Manolo Blahnik makes a shoe that only elite feet deserve. The Chiffon & Satin d’Orsay is offered in a nude chiffon with gold metallic leather trim or a black chiffon with black kid leather. The nude version is a shoe women often aspire to get married in. So, when she walks over wearing a pair of the black and asks to me to f*ck her in them, I wholeheartedly oblige. I assume encased in those elegant heels are a pair of elite feet, soles smooth as Hollywood ass, aspiring arches, heels like pink rounded plums, toes as satisfying as flavorsome hors d'oeuvre, all of it as intoxicating as Veuve Clicquot.
“I’ve heard about you,” she whispers in my ear.
“My reputation precedes me?”
She giggles, whispers. “Well, we have a girlfriend in common.”
“Do we?”
“Yes. Well, we did. Former girlfriend of yours. And me too. I mean we dated her at different times. But I’m not with her any more.”
“I see.”
She smiles. My eyes dart to her display of glee, her lips colored an alluring pink, just like the nails on her dainty hands and those that also peek out from the toes of her Blahniks.
“She used to tell me about you,” she says, biting her lower lip as she talks, fondling her drink and avoiding my gaze in the process. She’s shy, yet bold at the same time and that contradiction is captivating. “She used to tell me what you like to do in bed. Things you taught her when you two were together. And what she taught me when I was with her.”
I breathe deep, feel warm all over, wet within. The girl is stunning and blushing and obviously talking about my penchant for feet. At least it’s obvious to me. When she sauntered over and introduced herself, her gaze fell to the floor, to my feet, my Choo encased sevens, pampered and always eager, before journeying back up my body and meeting my eyes. We smiled knowingly.
“You’re Jennifer Sorel.”
“I am indeed.”
“I’m Jessica. Jess. Jess Marson.”
“Nice to meet you, Jess.”
That’s when her eyes descended and when I knew. I just knew.
“Aren’t you going to ask who the girl is? Was?”
“No,” I tease, fondling my drink, beginning to enjoy this little game, this petite girl. “I’m going to try and figure that out on my own.”
I slip my right foot out of its Lou and move it toward the girl, closer and closer, until my toes touch her skin, her ankle and slide down until my soles are tickled by chiffon and satin, until I see her goosebump and shiver all over, until she finally turns her head and looks me in the eye.
“Going to try and figure that out tonight. All night. With you,” I add, my foot working its magic, sliding all over hers, still in its shoe.
She blushes, bites that lower lip of hers. Again. I slide my toes across her silky skin, they fan and hug her slender ankle, come together and spill onto the top of her foot, slipping, sliding until they touch the chiffon and satin of her shoe again, until the underside of my sensitive bottom is tickled once more.
“I love those shoes you’re wearing,” I whisper.
“You do?”
“Oh yes. They make your pretty little feet look good enough to eat.”
She bites that lower lip of hers. Harder. “Do you want to f*ck me in them?” she inquires, blush turning beet red.
Toes working their magic down below, I tempt her with, “In them. Out of them. One shoe on, one shoe off. All the above.”
She shudders again in delight, smiles wide, touches my hand, gives it a squeeze.
“What do you say we get out of here?”
She nods, now chewing on that pretty pink lip of hers.
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