I don't even have to get up for this one. I sit back with my coffee, my boots still on from the morning, and let him do the work — on his knees, masked, worshipping every inch of leather while I barely look up from what I'm doing. A little crop against his neck to remind him who's in charge, a strap tested against my palm just to watch him flinch, and otherwise it's just him, my soles of my boots that need some cleaning, and the sound of him trying to earn a second more of my attention. old-fashioned bootlicking and casual degradation.
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