The biker #2 - boots and bondage



I slide my wet tongue over the leather...


My mouth is filled with the sharp tang of boot oil and leather. The dust from the road is sharp to the taste. My mouth waters with the acrid combination. I slide my wet tongue over the leather, leaving a shiny wet trail as the dust is removed. The leather is hard and smooth. I follow its contours over the toe cap, along the inside of his instep, around the heel, savouring the taste. I probe the strap and its buckle with my tongue. I can taste the polish on the chrome. I follow the leather up, rubbing my face along the inside of his shins, looking for the second buckle that holds them tight against his leather jeans. I am lost in the taste and smell of these boots.

  "That's a good boy. Get 'em real clean now; show me how grateful you are!".

He sits relaxed in the saddle, while I grovel on my knees in the dirt. His foot is up on the foot rests of his bike, and all I can think of is getting my tongue into every crevice of their leather. I need no encouraging.

  "Get 'em real wet, suck the toe cap, boy"

I bend my face to them, licking, mouthing, kissing the leather. I worship this mans boots. Their taste, their smell, every inch of them. I crouch further down and lick the side of the sole, and look up into his face, pleading for him to raise them a little. Slowly he lets my urgent tongue work around the toe, into the welts, begin to taste the rubber of the cleats.

My mouth is drooling now. I leave slick wet trails across the leather. They are so shiny, so wet I start to rub my face gratefully into them, smearing the wet polish into my face, my beard. I can feel him pushing back against my face with the toe. He takes his foot from the rest and pushes the sole into my mouth. The cleats are sharp against my skin. I probe them with my tongue, wetting them, cleaning them. Debasing myself to please this man. I know he can see the hardness in my jeans, and knows I need this humiliation.

  "Open the shirt, boy"

He takes the boot from my mouth and puts the sole against my chest. The rough cleats rub against my tits. He digs the toe into them, works them with the side of his boot. They leave black marks where I have wet the polish. They stand out against my tits as they become red and swollen.

He moves his foot down, and I know I am to be honoured. He presses his boots into my crotch, my cock resists the pressure, presses back against the denim. He rubs back and forth, pushes under my balls, feels for my arse with his toe. I'm hard with excitement. I lean forward a little and brush the leather of his knee with my mouth.

  "OK boy" he growls "show my leather the same honour you've shown my boots"

  "YES SIR!"

I lick the leather, feeling his thigh moving beneath it as he continues to rub my cock with his boot. I can see along his leg to where his crotch rests on the saddle. I can see its bulge, the swelling of his cock. I know how it is cupped by the leather. I want to have my face in that crotch. I want to rub my face over it, wet the leather like I have done for his boot, worship this mans jeans like I have worshiped at his feet.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a small brown bottle. Slowly he unscrews the cap.

  "Take a good hit, boy" He says, holding it under my nose. 

The unmistakable smell of poppers hits me. I sniff deeply, feel the blood rush. The hit comes over me, I can feel myself getting hot. My cock gets stiffer, my mouth goes dry. My mind clears of everything except this man, his leather and pleasing him.

  "Now, get back to those boots, boy. Do them good, and I may let you at this" 

He rubs his glove over his crotch. I see his cock outlined for a moment. Suddenly my mouth isn't dry.

  "Please, SIR..." I back off on my knees a little.

He knows what I want, what I need. Slowly he swings his leg over the saddle, and stands. Gratefully I bend over, low to the ground, my face inches from the dirt. His one boot shines from my efforts, the other is still dull from the road. Hungrily I work on it, lavishing the same attention to every inch, my drugged head filled with the taste and smell. I know I start to moan a little, but I don't care. All I can think of is his boots and filling my mouth with them.

Gradually I sink further down. I'm lying in the dirt with my face buried in his boot leather. My tongue is rough from the grit and leather. I'm drooling, gobs of spit hang from my mouth. My face is streaked with the boot polish. Somewhere, a part of me knows I must look a pitiful sight, but that spurs me on more. I'm humiliating myself for this man, but I know I deserve little better. I know this man is my Master and I am honoured to even worship his boots, like a dog.

But I also want to please him, to arouse him, to be allowed to move up his legs, past his boots. To taste the leather over his arse, his crotch. To be honoured with his cock. Humiliation and arousal stir as I work my tongue further into the leather...


The Master...


I can feel the earth beneath me as I lie there in the dirt at this Masters feet; my hips make small, almost involuntary movements - grinding my aching crotch into the ground. My hands cup the heels of his boot as I push my tongue harder into the leather.

  "That'll do for now, boy - get on your knees!"

I push myself up from the ground; the poppers are beginning to wear off, but I'm still light-headed. My face is wet from my work on his boots - but they shine, and I know he's pleased.

  "Well, seems like I've got me a little Boot brush, eh?"

He leans back against the bike, a hint of a smile on his face. I drop my gaze: I want to let this man know that I know my place before him.

He watches me for a moment. I can see myself reflected in his glasses. I look small, insignificant in their mirrored stare. Suddenly the smile is gone:

  "Strip!"

Carefully, slowly, I pull of my jacket. It falls to the floor behind me. My shirt is already unbuttoned, my chest streaked with black polish from the work his boots have done on my nipples. I pull the tails free from my jeans and pull the shirt off completely.

  "That'll do for now - I want to keep that bulge of yours tight and secure. Hands behind your back."

Obediently I do as I'm told. He reaches into an inside pocket in his jacket, there's the chink of metal, and he pulls out a pair of old US issue Barrel Handcuffs.

  "Now: on your knees, and keep your eyes to the ground!"

He walks over to where I'm kneeling, leans over, reaches down. I get another brief sniff of his leathers as he reaches behind me, then I feel the cold steel against my wrists as he snaps the cuffs in place. With their touch I feel myself slip further under his control.

With my eyes to the ground I can't see his face; but he continues to stand close to me. I can feel the warmth of his body through his leathers, smell the sweetness of them. I know his crotch is inches from my face: I long to raise my head, push my face into the soft leather; but I don't. I wait for his command.

  "You've been well trained"

His gloved hand reaches down, brushes across my face. He rubs my swollen nipples, smearing the polish marks further. I wince a little as he takes one between his fingers, applies a little pressure. He must have noticed: in response he applies more, rolls the flesh between his fingers, pulls slightly. The ache rises to a sharp pain. I moan a little. He pulls harder. It hurts and I like it.

With is free hand he reaches into his side pocket again; pulls out the poppers. He takes a hit first, then holds the bottle to my nose

  "Take a big hit boy, and hold it"

The rush comes again - as the blood pumps in my head the pain in my nipples turns to a hungry heat. The heat becomes everything, and I lean into it, pushing myself onto his hand. He puts the bottle back in his pocket, then reaches down with his other hand - grabs my chin in his gloved fist. Strong fingers rub my beard; he presses his palm across my face, for a moment I can't breath. Then his fingers push against my mouth; I open it and my mouth is invaded by him - pushing, probing. The leather of his glove tastes acrid, but I love it. I open my mouth wider, begging him to fill it with his glove

He moves slightly, comes closer to me; then I feel his boot at my crotch again. As a moan escapes me from around his glove, I push myself against the toe cap, rise slightly on my knees - he pushes harder, slips the boot under me, then I'm sitting on his boot: his toe cap pushes against my arse, my cock is pressed hard against his leg. My mouth is filled with his one gloved hand, muffling my moans as his other rubs and pulls my aching nipples. I'm half naked in the dirt, handcuffed, humiliated and drugged; I want this man to do what ever he wishes to me - I want to please him, I need to serve him.... I push myself harder against his leg, and try to lick his fingers.


to be continued...?

or back to Part 1




© bootbrush/tattdragon