saw her coming down the hall. We passed each other. I took in her figure, from a sexy new pair of black boots to one of her familiar sports watches. She smiled at me, but passed on! I smiled back, but inwardly I died a thousand times. I didn't see her for the rest of the day.
For the rest of the week she wore boots every day. On Friday, at a general meeting, she sat across from me. She never looked at me, but all through the meeting, she nodded her booted foot. I couldn't take my eyes off that black glistening leather, and was aroused by the notion that she knew she was arousing me in this context where I could do nothing.
This went on for another week. Finally, over the second weekend of my torture, I wrote her a long letter, noting that she seemed to be appealing to my fetishes. That Monday I put it in her mail slot at work. By the end of the day, she approached me outside after work.
"Slave?," I mumbled
"Yes, slave, for that is what you are now. You are not to address me or communicate with me here at work. You are to await my command. I will have many tasks for you to perform, such as washing my car or cleaning my bathroom, but I will convey them to you at my own speed. Until then, you may gaze at my boots and watches every day at work, and fantasize over me. If you object to this arrangement, I will simply tell personnel that you have been sexually harassing me at work."
Then she turned around and left me, quaking, shaken--and more deeply aroused than I had ever been.
And that's how it remains. I wait on the sidelines, silently, as she works, or talks with her office friends, and even dates a few of the other fellows at work. I am now the captive love slave of my perfect fetish model, whom I also happen to love more than anyone.
* Jimmy Doyle is a former New York cop now living in Portland. *
So there I was, kissing her boot instead of her mouth.
Readers of last month's column will recall that I had been casually dating a perfect fetish-model co-worker, and our relationship evolved, culminating in a couch-sitting, movie-watching date, in which I threw myself on ... her boots.
Naturally, she pulled away from me, surprised.
"Um, what the hell are you doing?"
I tried to explain, nervously, passionately. This is always a difficult subject to introduce to women, especially if you feel like you have fallen in love with them and want them not solely for their boots and fetish model capabilities. Then, to my surprise, she asked me questions about my fetishes. She held up her wrist and flashed her huge sports watch at me, turning her wrist and looking at me and then back at the watch, asking, "So this turns you on? It gives you a hard on?"
It was a moment to die for.
I nodded aggressively. She allowed that she had heard of such things, but had never met anyone who had confessed to such desires. She also allowed, however, under my persistent questioning, that she did feel more powerful, more sexy, in boots and preferred them to shoes. Did I not say that she was my dream girl?
Later, under all this heady sexual talk, we did start kissing--on the mouth, this time. We smooched on the couch. We kissed on the porch. We had a long lingering farewell kiss at her car. It was all very lovely; I was in a strange sort of heaven, dampened only by the prospect of seeing her at work and experiencing that terrible awkwardness that comes with inter-office romancing.
When next we were at the office together, I searched for her casually, but couldn't find her for most of the day. Then, later in the afternoon, I