Booted

by Frenulum

Eric had been working late, swamped in the predictable aftermath of salesmen’s promises made without an engineering estimate, for nearly three weeks; had managed to fight himself clear on this Friday afternoon; had hoped that his early arrival home would delight Amanda. It would therefore have been understandable for him to feel a twinge of disappointment when, swinging open the front door, he met the unmistakable stillness of an empty house.

But Eric was a man who kept his emotions subservient to his mind, and having had no guarantee that Amanda would be home at four o’clock in the afternoon, he closed the door behind him without regret. She’d be home within an hour, he knew: for while Amanda’s schedule was entirely her own business during Eric’s working hours, she was expected to be home when he was, absent prior arrangements. And she’d still be tickled to find him there, ready to enjoy the weekend together.

Eric collected a few comforts from the kitchen, picked the morning newspaper off its rack, and settled in to a wide, heavy wing chair in the living room to relax.

He was through with the front section — and had mentally composed scathing responses to two of the more egregious idiots on the op-ed page — when he heard a car braking quickly in front of their house. Then footsteps, running: Amanda’s, he knew without a thought, but with something not quite right about them. The front door burst open, unchecked, and the inbound blur headed straight for the stairs.

“Amanda.”

The footsteps halted, half way up the stairs. She was just out of sight of the living room. But Eric had seen enough already — enough for his heart to sink, knowing that the rest of the day would take another course entirely than he had been looking forward to.

“Eric?”

“Come here, please, Amanda.”

Amanda stood frozen on the stairs, arrested in mid-flight as surely as if she’d run into a net. Her heart had been pounding already with the urgency of getting home before five o’clock; it now beat furiously in response to the one thought echoing in her mind: Caught, caught, caught. He must have seen her — his voice had come from the living room and his favorite chair had a view of the front hall. But maybe not — maybe, just this once, something had escaped Eric’s attention.

Amanda forced her voice to sound cheerful and casual, an effort doomed to failure given her fear. “Be right down, honey!” She took two more tentative steps upward.

“Amanda.” His voice was completely calm, controlled, rational; without a hint of anger. But it struck her like a whip. There was no chance, there never had been a chance, there never would be. Nothing ever got by Eric. Caught, caught, caught!

And she knew three things with absolute certainty, for compared to Eric death and taxes were positively fickle: I’ll be punished. I’ll make it worse if I don’t turn right around and go to him. I’ll make it worse if I lie about it.

She turned, hesitated, stepped. Slowly, step by step, closer to Eric. She could already feel heat in her eyes, knowing that the tears would come all too soon. She found herself wishing that she could somehow skip the next few minutes — skip the time when his disappointment in her would be laid out in measured tones and in shameful detail — and go straight to the merely physical pain, excruciating though it would be.

At the bottom of the stairs she turned to the living room and saw him. Eric was still sitting in his chair. Her eyes took in the half-full glass of wine on the side table, the plate with a few slices of cocktail pumpernickle and truffle pâté. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered Eric’s light grey Norman Hilton suit, the one with the almost invisible rose stripe, one of her favorites; his Garcia tie still perfectly knotted with the dimple dead center; his trouser creases still sharp even at the end of the day. Formality suited him; he could carry it off without stuffiness like no other man she knew.

But her attention was on his face and all it showed: disappointment, regret, and always love. That she had caused the disappointment filled her with more pain than, inevitably, she was about to receive from his hand.

Eric beckoned Amanda to come and stand in front of his chair, and with slow, reluctant steps she complied. He willed calmness on himself and spoke. “Amanda. What is that... that sacking, drapery, eyesore, whatyoumaycallit?” He didn’t need to point: Amanda knew exactly what he meant.

“A skirt, sir.” Her voice was small and shaky, making her sound young and vulnerable.

“With the utmost regret I must decline to agree with you, my dear. That object is not a skirt. If you would like to see what skirts look like, you may observe dozens of them in your bedroom closet. At a glance it should be apparent that this thing wrapped around you does not qualify for the name.”

“It’s a midi-skirt.” Some guardian voice within Amanda’s head whispered “Don’t argue — it’s not going to help and it might hurt — a lot,” but defiance still came too easily to her despite several years of improvement under Eric’s loving supervision.

“A skirt, Amanda, is a garment for displaying the legs of a beautiful woman. You, as I have told you numberless times, have the sexiest, shapeliest legs that ever kept a woman upright. In grateful acknowledgement of having been given such a gift, it is your responsibility to beautify the world and gladden the hearts of mankind by showing them off. That is one of several reasons why your dress code does not include slacks. That is why the items in your closet can be made from a tenth of the fabric that has been wasted on this tent. That is why you are required to wear the types of shoes that properly present your legs to their best advantage.”

Amanda listened, but she had heard these words or similar ones. Most of her mind was racing ahead, to the inevitable process that would begin when Eric had exhausted words and turned to action. She could imagine the helpless humiliation of being turned, bare-bottomed, over his knee; could imagine the sight of the floor and the chair legs and his shoes all at their mixed-up distances and angles; could imagine the taste of teardrops flowing past her lips. What she could never properly imagine, so that each time it was newly shocking, was just how much it was going to hurt.

“And speaking of shoes, I suppose I should not be surprised that you have paired this non-skirt with what appear to be tall boots. Are boots included in your dress code, Amanda?”

“No, but —” She bit off the reply, knowing that nothing would be more likely to worsen her punishment than any attempt to justify herself. She had certainly known that what she was wearing was wrong — hence her rush to be back home and changed before Eric saw her — and Eric just as certainly knew that she had known. Deliberate defiance, rather than accidental or careless error, would earn her a harsh enough lesson; a defensive attitude on top of that would be folly indeed. “No, sir,” she finished.

“I deplore the boots even more strongly than I do that so-called skirt,” Eric continued. “For the same reasons, to be sure, with the two additional faults that they quite ruin your stride, and are decidedly masculine in origin and appearance.” He looked at her with disappointment and shook his head slightly, a gesture that was like a knife in Amanda’s heart. Tears prickled in her eyes.

“I suppose I’d better get to the bottom of this,” Eric went on, “Although I expect I could make some pretty fair guesses. Who brought you home today, Amanda?”

Amanda’s eyes darted around the room, stopping anywhere but on Eric’s face, as her mind hunted frantically for a safe answer.

“Your disregard for your dress code has already placed you in serious trouble, Amanda,” Eric said sharply. “I strongly advise against adding uncoöperativeness, evasion, or prevarication to your misbehavior.”

“Cecelia, sir,” Amanda said hastily, frightened by his rebuke.

“Why am I not surprised?” Eric said with a sigh. “What did you and she do today?”

“We had lunch, sir, and then we did some shopping — well, browsing,” Amanda answered.

“I see. Now tell me, Amanda, what you were wearing when she picked you up.” Eric’s voice was as calm and controlled as ever, and Amanda failed to see the peril inherent in the question.

“What I am now, sir,” she replied.

“So these... garments... were not purchased on your shopping trip today.”

“No, sir.” As the words slipped out, Amanda realized why he was asking. Too late. Caught, caught, caught!

“What you are telling me, Amanda,” Eric continued, “Is that you not only disregarded your dress code, but that you carefully and deliberately planned to do so; that you purchased these reprehensible items ahead of time; and that you have kept them hidden in the full, clear, advance knowledge that you would defy me. Is that correct?”

Amanda could feel her punishment growing longer and harsher with every charge against her. “N—No, sir,” she said instinctively. “I mean —”

“In exactly what respect am I wrong?”

“That is —” Amanda’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, sir, you’re correct.”

“So your previous answer was a lie.”

Oh, god, thought Amanda, how do I do this? How do I keep making things worse? “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, hoping to end the inquisition before further damage was done.

Eric leaned forward in his seat, reached for the hem of Amanda’s skirt, and slowly raised it until he could see the tops of her boots, just below her knees. He let the skirt fall and sat back, shaking his head.

“Fine calves’ leather, and quite tall,” he said. “How much were they, Amanda?”

“Um. Three hundred dollars, sir,” she said in a tiny voice. Then realizing that the universe would inevitably cause the receipt to turn up in Eric’s hands somehow, she added, “Er... three hundred and something. I think it was —”

“How much, Amanda?”

“I think... three hundred and forty-nine? Sir.” Amanda was looking at a spot somewhere around Eric’s knees.

There was a long pause. Amanda, frightened and ashamed, stood there fidgeting, her fingers twisting and twining about each other.

Eric heaved a sigh. “Tell me exactly what led up to this egregious behavior, Amanda, keeping in mind that what you say will not excuse or justify it.”

She hated questions like that. It always sounded so stupid when she described what got her into trouble. Like it should have been so easy to avoid. But it wasn’t like that while it was happening! It never seemed stupid at the time!

“Don’t keep me waiting, Amanda. You really don’t want a worse spanking than is already coming to you.”

She gulped. It was his first direct reference to punishing her — not that she’d had a moment of doubt about what she was in for — and her bottom tensed reflexively.

“No, sir. I, um... Well, you see, um, last time I went out with Cecelia, she was kind of, you know, making fun of me, for how I was dressed.”

“Were you properly dressed at the time?” Eric inquired.

“Yes, sir, I was. Um, my blue skirt with the flower, and —”

“A simple answer was sufficient, Amanda. Continue with your explanation,” he interrupted.

“Yes, sir. Um, she, Cecelia, does that a lot: makes fun of what I wear. She always says I should follow fashion trends and styles and... she says she can’t stand how men are always checking me out — she says it’s ‘tiresome and gross’.” Amanda paused to marshal her thoughts. “And I got so tired of her nagging me, I thought, well, next time I just won’t give her anything to nag about. So I... bought these. The, um, skirt is one that Cece pointed out once. She said she liked it.”

Amanda’s narrative ran out of steam. So stupid, she thought. Cecelia points to a skirt, one I know I’m not allowed to wear, and I buy it to shut her up. So lame.

“Tell me, Amanda, were you successful?” Eric saw in her face that she wasn’t quite following him. “Did Cecelia in fact refrain from lecturing you on the matter of your dress?” he explained.

“Well,” Amanda replied, considering that angle for the first time. “Um, no, sir, not really. I mean, she liked the outfit but... she was still kind of on my case. She was going on about —” Amanda finally raised her eyes to meet Eric’s, wondering if it was safe to repeat her friend’s words. “She was saying stuff like ‘It’s absurd for an adult woman to have a dress code’ and, and... ‘Who the hell does Eric think he is?’”

Eric’s eyes searched Amanda’s face. “Who do you think I am, Amanda,” he asked gently.

“You’re my savior,” she answered, nearly whispering. “You’re the man who rescued me. From partying so hard I couldn’t keep a job. From debt. From the verge of getting hooked for good on that awful... shit. From having to move all the time so people couldn’t find me. From prison, probably, if you hadn’t —” As she spoke, Amanda’s eyes brimmed over, and tears ran silently down her face. “Oh, honey,” she cried, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I never want to disappoint you. I’m sorry.” Then words failed her and she wept aloud, standing before Eric with tears gushing, hands clasped in front of her like a penitent child.

He stood up then, and lifted Amanda’s chin until she was looking into his eyes. Very gently he said, “Amanda, I shall never tell you with whom you can be friends. That is your decision and your responsibility. But I will say this: Cecelia’s name was in my mind before you ever mentioned it. In my opinion, she does not merit the precious gift of your friendship. In my opinion, she deliberately goads you into misbehavior, as a sort of twisted little game, and I very much fear there is no other reason that she seeks your company. And I invite you to consider that her disgust at the way men look at you stems principally from the fact that she does not attract the same regard.”

Amanda swallowed and blinked her eyes clear. “Yes, sir,” she sniffled. “I think... you might be right. And... I can never make her understand! She thinks having you make all the rules for me is dreadful — but that’s how you saved me! I love my rules. I love my dress code. I need ways to know what’s right.”

Eric gave Amanda’s hair a loving stroke, at which her eyes overflowed again. “I know, Amanda. I’m here to help you. I shall always be here to help you.” Amanda nodded and gave him a tearful half-smile in acknowledgement.

Then he took her hand in his. “Come with me now, Amanda. Your punishment will be in the library today.” Eric walked across the living room, Amanda’s hand in his, to his book-lined retreat. Buttery late-afternoon light filtered in through the window, warming the hues of wood and leather, making the room look cozy and inviting. Eric led Amanda over to his desk.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the desk. Amanda perched on the edge, and Eric knelt down at her feet. He reached up under her skirt, slid the long zipper down on the right boot, gripped it by the heel, and eased it off her; and then repeated the process with the left boot. “Up,” he said as he rose, and Amanda stood again, barefoot and now three inches shorter than she had appeared. Eric reached for her neckline and began to unbutton her blouse, working slowly and patiently, his movements sure.

“Sir?” said Amanda, “I could return these — the boots and the skirt. And get my money back. Would that help?”

Eric undid the last button on the front of her blouse, and reached for a cuff. “Amanda, you have worn these items. Would it be right to return them?”

“I’m sure they’d take them back.”

“Would it be right?” he insisted. One cuff unbuttoned, he moved to the other. “Think, Amanda. You didn’t discover a flaw when you got them home, or find that something didn’t fit. And you have now used them. Would it be right to return them?” He slipped her blouse off her shoulders and down her arms, and began to fold it neatly.

“Um... no, sir, I guess not. I see what you mean,” Amanda answered.

“And when choosing between the right thing to do and the wrong thing to do, we always...?”

“Do the right thing,” she finished.

“Even if...?” urged her mentor.

“The wrong thing is easier or cheaper or more fun,” Amanda said, quoting an oft-rehearsed lesson.

“Very good,” said Eric. Amanda was wearing a decadently soft, pale-blue Aubade camisole, edged in delicate white lace, the dark circles of her nipples just barely showing through. Eric took hold of its hem. “Arms up.” Amanda raised her arms and Eric peeled the undergarment off over her head. Amanda’s bountiful breasts jiggled with the motion as her hair tumbled back into place around her shoulders.

This was always the most difficult part of a spanking for Eric — keeping on task despite Amanda’s physical appeal.

She was a beautiful woman. It was her stunning good looks that had first caught his eye in a downtown nightclub. He had watched her dancing, watched her incredibly gorgeous legs flashing through the steps, watched her centerfold figure and long hair and lovely face and mesmerizing, delicious ass — and he had left that night with her telephone number: as always, when Eric wanted a certain outcome he worked at it efficiently and tirelessly.

And it had been her beauty that had saved her, in a way. When Eric, after a few dates, had come to realize how troubled Amanda was, how self-toxic her behavior, how unsavory her associates, his first instinct had been to forget about her and flee to safety. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, to write off a beauty that rare. He felt about her the way some people feel about giant sequoias or snail-darters: this is a precious natural wonder, and someone needs to fight to preserve it. And so he had made her reclamation his personal crusade, providing for her among many other needs the discipline she had not learned to find within herself.

In time, her beauty had become secondary to him. He loved her now for her openheartedness, and her humor, and for the spirited tenacity she had shown as he helped her fight her way to a better life — and, to be sure, for the devotion with which she loved him in return. But secondary or not, it was oh, so difficult to undress her without throwing discipline to the winds for the opportunity to make love.

Eric’s fingers found the button on her waistband and opened it nimbly; then down went the side zipper, and he lowered the skirt to the floor for Amanda to step out of. He folded the skirt neatly too, and put it with her other clothes.

Amanda wore panties that matched her camisole: pale blue with a trimming of lace, and without a word Eric skimmed them over her hips and down her legs. When she stepped out of them, he picked them up and laid them on the neat stack of garments. He took a step back and looked at Amanda, who stood motionless with her head bowed and her arms at her sides. She had begun to breath faster and deeper, anticipating her imminent spanking. Eric’s eyes were drawn to the neat, narrow triangle of pubic hair that adorned the swell of Amanda’s mons veneris, pointing like an arrow to the sweet pink slit below as if to say, “Forget the discipline, forget the punishment, forget the misbehavior — look what fun you could have instead!” Eric allowed himself one wistful, internal sigh. I know, he thought, and that’s exactly how I was hoping to spend tonight.

“Come, Amanda,” he said. She raised her eyes and looked around to find the chair he would sit in, but saw no suitable candidate. “Over here,” he said, and she saw that he was pointing to the library ladder, a wheeled contraption that ran around three sides of the room on a rail, giving access to the uppermost shelves. She walked over to him, her lovely tits echoing the rhythm of her steps, and stood facing the ladder.

“Not over your lap, sir?” she asked, puzzled — that was how he always spanked her.

“Not today. I have another procedure in mind. Stand closer to the ladder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now take hold of the bottom step,” Eric ordered. Then Amanda understood: he wanted her bent completely over, with legs straight, head low, and ass taut and unguarded above all. She took the position as he had directed, gripping the step tightly. “Legs farther apart, Amanda,” he said, and she complied, moving her feet into a more stable stance.

He walked away. Amanda could catch glimpses of him between her spread legs as he moved around the room, upside-down, but she had no idea what he was doing. There had never been a delay before, never this awful waiting. Just over the knee and smack! The novelty of her position and the delay made Amanda even more anxious than usual.

Finally, Eric returned. She could see his feet directly behind her. He slipped out of his suit coat and slowly rolled up his right shirtsleeve. As he did, he gazed wistfully at the stunning young beauty bent over in front of him. Animal behaviorists call it the “presenting position” — the female in a submissive posture with her sex on prominent display. It was a visceral invitation, a direct taser-wire from her cunt to his limbic system: fuck me! fuck me! fuck me! With any less self-control than he had, Eric could not have resisted.

“Amanda,” he said, “You are being punished for disregarding your dress code, for planning intentionally and deliberately to misbehave, for hiding things from me, which is merely lying without words, and for your evasiveness and half-truths during our earlier discussion. You are also being punished for allowing yourself to forget, when faced with conflicting counsel, which of your advisors has invested patient years in your well-being.”

Amanda began crying again as she heard her errors spelled out so plainly. “I’m sorry,” she said once more.

“I’m confident that you are,” Eric replied. “Now, one additional matter before I begin your punishment. As I said earlier, whether or not you choose to see Cecelia is for your own conscience to decide. But I will influence that decision. Amanda, when you misbehave, you will be spanked as always. But when you misbehave and that woman is involved in any way, henceforth you will be booted.”

Booted? What did he mean by — and then, looking back between her legs, Amanda saw Eric pick one of her new boots off the floor. Oh, no! Oh, please, please no! She gripped the ladder and squeezed her eyes shut as understanding and dread swept over her. She began to whimper, tears leaking between her eyelids.

Eric picked up the left boot in his right hand, holding it by wrapping his hand around the narrow part of the sole, with the stacked heel of the boot on top of his hand between thumb and forefinger and its toe pointing toward the floor. With this boot he could strike forehand, slapping the zipperless side of the boot leg against Amanda’s ass from right to left. He adjusted his footing, raised his arm, and swung.

Whhhhhhhhhhippp! The soft leather boot — essentially now a long, broad, heavy tawse — smacked across Amanda’s taut, upraised bottom.

A yelp of pain was torn from Amanda’s throat. “Yoowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!”

Her knees bent involuntarily, moving her bottom and drawing an instant rebuke. “Keep your legs straight, Amanda. Keep that bottom high. We have a long session ahead.”

Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Eric struck again and again, whipping Amanda’s beautiful rump with the improvised flogger. She screamed at every stinging blow, crying continuously between them, and her face was screwed up in pain. His heart ached at every cry, but he knew he had no choice but to do his duty, to keep Amanda on the path she had chosen.

Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! When he hand-spanked Amanda, Eric could see the slow change of color as her buns reacted, gradually turning deeper and deeper shades of pink. The boot, however, had already darkened her cheeks to red, every swat so much more punishing than a slap from an open hand. Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp!

“Sir, it hurts, it hurts, oh please —” sobbed Amanda.

“Perhaps you will remember this the next time you go shopping,” he replied implacably. Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp!

Eric noted from the markings that her right bun was bearing more than its share of the whipping. He stopped, saying “Hold still. You’re not finished,” as he did so. There was no reply but Amanda’s racking sobs. He squeezed her right ass cheek and released it, gauging how much pain he had inflicted by how long it took the handprint to fade. Between her parted legs the smooth-waxed mound of her pussy beckoned, mocking him by its frustrating unavailability.

He put the left boot down and picked up the right one, seating it in his right-handed grip. Now the backhand, with the boot leg striking Amanda’s left buttock first, could even out her strapping.

Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp!

“Please, please, I can’t take any more!” Amanda wailed through her sobs.

“You can and will,” Eric said grimly, “Quite a bit more indeed.” Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp!

Backhand after backhand, the leather strap smacked into Amanda’s tender bottom. He watched her skin color, stopped once again to test her ass with a squeeze, and continued. Whhhhhhhhhhippp! Whhhhhhhhhhippp!...

It seemed to Amanda that hours passed before the dreadful strapping stopped. The sensation in her bottom was so intense that none of the words crashing around in her brain seemed right: “agonizing” or “excruciating” or “flaming” seemed like words for a gentle spring rain, compared to what she felt in her ass.

She barely recognized the sound of weeping as being her own voice. She scarcely felt like she still had eyes — just pools of heat. She was woozy from being doubled over. But the worst feeling of all was in her heart: knowing that she had earned this by defying and disappointing Eric, whom she truly, literaly worshipped.

“Stay right there, Amanda,” she heard him say, and the thought that he was not done, that her punishment was not over, completely unmanned her.

“Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh, haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh, haaaaaaaaaaaahhhhnnh!” Fresh sobs broke from the exhausted, contrite young lady. Please, please, please let it be over, she thought.

Eric gathered up Amanda’s clothing and headed down to the basement. He dropped her panties, camisole, and blouse into the proper laundry bins, and the skirt into the shop rag box. He carried the boots upstairs to their bedroom and put them in Amanda’s closet — just in case he ever needed to use them again, although at the moment he strongly doubted it. He shook his head: three hundred and forty nine dollars for a flogger. How far that money could have gone, shopping for dainties from La Perla or Cosabella or Arianne, beautiful little wisps of silk and lace to decorate Amanda’s voluptuous body, tempting and teasing until falling prey to his questing hands.

Back down in the library he found Amanda, still folded in half and gripping the ladder, and still sobbing fiercely. He went to her and surveyed the devastated landscape of her ass, which was a deep, uniform scarlet. He looked again at the tempting labia that her posture revealed. It would have been so nice, he mused, to have relaxed tonight with some sweet, tender loving, deep within her warm, sexy body, slow and satisfying and peaceful. So nice. Damn it!

“Amanda, I will now punish you for starting off our weekend in such an unpleasant fashion,” he said, and before she could react at all he was spanking her tender, tortured bottom with his hand, letting his frustration dissipate in a flury of fifteen or twenty good hard stingers. WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

There was no telling their effect on Amanda — nothing could have made her butt any redder or her crying any louder.

When his ire had ebbed, Eric stopped. He carefully rolled down his shirtsleeve and refastened the cuff. “That’s all, Amanda,” he told her, and reached an arm around her shoulders to help lift her up off the ladder.

The sobbing girl stood and fell into his embrace, pressing her head to his chest as she wrapped her arms around him and clung to him desperately. Eric kept one arm around her, and softly stroked her head with the other hand as Amanda, chastised, contrite, ashamed, and trembling, soaked his dress shirt with a flood of tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry sir, I’m sorry,” she sobbed, nearly incoherent.

“Shhhh. Shhhh. There, now,” he murmured, trying to soothe her. “Shhh, don’t try to talk, honey, shhhh, it’s ok now, it’s all over now...”

Amanda drew a deep, shuddering breath, gulped hard, and settled against him. She willed herself to stop crying, and with an effort managed to, but her breathing was still ragged and harsh. She felt Eric’s hand on her head, petting her, soothing her, calming her with regular, even, gentle strokes.

In time she quieted. The pressure of her arms around him eased and she stood up straight, no longer leaning on him for support. Amanda looked up into Eric’s face and saw him watching her with the utmost love and tenderness. She began to speak: “Oh, Eric —” but he silenced her with a finger laid across her lips.

“No further apology is called for, Amanda,” he said. “You’ve been appropriately punished, and that settles things between us.” Amanda nodded. She still felt like apologizing, telling him how bad she felt, promising to do better, but she held her tongue. “I’ll have you spend the rest of the evening in our bedroom,” Eric continued, taking Amanda by the hand and leading her out of the library. “I suggest that you use the time to think about making good decisions based on the rules we’ve established, and to evaluate the nature of your friendship with Cecelia.”

“I hate Cecelia.”

“You need not. Remember, she was not the one who misbehaved, nor did she force you to do so. Spend some time thinking about how outside factors influence you, and how you can make proper decisions even if those influences are misguided.”

“Yes, sir,” said Amanda contritely. They had reached the bottom of the staircase.

“When I make dinner, I’ll bring a tray up for you,” Eric said.

Fresh teardrops started to spill silently from Amanda’s eyes. “Oh, please, can’t I be with you?” she begged.

“You need time alone with your thoughts,” he replied. “I regret that, too, Amanda,” he added sadly, “Very much.”

She sniffled, nodded, and turned to go up to the bedroom. Eric watched her, beautiful, nude, and alluring, as she slowly made her way up the stairs. The only flaw in the picture was the scarlet blaze on her lovely bottom.

At the top of the stairs she turned and called down to him. “I love you, Eric!”

“I love you too, Amanda.”

Author’s notes on Booted

While I appreciate the feminine form in all of its multi-faceted glory, if you called me a “leg man” I would not deny it. And I just can’t stand it when an otherwise beautiful woman shrouds half of her lovely pins in those ugly, utilitarian, military, masculine boots. Unfortunately, the style just won’t seem to go away.

Why, they’re almost as awful as panty-hose. And that is condemnation indeed.

It seems to me that there’s only one good use for the horrid things, and that would be applying them repeatedly to the stern of any woman who wore them, to ensure that the folly was never repeated. Hence my story.

Please tell me what you thought of it.

(P.S. Ten minutes after writing these notes I went for a walk, and the very first woman I saw was an attractive red-head, mid-thirties, wearing a short, pleated skirt and sheer hose; her legs from thigh to knee looked very fine. But she’d completely ruined her looks with a pair of storm-trooper boots. Aaargghh!)

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Booted

by Frenulum

Read more stories by Frenulum