THE
SHOE STORE |
by:
Mistress Chloe of London |
When a male sales assistant tries to take
advantage of his beautiful client, he realises that
he's bitten off more than he can chew....
Weary in the late afternoon of a day during
which she'd caught up on her long-neglected correspondence
with multiple suitors, had the latex gown she'd
bought for that evening's fetish ball altered, and
shopped at length for accessories, Charlotte was
in no trifling mood when she finally got over to
High Heel Heaven 15 minutes before the shop was
to close, and in no way appreciated the way the
males salesperson's eyebrow arched with arousal
at the sight of her. I have in mind a pair of black
patent sandals with extremely high heels, she informed
him, sighing, taking her compact out to ensure the
perfection of her lipstick. Size 5. Very well, madam,
he said, smirking in a way he probably - and mistakenly
- imagined quite roguish. He disappeared into the
back of the shop. His colleague, a pale, Rubenesque
redhead of around 25, gathered some possessions
from behind the counter, and called goodbye to him
as she walked to the door.
It isn't five yet, he poked his head out to tell
her, but his expression suggested that he was just
giving her a hard time for the sport of it. Close
enough, though, she said, especially since I took
only half my lunch today. Charlotte, who thought
it inexcusably unprofessional of the two of them
to have this exchange in her hearing, glared at
the salesman, who ducked back into the stockroom.
He emerged with four boxes of shoes in hand, knelt
in front of her, and slipped off her pumps. "May
I say," he asked, smirking again as he guided
her left foot into a sandal, "that madame has
by far the prettiest little feet I've seen in several
days?" "You may not," Charlotte snapped.
But his smirk receded for only a moment as he buckled
the other sandal. Charlotte stood. In spite of their
five-inch heels, the sandals were reasonably comfortable,
thanks to their platforms. Walking a few steps,
she noticed with surprise that the street outside
was empty. "And Madame's legs," the salesman
felt called upon to observe as Charlotte returned
to her chair and offered him her feet, "are,
if I may say so, a match for her gorgeous feet."
There was simply no discouraging this bloke. She
wondered if a note to the shop's owner might be
in order. He had the first pair of sandals off now.
But instead of reaching for
a second pair, he held her right foot. "Extraordinarily
pretty," he said, as much to himself as to
her, as he kneaded the ball. It felt glorious, but
what could be more inappropriate. She tried to withdraw
her foot.
To her surprise, he didn't let it go. "Let
me," he said, his expression now stripped of
irony. "Let me." "As though you'd
listen if I said no," she said, alarming herself
by sounding very much less authoritative than she'd
intended. Her heart stopped as she realized that,
with no one passing by outside and no one else in
the shop, she was at his mercy. And he was unmistakably
rigid. Panic surged through her. The hairspray in
her bag. A faceful of that would surely slow him
down. But he'd read her mind, and seized her wrist
before she could get a hand on the bag. "Whatever
it is you need in there, love," he said, "can
wait until we’re finished." He tossed the bag
behind him. He pulled her to her feet by her hair.
His lips on her neck. His knees high between her
legs. His voice a hot wind in her ear. "You
rich bitches, coming in here like the fucking Princess
of Wales, imaging that you'll be kowtowed to. Well,
not today, love." He pushed her to her knees
and freed his cock in a single motion. He had a
handful of her hair again. But she had a handful
of something far more sensitive than hair. And now
it was he on his knees, and he whose face glowed
red from the violence of her gloved hand across
it. And he, at last, demonstrating proper deference.
"Thank you, Mistress," he managed semi-intelligibly
as she forced her index and middle fingers deep
into his mouth. You find my feet pretty, you impudent
little scoundrel? she demanded mockingly. Well,
I'm going to allow you to kiss them. He moaned delightedly
and bent to the task, but just before his lips reached
her foot, she abruptly stepped backward. Do you
imagine I have all afternoon, worm? she snarled.
He crawled after her. Again she stepped away just
as his lips were about to touch her foot. And then
again.
And again. It appeared as though he might burst
into tears. The sight made her laugh with cruel
delight. She made him bring her a drawerful of the
knee-high stockings the shop lent to customers who
would otherwise have been barefoot. She jammed three
into his mouth, and then gagged him with a fourth.
She tied his hands behind his back with a fifth
and wrote on his bare chest in lipstick, I'm an
impudent little toad. As she confiscated his trousers
and briefs, his eyes grew so wide with embarrassment
and panic that she thought they might pop from his
head. She chose the two pairs of sandals she liked
best of the four, informed him that he would pay
for them out of his wages, and left him. There was
a fetish ball to prepare for, and the cab ride home
was likely to take over an hour in rush hour traffic.
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