Master Reds’ Stable of Fuckable Colts & Fillies: More Boris

Boris followed orders and was very obedient; his previous master trained him well.

I nodded my consent, lifted my aviators’ to rest on the top of my head and settled back in my chair to get an un-shaded view of him taking my outstretched booted leg into his hands, holding it by the back of the knee with one hand and by the heel of the boot with the other, as delicately as if it were something precious to be admired, like a Faberge egg.

He showed his adoration by slowly and intently licking my boot from the top to the side, dragging his tongue to the middle, licking the laces entwined through the grommets all the way down to the steel plated tip, first one boot then the other.

His eyes were closed as he went about his work, the hungry expression on his face looked as if each taste of old leather was nectar from heaven and when he finished he looked up at me as if I were his god.

I rewarded him by pulling my rapidly swelling dick through the fly of my boxers, letting him see that his service was turning me on but shook my head to let him know it was not time to touch or taste.

As I stroked my meat our eyes locked. I could see the surrender and hunger in his, which fed my sense of power and domination over him.

“Feet”, I commanded.

He removed my boots and socks with reverence and repeated his tongue bath on my naked feet and ankles. He continued his work with a renewed sense of purpose and savored every new taste and smell.

As he was drawing his large, moist tongue over the surface of my left foot I took the right and pushed it against his crotch, the herringbone fabric of his expensive suit stretched tight. I could feel the heat rise from underneath.

After he’d performed to my satisfaction I told him to stand and undress, shedding his “Master of the Universe” suit, the custom made shirt and silk tie to be standing in front of me wearing only the black leather harness and jockstrap.

His smooth, muscled body was already covered in a fine mist of sweat, and his hardon had pushed itself from the confines of the tight, constricting pouch and was pointing straight out.

He stood there, anxious to please; nervous and excited, not knowing what was next.

I sat across for him, stroking my meat, now filled out to its full nine and half inches, heavy with desire to be deep inside so much muscle and power.


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