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9 posts categorized "fetish"

October 12, 2006

Stiletto IV

I'll be going a little spaz posting stuff this week, to make way for November, which is NanoWrimo month, so I won't be posting frequently in this blog throughout November cos I'll be over here.

So I thought one thing I'd get done was the final instalment of Stiletto.

Stiletto IV
Vincent leaned on his elbows and ignored his pool of semen. Jennifer quietly knelt, and extended her hand. He tensed his abdomen, and gathered his thoughts. His eyes shifted to the pile of shoes in the corner, and focused on the damp suede heel she used. ‘I’ve never done that before,’ she said, breaking the silence. He stared at her right hand, the same hand that plunged the heel deeply inside her warm recess. It rose, and briefly hovered over his stick puddle. She flexed her fingers and dipped them into the milky iridescent pool. He needed to rise. Need to get up, have a shower and thank her for her time. It was all a novelty in the beginning. She, like others, would play along, hoping he’d change or migrate to the vanilla side. Another scolding voice within him reminded him of his haste. Give it a chance, Vince. No, he thought. He didn’t know. Her finger skated on his belly, circling his navel. Jennifer bowed her head, and it took him a few seconds to register. Jennifer opened her mouth to taste him. Her tongue plunged into his navel, imparting a twinge between his thighs. ‘Hmm,’ she drank him up, lapping away like a hungry kitten. She slid into his bed after her feed, and he made for the bathroom. On his return, he found her dozing on her side and stood, reflecting on this vision. Relief, wonderment or confusion? He couldn’t isolate the emotions within him. They usually wanted to talk, or more precisely have his cock wedged deep inside them because the sex they’d have prior, wasn’t ‘real’ sex.
~~
He slid into sleep, only to awaken after some hours. Jennifer’s elbow jabbed him, and came to rest over his hip. Up until then, he’d forgotten that he acquired a bed partner for the night. It had been too long between trips, and he wondered if he could adapt to another body. Moreover, the idea of Jennifer becoming a regular partner entertained his thoughts, alarming and disarming him in the same breath. Vincent switched on his bedside lamp, dimmed it so as not to disturb her and went about his secret business. He softly traced the curve of her hip and wound up at the cleft of her ass. The thought of sliding his finger into the tight hole, of probing her anus, filled him with a newfound vigor. Such were the treats of a regular bed partner, he thought. She stirred, muttered a couple of words and turned. His pulled away and shifted toward the bed’s edge to enabled her to comfortably lie on her back.

He switched his attention to her pussy. The groomed, plump mound rose or the illusion of her hip bones accentuated its plumpness, he didn’t care. His first two fingers lightly stroked the trimmed thatch of hair and his edgy mind retrieved the image of her careful hand positioning the stiletto before the plunge. Permission be damned. His fingers parted her labia, and swiftly stroked the velvety soft flesh beneath her clitoris. She didn’t move, nor stir. His middle finger circled her slit, and his logic urged him to continue. He slipped inside, and waited a few seconds. Her warmth engulfed his finger, and he pushed until he could go no further.
His stiffening cock pushed his logic aside.
He found himself between her thighs. Her parted lips saluted the ceiling, and his hand grasped his cock. He parted her sex with one hand, and nuzzled his cock into her with the other. His mouth hung open as he slowly invaded her cunt. He looked down, to see her staring up at him, dazed and slightly curious.
‘I…err…’ her eyes gazed at his pelvis.
‘Shh…’ his hips arced upward, and his hands gripped hers to meet his thrust. Her lips opened, to release a drowsy series of moans. He rose with each thrust, climbed the extra mile and enjoyed taking her without wading through the entire rigmarole.
His hands then slipped under her pelvis, and maneuvered her. She complied, turning to lay on her stomach.
‘Fuck…’ he whispered, the urgency of his need awakened every nerve fiber within him. Hard and fast, he tunneled through her closed thighs, squeezing his shaft inside her from behind. Vincent’s firm, steady strides intensified against the backdrop of their guttural cries. The fury within his loins crackled with the tenacity of a brush fire.
He closed his eyes, and shivered. They didn’t talk, and he didn’t shower her with compliments or thank her. Sleep claimed them, and when the sun crept through the curtains in the morning, he awoke to a half empty bed.
Stretching, to steer his thoughts away from Jennifer’s stealthy exit, he noticed that she tidied up the shoes and closed the wardrobe. A nice gesture, he thought and decided to put it all out of his mind. It was a shame, yet his furious need took over and he understood her possible upset. He rose, with his semi-hard cock, and stopped mid-step. She added her personal touch to his dresser mirror.

‘I loved it,’ Jennifer’s red scrawl of lipstick occupied two thirds of the mirror, and he couldn’t help grinning.

End

September 04, 2006

Stiletto - III

Stiletto - III
Vincent spent a near half hour locked in a verbal wrestling match with the matronly store assistant in the Post Office. This didn’t include the ten minutes queuing for impeccable customer service from the matron from Hell. It ruffled his feathers, and delayed him setting up his bargain bin. He had so many plans, many selections and the battle axe behind the counter decided to elongate his torture. ‘Well that’s fine, you don’t have to pay,’ she’d said, and this translated to ‘You don’t have to pay your telephone company but they’ll send you a reminder, and a notice of their intent to disconnect anyway.’ The woman’s frosted orange lipstick yanked his chain to begin with, and her pursed lips reminded him of his school headmistress. He spent many moments trying to explain the fact that he’d previously paid his bill at that very Post Office. Her eyes didn’t believe him, and skeptically scanned his receipt. ‘Fine! Take it!’ he roared, startling a few people behind him. The woman triumphantly smiled, and daintily picked up the fifty-dollar bill he threw on the counter. Between his breakthrough idea of the evening prior and breakfast, his father called to remind him that Christmas meant more shoppers. His dad advised placing a Position Vacant sign on the door, and although he preferred working alone he couldn’t refuse his father, who’d check whether or not his son implemented the standard practice. He’d simply tell his father that each applicant didn’t have the skills, and advise each applicant that the position was taken. He had little time for teenagers existing, rather than working, to earn money for their IPOD’s, cell phones, and other gadgets. They were all clock-watchers, with as much people skills as Hitler running a foster care center or Mother Teresa selling junk bonds. ‘Here’s your receipt, make sure you keep it,’ the woman sweetly said. He grabbed it, rolled his eyes and skulked out of the store, overhearing her lovingly greet the next customer. He eyed his watch, and picked up his pace. A random comb through of his hair, with his hand, confirmed that he, in the rush of morning, forgot to tie back his hair and it casually fanned his shoulders. ‘Great,’ he mumbled. He’d have to walk to the other side of the arcade to pick up a bag of hair bands, that’s if they sold plain black elastic bands and not the girlie multi-coloured variety. He gave up the thought, and continued walking until he saw a lone figure waiting at the door of his store.

‘Are you on your lunch break?’ he asked. Startled, she spun around and blushed. He wouldn’t have recognized her had he not continuously watched her over the passing months. Dressed in a vintage pair of bootleg jeans, and a simple black turtle neck, she smiled and shook her head.
‘Officially sick…I was waiting for your return,’ her eyes glanced at the door and the Back in Five sign.
‘Oh that. Had a run in at the Post Office. I think War Criminals are processed quicker than utility bills,’ his sick humour raced ahead of common sense, and he hoped she wasn’t repulsed by it.
‘Took me fifteen minutes to buy a stamp for a package the other day, and they forgot to give me the declaration form to sign,’ she winked, ‘for all they know I could have been posting first class Anthrax.’
‘I like you already,’ he smiled, and unlocked the door, ‘After you…’
Excitement weaved through his face, and he had difficult suppressing the corners of his mouth. She entered before him, and walked toward the rear of the display.
‘I wanted to try these on,’ she pointed toward a red patent leather heels before making her way to a nearby chair while he retrieved the shoe. He quickly turned and saw her removing her sneakers. She rolled off her white ankle socks, revealing a symmetrical foot that was free of bunions. Her second toe didn’t overshoot her big toe, this was a plus in his book. She, in his mind, represented the perfect specimen to break in. He abandoned equality, and got down on hand and knee to slide the shoe on her foot, and she didn’t intercede when he retrieved a nylon stocking from a small box behind him.
‘I’ve never worn shoes this high but I can’t get my mind off them,’ she said. His hands briefly rested on the soft soles of her feet, appreciating the texture of her skin.
‘It’s mind over matter with plenty practice,’ he replied. He guessed she’d be like a new foal adjusting to its new environment, and covered her naked foot with the stocking before sliding her foot within the tight leather.
‘It’s tight…unlike foot binding, but…’ she rotated her ankle and flexed her foot.
‘Heels are less severe,’ he said. As torturous as foot binding once was, it never failed to intrigue hi m. the inner workings of a woman who endured foot binding throughout her adult life, never failed to mesmerize him. He found himself describing the process in detail, watching her eyes widen at various intervals.
‘I’ve seen you from time to time…looking at the shoes as you walk to work…’
‘I’ve wanted a pair like this,’ she quipped, avoiding his eyes.
‘For work?’ he eyed her sneakers, trying not to crinkle his nose in dismay.
‘I take those off when I get to work, and wear another pair that you have probably seen advertised in Senior Citizen Weekly,’ she finished with a giggle.
‘Those comfy things? Stylish if you’re a seventy year old,’ he offered.
It wasn’t about comfort, he wanted to say, it was about maintaining the balance between discomfort and self-awareness of such discomfort. A woman was aware of her impact, how height created the illusion of length and how these factored into everyday attraction.
‘Comfy is for dowagers,’ he said, picking up the glimmer of her smile, ‘Women your age, especially where shoes are concerned, it’s about the sex…’
‘Sex?’
He nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Shit!
He could have gone into detailed length but feared that his sleeping prick would rouse and thrash about in his trousers like a rattle serpent – bad customer service.
‘I’ve never thought of it that way, ‘she coyly replied. Sure you don’t, he thought, ‘My mother preferred sensible shoes. Other mother’s ensured healthy diets, my one preferred sensible shoes that didn’t break the bank,’ she continued, rotating her bare ankle for the second shoe.
‘I’ll get it…’ his knee fell asleep, and as a result he nearly tumbled backward. He smiled, and slowly shuffled toward the rear of the store, cursing his awkwardness. One quick glance, and he knew he’d need the ladder. He frantically rubbed his knee and willed his quadriceps to waken before the ascent.
‘I never really thought of it that way…The sex…My name’s Jennifer…’
‘Vincent…’ he nodded.
He ignored the first half of her reply, and proceeded fitting the second shoe. He pictured her first experience as a child, imagined her mother haranguing the store assistant with endless questions on whether or not the shoes were approved by any podiatric associations and whatnot. She was probably the student who wore kitten heels to her prom, and sometime in the Nineties grunge came to the fore, dressing up to go out was considered unstylish and he abandoned exploring the era further. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw a plumped gastrocnemius during his nocturnal sojourns; women were so fond of wearing boots, and the latest Pirates of the Caribbean manifestation of near flat heeled knee high boots over denim didn’t tweak his interest.
‘Ooh, they’re nice!’
‘Stand,’ he instructed.
‘Now?’
No, sometime in the next century, he thought.
‘Go on,’ he slowly stood, mindful of his knees, hoping they wouldn’t embarrassingly creak.
She stood and took one step forward. Her ankles slightly wobbled. He felt sorry for the shoe.
‘Mind…they’re eight inch heels,’ he said, ‘ and don’t look down, just straight ahead and the rest will follow,’ or he hoped it would. He’d make her walk until she got it right, he’d gladly do this until she complained of stinging blisters and was that his cock stirring within his pants?
‘That’s better,’ he lied. She affixed her eyes to the dowager display straight ahead, nothing short of inspiring he thought.
‘I don’t know how models do it on catwalks,’ she said, reminding him of a mountain climber navigating a steep slope. A part of him knew that if she swiveled or turned, she’d fall in a heap; definitely a foal.
‘Are these for a special occasion?’
‘No…’
‘Then?’
‘How long have you had this store?’ a change of tack, and he noticed that her faint rosy blush never left her cheeks. She made her way toward the counter and turned to face him.
‘A couple of years, it used to be my father’s store…’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she eyed the floor.
‘Nothing like that,’ he suspected his father would live to be a hundred and twenty, ‘he retired, or so he says.’
She took a couple of steps forward and maintained eye contact. He fell into her eyes and swam in her irises.
‘You’re doing well, considering…’
‘I’ve noticed you,’ she quipped, coming to a stop a couple of feet away from him.
Vincent didn’t expect her to have the upper hand, but welcomed it all the same as it took the edge off his rising nervousness.
‘Any plans for this evening?’ she simply continued, taking another step.
‘I…’ he didn’t have any plans, hardly had plans for the better part of the last couple of years since his previous amour walked, after acquiring a few more pair of shoes, to another lover who was less inclined to ask her to raise her foot to his lips.
‘No plans,’ his voice creaked. Vincent didn’t collapse into a monosyllabic sea but he came close. She didn’t have anywhere to wear the shoes, and wanted to wear them. A nice excuse, he thought, and he didn’t mind. He accepted her invitation for a quick spot of dinner, she paid for her shoes and he watched her denim clad rear as she exited the shop.

~~~
‘I know women are empowered, dad…’ he said over the phone. His parents were excited at the prospect of him dating a new woman, whereas he felt relief at having a legitimate excuse to miss dinner. Jennifer entered the cosy Chinese restaurant, and waited to be seated by the waiter. He noticed her new red stilettos and how her beautifully her calves lengthened. A couple of steps away from her seat, as the waiter pulled her chair out, her ankle dipped. ‘Shit…Nearly…’ she spluttered. The waiter successfully repressed his smile, and she parked her derriere on the seat. Each opening moment predicted the outcome, or so Vincent preferred to think. Although he dreaded the moment, he knew he liked what he saw. It was during their entrée that she spilled forth. ‘You like shoes a lot. I can tell.’ ‘I’d have to like them in my line of work,’ he said, with a quick wink, swallowing his wine. Her front teeth sank into her lower lip and she shook her head, freeing her auburn waves. ‘No…It’s not a matter of simple like, it’s so much more,’ she said, picking up her own glass. ‘Such as?’ ‘It’s a part of you. I could see that when you slid the shoes on my feet…’ He decided to tell her about his initiation instead, omitting the salacity in between. She, in turn, offered her admiration. ‘I’ve drifted into work, here and there. True fortune is finding something you adore or that something finding you,’ his eyes caressed her throat as she swallowed. ‘I never planned it,’ he said, ‘Maybe I’m more fortunate than I know.’ ‘If could have been different if your Dad wasn’t in the business. You may have settled on something…’ ‘It’s not in my nature to settle,’ he said, staring directly into her eyes. ‘I meant…’ ‘I know, no one has the benefit of hindsight,’ he replied. ‘It’s the now…’ her reply nearly bordered on being a question. Her voice slipped a few notches. ‘Did you expect the now, as in right now?’ she climbed up higher. He didn’t, and told her such as their main course arrived. She didn’t ask for a reason, merely nodded. Her fingers folded her napkin for the second time. ‘I’m not accustomed to empowered females,’ he smiled. His eyes widened with bemusement. ‘Really? We’ve only been around for a few decades, maybe more,’ she sardonically replied. ‘You mean…liberation? Burn your bra and all that?’ ‘I wouldn’t go that far…I invest a lot in my lingerie.’ They both laughed. He wasn’t interested in her bra. Its intricate lacework, gravity defying underwire or other odds and ends didn’t arouse him. He needed her feet, especially during penetration, and needed to see how her encased feet responded when he immersed himself in her. For a moment he forgot about the food, and focused on the faint scrape of metal along his calf. ‘You like that?’ He blinked. ‘Penny? He began packing away those thoughts. ‘Nothing really…’ Her leg skated along his tibia. ‘What…excites you?’ she replaced her glass on the table, swallowed and smiled. ‘It’s a little…’ ‘Sudden?’ Empowerment was an understatement. ‘Well now you mention it,’ he took another sip, in an attempt to cool his prickling face. ‘I’m flying on the seat of empowerment…’ ‘If I revealed it…’ She smiled, ‘Go on.’ He drained his wine glass and imagined being in one of those funny sit-coms where everything, with the exception of the Apocalypse, screwed up one’s date. What could be the worst scenario? He’d already experienced another’s revulsion first hand when told of his ‘revoltingly perverse’…he didn’t want to think about it. Jennifer’s foot stopped just below his knee. ‘I figured I’d be able to take advantage this way,’ she said. ‘What way?’ ‘Entering the store, trying on these shoes that caught my eye…I’ve been rolling out plans for the last few weeks but you’re a difficult man to attract Vincent…’ His pulse quickened, and she chose not to elaborate. ‘I’d like to know…better sooner rather than later don’t you think?’ Too true, he thought. He wasted two years. ‘Don’t stop…’ Her foot left his shin and rode up his inner thigh. She liked the way the moment unfolded, all the while peering into his eyes, explaining how she’d normally tolerate the standard evaluation based on flirtation or whether her ass was compact or ripe. Vincent let her finish, and chose to reveal the first phase of his innermost thoughts.
~~~
He stood nursing his Scotch, watching her kneel before his shoe closet. He lay open his vault and her eyes widened with the wide array of shoes at her disposal. ‘Feel free,’ he took another sip, and returned to sit at the edge of his bed. His eyes inspected her curved ass, and how each cheek balanced over her heels. Her nakedness was a necessary, but minor, part of his request. ‘You don’t have these at your shop,’ she observed, running her hands over a pair of black patent leather sling backs. Her eyes switched to the red thigh high boots. ‘I’ve always wondered how these would feel like…whether they’d feel nice up against my inner thighs,’ she briefly turned her head and smiled at Vincent. He quietly unfastened his belt, and slowly unzipped himself. It all played out well, and Jennifer seemed unperturbed by his request. ‘Now this,’ she gripped one boot, ‘can work!’ ‘Really?’ he slid forward, and rubbed his crotch. ‘You can use it to slap my naked ass,’ she dangled the leg by the foot, shaking it to emphasize its to and fro motion. His cock stiffened in response. ‘I think it will sting quite nicely. Don’t you?’ she sweetly asked. ‘Perhaps…’ his hand slowly stroked his shaft. ‘Would you like to try?’ ‘Maybe…’ his stroke increased in rhythm. ‘I love the feel of suede…’ her hands slid into a pair of fawn coloured stilettos. She rubbed the toes against her cheek, in perfect timing to his hand. His vice-like grip inspired a moan from his lips. She went on to explain, in a casual matter of fact manner, that she’d like to rub the shoe on his cock, and asked him if he’d done that himself. Jennifer then ran the shoe over her neck, and between her breasts. ‘Which will you choose?’ he briefly rolled over, opened his bedside drawer and retrieved a small bottle of lotion for his ripening cock. Her eyes focused on his rigidity, and his deft hand near strangling the purplish head of his shaft. She licked her lips and briefly shivered. ‘Continue,’ he said, knowing her intentions. She slowly rubbed each of her nipples in turn, until they puckered nicely for him. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said, and her right shoe clad hand traveled south, dipping between her legs. It required a little additional effort for her to part her thighs farther for Vincent to see the trimmed, dampening, hair of her cunt. The toe tipped her mound, and she drove it further down, until it reached the apex of her labia. ‘My knees are sore…’ she shifted, and came to rest on her bare ass. The shoe upper briefly rested on her labia before her other hand parted her sex. He reveled in her smooth, tentative rhythm, and continued his steady wank. Jennifer moaned, thrust her hips forward and rubbed her clitoris with the tip of the shoe. Her eyes opened, and stared at the heel. ‘I want to put it inside…’ He instructed her to ride the heel. Obeying, she parted her sex and located her slippery aperture. ‘Right here…’ she murmured, and absorbed the heel into her. Her hips followed, guiding it in to the hilt. Her fingers rotated the shoe so the immaculate sole faced her clit, and she immediately rubbed it from side to side, writhing in turn as she watched his own febrile caresses. It was all that he needed, and erupted onto his stomach. This was followed by her vocal contribution, and soft smatter of perspiration on her forehead. He signaled her over. She slid the soaked heel out of her and rubbed her tender vulva. Her flushed cheeks confirmed her enjoyement as she crawled over to him, knelt, and waited for his hand to approvingly pat her head before he plunged his tongue into her mouth, for what definitely was, their first kiss.

August 11, 2006

Stiletto - II

What came first, the story or the photo? A little bit of both, like a dynamic to and fro equilibrium. The picture on this page pretty much inspired the main elements, and it was captured by Eddie, who has a knack of capturing 'sex' within a split second.


Stiletto - II

Days blended together, coalescing into a month or a little over. Vincent didn’t like to keep track, and developed a habit of breezing past his desk calendar. Dates evaporated after each sale, despite each receipt. He wasn’t inundated with shoppers and broke even by the week’s end. The vigorous spring in his alligator swathed instep ebbed when his secret fancy was nowhere to be seen. The fortnight dragged by and joyfully concluded after he dutifully served the regular blue rinse set on pension day.

Vincent hastily slammed shut the cash register and briskly set off toward his window display. The quietude of the arcade inspired him to flip over his back in ten sign, and take a caffeine induced half hour.

His eye honed in on a pair of Gucci loafers. They belonged to a distinctly lush derriere. Vincent immediately recognized her buttocks. They flared out at a near forty five degree angle. She leaned over a book bin. Her fingers ran over each book spine. Each passing second coagulated. He willed his feet to take a step back or forward. Marcia, the septuagenarian stall manager, leaned to the side and waved at him.

‘Erghhh…’ his hand limply returned the gesture, and he turned round. Did the ancient relic notice him perving at his girl?

Listen to you. Your girl!

Hilarious, he thought, leaning into his window display. He kept up the pretense, and rearranged the shoes. When he looked up minutes after, disappointment crept into him and he near collided into the glass. Marcia casually filled her crossword, and the flavor of his month - or life- was nowhere to be seen.

~~~~

‘You don’t take the time to look at yourself. You’re a woman magnet!’ The pub gradually filled. Worker’s filled tables and barstools, some crowded round billiard tables, and his friend Malcolm shook his head. Vincent didn’t consider himself a magnet, and lately he’d been a magnet for more debt. He hung onto the shoe store by the skin of his teeth, and a few MasterCard payments. Fucking priceless, he thought, the way the fuel hikes dominated his daily existence meant that his days unfolded in new ways. Mal, tip toeing toward forty, downed more lager and nodded toward a group of females.
‘Oh no…’ Vincent shook his head.
‘A couple of them checked us out,’ he said.
‘That’s great Mal, but not tonight…’
‘It’s not like you’ve got a Missus waiting at home,’ Mal continued. He ran his hand through his curly hair. Vincent noted the petite blonde within the group. Her compact body, swathed in a lushly tailored suit, placed her at the top of the corporate pecking order but her shoes…
He always began at ground level. His line of work enabled him to expand his knowledge. It was easy for him to distinguish up market cloth, and clothes, from the cheaper alternatives. She paid through the nose for the suit, but she ignored her shoes. It only took one quick appraisal for him to crinkle his nose. Scuffmarks dominated her shoes. People with disposable incomes, and matching attitudes, he thought.
‘You’re keen!’
Vincent smiled back, and it was pure pretense. He had a knack for it, and couldn’t admit that he was put off by the state of shoes or the feet within them. This brought to mind his first couple of weeks at school, and his father admonishing him over the state of his new school shoes after a day roughing it in the schoolyard playing soccer. It was his father’s turn to pick him up, and his mood darkened the moment Vincent walked out of the class to meet him.
‘What’s that?’ he hissed, mindful of the possibility of being overheard by Miss Wells, Vincent’s teacher. Vincent excitedly relayed the afternoon, how he scored many goals and made new friends.
‘No…that!
‘Silly, those are my shoes!’ he replied, with a laugh. He looked up and saw his dad’s eyes at flashpoint. The last time he’d seen his eyes fire like that was when his aunt borrowed the family car and dinged it.
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ he muttered, and hurriedly escorted Vincent out to the car. The car turned right instead of left.
‘We’re going to Daddy’s work,’ his father shook his head and began mumbling to himself. By the time they reached Barlow & Johns Exclusive Men’s Footwear Vincent was given a brief education on the importance of maintenance and the stupidity of ignorance. The car door creaked open, and he took a step out.
‘If I had time, I’d spank you…that’s no way to treat your things…I even fitted them for you!’
In the foyer, the receptionist greeted Vincent with a handful of jelly babies. His father straightened up, and gripped Vincent’s hand.
‘That’s your boy Robert? Why, he’s grown…been in the wars today, son?’
‘He’s ruined a pair of decent shoes…’
The older man smiled, ‘Boys will be boys, Robert. See you in there.’
Vincent looked up to see his father’s pallor and felt his hand tightly grip his arm.
‘Ow!’ he complained.
‘You stay in the office and sit still.’
Vincent sat in the chair opposite his dad’s desk.
The brass nameplate said Robert Lombardi. Vincent recognized the name and felt proud. Pride washed over him until his father reappeared some time later. They quietly returned home, and hours later over dinner, his father revealed his disappointment over being overlooked for a promotion for the third consecutive time.

‘That's not all, Vincent nearly ruined his new shoes!’
‘Boys do that…’
‘That’s not the point Carla!’
Vincent’s punishment was to polish his shoes until the leather shined to his father’s approval. He spent the first hour in his room messing up his tracksuit and his hands, finally getting the hang of it and feeling pleased with himself when he saw the light from the globe above him, bounce off the shoes. A new hobby presented itself. Vincent moved on to polish all the shoes in the house, sometimes thrice weekly. Carla, his mother, noted his talent and so did his various aunts.
‘New shoes?’ they’d ask, and Carla would shake her head and tell them about his polishing skills.
‘They’re as old as Vincent…’
‘How old is he this year?’
‘Six!’
When summer arrived, Miss Wells strode into the classroom in a pair of strappy sandals. His mind boggled. How did she polish those? Story time arrived, and he rushed to the front of the room so he could sit in front of her feet. An entire week passed by, and to Vincent it could have been a year.
‘Miss, you have nice shoes…’ he finally said, after all the kids left.
‘Why thank you Vincent,’ she smiled back, and he sailed to heaven.
‘Earth to Vinnie…I know she’s hot, but you don’t have to make it so obvious,’ Mal chortled and downed the rest of his lager.
The women eyed the adjacent table and began their trek.
Malcolm decided to wave.
‘Why’d you do that for?’ Vincent spluttered.
‘For you, you need a bit of action…’
‘That’s the problem with you. You’re staring forty in the face and still need to spread enough seed to impregnate a small nation. Shit, I thought you’d have run out by now,’ he sarcastically offered.
‘Runs in the family, mate.’
Vincent couldn’t disagree. Malcolm’s father was up to his fourth wife, and adept at maintaining a couple of mistresses.
‘Fuck…’
‘That’s the point Vinnie…’
He felt their eyes on them.
His father once told him that it was all in their eyes.
If she looks at you more than once, and your fly isn’t undone, then you have a foot in their door. It’s not that hard, son.
‘It’s all yours, Mal. I’m off,’ he slid off his seat and slammed a couple of bills on the table.
‘Come on… more power in numbers,’ Mal urged.
‘Is this stool taken?’ Vincent looked down to see the blonde smiling up at him.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘I’m off…’
Malcolm frowned.

~~~~

It neared midnight when Vincent finalized his ledgers for the week. He stepped into the shower as Rachmaninov filled the bathroom with whimsy and introspection. After rinsing the impressive lather in his hair, he soaped his body and smiled over the morning’s events. Surprised that he embedded the woman’s posterior in his mind, he thought of her sans jeans. It didn’t end there.
Naked and clad in her loafers…or a fine pair of custom made shiny PVC boots. He imagined her buttocks skimming the PVC, closed his eyes and lost track, only to be brought the Earth when tepid water sprayed him. Shivering, he turned the faucets, stepped out and into his robe.
He didn’t stop to reflect, but moved forward to leave wet footprints in the hall on the way to his bedroom as he toweled his hair. Such a long time, he thought. He slid open the mirrored door and eyed the neat rows of boxes. Bending, without forethought, his hands settled on a random box. He flicked the lid upward, and smiled at the red stilettos. Open toed, they boasted a neat bow at the toe and an eight-inch heel. His hands slid inside each shoe and there he remained, bent over like a faithful disciple for a few moments before he stood. He decided to deposit them on floor, a few feet away from his bed so he could make out their reflection on the polished timber.
Safe, after drawing the curtains, he walked toward his bed and disrobed. His eyes didn’t leave the shoes. He needed to alter the current status quo concerning his morning fascination.
Two words: bargain bin.
He hadn’t had a clearance for months. Few women resisted a shoe sale, or bargain bin, and she’d be drawn to the bin like a bee to the nectar, and he’d strike.
The cool air caressed his skin. He spread his robe over the foot of the bed and lay prone.
‘What shall we do tonight?’ he asked the shoes.
Vincent poured her into the shoes. She stood, statue still, waiting further instruction. Her cinnamon skin complimented the vivid red leather, and her hands dangled by her hips.
‘Strip.’
Her arms slowly unfastened her belt before unbuttoning her shirt. He caught a glimpse of her black bra and ordered her to continue. She unzipped her skirt. He reminded her that her feet were to touch the floor at all times. She pulled it up, over her breasts, and over her head.
‘Good girl…’
Her hands stretched behind her back. One short movement followed and her breasts broke free from their constraints.
Vincent pressed his pelvis against the mattress. He knew he couldn’t hold out for long.
‘Turn round.’
She presented her rear, and he found her ass hugging cotton briefs enchanting in a world obsessed with thongs. The fabric presented another dimension, offering another barrier for him to breach – preferably with his teeth.
‘Bend from the waist…’
Her hamstrings tightened. At his instruction, she ran her hands – palm downward – over her rump.
‘I hope you’re flexible,’ he said. If she wasn’t, he’d be sorely disappointed and this disappointment would undoubtedly trigger his need to correct the matter. Her knees tremble.
‘Slowly…’
He gently stroked his rigid prick with his fingers, synchronizing each stroke with her digital slide.
Her fingers press against the backs of her knees, and he smiles when she reaches her ripe gastrocnemius muscles.
‘Lower…’ her hands slide downward, and he admires her strong ankles. No supination here, he thinks.
He imagines her twitching buttocks, and spots the first eruption of goose bumps on her thighs. The importance isn’t in revealing that he lowered the air conditioner’s thermostat a few, all right, ten degrees below room temperature. He needs to see her index fingers caress her heels, and stops to admire the firm cords of her Achilles tendons.

A dry stroke ensued. He tightly grips his cock’s base and slides back his foreskin to reveal his ripening head.

The shoes tightly embrace her feet.
‘How do they feel?’
‘Tight,’ she replies. She’s only allowed to reply with single words.
‘Do you like them?’ her hair brushes against the timber floor.
‘Yes…’ her brief feminine squeak arouses him further.
‘What do you like about them?’
It’s a trick question.
‘Red…’
‘Good girl.’
He briefly rises, hooks his finger into her panties and pulls.
‘Nice…’
Her breath quickens, and he guesses it’s her anticipation for something….sedate, or romantic.
‘Turn round,’ and she obeys but her hazel eyes present many questions.
Tugging, stroking and rotating his hips, Vincent sees her before him and instructs her to raise her right leg. He takes her foot in his hands and tongues the bow before stroking it with his finger. It reminds him of the butterfly-like inner lips of a pussy. His teeth grip the bow and gently tug it, as he’d tug her slick labium, and his finger caresses the back seam. The immaculate shoes drag him into the undertow. He spies a nascent patch of moisture on her crotch. Their eyes meet, and she coyly rotates her ankle, caressing his chin with the tapered red heel. Her taut left quadriceps spasms, and his mouth opens.
Words fade into the cracks. His lips embrace the cool heel.

He steadily fellated the red heel, and one firm tug released his pent up arousal, terminating the phantasm with a warm creamy jet. Shivering to balance hot invisible rings that gripped his head, he squeezed out the last drop of cum over the robe.

Too far gone to turn back, temptation threaded through his insides. He needed to move forward, and the bargain bin held the key.

(to be continued)








August 08, 2006

Stiletto - I

fetish-fiction...
NB: this is only the beginning.


Stiletto - I

It appeared that he misunderstood her. She’d whiz by each morning, in a pair of horrid Nike runners, and her wide stride didn’t compliment her pristinely tailored suit. Vincent took five minutes from each morning, just before half eight, to stand at the shop’s entrance to see her pass by. His eye always fell on her shapely calves, and her firm flesh lit up each dark avenue within his mind. He then traveled southward and floundered upon glimpsing the vulgar logo of her runners.

Not a day passed by where he didn’t want to put things right, and this included combing his raven shoulder length hair into a tight, low hanging, ponytail every day. Each night, after closing the store, he’d picture her taking five minutes from her day to browse through his shoe selection. Admittedly, business had petered out ever since countless articles were published about the danger of high heels, and how they led to everything from back pain to lumbar lordosis. He’d grit his teeth each day, and hoped he wouldn’t spend any more time viewing or fitting kitten heels. Women would conveniently become deaf each time he tried to direct them to heels exceeding five inches, and offer him pithy excuses.
‘I can’t walk in them.’
‘They’re not good for my back.’
‘They look… sluttish,’ the piece de résistance from a local member’s wife almost broke him until he spied the new woman on the block, a woman who had the audacity to wear runners with her business suit.

Vincent incorporated basic body language tips into his daily morning and afternoon rituals. He stood at the doorway each morning, caught her sea green eyes and smiled. Vincent figured she’d come around eventually, and into his store. Once inside, he’d escort her to a chair and at a later point kneel in front of her feet, take her foot in his hand and slide it into a shoe. The first couple of days she warily received his smiles and by the week’s end, her eyes and mouth smiled in unison. Vincent floated, and the female gerousia who frequented his store didn’t bother him so much. He didn’t have the heart to turn them away, or fill the store with chic shoes. The important corner of his world within the store was decked with the latest array of heels, hand picked by him, and his recently retired father had little say in the matter.

Each day reached its close, and he entered his parent’s home like clockwork. His mother embraced him like he’d returned from a civil war and his father sat in his favorite armchair with the day’s newspaper blanketing his knees.

‘How’d it go?’ his father asked, without fail.
‘Good,’ Vincent replied.
They’d watch ESPN until his mother served dinner, they would thank the Lord for their daily bread and dig in. It was during dinner, after prayer, that the luscious calves returned to him. His mind gradually filled with her, and the possibilities surrounding their brief - muted - encounters. Vincent excused himself, created an additional excuse - going over the inventory or spreadsheets - and made off home to the strains of his mother’s praise.

Vince, the good boy.
The attentive businessman.
The dedicated son…

At the core of it all, he was the frustrated man who strode toward his vintage VW Beetle thinking of his shoe collection, while resurrecting bawdy images of her, his daily stranger, cavorting naked among the leather, suede and patent leather shoes.

He opened the door, and squished his bulky frame into the driver’s seat. His hand slotted in a random CD, POD blared through the speakers and he thought the song quite apt.

‘I, I feel so alive. For the very first time. I can’t deny you, I feel so alive…and I think I can fly…’

(to be continued)

January 21, 2006

Like Father, Like Son

he first sign of Leon’s intent appeared in the form of a box. Within the smooth rectangular cardboard box lay a pair of streamlined red patent leather heels. The lofty heels, upon first sight, made me wince but according to a girlfriend, ‘you don’t have to wear them all the way to work, five minutes in the boudoir is sufficient.’ My dates with Leon were limited to cultured meetings that took place in art galleries, CD launches and theater premieres. Platonic, the key word, threaded through each meeting primarily because I subconsciously aligned with his father. Riding the penis occasionally did that to females, even though I was aware of limitations.

Vivid red, the heels got me thinking about an adult game of Little Red Riding Hood, but Leon didn’t really resemble a wolverine male whereas his father…

After the garage incident, I attended my former company’s Christmas Party. Damien’s house, decked out with white umbrellas, white tables and robed chairs, reeked of the Eastern suburbs La-Di-Da set. The inferiors, those who worked as lackeys, mail sorters and telemarketers, weren’t invited to the soiree. Only the special people, those who sweat, toiled and donated their creative brain hemisphere to Damien’s company were invited. I, as hard as I found to believe, was among the special crew although I didn’t feel it, not even when a streamlined waiter offered me some Beluga.
‘How typical,’ I thought, dismissing the silver platter with my hand.
The waiter turned up his nose, in the manner of one confronting a fresh steaming pile of dog turd, and skulked away.

In the kitchen, where I escaped for a brief motivational moment, Gloria appeared in her tailored Escada suited splendor. Her immaculate straw blonde hair was pinned up into a sleek architectural feat and her lips, freshly injected with her ass fat or collagen (I didn’t keep up with the latest innovations), smiled.

‘Damien’s told me a lot about you. I’m impressed. We’re thinking of hosting an intimate get together and thought of inviting you…’ she drawled.
The intimate get together, in the modern era, meant a possible Ménage a Tois (a nicer term compared to the vulgar ‘Three Way’). Gloria, unfortunately, didn’t turn my knobs but I politely accepted the invitation with ambiguous aplomb. It was then that Leon walked in and saved me from his mother.

I suspected he found my shoe size one rainy afternoon. We visited the local art gallery, and stopped by my house. Sneaky bastard, I thought as my hands slipped into the shoes. Their crisp fragrance arose from the box, along with my hands. Holding my hands aloft, I assessed the shoes. Italian, expensive and quite lofty. Could I sue Leon if I took a tumble?

This surprise development included a note. Unfolding the crisp sheet of paper, that caused me to smile and shake my head, I read the request and also eyed the logo on the sheet. Who in their right mind spent a few hundred dollars on a notebook?

Compared to his father, Leon was a stickler for routine. Each date was carefully planned, he arrived punctually, which I found perversely appealing and he always held doors open or closed them. Damien on the other hand lived for the moment. When the Christmas party ended, Leon was summoned by his mother to do something or other, and Damien offered his services to drop three of us off and ultimately led me to the near ultimate destination after the first two guests were safely dropped off in front of their palatial beachfront properties. I, on the other hand, belonged to the other side of town and as the clock struck half twelve, the other side of midnight opened. Damien got out, opened my door and climbed into the car. I, the final little piggy, rode his cock up and down, all the way ‘home’.

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January 19, 2006

Like Father, Like Son - III

It could have vacuumed the desire from the moment but strangely enough, it fired it up all the more.
His fingers returned. My engorged labia, the very sepals of the blossoming flower of my shiny wet pussy, parted to allow him entry and once inside he practically slew me with each deep, fervent stroke. Damien’s middle finger rapidly pumped away, each morsel of air within my throat escaped through my lips in fits and starts. In a semi-seated position, my right leg hung over the hood and my head limply swayed at each fiery stroke.
‘Puss likes to be fucked,’ he said, with a low growl, against my ear.
The lust threaded voice lit each labyrinthine maze within my body; the viscous rictus of my sex pulsated with glee, blood roared within my temples and if my voice lowered, as though setting foot on a gravity heavy planet. Low howls and guttural groans merged when his index finger crashed the party.
‘Uh…Huh…’ his low whisper hung in the air.
Two fingers, equivalent to my first three, splayed my labia en route to my, now frantic, flooded slit.
Each steady, deep explorative prod, poke and thrust terminated with the melody associated with the soft-wet crackle of my well-oiled sex.
The thought of being caught, by his son, faded and his eager, tenacious cock came into view. Liberated at the tune of a calm zip, Damien held his shaft with his free hand. His wrist rotated slowly, I looked down and panted at the sight of his fully immersed fingers.
Our eyes briefly met to acknowledge the moment. His nostrils flared and in one steady slick swoosh; he buried his cock within the pulsating soft vault, which closed in on his engorged rod. Strangling him, embracing him, I wasn’t sure which was which.
Damien opened his mouth, inhaled and grunted, choosing to remain silent while his hips slammed against mine. Reaching up, my hands clutched his shoulders. Each fingertip clawed into him.
If I could select a word I’d opt for ‘Argh!’ with additional exclamation marks to emphasize the tempest within my pelvis and this tempest invaded my womb, weaving its way southward. Stopping, he held my face, invaded my mouth with his feverish tongue and pulled out.
We disengaged, he swiveled me round to face the hood and positioned my arms so that they splayed out. Legs apart, the engine’s unwinding warmth embracing my right cheek, I waited.
Seconds, moments…
His fingers slowly hooked into my panties and pulled them down. The air, at standard room temperature, caressed my rear. My breasts and stomach clung to the metal, his cock returned, eagerly swooping in, taking over in short bursts that left me yelping for more. At each exit, Damien slid out far enough for me to feel his rough re-entry.

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Like Father, Like Son - II

At every red light, his tongue crept into my mouth like a frisky snake. My mouth, its reddish-pink silk lining, effectively became the red carpet for Damien to walk on. I allowed him inside and we thrashed it out together, until the lights turned green.
Damien’s foot stepped on the accelerator, his bulging erection dictating the drive.
‘Red light…’
‘I can afford it,’ he said, laughing at the windscreen.
‘True,’ I said, turning to eye the prize in his trousers.
Once inside his garage, the engine recedes; his large hand twists the key out of the ignition and his door pops open. Between my legs, I feel warmth cascade through the cotton barrier of my knickers. My hand pops open the door, like a programmed machine even though, within me, I can feel desire unfurling after a haphazard match lands in the haystack. Stepping out, his body meets mine and his hands grip my upper arms like braces. My body meets the hood of the prized Beemer and it creaks in response to the swift shove. My ass slams against the car, Damien’s pelvis glues against my hips and he stops to softly grind his hips, announcing his presence and need.

Baring his teeth, I feel my bottom lip protrude. Damien’s front teeth, lower incisors hold the moist flesh and tug it so I feel his warm breath against my gums. His breath filters through my teeth, fanning my tongue and it’s as his warm hand runs along my inner thighs that he assaults me with his tongue, dipping in and out, penetrating my mouth to give me an indication of what his cock plans to do to my, now viscous, eager honey pot.

Receiving him, with abandon, the faint smacking sound of our lips as they crash, blend and pinch each other’s flesh ignites a blazing trail between my legs and this hot path travels north, to each breast, puckering each areole until they groan with the dominating need to be tugged, fondled, sucked, licked and, dare I say, bitten in turn.

‘Come on…’ parting my legs, he doesn’t put on any airs and graces. The once crisp cotton between my legs, adheres to the glistening, radiant, flesh underneath. As his fingers push the annoying fabric to the side, I feel my labia grudgingly release its hold on the fabric and relax, semi-parted and ready for Damien’s fingers to glide into me.

Each stroke, firm, explorative, jars my body. A hybrid squeak-moan escapes my throat and bounces around the garage. A man of many words, phrases and ironies, in the boardroom, Damien’s lips hang open. His tongue slides over them, his fingers wiggle, twist and turn inside me, to temper the effect of his hot breath.

My hands clutch his shirt; his fingers slide out and feverishly caress the glowing nub, my feverish clitoris. Our groans merge, and as I’m about to suggest an appropriate location, so I can eliminate the barrier that is my clothing, a door creaks open

‘Dad?’
‘Shit…’
‘Sorry…’

The door clicks shut.

‘My son…’
‘Your what?’
‘Looks like he’s back from New York…’

January 17, 2006

Like Father, Like Son - I

We sit around an oval table, chewing mints, lying in wait for the panther to strike. I sit, doodling, creating faces, possible caricatures of my colleagues only because the meeting always grinds along and the only thing missing is the token monkey jumping about.
There’s Toby, the ideas person, who thinks of himself that way, except he lurks in the shadows as he waits for the lights to be snuffed out before he creeps into the computers.
‘That was my idea,’ mutters Gloria.
‘Tell me something new!’ I hiss, scribbling a pustule on Toby’s paper nose.
Meanwhile, the man sits and he’s a troubled man or so he says. Each week, the regal panther presides and hollers about profits and losses.

Our return rate is high.
We need new marketing strategies.
I’m not satisfied with the presentation.

‘What say you, right up the back?’
Pointing to myself, like a red handed prankster, he nods and the fluorescent light catches the gray streaks splintering his black hair.
His lips curve upward, his jaw is set firm. Each digit, relaxed, rests against the mahogany table and I sigh, knowing I have to repeat myself yet again.
‘I’m leaving in a fortnight, there’s really little point…’
Nodding, he regards me with mock contempt, it’s the dance that is or has come to be ever since I handed in my resignation and spat the revelation that augmented his desire.
‘I need a little more. I’m unsatisfied,’ I’d said.
‘Unsatisfied?’ he asked, his voice lingering on the word.
Needless to say, he accepted the resignation. His edgy manner has risen steadily since and my cheeks burn each time our shoulders brush in the crowded elevator, our eyes cross each other in passing and when I lost my stiletto on the fire stair, him picking it up and deftly sliding it on my foot had me teetering on the edge of a red hot knife.

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December 27, 2005

Fun to be Bound, Bound to be Fun - 'Endurance' (Part I)

'Endurance', the second helping along this theme is inspired by the more experienced male. He can be a satyr or anything else, basically someone who's been there, done that and who desires a highly intense interaction that is free from any hint of doubt or taboo. For me, he's the older male whom I shan't name, but he can be any seasoned male who has tasted edgier and/or darker sexual waters.


Fun to be Bound, Bound to be Fun - 'Endurance' (Part I)

It was on the beach, as I lay on my stomach, that I revealed the thought that captured my daily thoughts. Your hand busily applied the last dollop of cream, your fingers rubbing it into the small of my back, slightly above the cleft of my buttocks. I suppose the variety of males on the sand and in the salty blue waves sparked an old desire, the type that served my masturbatory needs. It was time to move onto the next level, or so I thought. In actuality, I sat on the fence.
‘More than one…’ I said, replying to your direct question asking me how many I desired. I couldn’t fix an exact number, but hungered for a continual gravy train of cock.
‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ you said, your fingers shifting down to pinch my left buttock, squeezing the flesh without a break.
‘A group of men…’
You nodded, smiling to yourself.
‘I’d like that very much. It would certainly please me to no end,’ you said.
From someone like you, who trod on the darker keys of desire, the idea lit your inner core whereas for me it resembled a simmering cauldron that released a tantalizing, yet enigmatic, vapor. I felt I had to catch up to you somehow, make you see that there were more facets to the serene female you met at a distant business function.

~~

In the beginning, as the curtain opened, right after the CEO’s thank you speech, your eyes explored the room. Your sultry brown orbs then met mine and I couldn’t turn away despite the dark glimmer behind your gaze. Like a roaring high tide of salt water, your aura commanded attention. I swam and landed in your net and as you extended your large hand, quietly nodding, as the introduction unfolded, my mind knew - as did my skin receptors - about you and where it would all eventually lead.
The conversation unraveled; a rhythmic wave cascaded as you smoothly swallowed the last few drops of your Veuve Cliquot. The celebratory bubbly tickled my nose and my skin buzzed when you set your hand on the small of my back and commandeered me toward the nearby balcony. People milled, mingled or stood, eating their way through nervousness but we followed the velvet black night.

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