A mate of mine, Greg, used to go under the name of 'BootMaster' (he's retired from the scene now, so if you know a BootMaster, it's not him). As you’d guess from his screen name, he was seriously into boots. His bedroom was filled with them - DMs of every height, Wellingtons, jackboots, waders, engineers boots, riding boots, bike boots, motocross boots, cowboy boots - you name it, he had ten pairs of them. I used to visit him socially now and again, and one day he phoned me up and asked me if I was free the following evening. He had a boy visiting who also had a very strong boot fetish, and he was trying to organise something which would blow this boy's mind. I said certainly - I'd be happy to help. He asked me to wear my leathers, to come on the bike, and to be sure to be wearing my 'fuck-off bike boots' as he called them.
I arrived, parked my bike alongside two others, and Greg appeared at the door. I took off my crash helmet, and we had a beer in the kitchen. Greg explained that the boy - John - was locked up in the cage, and had no idea what was planned for this evening. He also said that there were three other guys in the living room, and two more were expected soon.
We joined the others and introductions were made. All the guys were wearing boots, of course. There was a skinhead in bleachers and tall, oxblood Doc Martens; a cute punk in New Rocks covered in metal spikes; and a squaddie in urban cammos and combat boots. I didn't even try to remember their names - my memory is hopeless.
While we sat chatting and drinking beer, the other two arrived. These were a German Officer in jackboots, and his boy - told to be a top for the evening - in full black rubber and thigh waders.
We sat around for another few minutes, and then Greg told us the plan.
"John has no idea any of you are here. What I'd like to do is to get him blindfolded and earplugged, but otherwise unrestrained, and then for you to quietly go into the playroom one at once, let him find you, feel your boots, and then when he's done that, come out again and the next one go in. I'd like to do that with three of you, so he thinks there's just three here - and then all go in together later and give him a good boot-worship session. He's under orders that he's not to stand up at any time - he can't go any higher than kneeling." He looked around at us. "Is that ok with everybody?"
We all said yes - this looked like fun.
Greg took us - very quietly - upstairs to the bedroom next to the playroom, where we made ourselves comfortable on the bed, "If you want," he said softly, "when you're not in the playroom you can watch what's happening on these two screens." He switched two TV monitors on, and two different views of the playroom appeared on them. "OK - I'll go and get him ready. When I signal you Mark," he looked at the skinhead, "come in whenever you want."
The skinhead smiled, "OK!" He whispered.
Greg went out of the bedroom and a couple of seconds later we watched him on the screens as he entered the playroom. His voice was thin from the monitors. "Right John, come out." He unlocked the cage, and a boy wearing only a pair of leather shorts came out on all fours. He knelt at Greg's feet.
"May I lick your boots, please Sir?"
"No, not now." Greg fastened a leather blindfold over the boy's eyes, strapping it tightly behind his head, then carefully inserted plugs into John's ears. He waited a few moments for them to expand, and then asked: "Can you hear me?"
"Yes, Sir, but not very well. They are fine Sir."
"Good. Ok. I have a visitor for you. When I go out, he will come in. You may touch him, but remember - you may not stand. Is that clear?"
"I may touch him but what, Sir? Sorry, I didn't hear the last bit."
Greg repeated the order not to stand, then looked at one of the cameras and beckoned for Mark to join them. As the skinhead went into the room, Greg came out and back into the bedroom.
Mark stood perfectly still near the door, and John crawled about on his knees and one hand - the other stretched in front of him and waving slowly from side to side as he tried to find his visitor. Mark sidestepped him a couple of times when he got close, but then allowed John's hand to connect with his DMs. Immediately John turned and ran both hands up the skinhead's boots and tight bleachers.
"Mmmmmm, oh yeah!" grinned John, and fell on Mark's Doc Martens, licking them and feeling them sensuously. The skinhead bent down and grabbed John's leather-covered arse cheeks, kneading them enthusiastically with his fingers. After a few moments, Mark stepped back out of John's reach, and quietly moved to a different part of the room. John grinned, sensing a game, and once more tried to find him. This happened a couple of times, and the third time Mark moved away, Greg asked me to take over. I opened the door very quietly, and signalled Mark to leave.
John was still trying to find Mark, and when he came upon my Fieldsheer bike boots, he stopped and said, "huh?" He felt my boots, then ran his hands up to my leather jeans and bike jacket. "A biker?" He had no idea who I was, but immediately lay on his back, grabbed my left foot and ground it into his balls. His cock was as hard as a rock inside his leather shorts. Then he pulled my foot to his face and began to lick the sole of my boot. This startled me, and I tried to remember if I'd stepped in anything recently. I let him lick it for a while, then moved to the side of the room. He cast about blindly trying to find me, and eventually ran into my legs. I pushed his head down, stood with my feet either side of it, then closed them together so that I was gripping his head tightly between my booted ankles. He managed to turn enough to lick one of them.
After a minute I moved away, and the door opened. In came the rubber boy, and I left as quietly as I could. More cat-and mouse ensued, and I could see the surprise on John's face when he came up against the cold black rubber waders. Again he used his hands to feel up the boy's rubber-clad body, and then buried his face in the waders, his tongue leaving wet lines on the shiny black rubber as his licked them all over.
When the rubber boy came out, Greg went back in, removed John's shorts, and spread-eagled him face-up on the floor to restraint points set in the black rubber-covered surface. Having done that, he gave us the signal and we all went in on tiptoe, taking up positions so we were standing all around him, looking down at him.
Greg removed John's blindfold. He blinked, then stared open-mouthed as he looked around at the six booted guys standing round him (Greg had retired to the end of the room to sit and watch). "Oh fuck!" He said, his eyes travelling from one pair of boots to the next. "Oh fuck! Oh WOW!" He must have thought he'd died and gone to heaven. His cock was as hard as a flagpole.
We started in on him. Trying not to get in each other's way, we pushed our boots into his face, we walked on him, we thrust our booted feet into his balls, we did everything we could to bring as many boots into contact with him as possible. John couldn't keep still - he was desperate to lick, to feel, to worship our boots.
After a while Greg came over and released John from his spread-eagle, and gave him permission to worship our boots properly. The poor kid didn't know which way to turn first. There were boots everywhere. The cute punk lay down and got John's legs between his, the boy's leather boots and PVC jeans cool against John's hot skin; the squaddie had one foot on John's cock - his balls were being squashed by my own boot; Mark the skinhead was standing with one booted foot on John's chest, and John had his hands on the German officer's jackboots, caressing the shiny black leather while licking as far as he could reach up the rubber boy's black thigh waders. Greg reached in, took John's raging cock in his leather-gloved fist, and with a couple of firm strokes brought the boy to a shattering, spunk-showering orgasm.
We all ended up staying the night - and Greg's playroom got a lot of use. As did the bedroom, the floor in the living room, and parts of the kitchen...
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