Sole Possession

"I've got a present for you," he tells me.

I follow him, nervous and excited, my bare feet padding across our hardwood floor, following in his decisive stride.

I never know exactly what Sir's gifts will be.

He leads me to a parcel, still wrapped in brown packaging paper and placed in the centre of our living room floor.

It was too big to pick up and give to me.

It's flat and square. In fact, when I test its weight, it's difficult to lift. I have to unwrap it in place, kneeling in front of him.

"Thank you, Sir," I murmur, giving him a shy smile before carefully running my thumbnail under the taped join.

As I peel back the paper, a warm and familiar scent hits me.

Sweet, earthy and nostalgic. The smell of tack rooms, stables and long hot summers.

Like a smooth bourbon coating the back of my throat in a smoky bar.

I tremble a little as I run my hands over it.

Raised and dimpled like orange peel, but soft and buttery, supple in my hands with a reassuring weight.

The underside is sanded smooth, a cool grey in contrast to the unpolished black expanse of the top.

"This must have cost a fortune" I breathe, immediately questioning whether I should have let that thought escape my lips.

I don't want him to think I am anything less than grateful for his gift.

It seems that it would be prudent to keep on Sir's good side now, in fact.

While he decides exactly how he plans to make use of this latest offering.

But he only rocks back on his heels, a devilish smirk spreading across his face as he enjoys my confusion and second guessing.

I wonder how he knew to buy this particular item.

Sir has bought me bondage gear before, thoughtfully noticing my preference for the heavy, leather variety.

But always small things like cuffs, hogties, a spreader bar. A collar, of course.

Things that serve his tastes and purposes when it comes to bondage: keeping me captive, and restrained, so he can enjoy my helpless expression as he sweetly tortures me.

But this is different.

How did he know?

Maybe I had lingered a little too long over a certain website in his presence.

He certainly knows of my predilection for blindfolds. Even hoods. Gags. Earplugs. Blissful silence for a noisy mind.

"I was thinking the other day," he interrupted me, "about your feet".

His breath catches on the final word.

"And what I'd like to do to them."

I nod, smiling beatifically, as if this makes perfect sense.

Sir's foot fetish is not news to me.

It's the reason I'm barefoot right now.

"You know you can use my feet any time you wish. My whole body is yours", I tell him.

We've spent many evenings with him massaging my feet, oiling them, working his thumbs over my delicate arches, and lightly kissing and nibbling at my toes.

It makes me squirm and giggle, and I enjoy the expression of rapt attention on his face.

I know resting my foot in his lap gets him hard though.

And afterwards, he fucks me, with an urgency and need that I know doesn't follow a sweet, relaxing foot massage for most people.

He smiles. But there's just a flicker of an expression I don't normally see on his face. An almost shy embarrassment.

I understand before he finishes his sentence. The first time we really indulge his foot thing, he needs to know I'm really into it.

I get it. We're lucky enough to share our main kinks. Dominance, submission. A little delicious fear, and pain.

But fetishes are different, aren't they?

Even if you hit the jackpot, and found someone who shared your fetish, they would probably never understand it in the exact same way you do.

They haven't nurtured it like you have, desperate and ashamed.

Fantasizing constantly.

Feeling like you want to die any time its name gets mentioned.

Rocking silently against your palm, again, the go-to, every fucking time because you can't help yourself.

No, those are just yours really.

Creating an experience you can share with someone else is... tricky.

You've needed this for as long as you can remember.

You can't bear the idea that the other person is merely bemused.

I catch his eye. 'I understand', I tell him.

Having a small window into his vulnerability feels like a gift too.

--

Mere minutes later, I'm naked and shivering in anticipation.

The body binder lies unfurled and waiting on our bed.

At his behest, I slowly climb inside, first sitting and pushing my toes into the narrow foot-end, then lying prone, wriggling my way down to the bottom.

Sir begins to zip the bag closed, clearly enjoying my mix of trepidation and excitement.

It hugs me tightly, like a warm cocoon, even before he begins tightening the straps.

The first, around my ankles, slides into place easily. I shiver at the sound of the heavy buckle sliding over the tanned leather, then the clunk of the pin securing me, before the strap's tongue lightly slaps into place.

Like any good bottom, I am suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to wriggle, to test the bounds of my bondage.

Sir enjoys this playful display of resistance, too feeble to be anything but show.

He tightens another thick leather strap just below my knees. Making my legs into one, useless immobile limb.

His concentration and effort increases as he pulls the strap around my middle taut, trapping my arms to my sides at the wrists.

I feel tightly wound, suddenly. An energy surges through my body, as if it knows it missed its chance to go somewhere.

Another strap is tightened across my chest.

I can breathe but feel conscious of every rising expanse of my lungs. As if the binder strap has decided for me exactly how much air I need.

I feel freed, as the need to make decisions slips away from me.

Sir looks satisfied.

He places a large black ball gag in my mouth. I stretch my jaw wide to accommodate it, suddenly conscious of myself again.

I think about the way I must look with my mouth open, lips stretched and pouting, poised to receive. A mere receptacle.

There's one more piece to this contraption. A hood.

My throat and lungs fill with the soft, smoky scent of leather as Sir places it over my head.

Carefully teasing my pony tail through the rivet in the top and ensuring that its small breathing holes align with my nostrils.

"Make a sound now if you are breathing properly," he tells me. His voice is soft but his tone methodical.

He makes it sound as if this is my one job. To breathe properly.

The slight absurdity of that washes over me.

It's a thought that isn't fully vocalized. Just represented by soft pictures. Feelings.

The embrace of the binder. The warm scent of leather. The colour black.

The pattern of crossgrain, probably imprinting on my own skin.

Finally Sir fastens the last strap. A collar piece around my throat. It fits perfectly and I feel calm. Content. Complete.

I am inside the binder. But also wearing it. And also merging with it as I continue to breathe against its confines.

I don't know if my body feels large, or small. My limbs are a memory. Otherwise I could test the air. Gain some sense of where I end.

I know I was placed on a bed. But I can't feel the bed.

I can't wriggle or create friction.

I could be floating.

Inside the binder.

With the binder.

I have surrendered to this new reality when I am interrupted.

Something is happening.

I cannot hear properly, the hood muffles any real distinction of sounds.

But I feel air, cool and uninvited, washing over the soles of my feet.

My ankles are still tightly bound, but I can just wiggle my toes.

I feel something, lightly brushing my soles, almost tickling them.

With nothing else to focus on, it is overwhelming.

My whole body feels like a taut, narrow channel that ends at my feet.

I know this sensation.

The soft velvet of 30 or so suede tails being lightly teased across my sensitive flesh.

Perhaps feeling he's given me enough clues, Sir begins to lightly flog my feet.

I want to gasp, but the ball in my mouth stops me.

I feel myself begin to burn, unbearably.

The heat builds, and I feel my eyes starting to tear. My soles ache, cruelly, even between each new, sharp thrill of pain.

He won't stop until he's done. And I can't argue.

I blink back the tears, inhaling raggedly, and the air that rushes my lungs smells of leather.

With no hope of reacting, I begin to surrender to the pain.

The rhythm of it is satisfying at least.

I start to breathe in time with each kiss and then sting of the flogger against my exposed soles, and find doing so transmits a pulsing, throbbing pleasure all the way up my thighs to my core.

A hot, desperate wetness starts to grow between my legs, but they're bound so tightly together, there's no way for the pressure to escape.

I start to wiggle my toes furiously, curling and flexing my punished soles in some attempt to gain relief, as he continues.

I am drowning in frustration. Sensation. Hot, delicious pain.

After what is either seconds, or hours, it stops.

There is a pause, then I feel something new.

An oily, warm sensation.

He massages my feet, and my eyes roll backwards in relief and pleasure at the slightest gentle touch.

Next I feel the warmth of his face, and grain of his stubble on my soles, as he pauses to kiss and suck my toes, his hot wet tongue exploring each little inlet.

I want to squirm in delight, but all I can do is embrace the sensation, feeling the pleasure roll through my body in waves.

Fondly, I notice that despite my enclosed position, I still feel connected to him.

I can hear his voice, saying familiar things.

'Beating you always gets me so hard', he likes to tell me.

With no distractions, I realise I can see him in my mind's eye.

Breathing through his gritted teeth, his Adam's apple bobbing in his perfect, tanned throat as he swallows down his building need.

His fisted hand stroking and pumping his rock hard cock, standing furiously to attention, desperate to burst.

I do the only action available to me - I push my heels together and point my toes - to better create a tight, fuckable hole.

It isn't possible that I hear his soft groan of pleasure in response, yet I do.

I imagine how I look to him right now. Two plump, fuckable feet, the rest of me nothing more than an object.

I feel deeply satisfied, feeling myself drift away, becoming the one thing that serves his needs.

I contract every muscle in my body, willing the tension downwards in the hope of squeezing his cock tighter.

My whole body is drenched with sweat and effort, sticky to mid thigh with my own arousal.

All I can do is silently will him to get there.

Suddenly it's like I've never wanted anything more urgently.

Inwardly I groan...'please Sir, fuck my feet'.

'Cum on my pretty toes.'

I feel the arches of my feet grow slippery with his pre-cum.

The musk of our bodies blends with the leather to produce a creamy, intoxicating blend.

I'm starting to feel drunk on it, that and the rhythmic pounding of cock against my soles.

Using me.

Using this leather-bound thing.

These feet.

My clit aches and my nipples throb against their leather casing.

I imagine his cock inside me, pulsing, forcing my cunt to contract around it

I can feel it. The ache deep in my belly as he thrusts. The warmth spreading to my chest.

I start to groan, unable to control myself, however muted by the gag and hood.

I feel my whole leather-coated body stiffen, as if each individual pore squeezes out a single drop of sweat, all at once.

Then his cum finally splashes across my feet, streaking my soles and toes with his warm seed.

I pant, relieved. I can breathe again.

As I relax, I feel myself start to float again, shivery with pleasure.

I don't know what just happened.

But I want to stay here.