One Bootman's Story

Mat MacGregor 
I grew up in a small town, in a largely rural area. This was coal-mining country. Most of the local residents saw little value in education, since it would be of no use in digging coal out of the earth. I was always a geek growing up. I never had any friends, only playmates. From about the time that I was five years old, play always involved my getting beat up. This continued as long as I was in school, from grade school through high school.
When I was about ten years old, I got beat up by a bully who was a year or two older than me. When he had me down on the ground, he stepped on my chest to hold me down in the dirt. I really don't remember what kind of shoes he was wearing, but he worked in his father’s gas station so they were probably work boots.
About the time I was eleven, the same bully beat me up, this time with another boy watching and laughing. The bully told the other boy to step on my chest to hold me down, and the other boy stood on me instead. They both liked the effect that this had on me, and then the bully stepped on my face, pressing it down into the dirt. This time I clearly remember he was wearing work boots. They both thought this was hysterical. Later the same year, the same thing happened again, but this time, while the one boy was standing on my chest, the bully decided to pee in my face. He unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis and let go with a hard, long stream of urine in my face. The other boy loved this, and then took his turn doing the same thing. This was a riot to them. The bully then stepped on my face again with his work boot, forcing my face down into the mud made from the dirt and their pee. Again, this was very funny to both of them, both laughing almost to the point of pain.
When this kind of thing happens to you, you get a reputation. Soon, other boys were beating me up, stepping and standing on me and peeing in my face. They loved it. Everyone started calling me gay. School was hell. At about the age of thirteen, I got the same routine with a new twist. Three boys, one wearing dirty, beat up work boots and the other two wearing engineers, beat me up and knocked me down in the dirt. The one wearing work boots stood on my chest, the second pulled out his penis to pee in my face. Just as he started peeing, the third kicked me in the balls hard. As I yelled in pain, the guy peeing directed his stream of urine right in my mouth. The third guy then stomped on my balls and ground his boot into my groin. As I lay, moaning in pain, the second guy continued to pee in my open mouth. His pee had a pungent smell and a bitter taste. All of them were busting up laughing. The one that stomped on my balls and crushed them while the other bully was peeing in my mouth told me that his boots were steel toed. He said that I was going to lie there, mouth open, while he and the third guy peed in my mouth. He said that if I didn't, he would either kick my nuts into my throat, or stomp them out of my rectum. I was scared and did as I was told. Again, they all loved this.
Where and when I grew up, boys didn't get in trouble for beating someone up. Boys got in trouble for not defending themselves. Getting beat up could often lead to punishment by teachers or principals for being weak and cowardly. I was beginning to feel that I deserved the treatment I was getting from the other boys.
In the early spring of the same year, we had a warm spell, leading to the last of the snow melting and the ground thawing. When the ground freezes and the water in it expands, it breaks up the dirt. When the ground first thaws, it is very muddy. Three of the older boys grabbed me after school and dragged me out onto one of the ball fields. They beat the crap out of me, and then threw me down into the mud. As one of them stepped on me, it left a big muddy footprint. This only inspired the others. They said I should be a freaking doormat; "let's wipe our boots on him". They stood on me and wiped their muddy boots on my chest, they wiped their muddy boots on my face. When one wiped his muddy boot on my crotch, he noticed I had an erection. I didn't even know what one was yet. He said to the others, "he's got a hard on". This was only more inspiration; each of them had to wipe their muddy boots on my erection, making it only grow bigger. One of them took his very muddy boot, ground it into my face and said something to the effect of "eat dirt boy". I got more of the same old treatment; lie in the mud with my mouth open as each peed into my mouth. Then I got more of the new treatment; wiping their muddy boots on my chest, face and crotch. Then one of them got another idea. Lifting his boot out of the mud, he placed the heel on my chest and placed the sole over my mouth. "Kiss my boot." When I didn't respond fast enough, he stepped down on my mouth, forcing mud between my lips. Again, "kiss my boot". Scared, this time I obeyed. The next one took his turn, but he instructed, "Lick my boot". As I was scared and another one was standing on my penis and balls with his muddy boots, I did as I was told. I was an object of much amusement that day.
I had to sneak in the basement door at home that day and clean up before my parents saw me. I was scared, filthy, ashamed, humiliated and confused. I had gotten an erection during this abuse and I didn't know why. I did know that it felt good. I was coming into puberty. I was confused enough already and this only made things worse. Now, I not only believed that I deserved this treatment, but I was beginning to like it as well.
I got my first pair of work boots when I was about thirteen. I loved those boots. They made me feel powerful. For a while, I slept in them every night. Soon, I was wearing them to bed and wanking. I would fantasize that I was the bully. Then one night as I lay in bed wanking, I thought of how I was being treated by the other boys. I was surprised when my climax was particularly intense that night. I was getting more confused, more sexually aware, and it was all mixed up. When I fantasized about being stomped, kicked, trampled, used as a doormat, lying in the mud and having muddy boots wiped on me, kissing them, licking them, my climaxes were more intense. I was confused, but I liked it. Next, I was wanking while kissing and licking my own work boots. Then I would put them back on and sleep in them.
I don't want to leave the impression that I was used universally as a punching bag or doormat. I was not. Only about six guys did this to me. It was never more than two, or rarely three, guys at a time and rarely the same group. Often it was only one. This was good since they seemed to spur one another's creativity. It was mainly a crime of opportunity.
Having started wanking as I licked my work boots when they were clean, I now moved to wanking as I licked my muddy boots. I would lick them clean when they were covered in mud. I wiped them on me as well as licking them clean. I would fantasize that I could have magic powers and be two of myself, one of me wearing the muddy boots, wiping them on the other me and the other me lying under those boots and being a doormat for myself.
While I was in college, I would go out at night and stomp around in the mud on soccer fields and baseball fields, getting my boots as muddy as possible. I would stimulate myself autoerotically while doing this. I would walk back to the dorm and track muddy footprints down the carpets in the hallways and elevators. I would stomp the mud off my boots, wiping my muddy boots on the carpets and grinding the mud into the carpets as much as possible. In the mornings, I could see my muddy footprints in the carpets in the hallways. This always made me hard when I saw it. I also peed in the elevators; I loved the urinal smell that the elevators acquired over time.
Oh, what fantasies I had. I fantasized about both men and women. I didn't care, as long as I was stomped and trampled and made to lick boots. I wanted to lick their muddy boots and be their doormat. I wanted them to wipe their boots on me and grind lugged boot soles or cleats into my chest. I guess this kind of gets back to the bully thing—a power transfer. I didn't think about it, I just wanted to be under their boots—licking them, being trampled by them, having them wiped on me as their doormat.
It wasn't all fantasy—I did get to fulfill my desires occasionally.
Getting my hands stepped on is something that I learned about by accident. During the Christmas shopping season one year, I was in a Walden's bookstore. I was looking at a book on a lower shelf and had sat down on the floor. One hand was on the floor and the person standing next to me stepped on it by accident. This was a new experience for me and I decided to try it again and see if it would work. I would sit on the floor and place my hand next to or behind someone's foot. I found that if they shifted their weight or changed how they were standing, they would usually step on my hand. This worked very well. A few of these were memorable experiences. Once, a woman wearing L. L. Bean Maine hunting boots stepped back and her heel just caught my little finger. She didn't notice or didn't acknowledge that she was standing on my finger. She stood on it a long time, shifting her weight from foot to foot. When she stepped off, I had the pattern of her boot tread stamped into my finger. Another, very memorable time, a guy in a leather jacket and engineer boots with Vibram lugged soles stepped on my hand with his heel. He stepped full weight on all my fingers. I think because I didn't react, he didn't step off. He shifted his weight onto the foot standing on my fingers and leaned over a whispered something to his girl friend. She looked down and he stepped forward to pull another book off the shelf, more whispering. I didn't move my hand and he stepped back onto my fingers. She looked down again and he twisted on his heel grinding the lugged heel into my fingers. More whispering, he placed the book back on the shelf then stepped off a little down the aisle and his girlfriend stepped onto my fingers. There was more whispering and she placed her other foot on top of the one on my hand and was now standing with her full weight on my fingers. There was giggling from her and more whispering between them. She then stepped back to where she had been and he stepped onto my hand with the sole of the boot. Reaching back and forth to point at different books, he ground his lug sole hard into the back of my hand. They both moved over then, off my hand then turned back, walking away. As they walked away, they both stepped on my hand. There was laughter as they turned the corner of the aisle and walked away. I know that they both had to know what they were doing. I not only had his lugged boot prints on the back of my hand, but it took a couple of hours for them to fade. I will never forget that experience.
I also learned that at sporting events, when sitting in bleachers, if I placed my hand right at the rear edge of the bench I was on, people sitting behind me would step on my fingers when they put their feet up on my bench. I did this first by placing my hand under the boot of a woman sitting behind me when she had her feet up on my bench. The other nice thing about this situation, is that when people put their feet up on the bench in front of them, they often rock their feet back and forth. This yields great pinching forces on the fingers and it feels wonderful.
Acting drunk at parties, I came up with two party tricks. The first was lying in front of sofas face up at parties like I was passed out. The only way that people could sit on the sofa would be to step on me. There was one particularly memorable experience with this. When hiking boots became the popular style, I had three women step on me in hiking boots and sit on a sofa with their hiking boots on me. One had her boots on my crotch, one had her boots on my lower chest and stomach and the third had her boots on my chest and face. They all thought this was hysterical. They sat on the sofa drinking beer with their boots on me like this for maybe an hour. My penis was as hard as a rock and it felt wonderful under the woman's boot. They also thought it was very funny when the one woman's boot left a very clear imprint of her Vibram sole on my face. They got up a couple of times to get more beer and stepped on me full weight each time one of them got up or returned with more beer. Alcohol does wonders to diminish inhibitions and enhance a perverted sense of humor.
The Internet was a revelation for me. For the first time I came to know that I was not alone. I first accessed the Internet through CompuServe in 1995. Since that time I have been with a number of different Internet service providers. Since 1995, I have accumulated over 42,000 files totaling over 10.0 GB of data. Most of these are pictures, but there are many stories and videos as well. What a liberating feeling the Internet has provided in terms of my wanting to be a doormat, to lick boots, to be trampled, stomped and kicked and to be under another's boots.
As a result of what I learned on the internet, with time, I became confident enough to begin wearing my boots in public. Because I had a fetish for boots, I had always felt that it was something “dirty” and that needed to be hidden. I began to realize that many men wear boots everyday—and don’t have a boot fetish—they just wear boots for what they are meant for, to protect their feet. This made it possible to begin wearing hiking boots and work boots in public. Surprise! Just because people saw me wearing boots, they did not think that made me a fetishist. Eventually I even became confident enough to wear 17” engineers and 20-hole rangers on the outside of my jeans in public. I even got occasional comments from other men such as “those are some nice looking boots”. I had been liberated from the boot closet and could now wear my boots proudly in public.
In time, I learned that top men are more interested in trampling and bootlicking than women. Women seem to do it mainly for pay, posing for fetish photos or being paid by men who want to be trampled by women but cannot find women willing to do it. Some men on the other hand, or foot as you would, especially leather men love to have their boots licked. They like to stomp and trample other men with their boots. This is what eventually led me to leather bars. What a revelation that was. Here were men who were unafraid to be seen in public wearing leather jackets, leather pants, leather chaps and wonderful boots outside and inside their jeans. This was a place where men were comfortable in boots. This was a place that men wearing studded dog collars and wristbands that said "submissive" were comfortable. This was a place that men were excited to have another man lick their boots. At first, I was back to my adolescence, being under another guy's boots and enjoying it. It was the power transfer again. It was doubly exciting to do this in public in front of other men. I found men that would trample and stand on me at the bar. Again, I was in heaven.
Then an epiphany! I found that men wanted to lick my boots in the bar. Suddenly I found myself in the Top role—and I liked it. Now I was back to my adolescence again, but now I was the one having a man lick my boots; I was the one stepping on a guy and trampling him. I was the one with the power. It felt good! I had always loved boots from the day I bought my first pair, and I had always preferred “manly” boots. I bought a new pair of boots about every year—loggers, engineers, linemans, rangers, hiking, mountaineering. Just about every pair of boots I bought had Vibram lugged soles and steel toes. These were the boots that I sought out, heavy, heavy-duty, hard-working boots—powerful boots. I loved wearing these boot as they made me feel strong and powerful. These boots had a common, blue collar look to them. I had been wearing them, and wanking with them, for years. Now I had found men that appreciated and respected the power and authority of these boots. These men recognized my power and authority as the wearer of these boots. I like having my boots licked! I jerk off wearing my boots and fantasizing about a man kneeling before me and licking my boots. Now I can be the one to pee on a man and in another man’s mouth then expect him to lick my splattered pee from my boots.
So, eventually I made the journey from a bullied child, to a man fully confident and comfortable with his own masculinity and sexuality. Today I am 70% Top, but I have to admit that I would sub for the right guy. In my professional life I have successfully managed or lead teams of hundreds of people. Today I can bring that confidence to the bedroom. I can focus that level of attention on the one man before me, servicing me and my boots. However, I have been in the bottom role and can appreciate the subs space and mind. I think I am the better Top for having grown into it from the bottom.
I am sorry if any part of this story offends or disgusts anyone. It is the true autobiography of one boot fetishist. If anyone doubts the truth of this story, then you are invited to taste my boots and test my power. Anyone from the Baltimore Metro Area is invited to kneel before me and clean my boots with your tongue and become my doormat. You must provide the play space. Those from farther away are invited to play if you are traveling in the Baltimore Metro Area.
I hope that this biography will motivate or inspire other doormats or bootlicks to tell how their personal preferences developed. Take your time, don't be glib or abbreviated, tell your whole story. I have.
Mat MacGregor
matmacgregor matmacgregor
4 Responses Apr 4, 2011

My best mate often makes me lick his boots clean of floor dirt and pee splashes after an evening out together in a bar. I love him more than ever while I'm doing it.

Great that u could be so open. My boyfriend is realy into licking my boots and I find theact of him doing it a real turn on

I have a fetish with socks

thanks for this full story. i had similar experiences in school, and i love being a bootlicker. i never made the transition to being a top though. ill post my full story soon.