Polishing Master’s Boots

Polishing Master’s Boots

I sit on the floor, my legs tucked under me, polishing Master’s boots.  I dip my rag into the polish and I carefully and slowly rub it into the black leather, being careful not to miss any spots.  I love the smooth feel of the polish as it glides into the leather.  I peer into the boot, having lived through only one winter, they show little signs of wear.  I wonder how comfortable his foot is in there.  I wonder if he will smile tomorrow, knowing that his slave dutifully and gently worked his boots over the night before, making them as presentable as possible.  I wonder if he will be proud of me for getting his shoes shiny, or if it’s just something taken for granted because everyone else in boots will have similar fashion.  I wonder if he enjoys it when I polish his boots merely because I did so willingly, or because it is expected of me anyway.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Calm.  Peace.  Task at hand.  Duty.

I take my gloves off, and admire my handiwork.  Tomorrow I will buff, and add one last coat and buff again until they shine like the joy I feel in my heart.

It doesn’t matter if Master appreciates it or not.  It doesn’t matter if he expects it or not.  What matters is my obedience to him.  My love, my dedication, my privilege to be down there, scrubbing, polishing, and shining the very boots that belong to the man I love and admire.

If I am good, perhaps he will let me kiss them before we leave.

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