(for Miss M)
He was her boot slave.
His job was simple: to keep her collection of shoes and boots in spotless condition.
To polish them, arrange them, dust them, repair them when necessary, to put them on her beautiful feet in the morning (delightful task) and (even more delicious) to take them off at night.
Taking them off was the best task. Of course it was. To pull the warm, moistened leather off her exquisitely shaped feet, to massage her skin and caress her toes and heels, and (if she was in a good mood) to suck her toes, tasting the salt of her sweat, the delicious memory of her scent, her power, her mistresshood...
This was the finest moment of the day for boot slave. To kneel on the floor, worshipping those perfect, fragrant, red-varnished toes, cleansing them with his own saliva, basking in his slavery...
"Good boy," she would murmur, between puffs of her cigarette.
And his life would be complete.
But it was putting them on that was the most dangerous task of the day. Mistress would not tell him which footwear to bring to her. Instead she would make some vague remark, like, " I'm feeling very Dita Von Tease today", or" I need a pair of shoes to show I'm a woman who doesn't take any shit."
And of course he would opt for the patent black stilettos with the red soles, or the red boots that laced all the way up to her knee. But heaven help him if he got it wrong. If he chose black suede when she wanted snakeskin, or patent red boots when she wanted tigerskin pattered kitten heels. Then he would need to pull down his trousers and boxers, kneel on the floor before her, and wait while she chose her cane of choice.
Oh, so sorry!"
He would whelp as she dished the strokes out, careful to make a neat set of parallel lines on his ass cheeks, six of them that would mean he couldn't sit down all day without a reminder of her displeasure, her power, her divine feminine sadism.
Worst of all would be if he brought her shoes that were in any way dirty: even a speck of dust or the smallest scuff and Madam would curl her lip in disgust.
"You useless slave. Perhaps I should get rid of you. Find a slave who knows how to treat quality footwear.
"Oh no, madam, please!"
"How many strokes should it be then, what would be a sufficient number, to show you are truly sorry?"
And this was a dangerous question. If he chose too low a number, she would play the game called Double Up; basically she would double the number of strokes. So if he said six, he would end up caned 12 times. If he said 12, he might end up with 24 agonising stripes on his ass cheeks. If he went higher, he was guaranteeing his own pain.
How she loved this game! She could play it for hours. It was almost worth having an incompetent slave for the deliciousness of inflicting pain.
How he loved to be her boot slave! He would take any punishment to stay at her feet, to care for her shoes, to be her slave...
And she, she knew it.