I like the fact that I'm the one who gets to help you take your boots off.
When you put your boots on, I get excited. Not by the boots themselves or by boot wearing, but by the opportunites, the possibilites that are enhanced for us, when you have your boots on.
Your boots are my ally. They make you happy, we run around like crazy kids when you wear them, carefree, excited with each other. When we stop to sit, I feel your boots as they're rubbed against my pants. Back home, our senses inflamed, I hold you tight against me as we explore and delight each other one more time before going inside, a few turns of just us alone together in nature. Your shirt may become lost in the yard, your dress may become tangled as its bundled up over your hips to be wrapped around your waist, out of the way of our skin's needs for direct contact, but your boots will stay on. You plant you feet firm and give me an opportunity for pleasure in my favorite way. I can survey your outer curves and inner intimacies, with eyes, fingers, tongue and other caresses, from the top of your boots to the top of your hair.MY feet and your boots workijg close together to support us as we sway and push.
When you lay back on the bed and offer your aching feet to me, I grasp your boots firmly, one by one, and slide them off, and rub your feet, ankles and around. As I lift each leg to pull, I might catch a glimpse of that soft and downy patch, now pungent with our mixture. Thank you boots. This is the tradition, the ritual as we switch from being out and about, to being inside for the rest of the night (or during the summer, perhaps on the porch for a bit to look up at the trees and stars). I'll see you next time, boots.
