My Magical Shoes

I have a thing for shoes. I adore them. I have a closet full of shoes and boots of different colours and materials and designers. Some I've worn only once or twice. Some I've worn out. I have pink flip-flips that have walked a dozen beaches around the world, and I have black leather thigh-high boots that I've been fucked in in at least a dozen beds around the world.

My friends never take me shopping with them. They know I'll only drag them into every shoe shop, hunting for something new and different to add to my insane collection. To be honest, trying on shoes gives me a sexual thrill. I'm not sure why. But I love seeing myself in the mirror with new shoes.

Then again, I love seeing myself in the mirror, with or without shoes. Call me a narcissist, but my body is both toned and curved, and although not without a few minor imperfections I have been called 'gorgeous' and 'beautiful' more times than I can count.

And nothing makes me feel sexier than a pair of fuck-me heels. Platform sandals with high stilettos, the kind that strippers wear. The extra height they give me makes me feel powerful, and my legs look incredibly sexy. I'm very picky, mind you. I don't just buy any shoes. They need something special about them. A uniqueness. Which is hard to find in this age of mass production.

So imagine my delight, yesterday, when I stumbled upon a pair of stripper heels - in a charity shop, of all places. Six inch heels. One-and-a-half inch platforms. Blue with glittering rhinestones. Clearly they'd been worn before, but their condition was very good. There was no indication of design or manufacture, and I didn't recognise the style, but the sharp heels were perfectly shaped, and they fit my feet comfortably when I tried them on.

I nearly had an orgasm right there, standing in the charity shop, with an audience of three middle-aged women and two toddlers. I must have gasped audibly, because suddenly they were all looking at me. Blushing furiously, I paid for my new shoes and hurried out of the shop.

*

The thing about a fantastic pair of shoes is that you need clothes to go with them. For these shoes I really needed something to show off my legs. Shorts, or a short skirt. Something seriously slutty. If part of my mind was warning me to be sensible, I was too horny to pay heed.

So what if I looked like a stripper. It wasn't like I was about to tear all my clothes off and simulate sex with strangers in public. Although I wouldn't mind the cash...

I couldn't believe how well they fit me. I felt almost as if I'd been born to wear them. I might never take them off again - okay, that would be weird, and potentially bio-hazardous.

There was a department store nearby. It didn't take long to find a denim skirt, long enough to conceal my ass but not much more, that I took to the changing rooms. There, hidden only by a curtain, I stripped out of my black trousers and into my skirt. On a whim, I removed my bra and knickers too, before slipping back into my new sandals.

I could resist my body's demand no longer. Hitching up my skirt, I sat on the narrow bench and spread my legs, one hand delving swiftly between my thighs, the other squeezing my nipples through my shirt. The touch of fingers against my clit was bliss. I couldn't remember ever needing to come as badly as this.

I closed my eyes. Nothing in the world mattered except for this pleasure. I indulged in a fantasy where the pretty blonde who guarded the changing rooms was watching me finger myself. Fingering herself as she spied on me, peeking past the edge of the curtain.

I tried to keep quiet, but whimpers of needful pleasure escaped my lips. My fingers weren't exactly quiet either as I drove myself to a long, intense and very wet climax.

I was confused by a moan of pleasure that I didn't think was mine. Standing swiftly, I drew back the curtain. The blonde attendant screamed, and hurriedly adjusted her clothing as she backed away from me.

Between my own surprise and her obvious shock, I stood silent and let her go. But as I collected my stuff, more amused than embarrassed by the wet stains on the floor, I decided to leave my knickers, the black lace soaked from my earlier arousal, on the bench for her to keep as a souvenir.

*

When I say I have a thing for shoes, I don't mean that I regularly masturbate in department store changing rooms. That was a definite first for me. On a scale of one to ten, my new heels were at least an eleven. As I left the store, knickerless beneath my daringly short skirt, and my dress shirt replaced by a tight T-shirt and a denim jacket to match the skirt, I felt both excited by my sexy new outfit, and oddly confused by my willingness to abandon caution.

And how strange that I had fantasised about the blonde, and she had watched me as I did. I wished I had reacted faster. Maybe I could have persuaded her to join me. Maybe I still could.

I found myself staring at a window display full of sexy lingerie. It was a sex shop, of the soft core variety, but it tugged at me almost hypnotically, drawing me deep inside until I was past the lingerie and the silly costumes, and faced with a wall of dildos and vibrators.

My hands explored them, touched them, caressed them. So much pleasure to be had. A long double-ended dildo, blue, silicone, just what I could have used with the pretty blonde.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

I turned to see a young woman, tall and slender with long dark hair and green eyes. Immediately I forgot about the blonde. "I'm thinking about this one," I said, stroking the blue dildo. "It's a pity I can't try it before buying it..."

She glanced around the shop, which was empty apart from us. "Usually that's true, but I think I can make an exception. Would you like some assistance with it?" This was said with a confident smirk. She was definitely flirting.

"Well, it is designed for two."

"It is, but we really need a bed." She thought for a moment. "I know." She dropped to her knees and lifted my skirt, and laughed. "I see I don't have to get you wet." I sighed as her mouth found my pussy, and her tongue circled my clit.

She took the dildo from my hands and pushed it into me, stretching me beautifully. How many other hands had touched it, I wondered. It was such a wonderfully long and thick dildo. She pushed it deeper and deeper, all the while licking my clit lovingly. When I had taken as much as I could, there were several inches of dildo projecting out from my wide-spread labia.

She switched to teasing my clit with her thumb, and took the dildo into her mouth, treating it like a cock and giving it a lusty blowjob. I could totally understand why men liked this. It looked amazing. I thrust my hips rhythmically, as if fucking her mouth with my dildo-cock.

Her thumb worked me expertly. I pinched my hard nipples through my shirt as my climax built. "I'm coming," I said. "I'm coming!" Not that she could be in any doubt. My orgasms can be very wet, and this time my fluids gushed onto her face, her mouth still full of blue dildo. She pulled away, startled, as my cum splashed over her uniform.

She hurriedly backed away, cursing, while I fucked myself gently with the dildo until my orgasm was done. "Thanks," I said. "I'll take it. And this as well." I plucked a jewelled steel buttplug from a shelf.

Less than five minutes later I was walking along the street again, this time with a deliciously naughty fullness in my ass.

*

I love the way a buttplug makes you so conscious of your ass. You can never quite forget that it's there. A dirty, pretty, forbidden intruder. Pretty because of the crystal tell-tale. My heels were high and my skirt was short, and knickers were a distant memory. Anyone bending down would see the twinkling between my cheeks.

It was so extraordinary, so completely improbable, that within less than an hour of my discovery of these shoes I had had two such erotic encounters. If I'd believed in magic, I would have guessed the shoes were enchanted. Even not believing, I had to wonder. But how to test it?

And who to test with? Another random stranger?

And how? I hadn't consciously done anything before.

And did it work on men, or only women?

I was still musing about this as I boarded the train to take me home. It was rush hour, and there were no seats. I was soon sandwiched between dark suited men, all of whom were studiously ignoring everything except their iPhones. I wondered whether they'd even notice if the man behind me decided to take advantage of me and my short-skirt-no-knickers.

He certainly felt hard and eager enough to try. I pressed my bum back against him, my subtle movements unnoticed by others amidst the unsteadiness of the train's uneven progress. But the hand that caressed my bum before unzipping the fly behind me was evidence that my invitation was accepted.

In full public view. Unbelievable. Not that the cock that slipped between my thighs was my imagination. It was a good thickness, and impressively long, perfect for sex in this position. No condom, but for once I couldn't care less. Getting him inside me was a little awkward, but we succeeded with a bit of rather obvious shuffling, and then he was thrusting into me.

I studied the faces around me, but they seemed oblivious. The man behind me was fucking me with slow but deep thrusts, using the bouncing motion of the train as cover. I had only a vague idea of what he looked like, but cared only that his wonderful cock continued its thrusting. I just wished he could do it faster. The slow fuck was a real tease.

Clearly it was good enough for him, however. We'd only gone two stops down the line before I felt him stiffen, and then his cum was tickling my depths as he pulsed in an orgasmic finale.

He slipped out of me and tidied himself away, and a few seconds later he darted out the doors with a muttered, "Thanks."

I had three more stops to go, still crammed between men, a stranger's cum leaking from my pussy and down my thighs. If you'd asked me at that moment to define 'slut', I'd have just pointed at myself.

*

I've always been more interested in sex than romance. I mean, I've had a few relationships with men, and one or two with women, but I've never been comfortable with how possessive people get. Men get jealous if you look at other men, and women get jealous if you look at anyone.

Somehow, "I don't love him, I was just desperate for a good fuck," never works with anyone.

Especially if it's unprotected sex with a stranger. Even I found that weird, the more I thought about it after.

It was as if the shoes really were enchanted, dooming me to a string of potentially very unsafe public encounters. Which was absurd - wasn't it? Just in case, though, I really ought to take the shoes off...

As soon as I got home, anyway. It was just a short walk away now.

First, though, in the station bathroom, I dried my thighs of cum. I glanced up suddenly to find I wasn't alone as I had thought. A cleaner was watching me from the doorway. She looked old enough to be my grandmother, and I hurriedly pulled down my skirt as far as it could go, which really wasn't far at all. I could feel my cheeks burning.

"Want a hand with that?" she asked.

I gaped, lost for words. I had expected her to criticise me for my obvious amorality, and instead she was offering to help?

"I, uh," I said.

She sighed wearily, as if I were being a difficult child. "Lift your skirt," she said, "and part your legs."

Reluctantly, I did as instructed, bewildered but also excited. Without fuss, she knelt down in front of me and proceeded to lick the cum from my thighs. Higher and higher she worked, with an air of professional detachment, as if this was something she did every day, part of the job description, and not an incredibly intimate act.

With her tongue she cleaned my labia of cum, and she tongued me deep in search of more. If she'd only continued her attention to my clit, I'd have climaxed within seconds, but instead she pulled away and stood up. Before I could ask why she had stopped, she was snapping yellow gloves on and examining the bathroom cubicles.

With a gentle whine of complaint, I fixed my skirt and left her to it.

I couldn't remember ever before feeling so tense with need. I left the station, heading for home, my thoughts in a whirling haze of lust.

Without really intending to, I walked into the coffee shop that I usually stopped at. Henry was there, the barista that I had a bit of a crush on. Nerdy, but cute. Gorgeous smile. "What can I get you today?" he asked, smiling in pleased recognition.

I really hadn't come in for coffee. "You?" I said, winking as if it were a joke.

He looked at me, startled, then turned to his co-worker. "Cover for me?" She nodded.

I followed Henry into the storage room beyond the kitchen. "How would you like me?" he asked.

Shaking my head, I lifted my skirt and bent over a stack of sacks full of coffee beans. "Just fuck me," I pleaded. "Nice and hard."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, his hands parting my cheeks, a thumb nudging at the plug. "That's so sexy," he murmured.

"My pussy, Henry. Fuck my pussy." And he did, his cock long and slender, finding my entrance easily and slipping inside. "Hard and fast, Henry," I pleaded.

I couldn't fault him on enthusiasm. He pounded his length into me, the impact of his hips against my cheeks a delicious thrill. "Oh, yes," I cried. "Like that."

A new voice, deep and commanding, interrupted us. "Stop that now!" It was the manager, frowning angrily at us. "Customers aren't allowed in here. If you're going to fuck, do it at a table."

"Sorry, boss," Henry said. He helped me to my feet and dragged me through to the front of the cafe. Before I knew it, I was on my back on a table, Henry between my legs, his cock still hard and pushing into me.

There were plenty of other customers, maybe twenty or so, some by themselves but many in couples or groups. And they were all looking at me. Despite everything I'd done that day, I was on the edge of panic.

But Henry's cock felt so good in me, and when he lifted my ankles to his shoulders, I allowed myself to relax and enjoy the fucking, audience or no.

Except the table was really small, so my head was unsupported. For a minute I was looking at people upside down, before my view was blocked by a pair of trousers concealing a bulge.

It was the manager, no longer angry but certainly aroused. He freed his cock and filled my mouth with it. I sucked on it hungrily as hands mauled at my breasts, pinching my nipples harshly. Out of the corners of my eyes I could see other legs crowding round me. I could feel more hands touching me. There was a tongue caressing my clit, while Henry continued to hammer away at me.

How had I become the centrepiece at a public gangbang? Was it me? Was it the shoes - were they really magic? Would I take them off if I could?

I pushed the manager away for a moment to catch my breath, but he was soon back to fucking my face, while I tried to control my gag reflex to allow him deeper. I was distracted by Henry's cock jerking powerfully within me. He was the second man to come in me without waiting for me first.

Whoever was tonguing my clit was doing it perfectly, though.

A new cock thrust into me, this one shorter but thicker, and no less enthusiastic. It was a brutal fucking, but exactly what I needed. I screamed in ecstasy as a third load of cum spurted into me, my mouth still full of cock, my left nipple caught between teeth, my right squeezed by fingers.

The plug was pulled from my ass and replaced by another cock, even as my mouth was flooded with cum. I swallowed what I could, but some escaped to roll across my cheeks. The cock withdrew and I gasped for breath, quite overwhelmed by the multitude of sensations. I glanced up to see Henry pounding away at my ass, but then my head was pulled down and I was given a mouthful of pussy.

I was past caring who did what to me. I loved every cock that filled me, and every mouth and hand that touched me. I devoured every cock and pussy presented to me. How many times I climaxed, I don't know, and how many different cocks filled my mouth or pussy or ass with cum I have no idea.

At some point there were no more. There was just me, a limp rag doll dripping cum onto the floor, my face and breasts slick with cum too, while Henry and the manager closed down the shop. "Time to go," they said at the end, hoisting me to my feet and ushering me out.

I leaned against the wall and watched them walk away towards the station, as if they'd forgotten me already.