Dirty Thoughts: Combat Boots

This piece is actually a letter I sent to a FWB, but he gave permission for me to publish it on this blog. It is a lot shorter than the erotica I normally publish, but I feel making it longer and/or any heavy editing would go against the original spirit of the piece.

Fuck me in my combat boots when I’m down on my hands and knees. Your fingers tangled in my hair and a thumb hooked into my collar, pushing my head down into the floor. The floor is cold, and where your skin touches my neck, it feels burning hot. My shorts are pulled to the side, and my shirt is still on, and now your hands are pressed up close to my cock. I freeze, and then relax, and my moans are swallowed up by the ground against my face. Fuck me with your fingers, but not yet. First tease me with them, run them along the edge of my cunt, each movement in time with a stroke of my hair. Your fingers are ice cold against the desperate warmth of my cunt, and it’s not long until I’m begging. And not a pretty kind of begging, but a desperate kind of begging, where I’m almost crying with need and want.

Fuck me in my combat boots, when I’m tied down and gagged. When there’s a rope tied around my ankles just above where the tops of the boots end, spreading my legs apart on the bed. When there’s a chain wrapped around the headboard, and the leather of my wrist restraints pushes into my skin with just enough pressure that I can’t forget they’re there. I’m not allowed to forget that they’re there. Fuck me while I”m gagged, while I can do nothing but watch as you slide up and down my dick, nothing but whine and roll and whimper as you tease me. Let me hear you moan and gasp, let me know that you’re enjoying using me. Let me know you’re exaggerating just slightly, wanting to drive me crazy with knowing I can’t feel a single thing.

Fuck me in my combat boots when you’re down on your knees in front of me. Fuck me with your mouth, tease my cock with your tongue as you slide fingers up against my cunt, never pressing into me, but keeping them steady. Fuck me when I’m naked apart from my boots, while my legs are bare and the exposed ink of my tattoos is almost as black as their leather. Touch me just enough and not enough in combination, so that I shiver under your touch, under each movement of your lips and tongue, wanting to grind against you. But make sure I can’t, make me know that I can’t touch you, that even though my arms are physically free to move where I please, I can’t bury my hands in your hair, can’t cup my hand around your cheek and pull you closer against me, can’t do anything but keep them behind my back. Make me mark my own skin and grasp roughly on my wrists, desperate to stop myself from touching you, desperate to be a good obedient boy.

Fuck me in your combat boots, but only after you make me worship them. They’re fine boots- black leather stitched tight, polished to such a bright shine that I can see my reflection as I trail kisses from the toe up to the calf. Fuck me after you make me kneel at your feet, taste the leather as I lick up to the laces, and then to the neck where they meet the denim of your skinny jeans. After you make me look up at you with big round eyes, after I’ve taken such good care of them that they’re almost as perfect as you. I want you to laugh at that look, laugh at my eagerness, laugh at the fact I’m still asking for more while my head is bowed over the ridges of lacing. And I want you to have known I’d be like this- known I’d have been selfish and pathetic and asked for more- and worn a harness under your jeans. But first I want you to make me beg harder, press my face down into the ground with the sole of your boot, pressing just a little harsher and then just a little harsher, until I beg for you to use me. And then I want you to fuck me until I can’t stand it any more.

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