Why do I find myself licking my lips as they traipse around campus oblivious to the perversion in my mind?
Why do I find myself envisioning the smell of leather and the taste of its smooth texture?
Why do I want to pay such intimate homage to something so inanimate -- why do I want to submit myself to their silky cold texture and not to who wears them?
I'm worshiping a symbol that shines out of the bland grayness of the commonplace.
These boots define dominance and authority -- they emanate it's smell, they glare in their superiority, and they taste like control.
Something so mechanical brings out the most primal of feelings in me.
They are not inanimate but as intimate as a man's cock. They demand to be paid the same respect.
They demand that my tongue wet the surface; that my senses be overwhelmed by their unquestionable power.
They demand my fluids, my passion, my complete concentration. They demand my worship, my devotion, my submission, and my pleasure.
My fantasies come uncontrolled as they come into view -- the man, so oblivious and unimportant in my depravity.
Wet at the sight of shiny black leather. Wet at the sight of male authority so blatantly declared.
What would I do so that I could throw consciousness away and abandon myself in putting my lips to such sensuous things...
A police officer throwing me over his motorcycle to be spanked. Forcing me to my hands and knees to lavish his boots with kisses and caresses of my tongue as if it were his own cock. And to finally earn the privilege of tasting his true member and not just a symbol. To suck off a motorcycle cop, with wet, inner thighs, pressed to his boots....
