It was mostly a typical day in the slave factory, otherwise known as the bookstore. It was also the slave factory because all the drones that worked there had aspirations to be something else, but stayed on there anyway, writhing in agony.

But the day was also typical, in that the gorgeous Malicia was in the slave factory shopping for books. Picture her if you will in what they call the Gold Room, looking through the erotica section. She is searching for more books on the art of domination. It's not as if she has to learn anything new. But it's good to keep up with the competition.

Malicia, already a tall striking woman, with dark brown hair and an open, smiling face, was stunning today in a long black coat of supple leather. Picture Trinity of The Matrix, but with a coat made not of shiny leather, but rather a deep, black soft leather. The coat had large collars that tickled her neck, and deep pockets into which she hid implements of torture. The coat made exotic crinkling sounds when Malicia reached up to pull down a book from the shelf. Her full, strong, man's aviator watch peeped out from her sleeve when she did so.

Observing Malicia this day was one Shelley, a drone in the slave factory. Shelley was garbed in a most fetching and girlish attire. She was garbed in a plaid skirt of dark blue and red patterns, with high dark blue stockings. Atop that, she wore a white blouse, a man's tie in blue, and a pair of tight black knee boots that pressed against her flesh.

Shelley was eyeing Malicia because Shelley, too, had the urge to dominate men. But she was a trainee. Malicia was the expert. Shelley, in her capacity as a drone, sidled up to the much taller woman and asked if she needed help. Malicia said no. She said this with such finality that Shelley was taken rather aback, but she forged on, noting Malicia's attire and asking questions about it.

But also observing Malicia was a person of the male sex, whom we shall call bootslave, a slave. The bootslave had been eyeing Malicia since her arrival in the store an hour earlier. The slave could not take its eyes off of Malicia.

That's because Malicia's legs were encased in leather. Malicia wore thighboots that played peek-a-boo from behind the curtain of the coat, and like a rat given intermittent reinforcement; the slave kept glancing, hoping for another sight of the boots. The boots were of an unusual mango color, bright yet somehow natural at the same time. Tall boots on a tall girl made the slave weak at the knees, created a need in him, a gapping lack in his chest, a fear and a desire.

Peeking between the leather skirt and the tops of Malicia's thighboots were the twin sheaves of silk stockings of an uncanny luminosity, shining in the light like waves on the night ocean. She also wore a tight turtleneck sleeveless sweater, of a dark color somewhat similar to the boots.

Malicia, in her all seeing power was not unaware of the slave. Sure, she had contempt for this bald, overweight, four-eyed specimen, so like the lot of men who come crawling to her for abuse. But she realized that this slave might have some immediate uses. Aware that Shelley was sizing her up, Malicia thought she could make good use of that pile of living and useless DNA for a face off with the aspirant next to her.

There was no difficulty in getting the girl to confess that she, too, wished to be a dominant when she grew up. Malicia asked her if she had any experience, asked her about her background, asked her about her desires. Shelley was forthcoming, but a tad arrogant about her limited experience. Shelley, for her part, was flattered, pleased that the more experienced woman seemed to be interviewing her, as if for a job.

Malicia decided to test her.

"What would you do with a slave right now?" she asked.

"A slave? Here?"

"Yes, if you had a slave right in front of you, what would you do?"

"Why, I, I, I would order him to get on his knees in front of me, and show proper respect. Yes, that's what I would do."

Shelley seemed proud of her decision, but Malicia only smirked.

"Well, let's see then," she said, and then looked over to the end of the aisle where the slave was hovering pretending to look at a book. "You. There. Yes you. Put down that book. Yes, that's right. Put it on the shelf. Go ahead. That's good. Now come here."

When the slave was standing before them, Malicia turned to Shelley and said, "Well?"

"Oh! Yes! OK, um, slave, get down on your knees."

The slave did nothing, looking confused and a little scared. He looked from one woman to the next and then away as if to call for help. Shelley went on. "You heard me slave. Get on your knees!"

The slave still did nothing. Malicia decided to take things in hand. She leaned in, her lips touching the slave's ear, and whispered in a calm, controlled voice, "You'll do what she says and get on your knees in front you’re her right now if you know what's good for you." There was such command and terror in her voice, that the slave did exactly what Malicia told him to do.

Once the slave was on his knees, Malicia looked at Shelley, and said, "Well, now what?"

"Oh. Well, OK, slave, kiss my boots."

The slave looked confused yet excited, and Malicia made a tsk tsk sound.

"No, no, no. Kissing boots is a reward for these slaves, not a punishment. You've got to make it a challenge for them. The slave wants to kiss your boots. So make it a little difficult for him. What would you do right now?

Shelley had an idea. She reached into her purse, and pulled out a brown sack. Inside the sack was a large cookie. She bent over and put a few flecks of cookie on the toe of her boot. "There, she said. Eat that off my boot, slave."

The slave, his true colors now exposed, did so, bending over and pressing his lips to the hard dark leather of her boot. His tongue licked up the granulated flecks, and his lips smooched off the residue. Shelley could feel his mouth on her foot through the leather of her boot.

When the slave was done, he leaned back up. Shelley looked proudly at Malicia, but she only scoffed. "That's it? He got more pleasure out of that then you did. Here," she said and took the sack from Shelley. She turned it upside down and spilled the rest of the cookie on the floor, where it broke up. Malicia then took the sole of her mango boot and crushed the cookie. But she didn't just crumble it. She mashed it with all her weight, so that the dough reverted back to the paste it was before cooking. She did so all the time staring down at the slave, her eyes burning into his, commanding him wordlessly. She stopped pressing, and tilted her boot up on its back heel, showing the product of her industry. The pasted clung like gum between the boot sole and the cold concrete floor, bits of dust mouse and paper flecks attaching itself to the dough.

"Now, lick that off, slave." Malicia said this evenly and coolly, and the slave knew that he must obey. He groveled down to her boot level and applied his mouth and tongue to the matter on her boot sole. He licked at the paste, and as he swallowed it down, he could taste the cold filth from the floor, and the harsh hard objects that clung to the dough. He started to gag, but something told the slave that he would be better off just doing the job. Also, he was aroused. Malicia had instant command over him, and all he could do was obey. The slave relished the touch of his tongue to her gritty boot, knowing that it was his place.

Malicia turned to Shelley. "So, what do you do now, with your slave on his knees?"

"I will torture him," she said, and Shelley ordered the slave to crawl behind her. She hoisted up her plaid skirt, and then ordered the slave to kiss her buttocks. As he did so, feeling the heat of her flesh on his lips through the material of her panties, Shelley dropped her skirt over his head, and then released a cloud of unexpected fumes. Shelley cackled sadistically as the slave recoiled helplessly and futilely from the blast of foul aromas, holding the skirt tight so that the slave's head could not escape the gaseous cloud.

"Now kiss and lick that, clean off any residue," Shelley ordered.

The licking visibly aroused Shelley, but it was hard to tell if her arousal was sparked by the fleshy contact or by the idea of a male submitting itself to her command for so degrading a service.

When the slave was done, Shelley let him fall backward. He was still on his knees. Malicia did not enjoy the fact that he was obviously enjoying the experience. She reached into the folds of her coat, and from beneath her gathered leather skirt, she unveiled a massive dildo, attached to her waist via a comfortable but secure network of thin leather straps. She brandished the dildo, long black and hard, before the slave's face.

"It looks to me that this is what's really on your mind," Malicia said, "so why don't you clean this for me. It is soiled and dirty from use earlier today. Suck it, slave."

The slave obeyed as if an automaton to Malicia's alluring voice. He wiggled over on his knees and took the dildo into his mouth slowly. Malicia helped him. She put her hands on her hips and thrust her pelvis forward to push the dildo past the slave's lips and into his mouth. He gagged as the projectile bashed against his uvula. He began to suck vigorously, his head bobbing up and down. He could feel the veins of the plastic, the remnant of whatever porn star served as the model for the creation of the dildo, and he glanced lovingly at Malicia's boots, so close and yet so far, just within reach, but forbidden him, as he sucked away at the hard dildo. Malicia smiled and laughed lightly as she looked down on the pathetic head of the slave, sliding back and forth on the rubber rod. She could see that this action too only made the slave more aroused.

Shelley too was looking down on the slave with wonderment, in awe of the taller Mistress's control of the petty male. He pumped away at the black, now glistening dildo, simply because she told him too.

"That's fascinating," Shelley said. "How could you get him to do such a degrading thing?"

"Let us go and talk. I think you have a lot to learn from me." With that, Malicia took Shelley by the arm and led her away. Without even a backward glance, they abandoned the slave, still on his knees and reeling from the blend of punishment and arousal that the women had imposed upon him.

"Are you sure you want to leave him behind?"

Shelley was looking at the pathetic slave, still on his knees in the middle of the aisle.

"Why?" Malicia asked. "What use is it?"

"He might be good for training purposes."

Malicia considered this for a second. "You might be right. It is such a lousy slave it might offer a challenge to any up and coming Mistress trying to earn her stripes. Let's bring it along. I've got some ideas."

Malicia returned to the cowering, grasping slave and, pulling a thick leather collar and long leather leash from her pocket. She attached the collar tightly, ever so just too tightly, to the slave's neck. Then she locked it with a small padlock, attached the leash and tugged on the leash to test its slave-managing strength.

Satisfied, she turned to lead the slave by the leash out of the store. The slave began to follow, rising up and walking behind its new Mistress. Malicia noticed this and turned around.

"What the hell are you doing on your feet!?" Malicia slapped the slave hard in the face, knocking his head to the side. "On your knees. Crawl behind us as we exit the store."

The slave fell back to his knees and crawled on the hard concrete floor behind the two women, Malicia tugging at his neck to spur the slave to keep up. When they emerged from the aisle, people began to notice this dramatic, tall, eye-catching woman leading a man on a leash who crawled behind her. They stopped to whisper and point. The slave could feel burning shame bloodying his face.

By the time they were at the front of the store, scores of people had witnessed this spectacle, and paused to drink it in, some amused, some shocked, others obviously aroused.

From the front door to the car was another agonizing trek for the slave, who had to evade the refuse of the street. Not that the two women noticed. They were engrossed in their own conversation, Shelley looking up admiringly at the more superior woman; Malicia looking straight ahead, sternly, her boot heels clacking against the dirty sidewalk surface.

When the two women reached the car, Malicia beeped open the trunk, guided the slave by the leash and elegantly scooped the near-man into the trunk. The slave affected confusion, but in fact a part of him knew and enjoyed the rough, dismissive treatment. With the slave just barely inside, Malicia threw the leash in after him and slammed shut the lid to the Mercedes, then eased her large frame into the driver's seat with elegance. Shelley followed suit a little more clumsily into the passenger's seat.

It was a rough ride back there in the dark for the bouncing slave, and he had no idea where they were taking him. All he knew was that his senses were alive and quivering, hyper-aware of sensation, and the passage of time. But soon enough the vehicle slowed to a stop on a gravel road, and the car shook with action as the two women got out. The lid lifted and, blinking in the sudden fan of light, the slave felt his leash tugged again.

But as he crawled out of the trunk he was forced down on his knees again. He knelt there on the hard, sharp gravel as the women talked between themselves. Fearing to look up, he could smell cigarette smoke, as at least one of the dommes enjoyed one before going in.

But the ladies weren't done yet, or at least Malicia wasn't. "Slave," she barked," take off your clothes." Again, pretending to be hesitant, the slave moved slowly, only to be kicked at by the Mistress, her boot toe finding his tender thigh.

"Hurry up about it," she ordered, but when the slave started to rise, Malicia pushed him back down. "From the ground, slave," she commanded, and the slave began the difficult task of removing his clothes while low to the sharp piercing chunks of quarry.

"This is another lesson for you girl," she said, addressing Shelley. "Ideally the slave will never rise from the ground. It should never be higher than the top lip of your boots. A slave is less than the dirt on the soles of your boots, and any height higher than that is a privilege." Shelley took a peek at the tip of her boots, mentally measuring the air space.

Shorn of his clothes, the slave laid waiting for this diatribe to cease. When Malicia noticed his cessation of activity, she looked down. "The clothes go in the trunk." Shelley began to reach down to pick up the rags, but Malicia stopped her with a crop, sprung out like a gate to stall her. "Not you. It." She pointed the tip of the crop at the slave. The slave was a little worried about this, but tossed the clothing into the trunk, whereupon Malicia slammed it shut. Now, the slave was irrevocably separated from his attire, and bound to Malicia in shackles sterner than handcuffs.

Now naked and slightly chilled in the winter light, the slave waited for further instructions. To his surprise, the masterly woman said, "Of course, there are exceptions to the boot level rule, and one of them is inspection time." She tugged on the slave's leash, forcing him to clumsily rise. "It's a privilege enjoyed by the slaves usually only once, upon first arrival at the house."

At his full height, and without shoes, the slave's eyes reached the level of Mistress's collarbone. "Eyes down, slave," Malicia ordered while she looked at his face. "Hands to the side." He complied.

Malicia took a step back, her heels crunching into the dusty gravel, and Shelley followed suit, like a baby looking at Malicia's face to see what her reaction should be. The Mistress put a long finger to her chin, her manly and outsized watch glinting in the sun, and considered the slave, a smirk on her face. The slave could feel her eyes on his privates and he felt the heat rise in his face.

"Not very impressive," she mused. "Shelley, measure it's thing," she commanded, unwilling to touch a slave's member unless necessary. Shelley stepped forward and took the man's flaccid member in her soft, scented hand. She mentally calculated the man's penis, and announced, "About two and a half to three inches. Soft."

"That can't be!" Malicia came forward and leaned down to inspect the slave. Shelley twisted the penis left and right to reveal its full length.

"I'd say two, if that," she announced. She took the unit in her long, elegant fingers and tugged it a little, then said, "And the bush is a little unruly. Hair is a symbol of manliness, the worst kind of manliness. It will be sheared, if kept." The slave thrilled to being called an "it, and also to the sensation of having the dominant woman fondle his penis, even if in the most dismissive manner. Standing there with his face upturned and grimacing, and his hands willed to his side, he felt the first throbs of sensation in his loins. In response, his member began to engorge, and as Malicia held it, it came to life in her hand. "The predictable response, but look ... it's hardly gained any purchase over its soft size! For want of precise metric utensils, I rate it two inches, two and a quarter at the most. He far from qualifies as a bedroom slave. But few slaves do." She relinquished the penis and the now hard object flopped back to its source, bouncing in the air, and the slave felt a crushing abandonment when Malicia's palm and fingers ceased contact.

"OK, back on your knees, slave," and with sorrowful reality the slave, now awakened from his sexual revelry, returned to his proper place, on his knees before the two goddesses. Then with a tug of the leash, Malicia signaled that they were about to go inside the house, where, the slave worried, new torments awaited him.

Malicia tugged on the leash firmly, forcing the slave to keep up with her fierce stride across the rocky driveway, where the sharp gray rocks bit into his palms and knees, and then the hard sidewalk that led up to the massive front porch of the house skinned his knees. Shelley lingered behind, observing the buttocks of the slave as he sidled back and forth like a horse's haunches.

Once inside the house it was difficult for the slave to see anything from his groveling position, but he could tell from the echoing sounds and the scent of fresh air that it was a large open space. He heard Malicia say, "Wait here in this foyer. I need to change."

With that, the slave heard Malicia briskly mount a long staircase and disappear, which Shelley tugged recklessly on his leash and led him into a small room off the front door. Shelley sat in a small if plush chair while the slave knelt next to her, her legs dominating his vision.

Shelley looked around at the book-lined room, filled mostly near the window with a desk, a globe, and various long tables with lamps. Then she turned her attention to the slave, who was looking at her legs.

"Hey, slave," she asked, jerking on the leash. The slave looked up into Shelley's face, which bore an expression of curiosity. "What do you think of what's happened so far?"

The slave fumbled for words, which made Shelley roll her eyes and yank on the leash again. "Just spit it out," she said.

"Well, it's deeply, deeply humiliating, yet also a dream come true. You are both gorgeous women and I have always wanted to worship at the boots of such women. Yet at the same time the public embarrassment is almost too much to bear."

"Hmmmm. Well, we'll see what happens about that. My guess is that Malicia will know that about you and use your fear of public embarrassment to control and humiliate you further, At least that's what I've read. I've always wanted a slave, myself, but been too shy to seek one out. But something about seeing Malicia today gave me the courage to approach her."

As if on cue, Malicia could then be heard opening a door upstairs and descending the staircase. The slave could tell from the difference in her stride and the noise level of her heels on the floor that she had at the very least changed her boots.

The slave was right. When Malicia re-entered the room she was clad in straight riding gear. Her long wavy hair cascaded onto shoulders covered with a white shirt; the shirt was tucked into a pair of tight beige jodhpurs with a reinforced crotch. The pants stretched down her long legs to a pair of tall black riding boots with a brown cuff at the top. The boots were the shiniest boots the slave had ever seen. It was as if the boots were encased in glass. The boots were solid, and glowed almost from within. Little creases here and there only added to these hypnotizing pedestals, and he could imagine himself exploring their creases and wrinkles with his tongue. The small spurs locked onto the ankles gave an ominous warning of what the boots could do.

Malicia threw a pile of clothes on a couch. "These are for you," she said to Shelley. The gamin got up eagerly and looked through the material, starting to change right in front of Malicia and the slave. When she was done, Shelley was wearing a stripped shirt, white with long thin lavender stripes, a short black leather skirt, luminescent black stockings and a pair of tight black thigh high boots. Shelley pranced around the room for a few seconds admiring herself and showing off for Malicia– and by consequence, the slave, who could not take his eyes off Shelley's nylon and leather encased legs.

"OK," Malicia snapped, " you want to learn to be a dominatrix and you want to become a slave," she said pointing at each of them in turn with the tip of a riding crop that dangle from her left wrist. "So follow me, and get your first taste of the slave lifestyle. Shelley, you lead the slave."

Shelley's heart leapt at the sentence and she felt a strange thrill, a feeling of rightness, coursing through her. She stood up and tugged the slave in the direction Malicia led them.

The commanding Mistress took her charges through a pair of double doors into a great room that looked to be the size of a small ballroom. The shelves were filled with books and knickknacks, a grand piano sat in a corner surrounded by windows, and a chandelier hung from the middle of the ceiling.

But what was most unusual about the room was its floor. It was made of glass.

As the slave crawled along he could peer through the slippery surface and see black depths of undeterminable size. Malicia stopped before a high, vast and comfortable looking chair of what seemed purple velvet, and sat down, crossing her legs and tossing her toes up and down in an impatient, energized fashion. Shelley halted in front of her and waited to see what happened. The slave, like a dog, stopped and panted from exhaustion.

Malicia began. "This is the most interesting room in a house that is full of interesting rooms. When I have more than one guest, when I have a party, I conduct it here, and here only. Other rooms are for more private events. As you can see, the floor is transparent. That is for a very specific reason, as you are about to find out. Shelley, life that latch."

Shelley looked down and noticed that within the edges of the glass panels that made up the floor there were thin transparent latches with ovals for a finger to catch and pull it out. Once pulled, Shelley was able to see that the area under the floor was just high enough for a man to crawl through it. And the openings or lids were scattered around the room.

Malicia took the leash from Shelley and brutally tossed the slave into the area between the real floor and its glass roof. "Get in there," she ordered, "and do what I say." With that, she closed the lid and stood. She towered over the slave, who was now encased in a glass house. The Mistress stood over him, her legs apart, and he was close, yet so far from her. She moved a little bit, and her boots echoed loudly to him within his glass cage.

"Shelley, go sit over there," Malicia said before she herself fell into the plush, regal chair behind her. When Shelley was seated, Malicia pounded on the glass floor with the heel of her boot, gaining the slave's attention, who twisted his head to look up through the glass. "O.K. slave, crawl across the room and kneel beneath Shelley."

The slave did as it was ordered, crawling across the expanse of the room on his already worn out knees, the glass of the roof above him scraping against his shoulders. It seemed like it took ages to get just the twenty feet to where Shelley sat watching him. When he paused, panting, on the hard dark wood under his knees, he looked up, and there was Shelley, in her chair, her boots but inches from his face, resting on the glass floor. He could see the bits of dust and the scrapes on the soles. He heard Malicia utter something, and then Shelley opened another lid near her boots. "OK, slave," he heard Malicia order from across the room, "lick her boots."

The slave craned its head out through the opening and placed his face next to Shelley's boots. She looked down at him as he edged closer to her leather. Then, as his tongue made first contact with her legs, she closed her eyes in a form of ecstasy. Meanwhile, the slave was deeply aroused by his predicament. No matter that he was twisted and naked and scraped and being watched by two domineering women, he was still enjoying the acting of pressing his tongue to the tart leather of Shelley's boots and lapping up the dust and flecks and debris, and kissing the boots with a passion that normal men reserve for the lips of their lovers.

When the slave thought that he was going to explode with harmony, he heard Malicia call out to him. "Enough of her," she said. "Now crawl back here and service me." The slave reluctantly removed his dry lips from Shelley's boots and withdrew into the cave. Shelley closed the lid, and then, as the slave crawled back to Malicia, she walked behind the slave, her boot heels clacking on the glass above his head, driving him mad with a frenzy of desire for her boots and legs.

When he got back to Malicia, Shelley re-opened the lid, and the slave popped its head out. Malicia's leather riding boot was already awaiting him, on a small ottoman. "Lick, slave," she ordered, and Shelley stood off to the side, in his sightline as he placed his tongue to the hard, stern leather of her boot. He licked and lapped and kept Shelley's boots also in his vision. Malicia tapped parts of the boot that she wanted the slave to devote special attention, and he was glad to do so, pressing his soft tongue hard into the crevasses and wrinkles and sucking up the chemicals of the boot polish. Malicia seemed almost pleased with his performance, and Shelley was in a state of rabid desire.

"You can see the utility of this little arrangement," the domineering Malicia said to Shelley. "Almost where ever a woman is standing in this room, there is an opening for one of the crawling boot slaves to come out and do some cleaning."

"What a brilliant idea," Shelley enthused, still watching the slave lick, and finding herself turned on by Malicia's stature and calm demeanor as the slave kissed and licked and groveled away.

"Well, you are about to see it in action," Malicia promised. "Tonight we shall have a party and see if the slave enjoys himself with not two women, but scores of them."

From the slave's dark hovel, he could hear bustle and work all day.

He knew that Malicia and Shelley were preparing a party, but he did not know what their labors entailed.

If he could see out of the black boxy low closet into which he had been placed, he would have seen that Malicia and Shelley were doing nothing at all. They sat regally chatting with each other as worker slaves did their bidding. These slaves, mostly male, but a few female, cleared out the ballroom floor, set up tables, prepared the snacks, set up the sound system, and organized the tapes that would project images from movies on a screen against the north wall.

But soon enough the slave knew well the purpose of the clear, mullioned floor he had seen earlier that day.

Several hours later, there was a noise around him, and then a wall near his head was removed, slid up, as if he were a bull in a rodeo and was now released into the ring. Brilliant light bathed him, and he turned around as best he could and moved forward into the bright room.

What he now saw was that he was beneath the glass floor. Above him, there was a party going on, a well-attended party, in which the several hundred people were all dressed in leather and fetish gear. Most of the attendees were women, but the slave noticed a few men here and there as he crawled forward. All the women wore boots, and as he crawled, their footwear was just above him, only separated from him by the thick shield of glass.

The people standing on the glass floor could look down and see the slave crawling about, like a fish in a bowl. His whereabouts were easy to detect. Inside this crawlspace, the slave had just enough room to stay on his knees and move about, the glass occasionally touching or scraping his nude back. But why was he here? The answer soon came to light.

He heard a sound and soon realized that it was a seated woman off to the side of the vast ballroom tapping her whip butt against the glass floor. He made his way to the sound, and as he approached, he could see through the distorting thickness of the glass that she was sitting in a plush chair awaiting him. When he grew near, she rose and then, bending over, pulled open the square mullion of glass in front of her, using a small pull out tab that was a fixture in all the mullions. The room was build over this glass floor that was made up of thousands upon thousands of this openable mullions. Once the window was open, the slave could poke out, and what he was meant to do next was obvious. The grand lady standing on the lip of the opening tapped her boot to indicate that the slave was to clean it. The slave was only too happy to, an undoubtedly unintentional side effect, or irrelevant happenstance of the woman's order. Her black leather boots were over crisp and luminous black stockings, which emerged out of a short black leather skirt. Atop that she wore a white shirt, brown leather gloves, and held the whip. Her hair was a dark, ravenesque black, shiny and neat. Large sunglasses masked her face. The woman kept tapping and the slave turned his attention to the boots before him. They were of remarkable black leather, very dark but also very shiny, with a square toe and a nice line of the vamp leading to the heel. The heels were very thin but also high, and tilted the woman's pelvis forward in a highly sexual manner. The woman was still tapping the side of her boot with the tip of the crop and so the slave set to work. He bent his head to the left boot toe in front of him and began to lick at it. He tilted and twisted his head about as he tongue bathed the boots before him, working up from the toe across the top and thence to the ankle. He could taste the tangy chemicals of the boot's polish, and felt it begin to coat his mouth. His tongue dug into the seam that held together the shoe of the boot to the shaft, and tried to break free from this seam the debris of the street with his tongue. Occasionally the licking would become kissing, and he would press both lips to the glorious leather, sucking at the boot as if it were the mouth of a luscious woman. But such intimacy with a woman held no interest for him. He was meant to serve, not enjoy the company of a woman as an equal, but to wait on her as a servant. His greatest satisfaction was a woman's supreme indifference to him as he labored at her feet. That what is a matter of earth shaking importance to him -- to worship her boots; should be of utter indifference to her was a source of sublime pleasure to the slave, it gave him a sense of the rightness of the world.

The slave was very careful around the side of the soul that curved from the heel to the toes. He slid his tongue against its sharp edge and loosened crusted matter and dirt. The Mistress looked down at him occasionally to monitor his job, and then returned to the conversation she was having with someone else. The slave was so flush with excitement and concentration that he couldn't even hear what the woman was saying to her friend. It was a blur of words. The slave felt feverish and delirious as he sat on his hands and knees, his head poking out of the square opening and his tongue bent to the task of cleansing the boot before him. When he felt like he was done with the left boot he reluctantly turned to its right mate beside it. While the left boot still shined from the spit bath, the right boot was still dulled and dry, and the slave had to force the saliva from his system to get the boot to gleam. His licking of the right boot mirrored his work on the left boot. Toe, top, vamp, and heel. His tongue hardened and pressed as if he were servicing the woman's privates, and occasionally he could feel her foot flex or her toes wiggle under the pressure of his tongue on the thin sheaf of hard leather. Occasionally he would hear the tapping of a whip on the leather, and he would open his eyes to see the crop tip indicating a spot for him to tackle, and he did so, addressing the leather with a dollop of spit that he would rub into the boot with his now blackening tongue.

Eventually, the woman grew bored with the slave and kicked his head away with the side of her right boot. He re-submerged into the glass catacomb, which was now capturing heat from the lights above. But his stasis was not to last. From somewhere else he heard another taping and then another and another, and with each tapping he made his way to its source, only to find different women, some sitting and some standing, each throwing open the window so that he might service their boots, be they petit blondes with slim boots, or six foot five Negresses with thigh boots up to their hips. The dirt on the boots was as various as the boots and the women themselves, and he tried to keep up with the surprise; the cluster of dirt with grass in it here, the dollop of some sort of smelly waste there; with alacrity. He was never thanked by the woman, but simply kicked aside, or pushed back down into the hovel with the underside of a toe, or the glass mullion was kicked over on him as he fell back. Then the woman would walk away and he would hear another tapping, always on the other side of the room, and he began the long groveling trek to the new boots that needed cleaning.

In their behavior the women were simply following the lead of Malicia, who had issued a dicta that the women all get their boots spit shined by the slave at some point in the evening. From her regal aerie on a throne at the far end of the room she could make out the slave's progress. She denied herself the pleasure of the slave's boot shine; as she wanted see how long he might last. She wanted to exhaust him, to see if he really was a boot fetishist, if he really was willing to subjugate his life to his need for boots. If so, then at the end of the evening, when the slave was sore and aching and his tongue a numb lifeless appendage, then, then she would demand he clear her boots, and do so with all the vigor of a first boot licking. If he failed Her then, She would delight in punishing the slave in detailed and delightful manners for as long as he lived.

But before she put the slave to that monstrous test, she was going to give Shelley, her eager student, the gift of supremacy.

"Shelley," she said to the red haired girl sitting to her left.

"Yes, Mistress Malicia," Shelley replied, her face alive with the excitement of the party.

"See the slave over there, with his head up through the floor licking the boots of that gorgeous Amazonian black woman?"

Shelley looked, and indeed saw the pathetic creature, his head wet with sweat from the labors of licking so many boots and the heat from the oven-like glass crawl space.

"Yes, I do, Mistress."

"He may need nourishment. Here. Take this croissant over to him."

"Yes, Mistress." Shelley rose and descended the dais where the two thrones sat. She moved with grace and ease as she went down the steps in her hip hugging mini-skirt, her tall boots disappearing under their hem.

Shelley walked through the room of beautiful women in leather and their occasional slaves, male and female. She found the bobbing head of the slave cleansing the boots of the black Amazon.

The slave took no notice of her. Shelley then said, "You are very, very disappointing to me in so many ways."

That got the slave's attention, and the black goddess discreetly receded from the scene.

Shelley had a look of fury on her face as she looked down on the slave. Yet she still took the croissant and squashed it under her boot heel. She ground the wide heel of her boot slowly into the pastry, mashing it between the dirty hard leather of her boot and the grimy floor, and the entire time she looked at the slave with a smirk on her face. She was really enjoying this. In their game, Shelley would always win, and the slave would always lose. And yet no matter how much anguish she caused the slave with her temptations, he would always come lapping up for more.

When she felt that she had thoroughly mashed the croissant into a pulp, she tilted up her boot and looked at it. She could see the slop gumming between her boot and the floor, and she mashed it more. She was ready to laugh at the slave with a yelp of delight, but the riven desperation on his face caused her a deeper satisfaction. She then tilted up the toe of her boot back as far as she could. Wordless, she tilted her head, and tried to convey to the brainless serf that this was a sign that he should get to work. The slave crawled over; his hunched shoulders and general cringing posture giving Shelley a thrill of delight at her power.

The slave drew close and lying supine on the floor. He cocked his head and rammed it into the space between her boot and the floor. This humid, corrupted space became the be-all and the end-all of his existence. As he groveled into the space, he strained his mouth forward and then flicked his tongue out into the cavernous distance between his body and her boot. With discrete flicks he searched out her boot and the putrid meal she had waiting for him there. The tip of his tongue soon alighted on the flaky mash, and stirred it, until the appendage met resistance from the hard sole of the boot itself. Delicately, he scooped up the paste she had rendered on her boot sole. When he returned his tongue to his grasping, panting cavity, he mashed it to his tongue and quasi-chewed it, savoring not so much the flavor or the vile debris, but the knowledge of where that filth had just been, smeared against her delicious boot sole. Swallowing the debris, the slave sent out his tongue again, and found more paste, spackled with hard matter from the floor. He licked it from her boot and returned the treasure to his mouth, mashed and swallowed again.

He was savoring the act much too much, however, and Shelley had to tap her boot toe with her riding crop to indicate to the slave that he must hurry up. Frightened, the slave did so. He began to lap up the filth, as if he were a dog at a water bowl, scooping and scooping and scooping the matter, which he swallowed quickly. Soon her boot sole was almost back to normal, just the scuffed, blackened hard leather of her boot, yet smeared with the saliva that the slave had emitted while cleansing her boot of its coating. Though there was no more of the debris, either in his stomach, on his face, or pushed aside to the floor, the slave audaciously kept licking, for he so relished the subjugation of groveling at her boot, so needed to have her towering over him in complete command and control of him, that he took the liberty of expressing his fealty to her further, beyond the confines of his mandate simply to cleanse her boot of the hash she had made of the pastry.

Shelley, become all knowing by the power he had relinquished to her, sensed this, and pulled up her boot to take a look at it.

"It's clean, slave. You may stop now."

"Yes, Mistress," he mumbled around his fleck-encrusted tongue, and then humbly pulled away, his head bowed, but her glorious boot still within his sightline. Shelley was moderately pleased with this demonstration of fealty, and allowed him more seconds to regard her boot before she whipped him five times across his hairy back with the stinging tip of her crop.

"That is for indulging your appetite for boot leather without my express permission, slave," she announced as the stings stunned his flinching body. "Next time, do only what is ordered and no more."