These are the first ~1,800 words of an in-progress novella that’s currently at 11,341 and counting! Subscribe now on Patreon for access to what’s been written so far, and to read the whole thing when it’s finished!

Synopsis: A weekend getaway in a secluded cabin may be more taxing than relaxing, at least for the unfortunate slave who has to spend it serving his harsh, demanding Mistress and her two best friends.

This F+ (Multiple Mistress Femdom) story features:
Foot Fetish, Sock Fetish, Cunnilingus/Facesitting, Domestic Servitude, Consentual Slavery, Footdom in Socks, Isolation, Edging, Tease and Denial, Orgasm Control, Bondage, Trampling, Wrestling, Ballbusting, and Spanking.

The engine of Amber’s sky blue, mid-80s Caprice Classic hummed as we turned onto the long driveway, and the snow crunched under the tires as the cabin came slowly into view. It was around 3:00 on a Friday afternoon, and the sun shone brightly through the cracked windshield as she put the car in park and shut off the engine. We had settled into a pleasant mutual silence for the forty minutes or so since we had left the highway, holding hands a little and watching the trees go by, which she broke now with an animated yawn and an announcement of, “Here we are.” We leaned in and kissed, her tongue introducing itself matter-of-factly into my mouth, and she drew her finger down my cheek as we parted, her warm, icy blue eyes gazing coyly into mine.

“Let’s get inside,” she said, stretching her arms in front of her and then reaching in the back seat for her jacket.

The car door creaked loudly as I opened it, and the snow was slushy as I went around to the driver’s side and opened hers. She popped the trunk as she got out and as I pulled our luggage from the trunk we looked around the sunny, snow-covered hillside. The wind was picking up, and it had blown most of the snow off of the trees; the sky was a deep azure blue, but the wind and the grey clouds gathering over the mountains in the distance signaled a coming storm. I shut the trunk and followed her as she stepped onto the covered porch, dodging the drips from the icicles hanging from the cabin’s roof, and waited as she pulled out her keys and unlocked the door.

The chilly autumn air blew in behind us as we stepped into the pregnant semi-darkness, and as Amber removed her jacket I set down the bags and crossed into the kitchen, pulling back the faded yellow curtain above the deep, white sink. Light poured in through the window and I blinked as I surveyed the cabin’s small but spacious interior. The linoleum floors of the kitchen changed to rich brown wood just at the border of the living room, where there was a large, inviting fireplace with a high hearth, a cushy yellow armchair with a wide matching ottoman, a long, thick maroon sofa, and a few side tables with big, ugly lamps that looked like they were from the ’70s. The room was lined with tall, heaving bookcases, and what it lacked in taste it more than made up for in charm.

At the edge of the den there was a narrow hallway with thick, shaggy red carpet leading to the bedroom and bathroom, and I made my way down the corridor with the bags. I opened the door to the small bedroom and found it almost entirely filled with bed, a king-size that was much too big for the space, covered in soft, grey flannel sheets and thick woolen blankets. There was enough room for a small nightstand with a lamp on either side of the bed, but hardly any between the foot of the bed and the wall. I set down the bags on the near side, along the wall, and then took off my own coat and went back to the front door to hang it up.

I returned to the living room where Amber was pulling open the dated orange-and-white-checked drapes, scattering a tiny cloud of dust into the room, and I watched her for a moment as the light washed across her. She was always, always beautiful, but as I looked at her it astonished me all over again. Her bleached, shoulder-length blonde hair was thick and textured, and it fell on an exquisite neck which she had wrapped up in a white knit scarf. She was slender and thin, but not skinny, and the thick, velvety maroon sweater she was wearing draped over what I knew to be a tight, curvy frame. Her black denim jeans hugged her in all the right places, all the way down into the cuffs of her tall, black leather boots.

She turned from the windows as the sunlight soaked the living room.

“There. That’s better,” she said with a smile, and she looked around the room, surveying it with an approving air. After a moment though, her expression soured slightly, and she rubbed her arms and looked at me sideways as she said, “It’s cold in here.”

There was a pause as her attention drifted over to the fireplace, and then she looked back at me and closed the distance between us. She was tall, maybe 5′ 10”, and the slight heel of her boots brought her just above eye level with me. She brought her face in close to mine, but instead of kissing me she simply held herself there, her silent tone becoming severe, and she said, “Make me a fire in the fireplace.”

She strode into the kitchen and I listened to the firm, sharp clack of her boots on the floors. I almost shuddered as the smell of her hair drifted past my face, and I was filled with a longing to turn and embrace her, but instead I went to the fireplace. On the mantle I found found an old box of blue-tipped matches sitting on an even older stack of newspapers, but the large metal basket on the floor was empty.

“There isn’t any wood,” I said softly as she pulled a bottle of red wine from the cabinet and began to open it.

“There’s plenty,” she replied, turning her head halfway towards me as she held the bottle over the glass. “Out around back. You’ll find an axe in the shed by the pile.” She turned back to her glass and began to pour.

I re-donned my coat, zipping it back up, and went back outside where the wind blew across my neck as I stepped down off of the porch. I went around to the back of the cabin and found the woodpile, and I pulled out a few of the drier logs and set them down next to a large, scarred stump. I retrieved the axe and began splitting the logs, and as I chopped I looked around the hillside again. Amber had promised that the cabin was secluded, and she wasn’t wrong. There was nothing but tall coniferous trees in every direction, except for a clearing that surrounded the cabin and followed the driveway, and as our drive in had attested there wasn’t another house or road for miles.

I gathered up an armload of wood and carried it back inside, stacking it on the metal grate in the fireplace and stuffing the cracks with newspaper. I lit the fire, and as it began to catch and crackle Amber emerged from the bedroom. I listened again to her footsteps on the wood floors as she strode toward the bookcases.

“You’re going to need more than that,” she said, pulling a book down from the shelf and looking it over, a process she repeated a few times before selecting a slim paperback novel and sitting herself down in the cushy yellow armchair. “There’s a storm coming tonight and I want that fire roaring all night long.”

She switched on the lamp above her and ran a hand through her hair, settling in as the warmth from the fire began permeating the room. She stretched out her legs on the ottoman and crossed them, the leather of her boots creaking softly as she rubbed her ankles together, and she nodded back out to the woodpile.

I began walking towards the door, and had almost reached it, when I heard her voice again.

“Wait,” she said, and I turned back to look at her from across the room. “Come take off my boots and put them by the door.”

I approached her slowly and she picked up her wineglass from the table, taking a long sip and putting it back down as she lifted the book from her lap and began thumbing through the first several pages. I stood at the ottoman and gazed down at her boots. They were well worn, creased in the toe and above the heel, and slightly faded. I looked up the laces and straps to her thick, shapely calves and reached down for the zipper, but her eyes shot up from her book and she smacked my hand softly with her heel.

“Get on your knees,” she said. I knelt down and she pointed to the toe of her boots. “Kiss them.”

Her gaze fell back on the pages in front of her, and I paused for a moment before lowering my head to her shoes. I touched my lips to the cold, stiff leather and gave it a kiss, and looked back up at her but she simply rolled her shoulders and settled into the chair. The only acknowledgment she gave was to point to her other boot, indicating that I should do the same again.

I did, and then I reached for the zipper on the first one and pulled it down, slowly along her inseam, releasing her tight, muscular calf and revealing a thick, finely-ribbed, heather grey cotton sock that was pulled up high. I pulled the zipper until it stopped at the slight, thick heel of her boot, and she rolled her ankle a few times, flexing her foot back. She held it up and I pulled the boot off, and immediately the thick, musty smell of the leather rose up to my face. Her socks had a creamy, cappuccino-colored toe and heel, and I could see the spots where the lightly moistened fabric clung to her toes as she scrunched and wiggled them slightly. There was a faint yellowish brown tinge to the soles, and I knew she had been wearing them for several days. I turned my attention to her other boot and did the same thing, and as I removed it she sighed delicately and recrossed her legs.

I waited as her eyes scanned across the pages, and then as she finished a paragraph she looked up.

“Kiss them,” she said again. I looked at her hesitantly for a moment, and she held them up to my face. “Kiss my feet.”

(c) 2017

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