Shoes

Shoes
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

I sell shoes. It’s a totally weird job but I’ve been doing it for years and I’m pretty good at it. And it pays commission so I can rake in a good paycheck with minimum effort. I figure it will pay my way through college and then maybe I’ll open a shoe store. I’m damn good at selling shoes.

I’m not a foot fetishist but I have a good eye for footwear. I am kind and patient and honest with my customers and it has proven to be a winning strategy. I draw people too me. Mostly women. And I like the ladies.

One of the weirdest parts of the job is when women use me as a sex object in exhibitionist play. They shop for shoes in short skirts and reveal their panties or their cooch in quick flashes as I kneel between their knees fitting shoes to their stockinged feet. They breath deep or giggle and usually rush out of the store without another word. The come in all sizes and ages and degrees of sexual attractiveness.  More than once, the peek has been a real pleasure for me. Much more often, not.

I’ve dated several women over the past year but one of the relationships was really hot and then really volatile. She was super sexy and loads of fun but once we started fighting, there was no helping us. I broke it off and she took it badly in a vicious circle of passion. She was on the other side of town, so I was able to stay away and had been able to move on.

“Ding, ding,” said the chime and I went into my shoe selling role instinctively.

“Hey, Kyle,” she said.

“Hey, Janna.”

“I need some shoes,” she said.

“Everyone does,” I replied on autopilot.

“I have a date later. I need some shoes to go with this dress.”

I took a long look at the dress. It was short, more of a long shirt than a dress. It fit her really well.  I couldn’t remember why I stopped dating her. I led her across the store and showed her three pairs of shoes, each a perfect accompaniment to her dress.

I fetched six boxes, a variety of sizes and colors to start with. Janna sat down and I pulled a short stool in front of her, took my place at her feet. I rubbed her feet for a brief second, a sales technique that got away from me. She giggled and I prepared the first shoe.

Her knee swung out and back again and I caught a glimpse of shadowy flesh. Good Lord, Janna, I thought, not here, not now. Old man Walters made some noise in the back, probably kicked a stack of boxes. The storeroom was crowded, getting ready for the holidays. Walters emerged from the back, ready to command some help when he saw I was with a customer. At least Janna was good for that.

She stood up to walk around in the shoes. Standing by the slanted mirror, she lifted her skirt to admire her legs. I caught a glimpse of her snatch. She wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Janna,” I said as I changed out the shoes. “I’ll sell you shoes but I’m done with you.”

“Shoes,” she said. “I just need shoes.”

She kept her knees apart, almost awkwardly wide as I fastened one pump and then the other. Her pubes were beautifully shorn; her lips just slightly swollen. Erotic but not yet vulgar. A tiny glistening drop of dew appeared along the crease, melting into a spreading sheen. I took a deep breath and she took another stroll in the next candidates.

“How do they feel?”

“Fantastic. I think I liked the first pair better.”

“I thought you might.”

“I miss you, Kyle.”

“I wish I could, Janna, but I don’t.”

“We were good together.”

“No, Janna. We were bad.”

As I took off her shoes, she played with herself, moistening a finger in her mouth and then gently rubbing her naked clit while I worked a buckle. She penetrated herself while I pushed a shoe past her heel. Walker peeked out from the back again and quickly disappeared. She sucked on her finger again when I told her to give this pair a try.

“I’ll wear this pair out,” she said. “I’m already late for my date.”

I wrote up her sale. She wrote her phone number down.

“Call me,” she said.”

“No, no, no. It’s been fun but I won’t.”

“Oh well,” she said. “I may need new shoes tomorrow.”

Every day, she comes in. Every day she buys shoes.

It’s a weird, weird, weird job.

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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