boot slave, who lived for no other reason than to abase himself to her footwear and stay there for hours.
In her mind, she had adopted the male groveling at her boot, still lapping even though his tongue must have been swollen and dry, his senses dead after such a long session of boot licking. But he had impressed her. It was incredible, but it had happened. A male had passed the test. Not the normal, ordinary test that allowed a mediocre but passable slave access to her leather. But the larger, inner test that said here was a slave worthy of the name, truly worthy of the act of worshipping my boots. I think I'll keep him, she thought. I will keep him close and stave off the sloppy lovemaking that over excited fakes bestow upon me. Here is a real slave, and I shall enjoy torturing him and taking him on a journey deeper into boot slavery.
But to the slave, she said, as she yanked her boot away from him, "You'll do."