boots

Wildly drunk on Saturday night. Had Justin Timberlake blasting out of the speakers, and I thought it would be a good idea to give the boyfriend a lap dance or two. Hard to believe, given my capacity to both dance and tease, that this was the first time I'd ever given him such a performance. It went down well, by all accounts. I wouldn't let him touch me, and I wiggled and shimmied, and teased him with my body. And the sucker for forbidden fruit that he is, sat there with his hands on his groin and, if you'll excuse the pun, lapped it up.

Dirty babe
You see these shackles, baby I'm your slave
I'll let you whip me if I misbehave
It's just that no-one makes me feel this way

It went down so well that he bought me a new pair of boots yesterday. Talk about incentive! I'll dance for him every night if I'm going to get presents like that. And these boots are fabulous. Well, I say boots, they're glorified wellies really, but they are the sexiest wellies I've ever seen. And they're mine! When I saw them I thought ooh, new festival footwear, but as they are boots, their uses will probably extend beyond muddy fields.

The boyfriend, like alot of men, has a thing about boots (actually, are there any men who don't have a thing about boots?). And because of his thing about boots, I've bought them, worn them, he's fucked me with them, several delicious fantasies have been weaved around them, and now I have a thing about boots too. Classy boots, slutty boots, sensible boots, shiny boots, high-heel boots, thigh-high boots, mid-calf boots, white boots, black boots, red boots... I don't seem to have a preference. Just put some boots on me, and I'm instantly horny. They have the same effect on me as the smell of leather, or the sight of white vans, or any of the other weird and wonderful things that my perverted mind has eroticised. I wouldn't say they're fetishes, but they are guaranteed to put me into slut mode.

And tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be a welly-wearing slut.