CC - Pasantía de esclavo de botas
Claudia doesn’t train a slave. She breaks him.
He is already locked in the special cell: his body wedged beneath the floorboards, shoulders pinned, arms at his sides, only his face protruding from the ground like some discarded object. He can neither turn his head nor close his mouth properly, nor even pull back a single centimeter. Claudia enters without a word. A short dress too short black stockings, and that pair of high-heeled leather boots with soles that are an insult: caked with dried mud, ash, and a crushed, stuck-on cigarette butt. She stops right over him and tells him, in a flat voice, to lick. He hesitates. A second too long.
The boot comes down hard. Not a caress of dominance, but a crushing blow. The filthy sole covers his nose and mouth, and she twists her foot as if grinding out a cigarette, reflexively scraping his tongue against the leather, swallowing the first taste of filth and stale tobacco. Claudia offers no praise. She grinds harder, drags her other boot across his face, then returns to his mouth. His tongue finds the crushed butt, pries it loose, and draws it into his mouth while she uses his face like a doormat, until his saliva merely smears the grime around instead of cleaning it off.
He hasn’t had a drink in hours. She knows this. She has prepared the tub of ice water and the clear hose for exactly that purpose. She plunges the boots in, swishes them around, and rubs the soles against each other. The water turns murky; bits of dirt and ash float on the surface. Claudia takes out the boots, still dripping wet. Then she shoves the hose into his mouth; the water is ice-cold and filthy. He gulps down the "sole-juice" concoction in great swallows.
The meal is no meal at all. Claudia returns wearing jeans and the same boots—soles dirty again from walking outside. He has to start over. She gives him no time to do it right: she scrubs, she presses down; the heel slips across his cheekbone and strikes the corner of his eye. He screams. She doesn't stop. His tongue trembles; then she tosses a slice of meat onto the floor and wipes both soles on it until the meat is grey with dust. She picks it up and shoves it into his mouth. The boots are cleaner now. He isn't. Claudia looks at him for a moment face pressed against the floor, mouth still filthy and concludes, without a hint of warmth, that he has passed the test. He knows now what his tongue is for; she leaves him there, with the taste of the soles in his mouth, until next time.