Big Gals In Boots

I love big women. Big butts own my nuts.

Shapely is the only sexy.

And full figured women in high heeled boots make me weak.

If I am flipping through channels and stop on Oprah and see she is wearing boots, I get a hard on right away.

(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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

When it comes to women in boots with full butts, I am the ass-kisser extrodinaire.

Boots and Knickers

My 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Leopard Print Boots at Lunch

Walking around during my lunch time today I saw a great pair of boots.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Of course, the sneer just made the whole encounter that much better.

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.

Lock It Up

I 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.

I am a typical male. Once I have shot my load, I will roll over and fall asleep.

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.

There is an answer to this problem of course, don't let your man cum. Easier said than done of course.

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.

There is a solution to this. This male problem can be solved via enforced male chastity.

I will write about devices that I wear or have worn in the past, but rest assured, I speak from experience in this regard.

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.

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.

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.

On the other end of the spectrum, there is short duration chastity, with which I am experienced.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Saturday is about chores for her. Chores and back rubs and foot rubs and fetching things.

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.

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.

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.

After that we both sleep quite well.

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.

So how eager am I after having been locked up and teased for a while?

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?"

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.

Tweed Boots

I work in a small, downtown-like area. This means I can walk to a variety of places for lunch.

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.

So I like going out for lunch. The view can be wonderful for somebody with a fetish like mine.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I did not get to linger and spy on those boots however. It was back to work for me.

Scuffed Boots

I was working with a woman earlier today. I have known her for years. We went to school together.

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.

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.

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.

Fine, beautiful boots with pretty stacked wooden heels tarnished. And what could I do?

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.)

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!

Maybe it should be? I have no experience in that area, but I am willing and eager.

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.

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.

Return of the Team Lead

The project manager and team lead of whom I wrote last week are in the office again.

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.

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.

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.

Big Beautiful Women and Boots

One of my other passions is full figured women. Shapely is sexy.

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.

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.

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.

Where do you find boots for women with shapely calves? Where is the big girl's boot store?

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.

Porn Shows Me The Way

Somewhere along the way through high school I ran across something that focused my desires. It came in the form of a catalog for porn.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I found that I could look at them because I identified with them.

A girlfriend I showed this magazine to much later told me it was horrible.

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. )

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.

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.)

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.

The Danger Of The Fetish In The Office

Having an abiding fetish for women in boots can get me in trouble at the office.

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.

No the problem is, even though I am professional on the outside, I am still me on the inside.

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.

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.

Ah, the team lead. I wanted to be her slave and boots were not involved.

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.

And her clothes. She dresses to perfection, again like royalty or old money. Never flashy, just sophisticated.

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.

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.

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.

The Most Painful Years

Junior 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.

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.

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.

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.

I lusted after her so much that it ached. Even when she wasn't wearing those boots, I now wanted to be around her.

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.

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.

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.

Two lessons come from this. Both took me a long time to learn.

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.

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.

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.

Origins

I have had this fetish for women in boots for as long as I can remember.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Pam moved away very shortly there after. I never saw her again.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Defining My Fetish

I have a fetish for women wearing boots.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Boot Styles and features I generally do not find attractive:
(There are always exceptions)

• Flat soles. With the exception of riding boots, I like boots with a heel
• Below ankle boots. Those really short boots/tall shoes that look like boots at first. I hate when I get fooled by those.
• Ankle boots. They have to be really special to be attractive
• 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.
• Cowboy boots. I like them if they have a good, tall shaft. Taller = better.
• Rubber boots/Rain boots. Except for rubber riding boots. Those would work for me.
• Work boots/hiking boots. Not unless you get into the knee-high range again, then I am game.

Boot Styles and features I adore:

• Old Zodiac Boots. With the stacked wooden heel and the metal piece at the toe. I surf eBay to see them.
• Real lace up boots. Laced up so they hug a woman's ankle and calf
• Classic tapered heels. That graceful arc from ankle to the floor is so pleasing to the eye
• Real leather. The look, the feel, the smell, the taste...
• Wedge heels. An exception to the platform rule is wedge heels. There is a story here for later.
• Patent leather. Done right, even the pvc stuff can be nice. I like the shine

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.

A Day In The Life...

I will start this whole thing off with an example.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

And that is all.

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.

I probably won't mention her boots again, ever. Just one compliment. I allow myself that and nothing more.

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.

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.

Another day at the office for the man with the serious boot fetish.