I love those shoes. God they’re gorgeous. I want them. There’s only one incey wincey tiny problem; I’m following them, along a crowded street. I trail behind a few yards in the wake of their lucky owner. Cow. She wears them effortlessly, stands tall, looks fabulous; her willowy figure accentuated by even slimmer ankles. Those shoes appear to me, to make her more confident. Even sassy. Perhaps the sway of her hips, a gentle hypnotic swing attracts my attention, yet if I could catch her up, simply tap her on the shoulder, make an admiring comment, a kind word before I ask her where she purchased them?
On the other hand…
I may well become a stalker, her shoe prowler and rush her, tackle her to the ground and release those gorgeous specimens from her feet. Run away. Hide. Find a private spot and slip on those stolen assets, because they appear to be about the right size. But maybe that’s a more appropriate nocturnal activity as it’s broad daylight now.
If I were brave enough to liberate them, I could caress the unleashed shoe, cradle it in my hands, sniff the leather and let its aroma soothe my troubled being.
My desire pulses faster through my veins as I close in on her. I can see them so clearly I'm overwhelmed with lust, the high shine black patent spike, the expense heard in every tap across the pavement. Each click, then clack, music to my ears.
A tiny diamante buckle places the thinnest ankle strap at the exact spot her ankle slims. My foot would look divine shown off in this splendid pair of pumps. I ache to know how they might make me feel, my ankle clearly defined, my calf taut as I stand and stick my bottom back and out, buttocks clenched. I’d wear fishnet stockings and toenails painted a glossy midnight blue varnish, as a final flourish. Maybe a simple cream Macintosh, cinched in at the waist but no underwear, as the desire to be brazen grabs a hold of me.
Freely I admit, I’m a shoe snob. I stop myself from drooling at the prospect of owning that particular pair of shoes, but only just, because I hate it when the shoe shop is closed, when I set eyes on them, in the spotlight, unattainable, behind a rigid pane of glass which prevents me reaching in to touch the leather, discover if the soft skin will yield beneath my fingertips... I find myself making hushed cooing noises, calling out to those shoes. Waiting for their response.
God save any sales assistant who does not apologize profusely and stop me from foaming at the mouth when she tells me they do not have my size in stock. Oh the agony and the ecstasy; the need to covet these divine creatures of adornment.
The clear ringing footfall I pursue… stops.
I watch him take her in his arms; he kisses her on the lips, her left foot flicks backwards to reveal the red sole. A peek, a brilliant iridescent flash of colour, like a waving castigating finger scolding me and mocks, ‘look but don’t touch,’ the sole says.
Voices blur and vanish into the air. I stand alone, singled out; in the zone as a jealous need rips through my body…I don’t see him, or her, only the shoe. I shudder with delight, as a moment later my hand moves forward to…
To be continued
Loved it! More please!
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