Finally, I received some formal training in boot licking.

Here’s how it happened.

In the May issue of Exotic I saw an ad for Cathie’s, the erotica shop on Southeast Powell Road just off 82nd that specializes in garb for exotic dancers. The ad featured a sale on three pairs of shoes and one pair of boots. These boots, modeled by Jewels, looked fantastic. Black leather. Laced up the front. Two inch platforms. And six inch court-style high heels. Real dominatrix boots.

And they were on sale for $49.95. I had to have them.

I called a close friend who is slightly interested in kinky things. Dulcy agreed to go with me. So on Thursday, May 7, we drove out to Cathie’s.

Any time a man has to go into the sacred realm of a women’s shopping palace, he is nervous. Particularly so if he is a pervert. But Dulcy was quite helpful–she vanished into the bowels of the store looking at undies while I picked up the boots, size seven, Dulcy’s size, which were on hold for me. The women there were quite nice (one even called me “Hon,” perhaps knowing that I was a nervous pervert realizing a life long dream). On display were several more pairs of boots that were even more erotic – platforms with zippers up the insides, patent leather thigh highs. I resolved to go back there and acquire a full leather boot collection.

Dulcy, bemused at my slavering passion for these boots, drove us back to my apartment. Dulcy is a tallish brunette, with short hair, great legs that she always says are too fat, and a delightful “wicked witch of the west” upturned nose. She was wearing a short black skirt, Donna Karan stockings, and a white blouse. Back at my place, she sat down with a smirk on her face and removed her shoes while I took the boots from the box with trembling hands.

These boots, made in China, were even more impressive in person. Hard leather. Shiny. The heel heavy and firm. Getting down on my knees, I slipped the right boot onto Dulcy’s foot. She stood up and thumped her foot deep into it. I lace it up, quickly, making mistakes, my fingers tense with fear and longing. Dulcy laughed along with my agony, and talked to me about my fetishism, how on a deeper level she couldn’t understand it.

Soon both boots were on. She stood up and walked around in them. Suddenly to her delight we were on eye level. She was gleeful. The boots thudded deliciously on the wood floor.

Then Dulcy said cooly, “So, do you want to lick my boots, slave?”

I gulped, my throat dry, and said, “Yes,” ecstatic that she was being such a game girl.

“Then get down on your knees.”

I did, and slowly approached the objects of my worship. I planted my lips against the leather of her ankle, and kissed, and then began to lick. The chemicals of the polish were sweet, and the leather was so hard I realize that it was perfect for licking games. Dulcy stood over me for a while, and then sat down, a quizzical look on her face as she felt a tongue washing over her ankles, feet, and calves through the leather of her boots. While I toiled away, she described the sensations, which she said were quite erotic.

As you can see, dear reader, my abasement has won yet another pervert convert.

Jimmy Doyle is a former New York cop now living in Portland.