“Kind of cliché, don’t you think?” she smirked knowingly.
“Sorry?” he replied quickly and confused.
“I get it, hide in plain sight.”
“This… you work in a footwear store and have a foot fetish.”
“Firstly, I own the store. And secondly, that’s rather presumptuous of you.”
“Okay Mr Owner, so you’re going to deny that from the moment I walked in, you didn’t play a guessing game with my shoe size.”
“Not that that’s false, but, that’s normal. It assists us make your shopping experience more pleasant.”
“Fair. But you have had my left foot cupped in your lap for the past 5 minutes, staring longingly at my ankle and messaging the ball of my foot?”
“Then why not podiatry? I’ll answer for you.”
Clearing his throat, he interjected, “UK 8, US 10 and Euro 40, right?”
“Good boy, and here’s something to wet your whistle. I get them professionally pedicured in olive oil and sugar every two weeks, and painted Pearl white weekly.”
“New Balance, Air Max and a Van’s slip on coming right up,” he shakily said, straightening out his pale yellow shirt.
“Alright, well, lace me up,” she cooed, wriggling her toes.
“How.. how do you keep your hairs so soft?” he whispered quietly to her.
“Body glove and shea butter,”
“Will you walk around and tell me how the shoe fits and feels?”
“No,” as-a-matter-affectedly her voice stiffened.
“Oh, so you’ve made a decision already?”
“Yes. No to the slips ons and Nikes. Yes to those,” pointing at the unopened box of light grey New Balance W990. “And yes to you as well. I will allow you to experience the wonder that is my feet.” A sly smile met her divine lips.
“I don’t follow.”
“Yes, you do. You want these Rihanna-Paris-Hilton flippers slapping across your Mr Owner face. And maybe my foot moving between your legs, hmm…” she continued.
He leaned in more closely “Please, there are customers here. And my staff. Please. Yes, it’s what I want, but there’s a time and a place. Here, take my number, can we discuss this later?” he objected calmly.
“No. You like it, you like this, it arouses you. Every day watching people walk in, sit down and try on different types of shoes. The moment when they flex and scrunch them. And when they accept your assistance and you get a close look at the shape of the foot, the veins, the curve of the ankle protruding, and the coup de grâce; the toes.”
“Okay ma’am, you got me. Please sit, I’ll take care of things.”
“Good. And call me “Madam””
ATTENTION TO ALL SHOPPERS: WE APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, THE STORE IS CLOSING IN THE NEXT 5 MINUTES. ALL CUSTOMERS AT CHECKOUT WILL BE RUNG UP. TO EVERYONE ELSE, THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT. KINDLY MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE EXIT.
“But Boss, it’s only 2:30pm…?”
“I wasn’t putting in a request, now do a clean sweep of the store, make sure all customers exit. Get your things, and go home.”
“And what about her?” the sales assistant looking over to the woman with an expensive looking scarf wrapped around her head and short summer dress.
“Yanno, the one with the great calves, you were attending to her before you made the shop closure announcement?”
“I don’t employ you to thirst after patrons and ask me silly questions. So now would be a good time to just do what I ask please, and leave the lady alone”
Disgruntled, the sales assistant marched off never to be seen again, he knew better than to protest.
Securing the shop door, Mr Owner nervously suggested, “Shall we make our way to my office, it’s at the back.”
“Do I look like someone that deserves to be put away in the back?” Come closer. The faux suede of this excuse of a fitting sofa is itching my feet.”
With the same briskness he had run off patrons, he brought down the store shutters and rushed to kneel in front of her. He wanted to prove himself useful. Attentively, he watched her legs swing off the couch and lay them in his hands. He was so thankful.
“Some simple rules of engagement; I will do what I want, how I want with little to no input from you,”. Her index finger struck up, followed by her middle finger, “Under no circumstances will you touch me, massage me or lick me beyond the uppermost part of my ankles. And lastly,” ring finger going simultaneously, “we will operate on a 3 count system. As I do things to you, I will ask “Does this feel good?” and ‘feel good’ means your level of comfort. Lift three fingers if you do in fact feel good, two if you would like me to ease up a bit, and one if you are in complete discomfort. Understood?”
“Now lay flat on the floor, face up. And make sure your face is visible in these floor mirrors.”
He was so scared that people would find a way to still see him but he was so entranced by her. After all, he was the Boss of the store and he could do whatever he wanted. Everyone was gone and it was just the two of them.
Inhaling deeply, he positioned himself in line with the mirror, and took a long look at his reflection. He had seen and felt plenty of pretty women’s feet. And they always took it for what it was, just a trip to the shoe store. They hadn’t noticed the sparkle in his eye and brow sweat forming as he slipped socks, sneakers and sandals on and off their pampered sometimes poorly maintained paws. How had she spotted it? That he in fact yearned to be acknowledged and validated for his little secret.
“Does this feel good?”
Three fingers immediately sprung up. Her feet felt good against his face, pitter-pattering about, they felt very good. And the smell of the olive oil, and the sugar. Brown sugar, like her skin.
“Does this feel good?” she asked, moving her right foot lower down to his neck and imitating a choking motion. He exhaled rather abruptly and putting up three fingers yet again. She grinned, and placed her left foot over this mouth. The warmth of his breathing amused her. He was beginning to struggle. After 2 full minutes of the light asphyxiation, she relaxed her left leg and kicked his chin.
“Mh!” brows all screwed up, he whimpered.
“Hush, little boy,” she stood up, and placed both bare feet to his sides, left hand to hip, “Does this feel good?” she interrogated, with another knock to his chin. Two fingers went up. She rested the right foot on his face.
“What do you think?” she asked smoothly posing the ball of her foot on his forehead, “Yes, you may talk.”
“It’s alluring, so graceful and scent, wow. If I could bottle and spritz it on my pillow every evening, I would rest so peacefully.”
“And the arch?” she teased snaking the lovely paw all over his face, then, first forcing her big toe in his yap, eventually jamming the entire base in, “I don’t care for your opinion, because all you are to me is a foot stool. A shoe shiner. An actual literal boot-licker. How does that make you feel Mr Owner?” changing her tone from berating to sarcastic. Cautiously three fingers quivered next to the velvety limb conjoined to his lips.
His phone dinged. Fishing her foot out of this and reclining back into in the jet black suede settee, “It’s fine, I’ll allow it,” motioning for him to fish out his mobile phone from his pant pocket, “Important?”
“It can wait.” he replied.
“My thoughts exactly, back on your knees, dry my toes with your shirt. And slip my Katie Biltoft’s back on.” Paying no mind to the wrinkles and smudged end of his shirt, he focused his attention on the exquisite emerald green python stiletto. A sombrero feeling came over, was this the beginning of the end? It all by much too quickly.
“Gag my mouth with your toes, please…?!”
“Beg little boy, wag your tail for Madam.”
“Please, I am implore you to gag my mouth with your toes,” he pressed desperately.
“Hmm,” she proclaimed, placing one high heeled leg on his shoulder, and taunting him with the other, “Tongue out, whore. Now suck it. Show out to this stiletto, give it all you’ve got bitch.”
And so Mr Owner sucked that shoe so hard, making slurping noises and further soaking in the moment with his eyes closed. Madam’s shapely legs were this green high heeled spike, and he was devouring it.
“Okay, enough. Go to the back, grab yourself a glass of water to soothe your throat and upon your return we shall discuss how that made you feel?” He floated off in state of euphoria.
The chirpy whistling halted as he escorted her out the store. The rows of shoe racks stared at him, dark and cold. Two lone boxes of sneakers were still on the floor where she had sat. Had that been an illusion? Maybe a delusion? The whiff of olive oil and brown sugar mocked at this apparent hallucination. Mr Owner checked his watch – 2:58pm. There was only one thing to do, tidy up and regain control. Stepping closer to the couch, a note caught his attention;
You owe me a pair of Katie Blitofts – you know my size. Hand deliver them on the address below, along with my sneakers, Mr Owner. I really hope you are not attached to that title, because it belongs to me, much like you. I look forward to playing with you again soon. – Madam
Paralyzed, he wobbled and crumbled first on to the couch, then the floor. He was completely ruined but destined to obey…