THE QUICKIE

Diva (UK) - - Welcome - IT’S THIS BOY’S PLEA­SURE TO PLEASE HER MAS­TER SHORT STORY ANNA SANSOM

Sexy short sto­ries by DIVA read­ers

Jay sat up straighter in the chair as the bar­ber wrapped a towel around her shoul­ders.

“What can I do for you to­day, sir?” The bar­ber made eye con­tact with her in the mir­ror.

“Num­ber two, back and sides. Thanks.”

He flicked the switched on the clip­pers and Jay felt the familiar buzz and vi­brate at the back of her neck. She re­laxed a lit­tle. This felt good.

Back home she poured a jug of wa­ter over her head while lean­ing over the kitchen sink. Thou­sands of tiny, blunt hairs fell from her head and she swirled more wa­ter around the basin to get them all to go down the plug­hole. A quick pass of a towel over her hair, and into the bath­room to add a dol­lop of gel; she ad­mired her new, sharp cut in the mir­ror.

Back in the kitchen she opened a cup­board be­side the sink and pulled out a trans­par­ent box with a clipped on lid. She flipped the clips up and in­haled as she lifted the lid off: the smell was servitude and sex com­bined. She smiled.

Jay care­fully spread news­pa­pers over the kitchen floor and sat down cross-legged. The floor was hard and un­com­fort­able and she wrig­gled slightly to find a softer spot on her un­der-padded frame. She knew she was go­ing to be there a while. She also knew that her com­fort was not im­por­tant.

Heather’s boots were creased with age and wear but had re­cently been re-soled: ev­i­dence of her long­stand­ing re­la­tion­ship and at­tach­ment to them. Jay had spent many happy hours star­ing at th­ese boots. Kneel­ing at Heather’s feet was one of her favourite things. Her next favourite was show­ing her de­vo­tion to Heather’s boots.

She re­moved the laces and stuffed clean pa­per in­side, then she se­lected a tub of pol­ish from her box and sev­eral brushes and be­gan to me­thod­i­cally work the pol­ish into the leather.

Just hold­ing the heavy, solid boots got her wet. Add in the scent of the pol­ish, the feel of the hard floor be­neath her, and the still-re­cent mem­ory of pass­ing for a boy at the bar­bers, and she felt like her body was a jan­gle of fuses. She was just wait­ing to be det­o­nated; wait­ing to go off.

Heather and her boots were the elec­tri­cal charge to her cir­cuit. Heather and her boots were what kept Jay seek­ing out big­ger and bet­ter ex­plo­sions for her body and her soul.

Af­ter over an hour of ded­i­ca­tion the toes of Heather’s boots shone like the glossy black backs of oil bee­tles. Jay ti­died away her kit, got up from the floor, and stretched her stiff­ened knees. She care­fully stowed Heather’s boots in their black, cot­ton, draw­string bag and placed that in­side her larger ruck­sack. Check­ing her wal­let was firmly in her back pocket, Jay went out­side into the early evening.

Jay stood at the door to Heather’s flat and waited while her breath­ing calmed down. She’d walked quickly, tak­ing long strides to cover the short but nec­es­sary dis­tance that kept her from her Mas­ter. Once in­side, she care­fully re­moved the boots from their bag and handed them to Heather. Heather ex­am­ined them closely and then turned her back to Jay. “Come,” she in­structed as she led the way into the lounge.

Heather hitched up her jeans a lit­tle be­fore she sat down, her belt al­ready ca­su­ally draped over the arm of the chair. Jay knelt in front of Heather and laced the boots onto Heather’s feet, en­joy­ing the sen­sa­tion of the larger woman’s leg rest­ing on her thigh, and the ex­tra pres­sure from Heather’s foot as she tied the laces firmly and ex­actly as she had been taught. So far she had done noth­ing wrong. “Hair­cut?” Jay nod­ded. “I don’t re­mem­ber giv­ing you per­mis­sion.” Jay’s cunt twitched in an­tic­i­pa­tion. “I’m sorry, Sir.” “I won­der how you had time to get your hair cut and at­tend to my boots. Have you been get­ting slack, boy?”

“No, Sir. I spent all af­ter­noon on your boots.”

Heather raised her foot un­der Jay’s chin. “Are they clean enough?” she nudged Jay’s chin with her boot. “Take off your trousers.”

Jay acted quickly, fold­ing her trousers the way she knew Heather ex­pected.

“Fuck your­self on my boot. And, af­ter you’ve come, you can clean them all over again. And, af­ter you’ve done that, you can fuck me. Do you un­der­stand, boy?”

Jay felt the first ex­plo­sions go off deep in her so­lar plexus. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Heather’s boots shone like the glossy black backs of oil bee­tles

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