The Secret I Hide Inside My Rain Boots

I’ve never told anyone, and I doubt they’d understand. Every time I open the drawer and take out my vibrator, the first thing I do isn’t undress: it’s put on my rain boots. It’s the only way I can manage to come when I’m alone. I can try a thousand different ways, but my body doesn’t respond the same until I feel the rubber tightening around my calves and the firm weight of the boots holding my feet.

When I finally come, I do it so intensely that I end up soaking everything. And what really drives me crazy isn’t the orgasm itself, but the sensation afterward: feeling my own pleasure slide down my long, slender legs and slip inside the boots. I don’t like filling them completely. I like leaving just enough, enough for the rubber to be damp inside, sticky, marked by what I’ve just done.

Sometimes I fantasize about something more. I imagine someone on top of me while I’m wearing them, a girl or a guy, it doesn’t matter, coming inside them and leaving me with that same sensation, only belonging to someone else, slowly sliding down my bare legs until it pools at the bottom. That idea has haunted me for years. But for now it’s mine, mine alone, and I keep it in the same place where I keep the boots.

I have two pairs. One black, matte, understated, the kind anyone would wear without suspecting a thing. And another in a deep navy blue, from an expensive English brand that I bought precisely because they fit so snugly around my legs. Both pairs are more than well-used. I’ve come and gotten wet inside both of them more times than I can count, and afterward I’ve gone out into the street wearing them as if nothing had happened, usually to do the grocery shopping at the supermarket on the corner, walking among people with my secret trickling out with every step.

No one knows. No one even suspects.

***

One of my best experiences happened on an ordinary Tuesday, the kind that promises nothing. I woke up early and, before I’d even opened the curtains, heard the steady sound of water against the glass. It had poured all night. I looked out and saw the street turned into a river, cars sending up curtains of water, people sheltering beneath doorways. And then I realized: I had no choice but to go to the office in my rain boots.

Just thinking about it made my stomach clench with pure excitement. I got ready feeling hornier than I should have on a workday, turning over in my mind what to wear with them. I’d worn them to work a couple of times, but always with a trick: like some of my coworkers, I carried a pair of heels in my bag to change into as soon as I arrived. That morning, though, I thought of something else.

What’s the point?

It was a quiet Tuesday. My boss was away, half the team was working from home, and none of those of us who were going in planned to stay late. No one was going to care what I had on my feet. For once, I could afford to walk around all day with my fetish hidden in plain sight.

I took my time getting ready. My makeup came out perfect, one of those days when you look in the mirror and genuinely like what you see. I’m lucky: I’m tall and slim, with subtle curves in all the right places. All that remained was to get dressed, put on the boots, and walk out the door. That simple. But of course, that’s how a woman ends up wasting time in the worst possible way.

Fresh from the shower, I’d spread baby oil over my legs, and now, standing in the middle of the bedroom, I felt cold. I thought thick tights under my jeans would keep me warmer; the office was usually freezing in the mornings. I put on a soft pink sweater first, then pulled the opaque tights centimeter by centimeter over my oiled skin. Before putting on my pants, I hurried downstairs to the entryway for the black boots, pulled them on, and went back upstairs to finish getting dressed.

I stood in front of the mirror and almost lost my breath. Oh my God. My body was begging for it. The tights outlined every line of my legs, and the rubber of the boots hugged them around my calves with that firm pressure that drives me wild. I was so wet I could feel it through the fabric. I was brutally aware of my smooth, oiled legs, wrapped in tights and finished off by the snug grip of the boots.

I couldn’t hold back.

Before I knew it, I already had one hand between my legs over my clothes, pressing, searching. I took off the left boot almost without thinking and started rubbing it against my sex, still covered by the tights. The curve of the ankle, that hard, smooth part of the rubber, fit perfectly against my clitoris. I slid it up and down, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, biting my lip to keep from making a sound even though I was alone in the house.

When I felt I was about to come, I did something I’d been imagining ever since I opened my eyes that morning. I moved the tights aside, pulled my clothes down just enough, and held the shaft of the boot right beneath my sex, which was already dripping. I squatted so I could keep touching myself without letting the rubber slip out of position, catching everything inside it. The orgasm shook me from head to toe, silently, my breathing ragged and my knees trembling.

I stayed like that for a moment, crouched down, catching my breath. My pleasure kept running down the inner side of my thigh until it fell inside the right boot, the one I was still wearing. And then I noticed something else: I was starting to need to pee too, that other urgency that so often gets mixed up with desire for me. I let out barely a trickle, just enough to feel the warmth running down my leg, without losing control, without going too far. Just enough, the way I like it.

When I finally stood up, I put the left boot back on. And for a moment I paused just to enjoy the sensation of sliding my foot into the damp, warm, slippery rubber. A shiver ran down my spine. Small threads of moisture were still running down my legs and pooling at the bottoms of both boots, mixed together, warm against the soles of my feet.

I looked at the clock and caught my breath for an entirely different reason. It was half an hour past the time I should have left. I had to go now. Thank God no one was going to hassle me that day about what time I arrived or what I looked like.

***

I ended up heading downstairs in my tightest jeans, the pink sweater, and the black boots keeping my secret with every step. I drove to the office with the car heater turned all the way up and the moisture from my own pleasure trapped inside the boots, feeling it every time I pressed the clutch. At every red light I squeezed my legs together a little and smiled to myself, glancing at the drivers beside me and wondering what they would think if they knew what I was wearing.

The building was almost empty, just as I’d expected. I greeted the two or three coworkers who had braved the storm, hung up my soaked coat, and sat at my desk like any other model employee. No one looked at my feet. No one had any reason to. And yet, every time I got up to fetch coffee or go to the printer, I was painfully aware of the damp rubber rubbing against my skin, my little secret kept beneath the desk while I answered emails as if nothing were happening.

It was cold in the office, just as cold as I’d imagined. It was the perfect excuse. When a coworker asked whether the boots weren’t uncomfortable, I told her that with weather like this, I preferred to stay comfortable and warm. She nodded sympathetically, without suspecting the truth. If you only knew.

I didn’t take them off all day. Not once. I worked, smiled, made my calls, and signed my reports, all the while wrapped in the most intimate and secret sensation I know. When I left that afternoon, the rain was still falling, and for once it didn’t bother me at all. I walked to the car through the rain, feeling every step, knowing that it had been, by far, the best Tuesday of my life.