tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10500579079514043052024-03-08T15:19:40.086-08:00Venus In BootsThe diary of a serious boot fetish and how it lead to a much darker state of beingbootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-13292080556011823942010-08-28T20:40:00.000-07:002010-08-28T20:43:04.603-07:00What Does That Sign Mean?<div><div style="position: relative; width: 300px; height: 300px;"><a href="http://www.polyvore.com/what_does_that_sign_mean/set?.embedder=1363618&.mid=embed&id=22519072"><img alt="What Does That Sign Mean?" src="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-set/BQcDAAAAAwoDanBnAAAABC5vdXQKFm9BbElQQkd5M3hHS2ZYQmtlVXEzemcAAAACaWQKAWwAAAAEc2l6ZQ.jpg" title="What Does That Sign Mean?" border="0" width="300" height="300" /></a></div><br /><small><a href="http://www.polyvore.com/what_does_that_sign_mean/set?.embedder=1363618&.mid=embed&id=22519072">What Does That Sign Mean?</a> by <a href="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/profile?.embedder=1363618&.mid=embed&id=1363618">WorthlessPony</a><br /></small></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-11733335689205343572010-02-19T15:50:00.001-08:002010-02-19T15:50:37.788-08:00Rainy Day Games<div><a href="http://www.polyvore.com/rainy_day_games/set?.embedder=1363618&.mid=embed&id=16175627"><img width="400" alt="Rainy Day Games" src="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-set/BQcDAAAAAwoDanBnAAAABC5vdXQKFmxMZHZyZWtjM3hHQmhCVW5CQldQYlEAAAACaWQKAWUAAAAEc2l6ZQ.jpg" title="Rainy Day Games" height="400" border="0" /></a><br/><small><a href="http://www.polyvore.com/rainy_day_games/set?.embedder=1363618&.mid=embed&id=16175627">Rainy Day Games</a> by <a href="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/profile?.embedder=1363618&.mid=embed&id=1363618">WorthlessPony</a> featuring <a href="http://www.polyvore.com/fendi_shoes/shop?brand=Fendi&category_id=41">Fendi shoes</a></small></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-81264754556637037152007-11-14T14:15:00.000-08:002007-11-14T14:16:46.457-08:00Big Gals In BootsI love big women. Big butts own my nuts.<br /><br />Shapely is the only sexy.<br /><br />And full figured women in high heeled boots make me weak.<br /><br />If I am flipping through channels and stop on Oprah and see she is wearing boots, I get a hard on right away.<br /><br />(Frankly, the only reason I stop on Oprah when channel surfing is to see if she is wearing boots. Some times I will stop and won't go on until I can declare one way or the other.)<br /><br />I have seen pictures of Oprah in the morning, before her crew of professionals turns that rather scary morning visage into the smooth and lush face that adorns magazines in the check-out line. And even with that in mind, I go hard at the sight of her in boots.<br /><br />With that in mind, you can imagine my reaction today as I stepped out of the office to grab some lunch and I saw not one, but three rubenesque women in boots walking down the street together. There was a pale skinned, big redhead with her tight jeans tucked into a pair of nice brown leather boots and a darker toned brunette in a long brown patterned skirt that was slit up high enough to reveal a pair or black, knee high riding boots as she walked.<br /><br />But between them, leading the procession, leading their conversation, and leading in my heart, as a full figured ebony goddess that could make me cry with the wink of an eye. She strode along, ever half a step ahead of her two friends, with that air of confidence that seems to come naturally to black women. That air that allows them to make a completely unreasonable demand and make it sound not only like something you had better do right now, but that there must be something wrong with you if you have not yet snapped to it.<br /><br />She wore a black leather coat over a tight skirt that flared at the hem just above he knees, below which she was wearing a pair of very well maintained black, high heeled leather boots.<br /><br />They were going the opposite direction from my planned lunch stop, but I forgot all about lunch. I followed them from across the street, observing them, knowing that nothing would ever come of it, but unable to stop myself or my thoughts.<br /><br />Of course, I could picture myself, naked and on the floor before that trio, at their beck and call, eager to please and subject to their scorn and derision. I would endure pain and humiliation to please them, to get the chance to kiss and lick their boots. I would dream of earning enough regard from them to be allowed to attempt to satisfy them by serving as their throne, my face nestled between thick thighs and under a magnificent butt as I strained to both pleasure them and gasp for breath underneath them.<br /><br />When it comes to women in boots with full butts, I am the ass-kisser extrodinaire.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-34962801249933350022007-11-09T21:22:00.000-08:002007-11-09T21:25:57.028-08:00Handcuff EarringsOne of the project managers, a woman of course, was wearing a very interesting pair of earrings today.<br /><br />They consisted of long, dangling gold chains that ended in hand cuffs which practically rested on her shoulders.<br /><br />And she was wearing a very nice pair of tall, high heeled, black leather boots. They fit her perfectly too. Snug, but not so tight they looked like they were going to burst at the seams.<br /><br />Fall is well and truly upon us, and boots are coming out of summer storage.<br /><br />Of course, what could I say to this woman? I know what I wanted to say. <br /><br />But I said nothing.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-76675716208528394192007-09-06T20:43:00.000-07:002007-09-06T20:53:04.057-07:00Men in Pain Suddenly FadesI used to think the site <a href="http://www.meninpain.com/">Men in Pain</a> was the web's true gift to me. It features men being tied up, beaten, and screwed with strap-ons by beautiful, and frequently boot wearing, women.<br /><br />I highly recommend the site.<br /><br />Only they now have a new site going. <br /><br />It is called <a href="http://www.tsseduction.com/">TS Seduction</a>.<br /><br />I am totally hooked.<br /><br />The theme is about the same, only instead of women with strap-ons, this site features trans-sexuals that look like beautiful women but who need no strap-on to screw a man. They pack their own hard cocks under their seductive outfits.<br /><br />I am so totally straight and yet when I go to this site I am completely transfixed, so to speak.<br /><br />I want to be seduced by a tranny like these. I want to be made to suck their cocks in an attempt to please them. I want to be under their control while they decide whether my mouth was good enough or whether they should take my ass as well.<br /><br />What does this mean?<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-79111919917615581742007-03-14T14:03:00.000-07:002007-03-14T14:09:16.049-07:00The Passing of Winter<p>I love the Fall and Winter months.<br /><br />Living in California, where warmth a blue skies are the norm, a few months with some overcast and rain are almost a relief to me. Something in me longs for the moody feeling of dark clouds and a chill wind.<br /><br />And, of course, it is Fall and Winter when women are most likely to wear boots.<br /><br />So as I walked to lunch today in the bright, warm sunshine, I thought back to the last overcast week we had and considered what I saw. </p><p>A big woman, weighing more than I, crossing the street in her sharply tailored black skirt suit and a pair of black high heeled boots that might have been custom made for her. She exuded a self assurance and power that made me want to follow in her wake. I pictured myself as her male administrative assistant, fetching and carrying for her all day long, then getting on my knees under her desk at the end of the day to help her relax, my locked in place by her powerful thighs. </p><p>A tall black woman in a pair of gorgeous burgundy suede boots that went up to mid thigh over her leggings. She was already tall, and in those boots she was taller than I am. Black women already intimidate me, so this ebony goddess, larger than life and striding down the street could have had me on my knees at a glance. I did not even have a fantasy on the spot about her, as I was sure I was less significant than a bug on the sidewalk as far as she was concerned. Still, I could picture myself gladly working hard, very hard, to earn a moment of her notice.</p><p>Two petite young Asian women in tight jeans and matching riding boots. Real riding boots, not department store knock-offs. They had thick soles and heavy leather shafts and a texture that would take a shine that was subtle yet a mile deep, if you worked very hard buffing and polishing them. They must have gone to a tack shop for them. As I passed by them, I could picture the two of them leading me to a remote barn or stable, suspending me from a cross beam, and then taking turns thrashing me with all their might before letting me drop to the floor. There I would polish their boots back to a dress sheen with my tongue. </p><p>And now Spring is at the door and all I can hope for is a sudden cold snap soon before most boots go back in the closet until Fall comes again. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-32250056719458194932007-02-23T15:03:00.000-08:002007-02-23T15:04:03.480-08:00Boots and KnickersMy favorite project leader was back in the building today and came over to talk to me. I am lucky it was because I was asking her for something, because she has such an air about her that I am afraid I could deny her nothing.<br /><br />And that is the case on any given day. Today she had on a pair of very sharply tailored grey wool knickers below which she had on a magnificent pair of boots.<br /><br />This woman has no plain boots. Every pair I have ever seen her wear are stylish, unique, and overwhelmingly sexy. Today's pair was no exception.<br /><br />Today she was wearing a pair of caramel brown boots that looked both soft yet were buffed to a glossy sheen that simply oozed the word "expensive." I bet they are as smooth as butter to the tongue. Along the back of these boots were laces that went from the top of the boot, right below her knee, all the way down the back of the five inch high wedge heel. <br /><br />The laces were, of course, primarily decorative rather than functional, but they were not a cheap or addition. They may have has some elasticity to them because the boots fit her perfectly.<br /><br />That was my eye full for the day. And she even granted my meager request. I was so entranced I found three excuses to go up to her floor in hopes of another glance. I was rewarded with two additional views, including a walking-away angle that showed the laces on the back of the boots to good effect.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-56230004609919395242007-02-21T14:32:00.000-08:002007-02-21T14:34:27.764-08:00Leopard Print Boots at LunchWalking around during my lunch time today I saw a great pair of boots. <br /><br />A petite Asian woman was sitting down at a bench having a smoke. She was dressed all in black, with a sweater, skirt, and hose. But her boots stood out. They were an animal print with a light cream colored base with dark spots that were black at their centers.<br /><br />They were very nice boots to start with. They had spike heels that helped for a nice clear arch and they fit her calves and ankles quite snug.<br /><br />But the bright animal print pattern, when contrasted with her black outfit, made them stand out like a lightning bolt. The only thing I would have added were matching gloves. That would have been perfection.<br /><br />The boots were so nice that I even violated my "no gawking" rule and stared at them quite openly. She noticed, of course, but clearly had no use for a tall Anglo staring at her footwear. She glanced up at my face then turned her head to exhale smoke with a slight sneer on her face.<br /><br />Of course, the sneer just made the whole encounter that much better. <br /><br />I myself have no use for smoking, but I would put up with some to get close to a pair of boots like that again.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-24083795296643930782007-02-19T14:25:00.000-08:002007-02-19T14:30:38.527-08:00Lock It UpI suffer from... or rather, women I have known have suffered from... a number of very common male problems. One of they key ones is that, as soon as I ejaculate, my interest in sex, romance, women, and anything requiring any effort, goes out the window.<br /><br />I am a typical male. Once I have shot my load, I will roll over and fall asleep. <br /><br />Call me a pig. I know it is true. Men are commonly limited in their sexual stamina, despite boasts to the contrary. They do not have the advantage of being multi-orgasmic like many women.<br /><br />There is an answer to this problem of course, don't let your man cum. Easier said than done of course.<br /><br />A man who wants to cum will do anything to shoot his load. Even when well-meaning and eager to please you, if a guy feels the need, he'll get himself off. And if you think you can put him off, tease him a bit, then think again. He'll go off and masturbate to get himself off if need be. That will take the edge off of his passion and reduce a woman's hope for pleasure.<br /><br />There is a solution to this. This male problem can be solved via enforced male chastity.<br /><br />I will write about devices that I wear or have worn in the past, but rest assured, I speak from experience in this regard.<br /><br />There are varying degrees of enforced male chastity, but the basic elements are a device that prevents male ejaculation (or arousal in some cases) and a way to secure said device so that the male in question cannot remove it without permission of the woman who has decided to take control of his sex life.<br /><br />A lock with a key is the common method, though there are other ways, less secure but verifiable. Unless a woman is in a position of absolute authority to discipline the male, it is better to use a lock.<br /><br />How long should you keep a man in such a device. Well, if you search the web, you can find all different answers. There are testimonials from women who say that a man should never be allowed to touch his own cock. They say that such an arrangement gives you total control, bonds a man completely to you, makes him your willing and pliant slave, because he knows all his worldly pleasure comes from you.<br /><br />On the other end of the spectrum, there is short duration chastity, with which I am experienced.<br /><br />Short term is usually a weekend for me. Locked up by my wife Friday before I head to work with the promise that I will be let free in time to head to work Monday morning. She isn't much of a dom, but she knows the power this gives her. She usually dangles the opportunity of early release as an incentive if I perform well. <br /><br />I almost always win early release. By the time I get home on Friday night, the constant restraint of my cock having kept sex on my mind all day (not that I need much to do that) I am eager to please. And she is usually there, wearing boots, ready to be pleased. <br /><br />She likes to start slow. We have dinner, I clean up and wash the dishes (I do that every night already) and then she will suggest that we relax and watch some television. Of course, she will have rubbed up against me over and over as I cleaned up, even inviting me to give her ass a little dry hump before telling me, "Maybe later."<br /><br />We will watch TV. She will lay on the couch after I have sat down, resting her boots in my lap, nudging the restraint on the cock. After we are done, it will be time for me to strip and be ready while she puts on something more comfortable.<br /><br />Usually she leaves the boots on and leads me back to the bedroom. She likes to have me start by fingering her. She enjoys my finger work and will usually ride out an orgasm on that before moving on.<br /><br />Then the oral exercised begin. I bury my face between her thighs and go to work until I am told to stop. She admits to not liking oral all that much, but she does like making me do it because it is a good measure of my enthusiasm. Finally she will select a dildo and have me wear it in a harness and screw her through several positions until she is finally worn out.<br /><br />Then it is time to sleep. She is tired. I take off her boots and put them away, rub her back for a little bit, then she goes to sleep.<br /><br />Of course, I can't get to sleep. Not right away. I am as horny as can be. If I am lucky I can calm down in about an hour and fall asleep.<br /><br />Saturday is about chores for her. Chores and back rubs and foot rubs and fetching things. <br /><br />Saturday night she likes to rev me up a bit more, so she'll have me do some things that she knows will get me going. I might get to select the boots she will wear and I will certainly put them on her. Then she will have be kiss the boots, suck the spike heels, and generally indulge my fetish.<br /><br />The she might tie me up and play with me, or give me a paddling, or have me lie face up on the bed and straddle my face and let me eat her while she grinds and moans on top of me. She will keep me focused on her while indulging me a little. Again I will bring her to orgasm again and again while my cock is held tight.<br /><br />finally, if I have performed well, she will let me out and mount and ride me to climax. It usually does not take long. I have been on fire for two days and my cock is glazed in petroleum jelly used to keep things smooth in the device, so it can be a matter of sliding right in and shooting my load.<br /><br />After that we both sleep quite well.<br /><br />Of course, some times she keeps me in until Sunday morning for another round of fun for her. Once she even went until Sunday night. She has never kept me locked up until Monday morning. That is probably a good thing, as I would be a wreck at work.<br /><br />So how eager am I after having been locked up and teased for a while?<br /><br />I recall a cartoon I saw on the subject once that illustrates how eager to please men can be when locked up. It featured a woman lying on her stomach on a bed, looking over a list in her hand. He husband, his member locked up tight, is behind her, his face buried between her ass cheeks, obviously rimming her quite passionately. As she is looking at the list the woman is commenting, "Well, there is another item off your list of things you said you would never do. What is next?"<br /><br />I would do that and more if my wife asked. In fact, one of my disappointments is that she won't demand more. I imagine her putting on the harness and screwing me with the strap on or just making me suck it clean after I have used it on her. I know I would gladly tongue ream her or do any number of things. In that state I am pliable in the extreme. I wish she would test my limits. Ah, such is life.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-17929115594296218862007-02-09T18:40:00.000-08:002007-02-09T17:30:03.161-08:00The Art of Namio Harukawa<p>Namio Harukawa is probably my favorite fetish artist. </p><p>The women in his art, with their full hips, round asses, shapely legs, and ample breasts, are something of a feminine ideal to me. They are proud and savage with their Gaia-like Earth-mother bodies that ooze sexuality. They are strong, solid women, with the proud stature of Goddesses. </p><p>I don't just love big butts, I love the full big package. </p><p>The men, by comparison, appear weak and scrawny. They are usually a head shorter than the women and obviously their inferiors in every way. Their cocks are rarely shown, and when they are, they are the subject of ridicule or abuse. </p><p>The role of men in Harukawa's art is that of object or toy solely for the enjoyment of the women. The men are usually restrained, often painfully so, and have their faces driven deeply between the thighs or cheeks of the Goddesses who reign in these scenes. </p><p>There are many pictures from his collection that cause me to fantasize about being the hapless male shown, fully at the mercy of a well rounded woman. When I think of his portfolio, certain images always spring to mind: </p><ul><li>a small man in a hospital, kneeling at the foot of his iron framed bed, wrists tied the foot bars, and a Goddess nurse, uniform skirt pulled up to reveal stockings and no panties, pressing her sex so forcefully into the mans face that you can see his arms stretched the maximum and the ropes digging deep into his skin. </li><li>a man tied between two bar stools on his knees, face up to act as a seat for a plump Gaia who sits serenely sipping a drink at the bar. </li><li>a man in a small wooden cage, his head sticking out of a trap door in the top, help in place by ropes around his neck as his booted Mistress begins to wrap her legs around his head to squeeze him into her pussy and force from him all the pleasure he can give. </li></ul><p>I love these pictures. I see them and I want to be the man in them, helpless before a Goddess eager to take her pleasure without regard to me. </p><p>Not that I want to act out every scene he has drawn. There are a number of pictures that feature the women passing fecal matter straight from their anus into the open mouth of one of these men. That makes me gag in revulsion. Yet even as I gag, knowing I could never be part of such an act, or similar pictures where men's mouths are quite obviously being used as a substitute for toilet paper, I am fascinated by the women and their power. I still want to be the men, if not in these exact circumstances. </p><p>Urine also features in more than a few of his pictures, though I find this less revolting. There are some of those scenes where I still want to be the man shown, even acting as a helpless urinal for the mighty Goddesses. I sometimes think about what my limits really are, how far I would go for a dominant woman, a Mistress. I think I could manage that, I think I could cross that line if ordered. I wouldn't ask for it, but to please a Goddess, to show my obedience, to demonstrate the level of degradation to which I am willing to sink in the service of such a woman, I think I would be able to take the plunge. </p><p>I have a link here to his artwork. Do not open this at work. This contains explicit pictures featuring scenes such as I have described above. </p><p><a href="http://www.anastassja.org/modules.php?op=modload&name=My_eGallery&file=index&do=showgall&gid=58">Namio Harukawa</a> </p><p>If you go there, I hope you find something that you like, or at least get a feeling for what I am trying to express. The site contains the work of a number of other fetish artists. While the site is in Italian, it is easy enough to navigate.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-78849301379201506992007-02-07T16:22:00.000-08:002007-02-07T16:48:29.164-08:00Dressing for PleasureOf course I knew the day would come. I secretly hoped the day would come.<br /><br />After a year or so of going out with a woman nicknamed Slim, I knew she would turn the tables on me. She had threatened as much when we first started going out.<br /><br />Slim. She was 14 years older than me, a woman in her late 30s. I was young, nubile, and eager to serve.<br /><br />In general, I heartily approve of older women having younger boy toys. Somebody has to teach them. Slim was pretty good, but had too many other issues in her life for us to be long term. She could have owned me for the rest of her life if she wasn't more than a little messed up herself.<br /><br />I met Slim at a friend's party. She was wearing a very low cut dress, dark blue sequins at the top over a black skirt, and was sitting down next to where I was standing. She caught me looking down the front of her dress. She said she sized me up right there, knew she could have me if she wanted me. She was, of course, right.<br /><br />We started going out. A Dom/sub relationship, part time, was established. But I began to annoy her a bit. Being eager and young, I was always trying to run things from the bottom, especially when it came to her attire. I was like a broken record in those days, yet bad at communicating. <br /><br />What I wanted to let her know was, here are the keys to the kingdom. If you're wearing boots and black stockings, I will fall over myself in obedience, lust will make me the most pliable toy you have, and my limits will fade.<br /><br />What I said was "Are you going to wear your boots? I like when you wear a garter belt and stockings. I love high heels. I like it when you wear those leather gloves." On and on I went. I am sure I would have spent a lot more time gagged if she did not have better uses for my mouth.<br /><br />So early on, when I was whining about what she should wear, she warned me that if I was so obsessed with women's clothes, maybe she would dress me up some time.<br /><br />The thought both scared and thrilled me. <br /><br />I had tried on women's apparel before. Nothing about dressing up as a woman thrilled me particularly. It isn't an activity I spent a lot of time with.<br /><br />This threat came up a couple more times. Then one day we went shopping. <br /><br />We did not go any place special. J.C. Penny's as I recall. There she bought a plain white garter belt, very utilitarian, with metal hardware and a pair of white stockings to go with it. She also bought panties and a satin cream colored camisole top. <br /><br />She did not announce in advance that these items were for me. We were just going shopping. Slim was nearly 6' tall, so just a few inches shorter than I was, so buying items that fit me would nearly be the same as buying items that fit her.<br /><br />When we got home though, I did find out what was up. I was told to strip in the bathroom, then come in the bedroom when she summoned me. <br /><br />She left me waiting for a while. (There is nothing that builds up anxiety or worry in a slave like just waiting for something to happen. Never be in a hurry.) When she finally summoned me into the bedroom, arrayed on the bed were her new purchases. I thought she might be wearing them, but instead she had shucked off her jeans, put on a skirt and a pair of her boots, both black. She also had a riding crop in her hand. <br /><br />She said, "You are always telling me how to dress, now I am going to let you experience it." <br /><br />I was told to put everything on.<br /><br />The white stockings had seams down the back. I did not notice this as I put them on, but she did. I was directed with the riding crop to keep them straight. I ended up taking the stockings off and putting them back on again after a few swats aimed at my awkward adjustments.<br /><br />The stockings on, I fumbled with the garter belt. In this she had done me a favor. The big shiny metal hardware was easy for me to deal with. I was able to get the garter belt on and attached to the stockings almost right. One garter was twisted. The crop demanded correction. I redid the garter.<br /><br />Then I pulled on the white panties. They were opaque and of a silky material, with lace about the waistband and leg holes. My hard cock bulged in them. Yes, I was excited by this. The panties soon betrayed the stain of anticipatory pre-cum.<br /><br />Then the satin camisole went on. This was a bit small on me, which made it tough to get on without ripping it, and I dared not do that. The crop again encouraged me along, biting at my ass and thighs if I was slow.<br /><br />Then I was dressed. She walked about, appraising my efforts. I was sloppy, awkward, and slow. I would need a lot of practice I was told. But I had done well enough to earn a reward. <br /><br />A reward!<br /><br />She brought out a box. In it was a pair of black patent pumps. They had 5" heels. They had locking straps that went around the ankles. They were in my size. "Put them on" she said.<br /><br />I did, carefully sliding my feet into them. Before I could stand up she knelt, fastened the hasps on the ankle straps and padlocked them. <br /><br />Now I had to walk around. I fell back on the bed on my first attempt to stand. The second attempt had me upright but wobbly. Then I was given walking lessons. The crop again lashed out as I was instructed in how I was to walk. Graceful steps, one foot in front of the other, move my hips, show her what a little slut I was. <br /><br />She made me practice for well over an hour. After I began to get good, she sat down and just watched, relaxing as I strutted around at her command. She had me sit down and stand up again for a while. Then more walking. To this day I can walk in high heels without much effort. I get little or no practice, but that day of training still sticks with me.<br /><br />Eventually I was deemed adequate, then told we were onto other activities. Off came the panties.<br /><br />Back in the bedroom, my home made spreader bar came out. It was a 3' dowel with an eye screw in either end and another in the middle. Leather fleece lined cuffs were put on my wrists. I was told to lay in the center of our king sized bed.<br /><br />The spreader bar was clipped onto the straps of the high heels. Another double clip help me wrists together at one end, then my wide spread legs were pulled up and clipped to the wrist cuffs with the other end of the clip. So I lay on the bed, wide spread legs in the air, ass exposed. <br /><br />Then she began to finger my ass. She was applying lubricant to it. She inserted a finger, then two, loosening me up. She had done that before, done it so well as to prostate milk me unintentionally. This time though she wanted to use more than fingers.<br /><br />A nice, new, blue vibrator came into play. Made for ass play I suppose, it was rippled. She turned it on and let it slowly loosen up my anus. She had found I had trouble relaxing myself for penetration, but a vibrator seemed to do the trick. With some patience, she had slowly slid the whole vibrator into me and began moving it in and out.<br /><br />She was so gentle yet firm with my ass, I loved her for that. Later, another woman would try to penetrate me with a dildo by just cramming it in me with out any, what I will call, anal foreplay. I screamed. My ass ached for days. I'll put my ass up for use, but warm it up please before going nuts.<br /><br />And, leaving the vibrator in my ass, she came up and kissed me, whispering in my ear in her husky, bedroom voice, "Who is my little slut?"<br /><br />I was. I had felt awkward, self conscious, foolish, and embarrassed putting on the clothes, but now I felt awesome in them, horny, slutty, and being screwed in the ass by a beautiful Goddess.<br /><br />"I am Mistress" I said softly. <br /><br />"I know," she replied in barely a whisper, the proceeded to straddle my face to take her own pleasure from the situation. She always rode my face roughly. There was no need for me to do anything other than press against her. She wasn't interested in my mouth, except as a warm up. I might suck on her clit for a short bit, but once she got going she wanted to get herself off on every contour of my face. It could be brutal at times, like being alternatively punched, crushed, and smothered, with her thrusting and grinding herself on my face. I have never felt so used by a woman as when she used my face as her sex toy. And I have never felt so satisfied having myself used in any way. She did not hold back on expressing her pleasure when it was good for her. <br /><br />Eventually she rolled off of me, my face slick with her juices. She lay there for a bit, breathing heavily at first then calming down. Finally she sat up to examine me, still legs in the air. She smiled and reached over to turn the vibrator up a notch. Pre-cum was dripping from me. She looked at my full hard on and said, "I'd like to ride that too, but I know you would last about a second and then I would have to beat you. I'm too tired now to beat you."<br /><br />She sat up and ran a hand over me thighs and butt cheeks, appraising the redness, tracing especially interesting welts with a finger tip.<br /><br />"I suppose you've had enough for today."<br /><br />She picked up the panties I had been wearing from the bed, draped them over my cock, grabbed it firmly and stroked it about five times before I was shooting my load and moaning for her to let go. <br /><br />I was instantly so much butter. She unlocked me and let me lay on the bed. The cuffs, bar, and shoes went on the floor. She cuddled up to me, kissing me, stroking me, and telling me what a good little slut I had been, for a first timer. Eventually we wanted to sleep. I removed her boots for her, always my job, and then she undressed and got into bed. <br /><br />I started to try to get out of the camisole, but she stopped me with a word. "No! Clean yourself up a bit, but come to bed dressed as you are. You'll have better dreams."<br /><br />I had sexy, wonderful dreams, I must admit. And in the morning, I wasn't just sore from her crop or her using me. My legs were sore from walking around in high heels for so long. But all of it was good soreness.<br /> <br />Now, years later, I dream about being used like that again. I still have the high heels. Who wants to see if I can still walk in them?<br /><br />See what you've done Slim!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-21627585072335009862007-02-07T14:37:00.001-08:002007-02-09T17:29:47.648-08:00Cable Ties in the LabI was in the fourth floor lab earlier today and saw a package of black plastic cable ties. <br /><br />Here is how big of a perv I am. The sight of those cable ties got me aroused.<br /><br />I can just imagine being bound, wrists and ankles secured, with tight plastic biting into my skin. Like handcuffs, once those ties are on, you need help getting out. I see myself secured in the server room by a woman in boots, blindfolded and teased, not knowing what will happen. Will she let me go? Will she leave me here for somebody else to find? Why did I let her talk me into this... or why must I obey so well?<br /><br />And these cable ties are black. Even better. Black is so wonderful.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-44917557164570273612007-02-02T14:20:00.000-08:002007-02-02T14:23:19.070-08:00Fetish in TextWhile nothing beats reality, there is something to be said for the virtual. The virtual medium I prefer is text. 3D environments just cannot express what is really going on. Something like World of Warcraft is just a distraction and while something like SecondLife gets closer, (you can at least wear fetish garb) it is still more of a disappointing distraction than an enhancement to any scene.<br /><br />I much prefer text. I played online text games for years, I am a reasonably accurate and speedy typist. and my imagination and vocabulary in close enough sync that I can express what I am doing, seeing, or feeling. I will take a text encounter any day of the week and twice on Sunday. you can express yourself, try things you might never do in real life, and save it all in a file and re-read it again later.<br /><br />What kind of text?<br /><br />Email: I have exchanged many erotic scene mails with people. They have included collaborative stories, writing assignments giving by (and graded by) exacting Mistresses, and fantasies thrown out just to start things going. Email has the advantage of allowing time to think and structure a story or a response. You can also assign tasks to be done and reported on. The downside is the time lag between replies while the person on the other side crafts their response (or goes on with real life).<br /><br />Instant Message: This has the immediacy of two (or more) people in contact. There is somebody live at the other end typing back to you. Your interaction is immediate, subject to the typing abilities of both sides. This can be quite exciting. I have had many wonderful IM exchanges. Sometimes I just have a scene in text, sometimes I have been given small tasks during the chat. (Go to the supply closet, get a small binder clip, put it on your left nipple and leave it there until I tell you otherwise.) Upside to this are being live and immediate with another person. The downsides can be the text environment itself (distinguishing actions from the spoken), any large mismatch in typing speed, accuracy, or style ("I lower my head to your delicate, porcelain toned foot, kissing each toe gently, then taking each toe in my mouth successively, from big toe to pinky, sucking on each" "cum on sux it mak me wants it")<br /><br />Special Environments: There are online text environments designed to accommodate online encounters. I personally favor one called the "<a href="http://isleofshadows.net/">Isle of Shadows</a>." Such an online site is built to give depth to and reality to a text encounter. You can find rooms and equipment that gives the feel of really being in, say, a dungeon. There are "devices" with "controls" to use on your partner, restraints, attire, and a series of things that add a lot of flavor to a text encounter. Upsides are the extra feel you get from such an environment. The downside is that there is some learning curve to be able to use the environment. Having played text games and being into computers, I can jump in pretty easily, but it can be intimidating to many people. This a mitigated somewhat by the fact that such sites generally have friendly users who are generally happy to help new users. There is also the problem of having to use a terminal program to get into these environments. You can just go to a command prompt at type "telnet isleofshadows.net:4510" to get in, but if you want to really work with text, you will want something better.<br /><br />I play, virtually, in all three environments. I will gladly entertain any questions in/on the first two, but I would like to encourage people to try number three. People playing in detailed text environment is a shrinking population. This is a real shame, because there is no real replacement for such environments.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-51280830874434103012007-02-02T12:09:00.000-08:002007-02-02T12:14:48.530-08:00Fetish Transference<p>Boots are, of course, my primary driving fetish. I adore women wearing boots. A woman in boots can make me do most anything under the right circumstances.<br /><br />But boots alone do not the pervert make... not this one, anyway.<br /><br />If you have been reading along from the beginning, you know that somewhere along the line the connection was made for me between the desire to serve a woman in boots and BDSM, with me in the submissive, slave, or bottom role.<br /><br />Of course, introduction to this scene opened a vista of new fetishes. So did growing up in California, where women just don't wear boots most of the year. Unless you are in San Francisco, it is just to warm much of the time. (Bless our freezing cold winter this year!)<br /><br />So here are a few other things that can hold my attention, some of them in a close to boot-like manner. </p><ul><li>High Heels - In a land with no boots, I could probably get by, for a while, if there were still black, spike heeled pumps. I am not much on funky styles, platforms, sandals, and other styles, though there are fine examples of each out there. It is the classic black pump with a spike heel that draw me. Every woman should have a good pair of high heeled black pumps. Hell, I own a pair in my size, but that is a story for another time! Black pumps with black stockings... I can worship that. I have a very fond memory of one woman wearing black pumps being dissatisfied with my enthusiasm at licking one of her shoes putting her other high heel shod foot on the back of my head and pressing my face down hard into the first.<br /></li><li>Garter Belts and Stockings - I love the feel of stockings on a woman's leg. I love the way garters frame a woman's sex and follow the curve of her ass. Pantyhose is fine for the texture, but stockings and a garter belt can be a thing of beauty. I favor the heavy, industrial looking garter belts, with shiny metal hardware and smooth satin lines. Frilly little lace numbers don't move me as much. And a garter belt with more than two garters per leg... I adore those.<br /></li><li>Gloves - A girlfriend once told me, when I bought her a pair of gloves, that I just wanted her to wear boots on her hands as well. Not a ban analogy. Gloves in black leather are my favorite, though the long satin kind are good as well. Having purchased a pair of opera length black leather gloves for a woman, I can say that the satin variety are also much easier to find and much less expensive. On the other hand, those leather gloves were magnificent.<br /></li><li>Leather - Leather skirts, leather pants, leather tops, even a good leather coat can be nice. The smell and the texture of leather is wonderful. And the taste. We cannot forget that taste!<br /></li><li>Bondage Equipment - Not things you see every day, but I love restraints. The exotic items, like arm binders, hoods, gags, and the like thrill me. (I've never worn a leather hood. I really want to some day.) Even more mundane things like collars, cuffs, and blindfolds are quite exciting. And then there are those "good for one specific" that you only even see in catalogs or at places like Leather Masters. And don't even get me started on equestrian gear. I want to be transformed into a leather clad pony, complete with hooves locked on to hands and feet.<br /></li><li>Corsets - I have never seen one in person on a woman, but I like them in pictures. I would like to see a woman in a tightly laced leather corset some day... or be laced up in one myself.<br /></li></ul><p>There are other items I am sure, I just cannot think of any at the moment. If you are looking for something to comment on in this blog, you can add something that you have a fetish for and I'll see if it works for me as well! </p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-77923289633267873482007-02-01T14:57:00.001-08:002007-02-01T20:44:44.535-08:00Tweed BootsI work in a small, downtown-like area. This means I can walk to a variety of places for lunch. <br /><br />It also means I get to watch a lot of other people walk to lunch. So, unlike your typical business park, I get to see quite a few attractive, well dressed women walk by. And, since it is winter, attractive, well dressed women are favoring boots currently.<br /><br />So I like going out for lunch. The view can be wonderful for somebody with a fetish like mine. <br /><br />Today, as I was walking back to the office, I saw about a block ahead of me a woman wearing what appeared to be a pair of grey, knee high boots. My keen eye could discern laces at the top, even from that distance, so I knew I had to go in for a closer look. I like boots that lace up.<br /><br />Fortunately, traffic lights, my own natural quick pace (tall guy with a long stride here), and her own slow progress let me catch up with her. We stood next to each other waiting for the light at one intersection where I got to take a good long look at her boots.<br /><br />What I initially thought might be a grey leather turned out to be a black and white tweed material. The front of the boots were faced with black leather they were laced up through traditional holes, as opposed to speed lacers. The toes were also capped in black leather that tapered back along the sole of the boot to about the mid point of the arch.<br /><br />The effect was strange, but not completely displeasing. One of the reasons I like real lace up boots is that they form to the shape of a woman's leg, accentuating thin ankles and showing the pleasing curve of her calf. These boots won in that regard. The black leather accent was little odd though, but it at least would give a submissive like myself a place to lay lips and tongue in worship. I am not sure tweed would give the same effect. Not that I would say no. I would stroke that tweed with my tongue until it shone if commanded.<br /><br />The young woman in the tweed boots went into a shop half a block later and I kept on walking, reflecting on that interesting boot sighting.<br /><br />And then, just before my own building, I got to see a pair of gorgeous suede boots. They were a dark rust color, with high, thick heels, and a tall shaft that ran up and just over the knee. They were worn by a woman of some height, so the boots themselves were quite tall.<br /><br />I did not get to linger and spy on those boots however. It was back to work for me.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-23754223733011538102007-01-31T14:33:00.000-08:002007-01-31T14:34:33.551-08:00Scuffed BootsI was working with a woman earlier today. I have known her for years. We went to school together.<br /><br />We were going through another building where we will be installing a lab, so we were walking around together for quite a bit. This is usually a pleasure for me, as she loves boots. She wears them almost every day. Now, she usually wears slacks or jeans, so often she cheats and wears those "just-above-the-ankle" boots that tease but fail to please me. Not that she knows this.<br /><br />She does, however, own a few pairs of very nice, mid-calf to knee-high boots. She was wearing a pair today under her jeans. Her jeans were tight enough below the knee that I could discern their outline, which indicates a good pair of over-the-calf boots. The portions I could see were a nice chocolate brown color. Mostly.<br /><br />The toes of her boots were scuffed. So was a little part on the inside section of each foot, right where the main joint for her big toes no doubt pressed on the leather.<br /><br />Fine, beautiful boots with pretty stacked wooden heels tarnished. And what could I do?<br /><br />I suppose I could point the fact out to her, though that might not go well. Plus I have gone beyond my "boot compliment" quota with her already. There is a danger I could be pegged for the pervert I am. (If that was fine with her, so what, but I do not know where she sits on the whole fetish scene.)<br /><br />I would, of course, gladly run down and pick up some Kiwi polish and any tools required to buff her boots back into shape. That offer would not go over so well either. And "shoe shine boy" isn't even one of my fantasies!<br /><br />Maybe it should be? I have no experience in that area, but I am willing and eager.<br /><br />Are there women out there, women with boot and shoe collections that would like a non-sexual relationship with a mature and very submissive shoe shine boy. I would be glad to come by once in a while and shine up your shoe collection, so long as you are willing to wear them while I work.<br /><br />Of course, it would be hard to sell "non-sexual" as I would no doubt be showing a bulge in my pants during the whole process. Certainly no sexual contact would be required. And you know I would never make vulgar noises and spit on your shoes to shine them. I would lay my tongue lovingly on the leather to moisten each boot.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-76642731093447703752007-01-30T13:10:00.001-08:002007-01-30T13:10:44.848-08:00Return of the Team LeadThe project manager and team lead of whom I wrote last week are in the office again. <br /><br />As I feared, as I hoped, as I dreamed, the team lead, the soul of elegance, is wearing a beautiful pair of boots today. What I would not give to hear her silky accented voice ask me to please get down on the floor and polish her boots with my tongue. I would fall over myself doing so, if I did not explode first.<br /><br />I hope that they will have time to meet with me today. I will give the team lead whatever she wants just to be able to see her in those boots close up. <br /><br />I am so easily manipulated, it is shameful. Yet I cannot help it. I cannot control who I am. I am a complete slut for a woman in boots.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-28078390937180949882007-01-30T11:53:00.000-08:002007-02-02T12:25:44.633-08:00Interview With The Riding MistressThere I stood. My pants and underwear were pulled down around my ankles. My ass was red from a prolonged spanking. I could feel the red warmth of my butt cheeks with my hand, as they were suspended over my ass, wrists locked together with a pair of handcuffs. My shirt was still on, but that just served to make my sore nipples chafe a bit. They had been pinched and twisted a bit, just enough to make them ache. A scarf was tied around my head, covering my eyes. My cock stood firm, unencumbered and displaying my excitement.<br /><br />Where was I?<br /><br />In a closet.<br /><br />In a conference room.<br /><br />In the human resources department of a local firm.<br /><br />And it was the manager of human resources that was working me over.<br /><br />The call had come into my office that morning. "You will be over here as soon as you can. You will report to my office for an interview. The director is out of town, all my paperwork is done, and I want the gift you have promised me. The gift of your pain."<br /><br />The voice on the phone was The Riding Mistress. To Her I am the stupid, worthless pony. She had given me tasks before, in email or over IM. She had even spoken to me on the phone on a number of occasions. But now I was being called to her presence.<br /><br />I will scroll back in a future entry and detail the story of how I became the stupid, worthless pony to the Riding Mistress. But for now I want to highlight one of the most sublime encounters of my life.<br /><br />I interest the Riding Mistress because I have promised Her my pain. She had a sadistic streak in Her. She is married in a vanilla relationship, but She likes the idea of a man who will submit to Her torment willingly, who will ask for nothing beyond the opportunity to allow Her to inflict pain on him for Her pleasure, and who will, in the end, thank Her and beg for more.<br /><br />This I have promised Her. This I am now being asked to deliver.<br /><br />When I arrive, I sign in with a fake name I have been assigned. I am there to be given a standard battery of tests that technicians at this firm are required to take and go through a series of interviews. I am left waiting nervously in the lobby for a while. Then the Riding Mistress appears. She calls my name without emotion and tells me to follow Her. I can hear the steel in Her voice.<br /><br />Her attire is subdued. She wears a smart cropped jacket, a vest, a stiff looking white shirt, narrow cut black pants, and low heeled leather boots. She is not fantasy Goddess, the kind you find between sticky pages in adult book stores. She does not have to be. She is a real Goddess, and I am there to deliver the devotions such a Goddess requires.<br /><br />She leads me through the halls, ending up in HR territory. Staff is sparse today. She is the only person in Her corner of the building.<br /><br />We head into a large office She normally shares with two other people. She stops, tells me to stay put, then closes the door behind us.<br /><br />Then She reaches up and grabs one of my nipples through my shirt, twisting it hard, making me wince and moan. We have begun.<br /><br />I am motioned to adopt the pony position: on all fours, knees apart, head up high, eyes lowered. I follow her into the adjoining conference room.<br /><br />I am told to drop my pants and underwear. The handcuffs come out and secure my wrists together. I have told Her in the past that there is no moment of foreboding like being locked into a pair of handcuffs. Once they are secured, you are at the other person's mercy. If they do not want let you go, you are not going anywhere.<br /><br />Obviously She liked the idea.<br /><br />For a while the whole encounter was quite stressful to me. I am somebody who likes structure. While the Riding Mistress and I had been in communication for quite some time, no protocol for an in-person encounter had been established. I made many mistakes in Her eyes. I was punished repeatedly, beaten until my ass glowed red.<br /><br />Of course, the lack of structure and my many mistakes gave Her ample opportunity to spank, crop, and paddle me, so it might have been a deliberate stress exercise. People in HR are wily like that.<br /><br />If it was meant to induce stress, it did. I have a very real need within me to obey, to do things right, to make my Mistress proud. If She wants to beat me for small imperfections, to bring me to higher state of obedience and performance, I am within the mental zone. But when I am lost, trying to obey, failing to understand, failing to do things right, that will induce stress in me.<br /><br />So much punishment was applied. I felt I was completely disappointing Her. She later commented that I was flaccid through much of this stage, which is a pretty good indication of stress.<br /><br />Just as things were starting to go smoothly, I was stood in the closet. She said She had work to do, that She couldn't just spend all day amusing me. I was told to keep absolutely still and absolutely quiet, no matter what, until She said otherwise.<br /><br />The doors of the closet were closed. The lights in the conference room were turned off. The door to the shared office remained open, I could hear the Riding Mistress at work, but that was all the input I had in my dark little world.<br /><br />I could hear Her typing. She spoke on the phone. Several people stopped by Her office to talk. Time went by. I remained still.<br /><br />Time went past at a leisurely rate.<br /><br />Eventually She reached a point when She could take lunch. Since She was there alone, the HR office could be legitimately locked, as though She had gone out.<br /><br />The lights came on in the conference room. The closet door was opened. I was led out, uncuffed, and put ordered into the pony stance again.<br /><br />There followed a much more concentrated session of punishment. She straddled me, facing the opposite direction, and beat my ass further. She examined my cock, squeezed my balls, and kneaded and pinched my sore red cheeks between paddlings. She told me how worthless I was, how much training I obviously needed, and how lucky I was that She would even bother with a pony so untalented and worthless.<br /><br />Suddenly, things were at an end. I was told to dress. She guided me to the office door. I was so happy with my experience that I wanted to hug Her, kiss Her, hold Her.<br /><br />My move in that direction got a stern look and a reproof. The Riding Mistress does not kiss worthless ponies.<br /><br />Remembering my place, I asked if I might be allowed to kiss Her feet in thanks. This was allowed, and I got down on the floor and kissed Her low heeled boots passionately. The taste of the supple leather was in my mouth when I finished.<br /><br />She showed me to the front door, giving a nipple one last hard twist when we were outside. Then off I went, back to my life.<br /><br />My ass was red and swollen. It became black and blue and stayed that way for a week. My nipples ached so I had to put band-aids on them to keep them from chafing on my shirt.<br /><br />I was told to keep KY Jelly and latex gloves in my car at all times from now on. If I were to be summoned again, I would undergo a much more thorough examination, both to test my condition and my limits.<br /><br />That was a few years ago. I am still waiting for my summons back to HR for another round of interviews.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-62662865402582561402007-01-29T22:44:00.000-08:002007-01-29T23:02:24.322-08:00Big Beautiful Women and BootsOne of my other passions is full figured women. Shapely is sexy.<br /><br />Not that I am anti-thin or just cannot stand athletic women, but when the gal with the hour glass figure walks in, I am all hers. Many of my fondest fantasies involve being helpless underneath warm, wonderful flesh.<br /><br />My dilemma here of course is that the one piece of fashion apparel that big beautiful women have a problem finding in their size in nice, high heeled, knee high boots. If you are a skinny little thing, no problem. But finding royal boots for a queen size Goddess is just murder.<br /><br />I know that, if money is no object, you can go the custom made. But us mere mortals who have to go to work every day cannot afford that route.<br /><br />Where do you find boots for women with shapely calves? Where is the big girl's boot store?<br /><br />Oh well. Fine legs with shape in stockings and a pair of black high heeled pumps can still get my motor running when backed by the right attitude.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-45462998167750753182007-01-29T16:14:00.001-08:002007-01-29T23:02:52.881-08:00Porn Shows Me The WaySomewhere along the way through high school I ran across something that focused my desires. It came in the form of a catalog for porn.<br /><br />The Adam & Eve catalog, a company that is probably long out of business, found its way to a friend of mine. It had the usual variety of moderate porn for a wide range of tastes. But on one page there was a magazine I knew I had to have. I forget the actual title today, but it was something along the lines of "The Dominatrix Phenomena," and it featured a woman in high heeled boots on the cover, with a man on all fours kissing them. That had me written all over it.<br /><br />Of course, I couldn't go straight at this. I was in high school. You cannot admit you are anything but normal in high school without being derided as a weirdo. <br /><br />Alone with the catalog at one point, I detached the order form inside, noted down the item number and price of the magazine I wanted, and stuck the form in my backpack. Later I got the money together, bought a money order, and sent in the order. I put down my name, but my grandmother's address for delivery. I knew she would not bother opening the package, and if I said it was a surprise, she would not pry.<br /><br />One day the package arrived. My grandmother called up to say that a large envelope had shown up for me at her house. I was lucky in answering the phone, as that meant no awkward questions about what had come. I told her I would come by on the weekend to pick it up.<br /><br />That weekend I drove my recently acquired car over for a visit. I dismissed the package as nothing really, told her about school, family, and the like for a while, then headed home with my prize.<br /><br />Late that night, with my parents watching TV down stairs, I got my reward. A magazine full of women in high heeled boots, stockings, and leather outfits. There was a write up in the magazine, a pseudo-scholarly work on the role of the dominant female in modern society, but that was minor filler that flowed around all of the pictures. <br /><br />I was a bit worried about looking at the men. All the men in the magazine were in very submissive roles. Some were kissing or licking boots, acting as foot stools or chairs, or dressed up in French maid outfits serving tea. Others were bound up, or in the process of being bound up, with rope or leather straps. A man on all fours, naked, wearing a dog collar and a leash held firmly by a booted goddess, was another common theme.<br /><br />And many of the men were being punished. They were being spanked, cropped, or whipped. Candle wax was being dripped on some men, while others were suffering with clamps or clothespins on their nipples and weights hung from their testicles by straps so constraining that the skin of their sacks was pulled smooth and firm.<br /><br />I found that I could look at them because I identified with them.<br /><br />A girlfriend I showed this magazine to much later told me it was horrible.<br /><br />I thought it was wonderful. I wanted to be the men in these pictures. Any of them. Even the one being menaced by a whip with a rubber handle shaped like a large penis. ("Why was she hitting his butt with that end?" I wondered in my naivety. ) <br /><br />I had not associated pain, through corporal punishment and tight bondage, with my submission fantasies up to that point. But once I saw it, it seemed a very natural extension to my desire. I wanted to be tied up and beaten by a woman in boots. I wanted to wear a thick leather collar and be lead around on hands and knees by such a woman. <br /><br />And of course, I wanted to jerk off. And I did. Furiously. For weeks. I had to swipe my step-sister's hand lotion, as I was getting raw jerking myself dry or into my T-shirts. (The softest material I could find, until I discovered my step-sisters cable-knit knee socks.)<br /><br />Of course, that wasn't going to get my anywhere closer to these women in boots. I had no idea how to get there. I had no focused idea of what I really wanted. I thought it was really about a little bondage, a woman in boots, a spanking, and then sex. I had a long way to go.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-88226993045921100552007-01-26T17:30:00.000-08:002007-01-26T17:31:11.729-08:00The Danger Of The Fetish In The OfficeHaving an abiding fetish for women in boots can get me in trouble at the office. <br /><br />Not in the way you are thinking. No, nobody is ever going to accuse me of sexual harassment. I am never going to be the creepy guy that you wonder about. Nobody is going to HR to discuss me. I am (I hope) smarter than that. I keep things professional.<br /><br />No the problem is, even though I am professional on the outside, I am still me on the inside.<br /><br />For example, next week I have a meeting with a project managers from another group along with one of her team leads. The project manager is a very attractive woman who wears nice, black, high heeled boots all winter long, always with skirts so they can be admired. So she has me there. But she is also pretty, sweet, and generally nice to be around. I want to do everything she asks of me to make her happy. I am in danger of over committing myself just to make that happen, even when I keep things professional. <br /><br />And that is not the real danger. The project manager does not really want anything from me. It is her team lead with whom I need to work.<br /><br />Ah, the team lead. I wanted to be her slave and boots were not involved.<br /><br />She is a beautiful woman of Turkish ancestry. Absolutely stunning. Very sophisticated. She has that air about her that successful royalty has around the commoners, you simply know that she is your better and you don't mind. You're just glad she has given you an audience and has treated you with such grace. It makes you feel important just to have been noticed by her. <br /><br />And her clothes. She dresses to perfection, again like royalty or old money. Never flashy, just sophisticated.<br /><br />And now it is winter, it is cold out, and she too favors boots. Expensive boots. Boots that would feel like butter were my tongue to be allowed to tarnish their polished sheen.<br /><br />It is with her I will be dealing with during and after this meeting. If she only knew that just letting me taste that leather would get her all the help she needs from me... but she probably knows that anything like that won't be required. She is just one of those women who gets what they want and does not have to push to get it. People feel honored just to help her.<br /><br />I will be in a meeting with her for at least one hour next week. I have too keep my focus on the job, but it will be a sore test to my will.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-69020231009788913172007-01-26T12:52:00.000-08:002007-02-01T20:45:13.546-08:00The Most Painful YearsJunior high school was a miserable time for me. My father, with whom I lived, got remarried to a woman with two kid, one older and one younger than me. We moved, so I ended up at a different school from all my friends.<br /><br />There was a girl named Natalie. She was skinny, a little taller than average, had long brown hair that needed more attention that she gave it, and wore glasses that I could only describe as awkward. She was in my math class and my English class.<br /><br />I would probably not have noticed her at all. There were prettier girls on campus and even in my classes. But she sat one row over and two seats ahead of me in math and two rows over and one row ahead of me in English, so she was always within my range of view. Of course, other people were in my range of view as often or more, including a girl named Leslie who will come up later.<br /><br />But then one day Natalie came to school wearing tight, dark brown Ditto jeans and a pair of brand new knee high boots. This was a look I loved. The boots were an orange-ish brown. They had a medium height wedge heel and fit her leg snug. She would stand in those jeans and boots, as tight and trim as a military uniform, and I would get an erection. <br /><br />I lusted after her so much that it ached. Even when she wasn't wearing those boots, I now wanted to be around her.<br /><br />But, of course, I had my own issues. I was painfully shy, tall and scrawny, with an acne problem and long, scraggly hair that I neither combed nor washed nearly often enough. While I have been told that I am reasonably handsome now, in a Bill Pullman sort of way, back then the ugly duckling had a good chance of scoring just by being compared to me. So I pined away in my awkward loneliness, jerking off to fantasies of her in those boots.<br /><br />And it wasn't just Natalie. She was the focus of my lust, but at this time boots were very popular with kids my age. A lot of the girls, certainly all of the pretty, popular girls, wore them. I sat there, my unrequited lust simmering, my pants bulging with a hard on, my penis chafing with the wetness of my underware, unable to bring myself to do anything.<br /><br />And, if Natalie had known my weakness, hand known what drove me, she could have totally owned me. If she had told me to clean up, wash my hair daily, dress better, style my hair, or wear any given cologne, I would have done it in a flash. I was raw material. And if she knew how I would turn out looking in 10 years, she might have considered it. But Natalie was raw material as well. There was little hope that she would have known or cared about controlling or manipulating me, and my boot fetish would have been gross to her.<br /><br />Two lessons come from this. Both took me a long time to learn.<br /><br />One: If you are a submissive, eager to be controlled, you have to give away freely some of the keys to controlling you. You have to make yourself vulnerable to a certain degree. It is difficult of course. How do you gauge who should have access to some, if not all, of the buttons that can make you dance like a marionette? You have to know how far you will go to prove yourself initially. <br /><br />Two: Older women rule. Every woman over 40 who desires it should be given a boy in his 20s to mold, a complete and absolute dictatorship over the man-to-be for 2 or 3 years, to teach him the superiority of women and to make him a fit marriage prospect for a woman his age. I wish I had had a mature, confident woman to guide me into manhood. To this day I adore older women. To submit to a woman in her 40s through into her 60s is sublime. A woman confident in her needs and desires. A woman who is independent and world wise. A woman who no longer feels the need to be clingy, who can let go enough to make her boy toy anxious instead. A woman who has a life, who will never make you the center of her existence, but will treat you as an amusing hobby, an indulgence, as something to wring full enjoyment out of, as a cherished but passing scene in life. <br /><br />So in a private setting, if a mature woman in attractive boots requested that I get down on the floor and kiss her boots, I would do it. I am mentally prepared for it. I wait for the day when it might happen. Welcome to my little fantasy world.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-6457195611340524642007-01-26T10:57:00.000-08:002007-01-29T23:03:27.938-08:00OriginsI have had this fetish for women in boots for as long as I can remember.<br /><br />I mean that quite literally. I am in my 40's, but I can still remember being pre-kindergarten age and longing, for reasons I could not fathom, to be near women wearing boots. Of course, that was the late 60's, and boots were the fashion, and continued to be through most of the 70's.<br /><br />I remember the girl next door, my age, whom I used to go behind the bushes with to kiss. She had a couple of pairs of boots. I used to ask her to wear them when she came out to play.<br /><br />I remember the older girl two doors up. She seemed much older to me then, though she was only about a year older. Her name was Pam. Any day she was wearing her brown suede knee high boots I would followed her around. Once she got annoyed and tied me to a tree in her back yard with a jump rope. She did not have to work hard to do it. I stood quietly as she ordered and positioned myself as she required. Then she told me that if I was quiet, she we let me go, but if made a fuss, she would leave me for somebody else to find. I was quiet.<br /><br />Another time she came out of the house with a pair of toy handcuffs her brother had. They were not as sturdy as police issue, but they much more real than toy handcuffs you find today. She put them on me, hands behind my back, then told me she did not have the key. She said that she would look for the key, but only if I did what she said. She told me that the only other way out was to cut off my hands. Her brother came out and, when asked, supported her view, it was a choice between keys or hands. <br /><br />She then led me around the neighborhood for a while, showing the other kids her "prisoner." I was under her word to obey or there would be no key. Then her father called for her. It was time for dinner. She got the key out of her pocket and let me go. I was sorry the game had ended, even though I was really scared at the thought of losing my hands.<br /><br />Pam moved away very shortly there after. I never saw her again.<br /><br />We are only up to age 5 at this point and already I have been through bondage, D/S, public display, and some mind games.<br /><br />In school I used to try to be friends with the girls who wore boots. After kindergarten you get into the stage where boys and girls don't play together. If you are a boy and you play with a girl, the other boys tease you. So I walked a thin line. <br /><br />In second grade I told a girl named Lisa, who got some shiny black boots for her birthday and was wearing them every day, that I wanted to be her slave, that I would do anything she said. She made a face. She thought that was gross. But she also tested me on it. She had me follow her around, made me do some various little things on the order of "go run to that tree and back right now," and then decided I had to go and pick up a dead bird that was by the fence at the back of the playground. I picked it up, gingerly. She screamed, then ran and told her friends about what I had done. <br /><br />I heard a lot of little rhymes about how I loved Lisa. While it was true enough in a second grade sense, I also had to keep all my guy friends. I was never that open about my desires in grade school again.<br /><br />By fifth grade I was fantasizing at night about the girls in my class who wore boots. These generally featured them tying me up and making me beg to be released. In these fantasies, kissing the boots of these girls, or licking them, or otherwise adoring them were standard features. <br /><br />I particularly remember Wendy and her white boots. In my dreams I would crawl on my belly before her. She would be seated in a throne like chair and would present one white booted foot and command me to lick it like it was the best ice cream I had ever had. If I did not convince her I was enjoying licking her boot, if I failed to thank her or show anything less than enthusiasm for the task, she would be displeased. No grim fate, no torture, just the idea that if I did not please her with my devotion, she might go away.<br /><br />And then I discovered masturbation. Up until this point all of this fantasy and fetish had been without any overt sexual connotation. Kissing the neighbor girl when she was wearing her boots was as close as it got. But now I thought about girls in boots and as I furiously jerked off. I masturbated so much, I was worried I would run out of sperm. <br /><br />So boots, submission, mind games, public humiliation, and shameful (in my view at the time) first sexual activity. One wonders what a shrink would have said about me at the time!<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-63549866640512463422007-01-25T15:55:00.000-08:002007-01-25T16:11:44.602-08:00Defining My FetishI have a fetish for women wearing boots.<br /><br />I do not find boots alone attractive, except that seeing them makes me imagine them being worn by a woman. I have never had the urge to buy or otherwise collect women's boots. If I worked in a shoe store, I wouldn't be in the back room fondling the boots, I would be out on the sales floor helping women into them. I would ease them gently on to the feet, zip or lace them up carefully, smooth and buff the with my handkerchief, and then admire them on the woman.<br /><br />Of course, there are boots and there are boots. The pair of boots that is most likely to attract me is a pair of high heeled, black leather, knee high boots.<br /><br />I have found other styles attractive, but black knee high boots are the standard by which I judge all others. A woman wearing those gets my attention almost immediately. I cannot help it. I have to work to not stare too hard.<br /><br />Thigh high boots are, of course, quite provocative. I could hardly deny my attraction to them. A really nice pair, made of real leather, that fits the woman well can literally make me wet myself. (And we're not talking urine here.) But thigh high boots can also be really trashy. A cheap plastic-looking pair that does not fit does not do much for me. The boots Julia Roberts wore in "Pretty Woman" fall into that category. Mostly.<br /><br />When we get into thigh high boots, I favor the style that lace up the front. But I have a whole fantasy built around those that is for another time.<br /><br />Boot Styles and features I generally do not find attractive:<br />(There are always exceptions)<br /><br /><br /><ul><li>Flat soles. With the exception of riding boots, I like boots with a heel </li><li>Below ankle boots. Those really short boots/tall shoes that look like boots at first. I hate when I get fooled by those. </li><li>Ankle boots. They have to be really special to be attractive </li><li>Platforms boots. Maybe a 1 inch platform. Hey, I'm over 6 feet tall, but I would prefer a woman who was short to one wearing ugly platforms. </li><li>Cowboy boots. I like them if they have a good, tall shaft. Taller = better. </li><li>Rubber boots/Rain boots. Except for rubber riding boots. Those would work for me. </li><li>Work boots/hiking boots. Not unless you get into the knee-high range again, then I am game. </li></ul><br />Boot Styles and features I adore:<br /><br /><br /><ul><li>Old Zodiac Boots. With the stacked wooden heel and the metal piece at the toe. I surf eBay to see them. </li><li>Real lace up boots. Laced up so they hug a woman's ankle and calf </li><li>Classic tapered heels. That graceful arc from ankle to the floor is so pleasing to the eye </li><li>Real leather. The look, the feel, the smell, the taste... </li><li>Wedge heels. An exception to the platform rule is wedge heels. There is a story here for later. </li><li>Patent leather. Done right, even the pvc stuff can be nice. I like the shine </li></ul><p>That is a start. There is, of course, more to all of this. Next time I will start back at the origins of my fetish.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1050057907951404305.post-43117561362976808262007-01-25T13:48:00.000-08:002007-01-25T13:50:30.321-08:00A Day In The Life...I will start this whole thing off with an example.<br /><br />One of the admin staff downstairs, a nice enough woman, came upstairs to deliver something today. She walked past my office and I could see that she was wearing a pair of black, high heeled boots. Not expensive boots, but probably reasonably priced. They looked to be real leather and had nice little straps and buckles across the ankle and at the top of the shaft.<br /><br />I noticed this in a flash, took it all in, because I am a pervert. A pervert of a very specific kind. I have a deep and binding fetish for women wearing boots. This blog is about my fetish.<br /><br />So the admin walked past my office and up the hallway. I felt absolutely compelled to get up and follow her up the hall, discretely, just to get another look at her in her boots. I could not help myself. So I grabbed some paper and headed towards the copier, a route that would take me right past her.<br /><br />Nice boots indeed, matched up with black hose, a denim skirt, and a nice black sweater. She was leaning into an office, asking a question or delivering a message. I could watch her from the copier out of the corner of my eye. Then she headed back towards the elevator. I watcher he walk away, eyes on not on her butt, where other men might have focused, but on her boots.<br /><br />Even now my mind is quietly working no an excuse to go down to her area of the building. I know her. She knows me. I can find a plausible reason to be down there. I want to see her in those boots again, maybe even compliment her on them and ask if they are new. (They are new, I can tell.)<br /><br />And that is all.<br /><br />I am not going to stalk her, follow her home, or do anything creepy. As strong as my fetish is, it does not include annoying somebody or imposing my presence on them, and I certainly do not want to make anybody feel nervous or uncomfortable. <br /><br />I probably won't mention her boots again, ever. Just one compliment. I allow myself that and nothing more.<br /><br />I just love the site of women in boots. I won't deny that there is a sexual element to this desire, the name of this blog almost demands that there be such, and we'll get to that in future posts. But now I just want to start off with the hold that boots have over me.<br /><br />And the funny thing is that now that this woman has worn boots today, she will find that I will be more helpful, more attentive, and go further out of my way to help her than I might have previously, even if she is not wearing boots. In my mind she has been temporarily tagged as a wearer of boots. A couple of more times and she will have that association made permanent. That will color my relationship with her, to her benefit and without her likely suspecting, from this time forward, even though things will remain on a completely professional level. <br /><br />Another day at the office for the man with the serious boot fetish.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Tell me about your boots. bootpony@yahoo.com</div>bootponyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03840553196321929598noreply@blogger.com0