….one two buckle my shoe….
Having spent so much of the day crouching low, or on his knees even, forcing fat feet into shoes which women would insist on having a size too small, Steve felt like some kind of Prince Charming, but with only ugly sisters to attend to. His back ached through having to bend over these vain obese women, his legs were stiff, his fingers raw from prising unyielding leather onto swollen feet.
And then there was the smell, too, of the leather, the feet, the cocktail of expensive perfumes which the shop's clients wore. The women were wealthy, the shop was select, singly and in small doses their fragrances would no doubt have been subtle, even enticing, but after six hours of attending to them the aromatic assault had given him a headache.
Two young women came in, browsed, but he could tell immediately by their accents, by their manners, that they would buy nothing. None of the shoes were priced, if a customer had to ask how much then it was inevitable that the cost was much beyond their means, and to save the women time Steve mentioned how much they would have to pay for the stilettos they were admiring.
"How much?" said one, aghast.
"Let's go!" said the other, and they were out of the door.
"Silly bitches," Steve muttered, hating himself for haviing to serve the wealthy ones, despising the common ones for thinking he might demean himself by attending to them. He slipped the catch on the door after them, so he could nip in the back room for a moment, find something to ease his headache.
He had worked in the shoe shop for four months now, just part time to finance his studies, but already he felt that he was nearing the end of his tether. Pandering to bored women who had too much money in their accounts, too much time on their hands, but little else to recommend them was beginning to try his patience. His cheeks ached at the end of each day through being so nice to these people, charming them with insincere smiles, ached as much as his back did, and his knees. Bowed and bent, in constant genuflection before women, was not a man's natural state.
"I'll be a crippled old fart if I stick this much longer," he told himself, washing down two aspirin with a glass of water. "Give it till the end of term, I think, and then I'm out."
She was standing at the door, looking in, when he went back through to the shop, no sign of impatience or annoyance, standing quite still and serene with one hand in the pocket of her calf length leather coat, the other hooked around the strap of her shoulder bag.
Steve hurried across to open the door, said, "Sorry, I was just-"
She stepped past him, into the shop, saying nothing, just the hint of a smile on her dark red lips as he closed the door after her. In her wake he caught her perfume, musky enough to mask all the other fragrances that had assailed him during the day, started to follow it before remembering himself and taking up his station at the till.
Do not force yourself onto the customers, that was the first rule which had been drummed into him when he started the job. But this one…..oh! How he would love to force himself on her!
She was much his height, a little shy of six foot in the heels she wore, was slim and moved with an easy assured grace. Her rich auburn hair was as glossy as the black leather of her coat, rested in soft curls on her collar, and was echoed in the soft bronze lustre which shadowed her eyes, giving them an intriguing depth.
His eyes following her as she walked slowly around the room, he couldn't take them from her, not even when she cast him a sideways glance and what might have been a slight frown.
The woman took a shoe down from a shelf and ran her lacquered fingers over it, her nails as dark a red as the shoe itself, then pressed it to her cheek to feel how smooth it was.
"I just love leather," she said, her voice a little husky, as she replaced the shoe and moved on.
Stopping before some boots, she studied them but this time did not touch, simply tapped a finger against her lips as she considered, then pointed.
"These," she said, turning quickly on her heels and cross the room to sit on the low settee, one leg crossed over the other.
Steve took the boots down from the shelf and carried them over to her, set them down beside her and then pulled up his stool.
When he was settled, hunched before her, the woman gave a slight twitch of her foot, offering it to him, the raising of an eyebrow her only request or instruction. Without questioning, without thinking, Steve cupped one hand around her slender ankle, with the other eased her shoe from her stockinged foot and set it aside.
Inclining her head, permitting herself a wry smile, the woman then nodded towards the boots. They were almost knee length, soft black leather with high tapering heels, and fastened by six buckles at the side. Steve took one, undid each gleaming buckle, parted the leather to make room for her foot. She made no move to help him, though, she sat still and impassive, legs still crossed, so he had to reach forward to take her foot in his hand and lift it. And as her leg raised he saw her coat, which had remained buttoned all this while, part a little below the knee, offering a view of her dark silk thighs.
"Yes?" she said, as he hesitated.
"Sorry, madam," he apologised, and proceeded to slide her foot into the boot.
"Madam? Oh I like that!" she said, laughing softly and with her foot snug inside she planted the boot firmly on the stool between his thighs. "The buckles?" she asked. "Please?"
Beginning with the lowest, working his way up, Steve started to fasten each buckle. With her leg bent, her knee raised, he could see further beneath her coat, see where the stockings ended, the pale white flesh of her upper thighs, the bare groin.
The woman was naked beneath the leather coat, he realised.
"You aren't paying attention," she chided him, disturbing his reverie. "That one is slack."
Steve quickly lowered his eyes, attended to the buckle, tightening it, and then the last remaining one. Satisfied that the boot was comfortable, the woman uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again, raising her other foot to him.
Again Steve went through the process, which was now taking on something of the aspect of a ritual, almost reverently removing her shoe, gently holding her foot, slowly slipping it into the boot. He kept his eyes fixed on his task this time, carefully fastening each of the six buckles, and would not have been aware of the woman smiling down at him, though perhaps conscious that there was something slightly mocking about her silence.
"There we are Madam," he said, giving a gentle tug on the last buckle.
"Yes, here we are," she echoed, moving her foot from the stool to the floor, then offering him her hand so that he might help her rise from the settee.
Fingertips loosely holding fingertips, Steve gave her his support as she got to her foot and stood before him, above him. She did not release his fingers, though, but held on to them still, her thumb rubbing back and forth across his knuckles.
"They suit me, yes?" she asked of the boots, rocking a little to test their comfort.
"They do indeed, Madam," Steve replied.
"And they excite you, yes?"
Taken aback by the question, Steve said, "Madam?"
She laughed aloud and let his hand fall, walked across the shop and then back, the high heels only adding to her feline grace, her sensual elegance.
Resting her hand on his shoulder as she sat again, she said, "Yes, these will do fine. You may remove them."
It seemed that her knee was raised even higher this time, or perhaps she was slumped a little lower in the settee, for the view beneath her coat left nothing to the imagination, there was no mistaking the fact that she was naked beneath it.
"And my shoes please?" she said, when he had removed the boots and seemed at a loss for what to do next.
"Of course, sorry Madam," said Steve, taking each foot in his hands and replacing her shoes.
"You lingered a little then, you know," she remarked, leaning towards him, resting her elbows on her knees.
"Madam?"
"When you took my foot in your hand," the woman explained. "You lingered over it. Did you enjoy the feel of it?"
"Oh! Sorry!" he blushed.
"You say sorry so sweetly," she smiled, raising a foot, not to rest on his stool, this time, but to place between his thighs, the sole resting flat against his groin. Rummaging in her bag, she removed a small notebook and began to write, leaning further forward still as she did so, applying some pressure to the cock which she had known would be erect. Tearing out a page, bringing her face close to his, she said, "You will deliver the boots to me, this evening, at this address."
….three four knock at the door….
When she answered the door the woman was wearing a tight sleeveless waistcoat of black suede, a short black skirt of similar material and the same shoes as before. Her hair had been pinned up, her makeup had been freshened and she was stunning enough to take Steve's breath away.
Dumbly he offered her the box which contained her boots, but she shook her head as she turned her back to him, beckoned with a finger.
He closed the door behind him and followed her into the house, along the hall and into a sitting room. As he entered she was already lowering herself into an easy chair, her legs crossing to echo the posture she had adopted in the shop, the one which silently demanded his service. Crossing the room, he set the box on a table beside her, lifted the lid and started to take the boots from their wrapping of tissue paper.
"Not just yet, dear," the woman told him, and pointing to the floor at her feet, said, "Though you may adopt the position."
Regarding her curiously, Steve knelt on the carpet before her, saw one foot lift towards him and guessed that he was to remove the shoe. And then the other. Her legs were bare, she wore no stockings, and she rested one foot on his thigh, reached out to take a bottle of nail varnish from the table, shook it vigorously and then handed it to him.
"Madam?" asked Steve, looking at the bottle as if ignorant of what it contained.
"Paint the bloody toes, dear! I want to be pampered! And you-" she added, leaning forward, touching fingers tipped with dark red nails to his cheek. "-you want to be the one to pamper me. Don't you, dear?"
Her musky fragrance was beguiling, her breath on his face so sweet, the soft purr of her voice too seductive to refuse. Slowly he unscrewed the top of the bottle, drew out the brush it held.
"Just the nails now," she cautioned him. "I want crisp clean edges, no smudging."
Steve took her bare foot in his hand, curled his fingers around her ankle to hold it steady on his thigh, with his free hand dipped the brush into the varnish and began to paint her toes.
