Black, knee-high, with a two-inch heel, I bought my rubber boots to repel the slick wet rain. What I didn’t realize, as I left the store with my purchase, was that my practical boots were going to be a selling point to the opposite sex.
All kinds of men—not just kinky boot lickers—pay homage to the rubber boots as they stomp by.
On dry carpet, with caked mud smeared on the side, the boots are dull and lifeless. I can’t figure out why they’re such a turn-on.
But maybe they love them because I love me in them.
There’s power embedded in the soles. I feel it tingling my toes, shimmy up my leg, and settle in my hips, making them sway, side to side, as I stride away and leave them staring, fascinated by the girl working her boots, who’s going, going, gone.
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