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 is not undress: it’s put on my rain boots. It’s the only way I manage to get myself off when I’m alone. I can try a thousand different ways, but my body doesn’t respond the same until I feel the rubber snugging around my calves and the solid weight of the footwear holding my feet in place.

When I finally come, I do it so intensely that I end up soaking everything. And what really drives me out of my mind is not the orgasm itself, but what comes after: feeling my own pleasure slide down my long, slender legs and seep into the boots. I don’t like filling them completely. I like leaving just enough, enough for the rubber to stay wet 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, finishing inside them and leaving me with that same sensation but чужой, sliding slowly down my bare legs until it pools in 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 I keep the boots.

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

Nobody knows. Nobody even suspects.

***

One of my best experiences happened on an ordinary Tuesday, one of those days that promises nothing. I woke up early and, before I even opened the curtains, I heard the steady sound of water hitting the windowpane. It had been pouring all night. I looked out and saw the street turned into a river, cars throwing up curtains of water, people sheltering under doorways. And then I understood: 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 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 did, I’d bring 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 Tuesday with few people in. My boss was away, half the team was working from home, and none 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 allow myself to walk around all day with my fetish hidden in plain sight.

I got ready calmly. My makeup came out perfect, one of those days when you look in the mirror and truly like what you see. I’m lucky: I’m tall, slim, with discreet curves in exactly the right places. All I had left to do was get dressed, put on the boots, and head out the door. As simple as that. But of course, that’s how a woman ends up wasting time in the worst possible way.

Fresh out of the shower, I’d rubbed 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 the opaque tights stretching snugly, centimeter by centimeter, over my oiled skin. Before pulling on my trousers, I ran downstairs to the hallway for the black boots, slipped them on, and went back up to finish getting dressed.

I stood in front of the mirror and almost lost my breath. My God. My body was asking for trouble. The tights traced every line of my legs, and the rubber of the boots embraced them at calf height 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 soft, oiled legs, wrapped in tights and finished off by the tight grip of the footwear.

I couldn’t stop myself.

Before I knew it, one hand was already 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 clit. I slid it up and down, slowly at first, then more urgently, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound even though I was home alone.

When I felt I was close, I did something I’d been imagining since I opened my eyes that morning. I pulled the tights aside, lowered my clothes just enough, and held the boot shaft right under my sex, which was already dripping. I crouched down to keep touching myself without losing the rubber’s position, catching everything inside. The orgasm shook me from head to toe, in silence, with ragged breathing and trembling knees.

I stayed like that for a moment, crouched, catching my breath. My pleasure kept sliding down the inside of my thigh until it fell into the right boot, the one I was still wearing. And then I noticed something else: the urge to piss was starting to build too, that other need that so often gets mixed up with my desire. I let out just a thin trickle, 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 stopped just to enjoy the sensation of slipping my foot into the wet, warm, slippery rubber. A shiver ran down my spine. Tiny threads of dampness were still sliding down my legs and pooling in the bottom of both boots, mingled, hot against the soles of my feet.

I looked at the clock and drew in my breath for a very different reason. Half an hour had passed since I should have left. I had to go right then. Thank goodness that day no one was going to give me grief about what time I arrived or what I looked like.

***

I ended up leaving in my tightest jeans, the pink sweater, and the black boots hiding my secret with every step. I drove to the office with the car heater blasting and the dampness of my own pleasure trapped inside my shoes, feeling it every time I stepped on the clutch. At every red light I squeezed my legs a little and smiled to myself, glancing sideways at the drivers next to me, wondering what they’d 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 model employee. No one looked at my feet. No one had any reason to. And even so, every time I got up to get coffee or go to the printer, I was painfully aware of the wet rubber rubbing against my skin, of my little secret tucked under the desk while I answered emails as if nothing were happening.

It was cold in the office, just as I’d imagined. It was the perfect excuse. When a coworker asked me if the boots weren’t uncomfortable, I told her that with the weather like that I preferred being comfortable and warm. She nodded, understanding, with no suspicion of the truth. If only you knew.

I didn’t take them off all day. Not once. I worked, smiled, made my calls and signed off on my reports, all the while wrapped in the most intimate, 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 under the water, feeling every step, knowing it had been, by far, the best Tuesday of my life.