The sharp click of my stiletto heels against the marble floor was the only sound filling the room, each step a rhythmic reminder of who held control. He was already kneeling, head bowed, his breath shaky with anticipation. The sight of me towering above him, clad in thigh-high, black leather boots polished to a mirror shine, left him trembling.

“Look at them,” I commanded, my voice dripping with authority. His eyes darted upward, landing on the sleek leather that encased my legs like a second skin. The hunger in his gaze was unmistakable, a silent plea wrapped in pure, unfiltered desire.

I extended one leg, letting the pointed toe hover just inches from his face. “You crave them, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispered, voice quivering with need.

“Then earn it.”

Without hesitation, he leaned in, lips brushing against the cool leather, leaving faint marks of his devotion. I watched, amused, as he worshipped every inch—tongue tracing the contours, breath hot against the polished surface. His arousal was evident, straining against the confines of his restraints, but I had no intention of offering relief.

I shifted, pressing the sole of my boot firmly against his cheek, smearing the faint traces of moisture he’d left behind. The humiliation only fueled his desperation, eyes glazing over with submission.

“You are nothing more than a slave to my boots,” I taunted, grinding the heel into the floor just beside his trembling fingers. “And you love every degrading second of it.”

His muffled moans were music to my ears, a symphony of surrender. I let him drown in his obsession, knowing that no touch, no kiss, no whispered word could ever compare to the power I wielded with just the tip of my boot.

Because beneath my boots is exactly where he belonged—forever.