as I slide down those tiles, coming again and again and again, until I’m utterly spent, with my bum on the floor.
I feel dirty. And cheap. Like I’ve ruined sacred ground. That’s twice I’ve come in Pussyfoot Shoes. What kind of manager does that make me?
‘You’re one hell of a woman,’ breathes Guy. ‘I’m gonna shower you in gifts.’
‘That orgasm was gift enough,’ I tell him. ‘Have to rush. Bye for now.’
Then I pull myself to my feet, clean myself up, and exit the bathroom hoping no one heard my moans.
As if the store is punishing me, Pearl and I have a spate of bad luck. One woman brings back some Gucci heels that cost several hundred pounds, saying the strap snapped the first time she wore them. She seems sincere enough, so I sigh and give her a refund. Then, to top it all off, I spend an hour – a whole hour, dammit – trying to convince a buxom woman that her feet are extra-wide and can she please stop trying on the expensive shoes because she is stretching them. Eventually, she leaves in a fit, dabbing her eyes. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having big feet,’ I call as she goes. Pearl gives me one hell of a look, in response. ‘What?’ I say. ‘It’s the truth!’
‘Some people,’ say Pearl, blowing hot air onto her glasses, ‘can’t cope with the truth. But we do like customers who don’t slam us online,’ she mumbles.
And what can I say to that? Pearl is right, as flipping usual. It’s hard living with someone ten years your junior who looks like a blonde Jessica Rabbit in preppy glasses, has a brain like a razor and isn’t afraid of speaking her mind.
But Pearl’s OK really. It’s me that’s a mess.
Anyway, things improve when I return from coffee break. Pearl produces a shoebox from behind the counter. ‘A rather dashing man popped in while you were gone,’ she says, with a wink. ‘He bought you these and told me to keep them for you.’
I lift the lid from the box, and my heart does a backflip. Guy’s only gone and bought me the tiger-print stilettos! I run my hand along the velvety uppers, the strappy backs and peep toes. I’ve handled these shoes so often, Kitten, longing for the day when I could take them away! And there they are, in my hands.
‘Gucci, no less,’ gushes Pearl. ‘Go on then! Try ’em on!’
So I do. And I feel like a princess as I strut up and down the shop, my new shoes sinking into the carpet. ‘How do I look?’ I ask Pearl.
She claps her hands. ‘They’re perfect! They make you walk like a tiger. You should call him.’
‘But I’m only just back from coffee break!’
Pearl flaps the air. ‘Do you see a swarm of customers?’ And when I shake my head she says, ‘Well, then.’
So this time I’m up in the kitchen while Guy orders me about. ‘Have you got them on?’ he growls.
I say I have, and he starts telling me how much he wants to come on them. And again I’m touching my poor wet pussy beneath the staff table, pushing myself to climax as he moans in my ear.
But you know, Kitten, while I’m fucking myself, it’s Janey I’m really thinking about. Janey has a cock this time. No, really. A cock. And I’m back in that hallway, modelling the shoes for her – the cherry platform stilettos – only this time, when she crouches down to look more closely at my feet, I raise my left foot and place it in her lap, resting the heel lightly just above her knee. She’s transfixed as she runs her hands up and down my legs. ‘Deborah, you’re gorgeous,’ she says. And that’s when I see the bulge inside her jeans. She looks up at me, and I’m so turned on I could burst. Still holding my stare, she rubs her hands over my shoe, running a finger up and down the stiletto heel, before pulling her jeans open and taking her cock in her hand. She stares up at me, fiercely, as if she could tear me to pieces, and murmurs, ‘I’m going to come all over them, Deborah,’ and when she says my name, I climax.
Oh, God, how I
I feel dirty. And cheap. Like I’ve ruined sacred ground. That’s twice I’ve come in Pussyfoot Shoes. What kind of manager does that make me?
‘You’re one hell of a woman,’ breathes Guy. ‘I’m gonna shower you in gifts.’
‘That orgasm was gift enough,’ I tell him. ‘Have to rush. Bye for now.’
Then I pull myself to my feet, clean myself up, and exit the bathroom hoping no one heard my moans.
As if the store is punishing me, Pearl and I have a spate of bad luck. One woman brings back some Gucci heels that cost several hundred pounds, saying the strap snapped the first time she wore them. She seems sincere enough, so I sigh and give her a refund. Then, to top it all off, I spend an hour – a whole hour, dammit – trying to convince a buxom woman that her feet are extra-wide and can she please stop trying on the expensive shoes because she is stretching them. Eventually, she leaves in a fit, dabbing her eyes. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having big feet,’ I call as she goes. Pearl gives me one hell of a look, in response. ‘What?’ I say. ‘It’s the truth!’
‘Some people,’ say Pearl, blowing hot air onto her glasses, ‘can’t cope with the truth. But we do like customers who don’t slam us online,’ she mumbles.
And what can I say to that? Pearl is right, as flipping usual. It’s hard living with someone ten years your junior who looks like a blonde Jessica Rabbit in preppy glasses, has a brain like a razor and isn’t afraid of speaking her mind.
But Pearl’s OK really. It’s me that’s a mess.
Anyway, things improve when I return from coffee break. Pearl produces a shoebox from behind the counter. ‘A rather dashing man popped in while you were gone,’ she says, with a wink. ‘He bought you these and told me to keep them for you.’
I lift the lid from the box, and my heart does a backflip. Guy’s only gone and bought me the tiger-print stilettos! I run my hand along the velvety uppers, the strappy backs and peep toes. I’ve handled these shoes so often, Kitten, longing for the day when I could take them away! And there they are, in my hands.
‘Gucci, no less,’ gushes Pearl. ‘Go on then! Try ’em on!’
So I do. And I feel like a princess as I strut up and down the shop, my new shoes sinking into the carpet. ‘How do I look?’ I ask Pearl.
She claps her hands. ‘They’re perfect! They make you walk like a tiger. You should call him.’
‘But I’m only just back from coffee break!’
Pearl flaps the air. ‘Do you see a swarm of customers?’ And when I shake my head she says, ‘Well, then.’
So this time I’m up in the kitchen while Guy orders me about. ‘Have you got them on?’ he growls.
I say I have, and he starts telling me how much he wants to come on them. And again I’m touching my poor wet pussy beneath the staff table, pushing myself to climax as he moans in my ear.
But you know, Kitten, while I’m fucking myself, it’s Janey I’m really thinking about. Janey has a cock this time. No, really. A cock. And I’m back in that hallway, modelling the shoes for her – the cherry platform stilettos – only this time, when she crouches down to look more closely at my feet, I raise my left foot and place it in her lap, resting the heel lightly just above her knee. She’s transfixed as she runs her hands up and down my legs. ‘Deborah, you’re gorgeous,’ she says. And that’s when I see the bulge inside her jeans. She looks up at me, and I’m so turned on I could burst. Still holding my stare, she rubs her hands over my shoe, running a finger up and down the stiletto heel, before pulling her jeans open and taking her cock in her hand. She stares up at me, fiercely, as if she could tear me to pieces, and murmurs, ‘I’m going to come all over them, Deborah,’ and when she says my name, I climax.
Oh, God, how I
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