Tara wondered if she had contracted a fetish. She worried it was a kind 'abnormal' and searched the internet for answers. She read Wikipedia and other sites to get an inkling where she stood on the scale of 'normal' and was her particular fetish actually one? She got confused, first with the earliest writers on the subject and then with the more famous writers like Freud, who never really addressed the issue of 'female' fetishism. Finally she decided that what the hell, she could live with it. It made her feel sexy.
Tara's fetish was thigh-high boots. Black leather, brown leather, grey leather, any color but white. That was too dated, a 60s go-go perfect body pics effect and that was definitely NOT what Tara's persona called for. Shiny or matte, leather or suede, it didn't matter, it was a kind all the same.
Not being able to derive answers from the academics, she turned to what this fetish evoked within. Perhaps it was a kind the way they elongated her rather short but shapely legs. Perhaps it was a kind the expanse of perfect leather and contour that reached from the toes to mid thigh. She really thought it was a kind two things: the teasing of men when they saw Puss in Boots and best of all, the sensations they created within.
This last thought made her wet. If this was auto-arousal, she was all for it. Of course she would wear thigh hi stockings, with the elastic at the top, a blessed 5 inches of sexy lace that she could flash as sat down in a mini skirt. They were a small buffer to the all- encompassing grip of the leather on her thighs and made it bearable to wear them. The boots were like the caress of a man's strong hands and perhaps his warm tongue upon her legs, licking and nibbling his way from her ankles to the middle of her thighs where the leather stopped. Sometimes she would rub her legs together like a cricket just for the sound of leather creaking against leather and the sensation of the stroke.
The swish of the leather between her thighs sent chills up her legs to her cunt. Of course, the thigh-hi stockings would be almost up to her crotch, pinching the tender skin between her legs, and she ordered them in size long for this effect. This pinching made her very aware of what was sitting above those inner thighs.
Tara was a dancer and could pivot on a dime. Her thighs were of the best part of her: slim, turned muscular with dancing. Maybe that's why she loved the boots for they compensated for her large breasts. Somehow they added a balance below to the swell above. Nothing really mattered for Tara loved the sensations of her skin underneath her stockings and boots as she walked. There was a snake-like undulation as she would place each foot in front of the other, swinging her hips in a definite roll and her thighs would stride forth like Alexander the Great's army, confident and armed with purpose. Nothing could endanger Tara when she had on her thigh boots. She felt invincible.
Sometimes she would stand, her hands on her hips, her legs spread shoulder- wide, looking like a small, fierce Norse Goddess in some modern battle gear. She would wear mini skirts or slim jeans tucked into the boots and feel energy coursing up from the earth into her loins. Sometimes she felt drunk with this energy and dared to scowl at strange men who dared to appraise her so openly with their eyes. it was a kind the power of the boots that gave her this courage. One time she went dancing with friends with new thigh boots, mini skirt, black thigh stockings, no panties and a butt plug with a green bauble on the end of it. She had to be a small more than half stoned to be so bold, but what the hell. Tara believed she was protected by her boots. They had come to have a talisman- effect for her.
Three inch heels though wasn't really pushing. Tara looked over the four pairs of boots, and none were above three inches. She had 'grown' in her fetishism and wanted to go further into the command of the boot. Nazi jack boots they weren't but the power was still pulsing from her closet.
She trolled the internet looking for the four inch heel thigh-high boot. No luck there. They came only in a five inch heel. Now that would be pushing it, thought Tara. That would be more commanding.
Tara received a catalog from Frederick's of Hollywood. She always sneered at the tacky fashions of this catalog, and couldn't think for the life of her why she was on their mailing list. Better Victoria Secret but they didn't have boots. However, Frederick's boots looked good, though the black boots on a dark red background didn't give much detail. They arrived after a week. That night Tara took the long red box upstairs and dressed in her bedroom. A black spaghetti top with lace trim on top, a stretch black mini that would fall a few inches above the tops of the boots, and of course the lace-topped thigh high stockings. She had streaked her dark blond hair and her makeup was perfect tonight, dark kohl-lined eyes and other features pale, silver bangle bracelets and silver earrings. All that was left were the boots to enclose her legs.
Tara took them out of the tissue, and held them to her nose. Ah! The smell of the black matte leather was perfect! It smelled of a man scent, sexy, powerful, commanding, and it was a kind going around her very pretty legs. Her heart raced, she could feel the arousal, latent before, now arising in her crotch. Tara pulled on one boot, zipped it up the inner thigh and stuck her left leg out straight as has she sat on her bed. It looked gorgeous. She felt gorgeous and invincible. The other boot went on, and Tara thrust her leather clad legs in front of her and chuckled. The heels were pencil thin and very sexy. She would be stunning tonight and she would make the best of it, too. She would turn heads and melt hearts just from the waist down.
Tara pulled her legs under her and rose. Five screwing inches was more than she could stand! In fact, she couldn't. She stood, not commanding, not invincible, but like a newborn filly whose legs were wobbly at best and about to collapse. She took a step and the height of the heels threw her backwards. At the same time she lost her balance and she did a split on the slippery wood floor and ended up on her back, her legs in the air before her, the boots like two jet black missiles pointed into space.
Tara had hoped to end up with her skirt rucked around her middle, her boots wrapped around the waist of a new man, being fucked for glory later that night. She had a man in mind, a man with dark eyes, as dark as her new boots. She could envision his hard penis slipping in and out her moist, aching cunt, his hands clutching the divided moon of her fanny, his hips pushing her across his bed with the strength of his fucking. Best of all, she dreamed of the sight of her leather legs tightly around him, her shod feet with the pointed toes crossed and locked by those pencil thin heels high around his waist. She had apparently bitten off two more inches than she could chew of those heels.
Tara learned an important lesson that night. There were limits to this kind of fetish, regardless what some said. A three inch heel was apparently that limit. With three inches she was confident of her sexuality. With five inches, she was flat out of the game.
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