Susans Black Boots

by Eve St. Albert

from Perversions and Infidelities, Trois

It began with frustration, Susan would remember.

Frustration, and anger, and most of all, boredom.

It wasn't personal. Mostly, it had been work. Work had sucked, things hadn't gone well, the project had bogged down, management was demanding, co-workers were shirking, sales were idiots and suppliers were irrational. Susan had been frustrated, and frustration had bled into her personal life.

She was alone, which was just as well, her last relationship had been with a loser. He'd been a soul-sucking self-centered drama queen. In the end, she hadn't been able to stand the sight of his face. But being alone sucked. But she still couldn't let the anger and resentment of her failed relationship go.

She wasn't much fun to be around, something she was well aware of when out with her friends. But she couldn't stand being alone.

So she inflicted herself on her friends, hating that she was inflicting herself, but unable not to. Sooner or later, they'd start to avoid her, and that worried her. But she couldn't help herself.

Out of desperation, her fifth best friend (she ranked them), Sandra proposed a blind date to her.

Insulted, she refused and walked out.

Two hours later, she called back to apologize.

She agreed to the date.

Not because she wanted a date. The very idea of it was deeply stupid and offensive.

But she needed her friends, and if she couldn't help being a bitch, then she needed to make amends.

***

Mark turned out to be a lawyer, in reasonably good shape, but more from very modest exercise and diet than any particular athleticism. His hands were soft, his grip not particularly firm. Mark was bland and uninteresting, he had that 'stamped out with a cooky cutter' fee. Susan wrote him off immediately, five minutes in.

They went for dinner together, someplace drearily conventional, overpriced, bland. It didn't surprise her at all. They made small talk. Susan was snappish.

Susan cursed herself. She didn't particularly want to be a bitch, but she couldn't help it. The free floating frustration and anxiety just seemed to seep out of her uncontrollably. Mark picked up on it quickly, and seemed to retreat within himself. He volunteered little about himself, and the few bits of information were carefully neutral and so uninteresting, she didn't bother to inquire further. Instead, he politely asked questions about her life, drawing her out, which hadn't been a good strategy, because it simply unearthed the anger and frustration.

But then, efforts to move to some neutral topic - politics, weather, culture, film and television, people in common were so uninteresting they were like sandpaper on her soul. She knew he was making an effort and it wasn't his fault, she just couldn't play along very well.

Fifteen minutes in, she decided to sleep with him. It wasn't out of any interest in him at all. Just sitting here, she was dry as a bone. Any sex would be artificially lubricated, orgasm free, and if she had any read on men at all, he would be five minutes.

She just hated being a bitch to him. She couldn't stop it. He didn't deserve it, he was just some beige nobody. Worst of all, here he was, vainly trying to get through it all with some degree of civility and dignity. It made her feel like she was kicking a puppy.

The simplest thing to do would be to just drop it - "I'm sorry, let's call it a night, you're fucking boring, and I'm in a bad mood, and it's just not going to get better."

That would make her a psychotic bitch. He'd think she was the biggest asshole in the world, not that his opinion would matter to her. He'd probably be grateful to escape. But it might get back to Sandra, and god knows who else.

"Sandra," she rehearsed. "It was nice. We tried. But it just didn't click. Thank you so much, but don't do it again."

Just go through the motions.

Think of it as an apology fuck.

The one thing that they would both be sure of, was that they'd never do it again. He might think she was a psychotic bitch, but he'd get something out of it, and her conscience would be clear.

It was, Susan understood, the worst reason in the world to have sex with someone. But the world could just go fuck itself.

***

The restaurant experience turned out to be tolerable. The food was uninteresting, but prepared and served competently enough that Susan didn't have an excuse to snap at the staff. There were enough strangers around, that she felt inhibited from expressing too much. Even Mark, quickly aware that he was walking through a minefield, was careful to avoid setting her off.

In the end, Susan was just left feeling like a bitch and hating herself for it.

The next step was supposed to be a nightclub show. She suggested going back to her place instead.

Maybe Mark would decline the offer. If she was in his shoes, she'd run for it. She could respect him for that, at least. The offer had been given, she'd made restitution. He had chosen his dignity. They could part company, with the score balanced, no hard feelings on either side, their heads held high.

He agreed. Of course he would. The loser.

Maybe she'd be surprised. Maybe she'd luck out and he'd be amazing in bed. Her life was shitty, a great fuck wouldn't make up for that, but it would be something.

Not a chance, she decided, looking him over.

She sighed.

The sooner it was over and done, the sooner she could settle down to netflix and boxed wine.

Maybe she should get a cat.

No, it probably wouldn't be able to stand her.

***

Mark was sitting on the couch, alone. Susan watched him from the shelter of her wingback chair. She'd poured them both a glass of red, ignoring the silent judgment as he'd watched her pour wine from a box. She'd blushed self consciously, right on the edge of kicking him out.

Bringing him home had been such a fucking mistake.

What she needed to do was join him on the couch. Then they'd put their wine down, have a perfunctory make-out session and then into the bedroom, and after that, out the door, goodbye so long.

She just couldn't bring herself to go to the couch.

Instead, she sat back in her wingback chair, legs crossed, sipping her wine, her foot swinging idly, watching him, trying to steel herself to go through with it.

Maybe he'd be satisfied with a handjob?

Or just tell him she'd changed her mind. He didn't seem like the type to go psycho at rejection. Honestly, this must be as awful for him. He'd probably be relieved to be out the door and away from her.

"Those are nice boots," he said, desperately.

Susan wanted to roll her eyes, simultaneously angry and guilty. He'd been floundering all night, one half-assed conversational gambit after the other, random lame compliments, and now this? Had he finally reached the bottom? Was it really this dead? There was just nothing else to talk about?

She glanced at her swinging toe. They were nice boots, patent leather, almost up to her knee, hugging her calves like a second skin, the heel perfectly balanced for walking, room for the width of her foot, but with an elegant point to the toe. She'd paid a lot of money for them years ago.

"They are," she said sarcastically, unable to help herself. "They're very nice boots. Why don't you lick them for me."

Inside she cringed, she couldn't believe she'd snapped like that. He must think she's the worst person in the world. She was horrified. She needed to take it back, make it a joke, apologize somehow. How do you apologize for something that ugly?

This was it, Susan decided. She waited for his face to turn to stone at the final unforgivable insult. In minutes, he would be walking out her door. The only question would be whether he would throw the glass of wine in her face, or simply call her a fucking bitch before storming off.

Maybe it wouldn't get back to Sandra.

Frozen, she watched the shock wash over him. The comprehension setting in.

Here it comes, she thought. He set the glass of wine down. At least she wouldn't end up wearing it, then. He seemed hesitant, confused, as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard.

He stood, awkwardly. Susan watched, her face carefully neutral. Should she apologize?

He took two steps toward her, and sank to his knees. Holding her boot steady with one hand, he licked the toe.

Three things simultaneously went through Susan's mind in that split second. One was flat astonishment. The other was the worry that the boot wasn't sufficiently clean, given that she'd been walking outdoors. But the single most overwhelming thing was that she was completely, absolutely, deliciously, instantly wet. Not just wet, soaking. She could feel it, her vagina tightening and dilating of its own accord, her clitoris literally bursting with sensation, this impossible wet flood like a river of wetness, seeming to pour from between her lips. For a moment she forgot to breath.

Mark just kept licking the toe of her boot, as she watched, frozen with astonishment, her nipples going so rigid she was certain they were poking through her dress. Inside her, the most amazing storm of butterflies was rising from her stomach, seeming to fill every inch of her.

He stopped and looked at her. She realized he'd avoided her gaze, carefully looking down as he'd licked the patent leather. Now he was looking at her. What did he want? Approval? Condemnation? Was he finished? Her mind was an astonished blank. She had no idea what to say.

The toe of her boot was slick with his spit.

He was looking at her expectantly.

Susan swallowed, the motion making her head bob slightly. She turned it into a nod. That seemed to work for him. She decided to try risking a word, fearing the consequences, the disgust, the refusal, the laughter, but needing to say it.

"Continue." The word came out as a chirp, a strangled whisper of a noise, barely audible, as if she'd forgotten everything she'd ever known about English.

But he nodded, and to her absolute thrill, he started doing it again, working is way along the side and up the arch. She couldn't believe it. She wanted to burst out laughing in giddy ecstasy, and the only thing that prevented her from doing so was the fear that if she did, he might stop.

Her foot bobbed slightly with each stroke of his tongue. He was doing it. She still couldn't believe it. She'd just said it, and now he was doing it. A casual, stupid bitchy remark, and he was doing it.

She felt this overwhelming sense of power, as if the heavens had rearranged themselves with her whim, that with the slightest exercise of will, she'd reshaped reality around her, to her own absolute amazement. It made her feel immense, buoyant, as if she was ten feet tall, but so weightless that she might float away on a breeze.

His eyes lifted to her, as he licked. That human contact made her slightly uncomfortable. She shook her head slightly, a finger pointed downward, and his eyes dropped. Again, that surge of a sense of power and control, the most trivial gesture suddenly animated with irresistible force.

She took a sip of wine, to cover her stunned amazement, tasting it on her tongue. What was this? Where was it going? Was she supposed to have sex with him? That felt so weird, she was incredibly aroused, the slightest move of her hips brought home to her how suddenly drenched her panties were, but it didn't feel right to have him in her.

What then? Was he supposed to do this all night? That seemed mean, and she didn't want to abuse him. Unless he wanted to? That would be great! But all night!

Was there a next step?

Susan had no idea. This was outside her experience. She vaguely understood that somewhere out there, there was a world of people who did this kind of thing. But for her, this was outside her experience. She had never imagined it, not really. Of course, there had been vague cartoonish domination and submission fantasies, everyone had those. But his act and her intense reaction, had shocked her, and left her adrift.

She sipped more wine, a larger gulp this time, holding it in her mouth, letting it swirl around on her tongue, as she watched him, trying to think. Every lap of his tongue, every gentle shove of it against her boot, sent shivers through her, made her pussy twitch. It made it hard to think.

Still, it was on her, wasn't it. She was the one in control. She couldn't just sit here all night. She needed to do something, exercise some more authority.

What she really wanted to do was masturbate furiously, reach her fingers into her panties, slip fingers into her vagina, and make frenzied circles around her clit.

Not in front of him.

All right then, what? She ordered, he obeyed. A thought occurred to her.

Susan swallowed the mouthful of wine and cleared her throat, moving her boot way from his tongue, oh it almost hurt to do that last one.

"This isn't quite right," she said. "I'm not pleased."

He looked up at her, his eyes wide, frozen. Susan was pleased at how clear and calm her voice was. The wine had lubricated her throat and allowed her to speak normally.

"You're overdressed," she said. He looked blank. She winced mentally, she was still discombobulated, barely coherent. She hoped he didn't think she was some kind of idiot. "Naked," she said desperately. "You should be naked."

That sank in. He nodded.

"Can I stand?"

"Why?" she asked, confused.

"To take off my pants and shoes..."

Oh right, she thought. Otherwise, he'd just be squirming around on all fours.

"Of course, and socks," she nodded. "Quickly."

She bit her lip, and then took another sip of wine, to cover. She shouldn't have said that last bit, it made her sound needy.

But if Mark noticed, he gave no sign. He stood quickly, rising up in front of her. Weirdly, it made her think of Botticelli, Venus rising from the waves. Hurriedly, he unbuttoned his shirt, stripping it off. The pants went down. Was he even wearing underwear? Yes, she saw boxers nestled in his trousers, he'd taken them down at once. He pulled the laces of his shoes, pulled one off, standing on one leg as he stepped out of his pants, and then the other.

Mark was very pink, he clearly didn't spend a lot of time tanning. She was pleased that her assessment of his body was accurate, an average build, but not athletic, no sign of hard muscle. There was some hair on his chest, on his calves, a thicker cluster on his belly and genitals and inner thighs. No manscaping worth noting, she decided. It wasn't an unattractive body, but not remarkable.

His erection jutted out like a pink spear, more or less average, she decided. Not circumcised.

She was proud of her clinical assessment, of her control. He stepped toward her. Are we going to fuck now, she wondered. Did I set that in motion? Despite her arousal, she wasn't sure how she felt about it. Like, okay, if it happened... sure. But should it? Did she?

"Stop," she held up a finger. He froze. Again, she felt that weird feeling of exaltation, of control and power, that shot through her like a drug. "I want to look at you naked."

Did she want to? She wasn't sure. Should she? Again, she wasn't sure. Mostly, she just wanted him stopped, and he'd stopped. Again, to cover, she sipped her wine, this time barely kissing the glass and wetting her lips. She'd go through the glass at this rate, and she didn't feel up to having a conversation or a distraction about another glass.

He waited patiently, while she tried to decide the next step. His erection was so hard, she noted, it bobbed on its own, a whitish bead of pre-cum oozing from the tip. No tattoos, she noted. No obvious scars or blemishes.

She needed to say something.

"I approve," she said finally, her throat drying out and making the words awkward again. She made a note to herself, swallow a little before speaking. She made a small gesture indicating her boot, her toe bobbing. "Now, continue."

Any thought they might proceed to sex evaporated instantly, as he fell once again to his knees, licking her boot.

If anything, it was even better, more exciting, more thrilling that he was now naked for it.

His fervor, his licking was even more intense, more urgent. Was he more aroused, she wondered. What was he experiencing? Was he getting hornier the more he licked, was it progressive, would he keep licking harder and harder until his cock spontaneously burst and he ejaculated? She almost wanted to see that. Or had the pause, the enforced nudity, aroused him?

Fuck, she wished that there was some sort of manual she could refer to. She had a fleeting whim to look it up on her phone, but it wasn't the sort of thing you asked AI. She didn't even know how to ask the question.

He was working his way around the other side, working towards her heel. She took a sip and swallowed.

"I don't want you to lick my soles, or the heel," she ordered. He glanced up, their eyes meeting, it made her feel awkward again.

"It's not safe for you," she explained. "I was walking outside in these boots. On the street."

He nodded in acknowledgment and shifted, licking up towards the ankle. How safe was what he was doing at all, she wondered. Should she even allow this? As wild as it was, she didn't want him getting sick, or poisoned, or ending up with some splinter in his tongue.

She should stop him. Maybe put on different shoes or boots, something she could be sure was clean for him. But what? It wasn't like she'd ever given a lot of thought to this kind of thing, how could she be sure that anything she had was cleaner than these. What if she grabbed the wrong pair and he got botulism?

Could you get botulism from licking shoes? She'd have to make sure whatever she brought out was clean for him. But then, she'd have to clean them. That would distract from the moment, it would take time.

And frankly, she absolutely didn't want him to stop. Somehow, they'd fallen into this magical spell of astonishment and ecstasy that was weird as fucking hell, and she absolutely was loving every minute of it. So no, no more time outs, no change of footwear.

He hadn't died yet. That was a good sing.

She cleared her throat and shifted her hips, feeling her pussy roll liquidly, the simple movement sending electric currents of arousal through her. She uncrossed, and recrossed her legs, presenting her other boot.

I'm an evil bitch, some far away part of her seemed to call out, as she redoubled on his humiliation. Fuck that, he didn't seem to mind.

"Now this one," she ordered.

There was the barest nod, and an immediate compliance so utterly smooth and willing, so devoid of resistance, that if she hadn't been soaked already, she'd have been wet all over again. She couldn't believe how much she was loving this, how her pleasure went way past her arousal to some deep, profound joy at his eager, willing obedience, at his submission and her control. She felt like a goddess over an altar, soaking up worship and sacrifice.

Her boots were shining with his spit and saliva, glistening in the light. He was kneeling in front of her, naked, his erection bobbing away somewhere underneath him. He hadn't even touched it, he was so completely consumed.

He was licking the inside of her angle, working his way up, toward the patent leather calf. She uncrossed and crossed her legs again, presenting the other calf. As if reading her mind, he started working his way up the inside of the calf. A moment later, she uncrossed her legs, leaving her knees spread, the heels of her boots turning inward.

"Do them both," she ordered, taking a quick sip. The wine was gone, she set the glass aside, unable to take her eyes off him. "At the same time."

Mark began to alternate, applying long tongue licks to one and then the other, working his way up. She stared, utterly fascinated by his eager enthusiasm. It was so bizarre, it was almost like being outside of her own body, something so beyond her experience. But each brush of his tongue against her calves brought her back to concrete experience. Intense, bizarre, wildly, erotic experience. And he kept moving higher.