The air was thick with the scent of leather and submission—fresh, unbroken, hers. My new Mustang boots gleamed under the dim light, their polished toes sharp enough to leave a mark, their heels built to own. And beneath them? My sl*ve. Sprawled on his back, breath shallow, eyes locked on me like a devout sinner waiting for communion.

I rolled my hips, the tight denim of my jeans clinging to every curve as I stepped over him. The first press of my boot to his chest was electric—his ribs bowed under my weight, his fingers twitched but didn’t dare rise. "Good," I purred, grinding my heel just a l*ttle deeper. "Stay still. This isn’t for you."

The boots were made for walking. And he was the pavement.

I stepped higher, onto his throat—not enough to crush, just enough to remind. His pulse thrummed against the sole of my boot, a desperate rhythm that synced with my own dark pleasure. I shifted my weight, testing the give of his windpipe, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in silent surrender. "Such a pretty l*ttle stool," I mused, dragging my toe up to his jaw before slamming it back down. "But boots like these deserve a real test drive."

I walked him. Heel to sternum, toe to pelvis, each step deliberate, each pause a threat. My jeans stretched taut over my thighs as I straddled his ribs, my weight pinning him like a bug under glass. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe without permission. And when I finally planted my boot square on his neck, leaning in just enough to feel his trachea yield, his whimper was the sweetest chorus to my hymn of dominance.

"Mine," I whispered, grinding my heel into his collarbone. "Every inch of you—my pavement. My throne. My first ride."

And the best part? The boots didn’t even have a scuff on them yet.

Remastered: Mustang Boots Trampling.

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