The welts rise — a story about whipping and feet.

She instructs him to kiss and in an instant he is everywhere on her boots. The exchange is silent, punctuated only by her occasional moans. He kisses the boot with profound tenderness, his fingers grazing the contours of Cléo’s calves, trembling with desire. His diligent focus causes the world to shrink around us: in that moment there is only boot. His tongue licks repetitively, percussively as if in this moment we are rooted not in the heartbeat but in the fetishistic repetition of a pervert’s thirst for leather and feet.