Pussy in Boots?

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I was on my lunch-break when I saw them, the most beautiful shoes in the world. They were red, a shade darker than blood, and they captivated my. They were exquisitely shaped, the heels were tall and elegant, then curving down, with the grace of a wave, to the toe. The detail was gorgeous: at first they looked plain red, but as I walked closer to the window I could see that they were decorated with tiny silver flowers, and miniature gems that caught the light in an impossible sparkle. They looked both impressive and comfortable, the right shape to gently hold my foot, without forcing it, without awkwardness. They were elegant, graceful, utterly, astonishingly beautiful. I knew I had to have them.

I pushed open the shop door, and somewhere overhead a bell jangled, announcing my arrival to the young man behind the till. He looked up, smiled, and looked down again. He obviously wasn’t being paid enough to be friendly. It had obviously been a quiet morning.

“Excuse me,” I said, after a cursory glance around the shop, “could I try on the red shoes in the window?”

“Of course, ma’am” he said, and he fetched the shoes for me. As he leaned into the window display I could see the shape of his tight little buttocks inside his cotton black trousers. He brought the shoes to me.

“Size fours,” he said. I sat down and began to take off my boots. They were fairly sensible coffee-brown boots, calf-length. They weren’t really my best, but a good pair of skinny jeans covered most of them. I slipped them off, and pulled off my socks. I slipped my right foot into the red shoe, and it felt as if it had been made for me. So soft, so cool, against my skin. Wonderful.

“They’re gorgeous,” said the salesman, suddenly interested.

“I know,” I said, slipping on the left shoe. I wondered what had caught his attention: perhaps I’d left a bit too much of my shirt unbuttoned when I leant forward, perhaps he had a thing for pretty feet. I stood up, and strutted across the shop, doing that catwalk-walk that I’d perfected, one foot in front of the other, with a little sway of the hips on each step. I strutted to the mirror, then back, then perched myself on the edge of his desk.

“They’re lovely, and I think they fit but…” I paused, “… they might be a bit tight at the back.”

He knelt down in front of me, and held my foot as if it were the most precious thing he had ever held. He ran his fingers up the shoe, than touched my ankle, the deft touches of a man with years of training, and a sympathy for feet.

“That’s a good fit,” he assured me, still kneeling in front of me.

“They are lovely,” I said, “but I really couldn’t afford them at the moment, my student loan isn’t in yet.”

He smiled up at me, somewhat awkwardly, and I continued,

“I could give you…” I stopped.

“Give me what?”

“No, it’s silly,”

“What?”

I laughed. “I was going to suggest if I gave you a handjob, if you’d give me the shoes.”

I waited for him to negotiate, to demand more in payment, perhaps he’d make me suck him off, perhaps a frantic fuck in the back office, but he was too shocked to say anything. He probably spent his whole life waiting for a pretty blonde woman willing to do anything for a pair of shoes, but when she eventually arrived, he was too shocked to do anything.

“Okay,” he said. I took a step closer to him.

“There’s a stockroom at the back,” he said. I ignored him. We were hidden from the door by the desk, and there was plenty of room for me to hide if I needed to.

“Now, let’s see what’s hidden in there?”

He unbuttoned his fly and clumsily struggled with the zip while I knelt in front of him, rubbing my hands together. It was already erect, about average size, rather thinner than I expected.

“It’s enormous,” I lied. I saw it swell with pride. I took a firm grip on the shaft with my right hand, and gently pressed my left palm against the head, stroking gently. I could already tell it wasn’t going to take long.

“Uh,” he said.

There’s something dirty about a handjob, however romantically it’s meant. Maybe it’s the lack of physical contact, or the lack of eye-contact. I get absolutely no pleasure canlı bahis from it whatsoever, and the man always wants more. It makes for reasonable foreplay, but only as the introduction to a blowjob, and then a good hard fuck. But here there was nothing, just seven inches of bulging flesh between me, and the most beautiful shoes in the world.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he groaned. He’d bend his knees slightly, and was gently rocking himself back and forth. I knew he’d be coming soon, and if I was playing another game, this would be the moment to slip him into my mouth, but he hadn’t asked for that.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he said. I wanted a tissue, a cloth, a scarf, something to catch it when he came. There was nothing within reach but a little pair of black patent-leather shoes, size 3, very small, very cute, with little pointy toes. They would do.

“Tell me when you’re gonna come,”

“Uh, uh, now, ohmigod.”

I felt him tighten, and pulled the shoe from the shelf. The warm white smear shot into its cool leather interior, and he groaned. I leant down, bringing my mouth tantalizingly close to his cock.

“I’ll wear the red shoes now,” I said, standing up, “give me a bag for my old ones.”

Obediently, he walked to the counter and handed me a carrier bag. “Thanks,” I said, shoving one of my boots into the bag.

“Can I, er,” he stammered.

I ignored him, and headed for the door.

“One more thing…” I added.

“Yes”

“…usually I’d fuck for shoes.”

~~~

He was not the first. I’m not a whore or anything, only when it comes to beautiful shoes, (and occasionally dresses, and handbags). It’s mainly students who work in the shops, and I assure you, students aren’t the sex-crazed libertarians you think they are. Most of them are utterly-desperate to get laid. I’ve done the same thing in a lot of shops, and no-one has ever turned me down.

I finished uni three years ago, but I never really left. I got a job in the library archives, larking around with old books, making impressionable young students fall desperately in love with me, and then engaging in bouts of wild sex in the 18th century literature archive. It helps keep me in shape (they can be very energetic sometimes) and it helps keep the boredom away.

But ehen I’m not wearing glasses and doing the ‘fuckable intellectual’ act, I go to the student nights. My uni staff ID gets me in, and then I can take my pick of whoever I want. I don’t like to boast, but again, no-one’s ever turned me down. I do have a fantastic body. Sometimes I step out of the shower, and glimpse myself in the mirror, then stand there, rubbing my hands up and down my body and thanking God that I was this lucky. Then sometimes, if I think no-one’s around, I’ll make a dash from the bathroom to my bedroom. I like a bit of risk.

I share my house with three other people — I know I could afford somewhere better, but I like the student lifestyle, and the company, at least until I find someone to properly settle down with. My housemates are Holly, Alexa, and Dan. Holly was on my course, so we’ve known each other for years, Alexa is a Chinese postgrad, and Dan’s doing his PhD. I know Dan really, really, really wants to fuck me, but I’m going to wait until he does something about it. For the last six-months I’ve been teasing him, laying on the sofa in my bikini, leaving my panties around the house, wearing short skirts, and watching him trying not to stare. He’s really cute.

I have forty-three pairs of shoes, and I paid for about a quarter of them. The others were acquired through sleazy encounters with shop-staff and managers. I can remember each of them, each pair has its own memories. My blue pumps were a blowjob for a guy called Nigel in Clarks, my black court-shoes were a night with Jemima from Stead and Simpson, my stripper-boots were ten minutes with a rampant rabbit and Becky in Shoe Express, my sandals were a gorgeous tanned Australian in a little shed on a deserted beach.

~~~

It was the stripper boots that started it. I was enjoying a lucid half-dream, one with a strong latino man who morphs from one filmstar face to another as he bangs me senseless, and I feel his dark nipples and his six-pack rubbing bahis siteleri against me, and him pressing up so deep inside me, in positions the sorts of gymnastic positions I couldn’t achieve in real life. I slowly awoke, and was aware of something there, between my thighs. I reached down, and found my stripper-boot, heel upwards. It was soaking wet, and it was obvious what I’d been doing with that heel. I must have been like a hormonal teenager, reaching out in my sleep and finding the first thing that would fit inside me. I was older than this, more grown-up — I had other things to use — things that wouldn’t leave my boots smelling of sex. But whatever I’d been doing with them, I’d be doing something right: I’d enjoyed it, and I was completely soaking wet. I toweled myself down, changed the sheets, and took a shower.

The next night it happened again. In my dream it was a gentle man, taking me delicately, softly, as if he was scared he would hurt me. He coaxed me and whispered to me, and stroked his hands along me, then gently pressed himself in. When I awoke, my white shoes were between my legs, (the ones that I wore when I was a bridesmaid at Naomi’s wedding). Their tiny heels had been only just enough to satisfy me, but they had been wonderful.

But something wasn’t right. Those shoes were kept at the back of the wardrobe — surely I hadn’t sleepwalked across the room, found them, and brought them back to bed. There were so many other things I could have used. Perhaps I had a sleepwalking-shoe-fetish that I didn’t know about — I needed to find out.

“Holly?” I said.

“Yeah”

“Do you mind if I put my shoes in your room tonight?”

“Why?”

“It’s not important, I just think I’ve got too many in my room — I’d like to see what it’s like without them — they wouldn’t stay there for long.”

“Okay then.”

The dream I had that night was glorious. I can’t remember it exactly, but I was in a toga, with soft fabric all over me, and the Roman Emperor wanted me for his wife. I didn’t want him, so I escaped with his slave, riding on the backs of tigers. And then me and the slave were in the gladiator arena, and hundreds of people were watching us undressing each other, and he was going to fuck me on the sand, but he was too big, as long as his own arm, and as wide as his fist, and it was pressing against me, but I was too tight for him.

I awoke, and my thick-soled sandals were on the bed, the wide curve of the flat heel pressed against me. I was desperately wet, but there was no way those shoes were ever going to fit. But the shoes had been in Holly’s room — I was sure I hadn’t walked along the hallway, into her room, got the shoes, then come back. I’d never sleepwalked before, (it’s just not the sort of thing I do). Maybe Holly had done it for a joke, just put the shoes in my bed, and left my imagination to do the rest. But it didn’t seem like her sort of thing.

But somehow the shoes had known. When it was stripper-boots, I had been a whore in my dream; with bridesmaids shoes I was a virgin; with sandals I was a roman. Maybe I’d have something with every pair of shoes, forty-three nights of fantasy. I looked through my shoes — walking boots didn’t look promising, and I’d be reluctant to rub anything that muddy as that against my clit, but some of my kinkier boots looked like they’d be fun. Some of them looked quite dangerous — I didn’t think I’d be loose enough to cope with some of them, but I’d be willing to try…

No, I had to stop it. I couldn’t do it every night. And I didn’t even finger myself any more. If I wanted a fuck, I’d go to a club and flutter my eyelids at a man: I didn’t need this dirty world of heels and hairbrush-handles. And I had to stop myself using the shoes.

“You’re boyfriend was very loud last night,” Holly said, as I came out of the bathroom.

“What do you mean?”

“We all heard him, stomping up the stairs, and then you — you were very, er, vocal — I wondered what he was doing to you.”

“Sorry,” I said, not understanding. “are you sure?”

“Yeah, we could all hear you — I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t come round to complain — he must have been — well, you must have really enjoyed bahis şirketleri it.”

“I didn’t come into your room did I?” I asked

“I don’t know where you came,” she smiled, “but no, I was up most of the night, and I didn’t see anyone come in.”

“Sorry, ” I said.

Something was wrong. There had been no boyfriend, no-one else in the house, and I hadn’t gone in to Holly’s room to get the shoes. Somehow, the shoes had come to me — they’d stomped their way upstairs, and sneaked themselves into my bed and into my dreams. It was impossible, but it was the only possible answer — the shoes were alive.

So that night I stayed awake. I sat in my bed, constantly telling myself that shoes were not alive, that they couldn’t come to life, and I was being stupid. I was a grownup girl, and this was stupid. Maybe I need a boyfriend. Or at least a fuck. It had been at least a fortnight, if you didn’t count wanking off a shop assistant. I wondered about going to Dan’s room, and having a little ‘chat’, and seeing if he would satisfy me, and put these silly ideas out of my head.

But then I heard the footsteps on the landing, and the door creaked open. It was them, the red shoes. They walked in, as if on the feet of an invisible woman, and strutted their way to my bed. I couldn’t tell what the fantasy would be — they weren’t ballet shoes, not school-shoes, not party shoes — maybe there would be nothing, because I was awake. I laid back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and waited for them to ravish me. I gently spread my thighs, and felt the shoes jump onto the bed. They didn’t go straight between my legs but strutted around me, the left shoe gently rubbing himself against the outside of my right thigh, the right shoe standing on my stomach. I reached out to hold him, but he jumped away. It was weird, but it was kind-of sexy, teasing. Those shoes knew exactly what they were doing, where to touch me. The left shoe made his way to my foot, and rubbed against it, gently nuzzling against the toes, soft as a tongue, gentle and warm. Oh my god it was wonderful. The right shoe rubbed his sole along my thigh, then worked closer in. He didn’t go in with the heel first, but touched with the toe, strong but tender, as if to sense me.

I groaned, and the shoes moved closer. I felt so empty, like I needed something to hold, something to rub myself against, but all I had was empty air. I pressed myself against the bed, willing them to take me. It was gorgeous, to have them rubbing over me, but I wanted more. I wriggled, and the shoes jumped away, then pressed themselves against my side, urgently. I rolled over, onto my hands and knees. That was what they wanted. The right heel toyed with me, his toe toward my tummy, his heel pressing lightly into me. The left heel was further back, between my buttocks. They couldn’t do that, not both at the same time. Oh god.

Holly banged on the wall: “I’m trying to sleep in here.”

The tall heels thrust their way into me. It was wonderful, like nothing I’ve ever had before. Holly wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. But I didn’t need to imagine a man. I was fucking shoes — they’d all I’d ever really loved, and all those years of shopping and shining and polishing, and the pain of wearing too-small-shoes, and the backache from high heels, and the blisters, and the laces, and the buckles — finally I was having what I desired, what I’d always desired, but never realised.

“Shuddup in there,” yelled Holly. She wouldn’t be sleeping tonight, not while the shoes were being so sensitive to me, while the soft leather rubbed itself onto me, into me, against me. I hoped it would never be over. They were amazing.

But when I woke they were there, beside the bed, stood obediently, silently, motionlessly, no evidence of the night before. I dressed, and slipped them onto my feet, soft as before, and as gorgeous in the mirror. Later, I walked down the street I knew what they were, what they had done, but we said nothing, just strutted with a gorgeous confidence. People stared, people smiled, but no-one knew what had happened in that dark room, and never will they know.

But it’s never happened again — for so many hours I’ve watched them in the darkness, waited for the boots to again awaken, or waited to hear footsteps on the stairs, but they were silent. And still I wait, hoping it wasn’t a flight of imagination. But I fear I shall never know.

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