The White Shoes.

I sent her the box hours before I arrived at her place, but it sat, seemingly untouched, on top of the dining table when I arrived.  As I got out of my shoes and jacket, she emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing a white dress, it had a big belt at the waist and the shoulders were cut like a coat. Her hair were loose over her shoulders but held in place by the invisible grips of the sweet-smelling spray she kept at her dressing table. I cannot ever access this kind of femininity, but I thank the Lord for the people who can. There is stillness to the way she moves, quietude to the way she speaks. I walked up to her and kissed her fingers, before pulling her close enough to access her lips. 

“You’re late,” she said, sitting down at the table, “I cooked for you and now the food is cold.” 

I was late, but only in that I hadn’t committed to an exact hour.  Sometimes, she decides what time I said I would come over and I pretend that is what I really said, there is a normalcy to her chastisement of my tardiness and the complaints about cold food that I really enjoy. I often find the parts of relationships most people seem to find undesirable are just features of having social relationships of any kind. People are late. Food gets cold. People forget things sometimes. We seem to mind it so much more in love than we do in friendship. It’s no good harbouring passionate fight in you over the pedestrian. Besides, she knows I am a tidsoptimist. I somehow always assume I have twenty more minutes than I ever do. 

“I’m sorry, my love,” I said, going down on one knee before her and taking her hand in mine, “Can I make it up to you?” 

“You can tell me why you sent me old shoes?” She asked, pointing to the box on the table.

She seemed miffed by the shoes, I realised I should have sent an explanation alongside the shoes. She is not the kind of woman who appreciates a bargain. I don’t mean that as a judgement, she likes beautiful, expensive things and she makes no apology for it, nor should she have to. I was unaware of this side of myself until I met her, I had no idea I enjoyed the sick pleasure of feeling like I owned her a little, each time she put on something I paid for and chose. Everything in her house was picked by me, I didn’t even consult her, I wouldn’t ever keep most of these things in my house, but I like this calming sanctuary in which I force her to wait for me like a princess in a gilded cage, adorned in clothing I chose for the pleasure of my eyes, smelling of perfume I bought for the satisfaction of my olfactory senses. 

“I’m sorry, I should have explained, they’re my mother’s shoes,” I told her, “I got them when I went home last week and I had them cleaned for you to wear.” 

“Cleaned, my love?” She asked. 

Her face changed immediately, from the haughty dissatisfaction at my thoughtless behaviour to the wry awareness of a woman who truly knows me. 

“How do you know her shoes will fit me?” She asked, smiling with only half her face.

I laughed, she did too. We laugh very differently though. Mine is a chuckle, hers a much more lilting quality. 

“I feel like they will fit,” I said. 

“Oh do you?” She asked, pulling the box to her, “My poor little freak.”

My mother is obsessed with shoes. She has dozens of closets filled with them, each one sorted by colour and arranged neatly by function. She would take me with her when she shopped for shoes often and I would put the shoes on for her at the store often. She hated it when a man touched her feet and somehow all the sales people at shoe stores always happened to be men. I could map the size of her foot with my palm by muscle memory alone. She always hated my feet because “they make shoes ugly,” I grew out of her shoes before I grew into double digits. She was so disappointed in the kind of girl I was growing into and she is still appalled by the type of woman I have become. She loves my girlfriend though, she was delighted to send her the shoes, she told me I should be more like her. You know, several inches more narrow of foot. 

“May I put the shoes on you?” I asked, taking it from her hand and unconsciously holding it up to my mouth. 

“You don’t want me to hit you with them first?” She asked standing up and swatting my head with the shoe swinging from her hand, “Isn’t that what mommy used to do?”

 
There is no match for the kind of sickness that develops inside an intelligent and wanton woman, I would buy a thousand pairs of shoes to access that. She hit me in face with the bottom of the shoe and I let the other one fall to the floor. I let her take the reins of the narrative in moments where it most benefits my pleasure, or she takes them, herself, because there are things she knows better. 

“Please, take your clothes off,” she asked, always so polite, even as she was pulling my hair and dragging me across the floor. 

I love everything about trousers but I hate taking them off because of how incredibly anti-erotic it is to get naked this way. I did it quickly and looking down at the floor, I have no issue with my nakedness, I relish it, but the process is irksome. As I undressed, she sat on the couch, putting the shoes on herself. I crawled to her, leaving the heap of my clothing on the floor for her to hang up later. She lifted her leg up straight, the pointy white heel staring at me, luring my tongue like an ice cold knife to the heart on the hottest day of the year. I put my lips around the heel and sucked on it, while my other hand held onto her other foot, lifting it up to my breast and rubbing it against my nipple. 

“You want my heel in your ass?” She asked, leaning over to make me look her words in the eye, “You want me to fuck your ass with mommy’s shoe?” 

I answered her by turning around and bending over. I begged into the rug, repeating her words into the fabric, and holding my ass apart with my hands in the most explicit display of the kind of desperate sexuality that constitutes humanness. She poked against the hole, causing the kind of sharp pain that alarms you each time, and I yelped like a woman who seems so contrary to who I think I am. As she slid into my asshole, I began to pant, devolving into a pile of sexual madness.
“You pathetic girl,” she said, “You have to be fucked with pretty things you’re too imperfect to wear.” 

Her words compelled me to start licking the rug under my face, reaching for anything around me to clutch at air to hold close to my chest. The deeper the heel penetrated inside me, the more depth I wished I had to offer. I was panting into the floor when I heard her talking behind me, I turned my head to see her phone against her ear. 

“Thank you so much for the shoes,” she said into the phone, “I would have called sooner but you know how she is, she didn’t give them to me until now. You’re right. She’s just terrible, isn’t she?” 

She winked at me as I turned onto my back, her shoe fell out of my asshole and she placed it against my cunt. I held my mouth closed with both my hands as I rubbed against the sole of the shoe. She started to feel very distant, and in the distance, I could hear her talking over the phone. Talking about how I am just the worst girl in the world. I must be, but the best girls, they tread all over me in their pretty shoes. It’s all I seem to want.