18 comments/ 25796 views/ 6 favorites Nikki's Shoes Ch. 01 By: DreamerIncolore This was inspired by Andrea_Adores. Go ahead and look her up here. She's magnificent. This is a tribute to her, and to Nikki. ------------------------------ I really can't help it. It's the way they click on cold hard marble floors, or on smooth parquet, or on the concrete of a parking garage... it's the way they make a woman's outfit go from corporate demure to demoness in one 4" stiletto stab. I can't help it at all. My eyes go straight to them. I'm drawn to the elongated calf, the strengthened thigh, the subtle shift of pants as they break over the top of the foot, revealing the vicious spiked heel underneath. Is there going to be an ankle-strap? Two of them? God, be still my beating depraved heart. I know that any woman who wears a 4" or higher stiletto heel knows exactly what she's doing. I know that she feels her own power to seduce the observer, and in that knowledge, she remains firmly and completely in control of the situation. Well, at least until I can show her that a little loss of control isn't necessarily a bad thing. I was walking in the downtown core; it was lunchtime, and the sun was beating down in slow languid waves that were moderated by the wind patterns shifting through the skyscrapers. I silently congratulated myself on having the foresight to wear a lightweight silk suit and a ridiculously over-priced white cotton Armani Collezione shirt because anything heavier would have made me sweat like a politician. I love the lunchtime walk, by the way; it lets me clear my mind of the fantastically boring minutiae of the interminable meetings that consumed my mornings, and more importantly, it let me see the incredible array of high-heeled women that were availing themselves of the nice weather. I walked by Nino's on the south side of the pedestrian mall, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the sign that simply read "Louboutin Trunk Sale: 2 p.m." I quickly pulled out my trusty Vertu, and speed-dialed Tamara's number at the office. "Listen... something's come up and I'm going to be back late this afternoon." I said a little breathlessly as my eyes locked on the pristine sign. "No, it's not that... I'm just doing a little... research." I said suggestively, the leer in my voice matching the half-smile creasing my mouth. Now, I don't know if you have ever heard of Christian Louboutin, but for a shoe freak like me, it's like saying Michael Jordan's coming to the local high school for a game of pickup. His shoes are legendary: teetering heels, with the accent firmly on sex, and a signature gleaming red leather sole that was the equivalent of a baboon's angry signal. What? You've never taken a woman from behind while she's wearing Louboutin? Those red soles shine out like traffic lights, guiding you to the promised land. Anyway, I decided that I'd make sure I'd come to see the new collection, as well as check out the rich and bored trophy wives that were the only ones who could afford to buy these obscenely expensive things. I wandered around some more, killing time. There was iced coffee to be had at Shalton's... the lovely Cheryl and I had flirted for months as I spied her in a pair of very sexy Alaia knock-offs... no way a barista could afford the real thing, but she was so damn cute that I was willing to forgive her sartorial sin. And she knew that I was obsessed as well; she caught me staring right from the beginning, and she went out of her way to tease me mercilessly. And the obligatory trip to Andrea Books, just so I could catch a glimpse of the knife-edge cheekbones of the devastating proprietess... I was working myself into a frenzy. Everywhere I walked, everywhere I looked, there was just a clattering cacophony of hypersexual shoes, attached to beautiful women. Life is beautiful, I mused, sipping the last of the coffee. And then, I saw her. Or more accurately, I saw her back. The mass of liquid black hair was magnetic, and I followed the lush mane downwards to the middle of her back, and caught a glimpse of the immaculately tailored charcoal gray jacket before its owner abruptly turned right and walked into Nino's. I looked upwards and murmured a silent prayer of thanks to Dionysus, that old rascal god of pleasure. I walked unhurriedly now, knowing that once a woman has entered Nino's, it's unlikely that she'll be coming out any time soon. The selection is the best in the city; the salesmen and women are attentive, knowledgeable, and gorgeous, and there are rumours whispered everywhere about the astonishing after-sales service. I pushed the door open, and let the cool air-conditioning wash over me. The place was packed. Folding chairs had been hastily shoved together to form a vague semi-circle around the centre of the store, and they were all occupied by the kind of woman who never bothered to ask how much something cost. There was a comforting uniformity in their style; a little hard-edged plasticity to their faces, a touch of anti-gravity in the chest, and OH GOD, they're all wearing stilettos. Peep toes (which I really could take or leave), sling backs, mules (could any shoe be uglier than a mule), a couple of English schoolmistress oxfords with 4" spikes (I just smiled and filed away the faces for future reference). There were knee-high boots aplenty; even with the summer heat, the exhibitionist allure of the tight leather was clearly too much for them to resist, and I quickly offered silent thanks to them as well. After all, one must be appreciative of the effort that it takes to look this good. One woman wore a gorgeous pair of ankle-strapped shoes that came decorated with sparkling rhinestones on the heel; she looked at me as though I was pond scum, and I favoured her with a smile nonetheless. As a matter of fact, I was so busy looking at the delicious shoes that I hadn't noticed the conversations had all died away, and I equally didn't notice that their lacquered and painted faces had turned like sunflowers at noon to face me. As my eyes casually wandered up the gym-toned calves and running thighs, I realized that I was an interloper: I was unwelcome at this event, and it stiffened my spine with resolve. "I'm just here to see if the new ones are better than the new Jimmy Choos" I ventured casually. "I love how Christian elevates shoes to a high art." I said completely deadpan. "... two, three..." I mentally counted before the laughter started. I deliberately looked toward the counter where sweating flutes of champagne invited guzzling, and I walked toward them to break the tension a little. I could sense the women going back to their conversations, and I waited a few moments before lifting a flute to my suddenly dry mouth. "That was stupid." A voice said in my ear. I turned to look at the owner of the Lauren Bacall soundalike, and I shook my head at the obvious cinematic irony of it belonging to the raven-haired woman I had spied earlier. My eyes looked straight into hers... no mean feat since I'm six feet tall. They were green, and ice cold, and I realized that she had already assessed me. I felt a cold vise grip my spine at the same time as her smell enveloped me and I involuntarily grew hard. "You really think they give a shit about whether you like the shoes or not?" She whispered as she drained her own glass. I waited, watching as she leaned forward to put it back on the counter, watching more as her jacket gaped open to reveal perfect breasts that couldn't possibly be original. They were encased in a black corset that strained to contain the half-spheres that stood out from her body, and I was suddenly sure that she knew exactly where my eyes were without even looking at me. As she straightened back up, I tilted my head to the side and looked down her body. 5'7", perhaps 120 lbs. Clearly starved herself in the pursuit of physical perfection. Hips that stuck out like razors inside her skirt, thighs that were outlined by the fabric, gleaming gray stockings shot through with silver threads, and glossy black pumps with one inch-platforms and five inch heels. My eyes tracked upwards again and I memorized the way her face looked: framed by the mass of black hair, tiny laugh lines around her eyes betraying her age, taut skin betraying the occasional Botox shot. God, I was hard. Stupid hard. The kind of hard that doesn't have a conscience, or a thought other than what it would be like to bury itself in each one of this creature's holes, repeatedly and brutally. All of this happened in about five seconds. It was the beginning of the period where I lost my mind. "Nikki." She said, looking at me intently. "It's Nikki." I looked at her again, at the way her pulse thudded in her neck, the way the flush was slowly creeping up her chest. "It's rude to stare." She said, smiling another layer of cold into her face. "Then you shouldn't be quite so beautiful." I said without thinking. At that moment, Nino chose to announce the beginning of the show. A photographer's umbrella lamp lit up the proceedings, and I felt, rather than saw, Nikki turn to watch. I eased myself behind her, standing so that only fabric rested between my engorged prick and her ass. I smelled her as I closed my eyes. "Guerlain? Risque?" I whispered in her ear as we both gazed at the models strutting out wearing objects of desire. I felt her move back against me. Her head turned to the left as she whispered "Good" and she ground backwards with her hips, pressing herself against me. The world contracted to a point, and all I could see were self-important girls with expensive shoes, and all I could feel was the most gorgeous creature to stalk the planet. "Peter" I whispered in her ear, and I pushed myself forward so that she could feel the length of me hard against her. She writhed once, twice, settling herself against the 8" that rested so comfortably between her ass cheeks. She flexed herself at random intervals as the girls pirouetted and twisted and put their feet up on strategic stools to let the vampires feast on the sights. I wanted to fuck her there on the spot, but I knew somehow that something extraordinary was going to happen with Nikki, and I wanted it so badly that I would have sacrificed my soul on the spot to make it so. One girl, a tiny little Asian, strutted by us wearing a pair of shining golden bondage-inspired shoes. I felt Nikki stiffen against me, and I knew she liked this particular model. Somewhere on hidden speakers, Nino was reading from a script. "Aiko is wearing the Differa sandals. Six straps, to appeal to the little submissive in all of us." he said, hunger apparent in his voice. Nikki pushed back against me hard, and I knew that I had ceased to exist for her. All I was, was a piece of hard cockmeat, and the thought of being used by this exotic was almost too much for me to bear. I turned to my right and caught Marnie's eye. She bent her head dutifully and I whispered "Those" as I inclined my head at Aiko. "Size 7?" I inquired softly of Nikki. "MMMMMM" she purred as she stared at the sexy girl walking effortlessly away from her. I didn't know whether she was looking at the shoes or at Aiko's retreating posterior, but either way I was sure to benefit. A couple of minutes later, Marnie brought a black box to me, and lifted the cover to reveal the shoes in all their splendour. "Perfect" I said as I pulled out the credit card case. Five minutes later, we were ensconced in one of Nino's plush changing areas. We could both hear the muted giggles and gasps of the women outside, but we were both looking at each other. I felt myself throb and pulse as I watched her slide her feet into the shoes, and I could feel the familiar rush of complete arousal overtake me. As she stood up and regarded herself in the foot-level mirrors, the soft lighting gleaming off the sandals, I simply unzipped myself. She froze, her back to me... and she just walked over to the wall and placed her palms flat against it, waiting. A soft groan erupted from somewhere deep inside me and I covered the distance between us in record time. There wasn't anything in the world that I wanted to do more than show her what she had done to me, and so I shoved her skirt up and pulled her thong to the side. "You knew, didn't you?" I said to her. "You knew you were going to get fucked in a pair of heels today, didn't you?" I spit on my palm, and heard her breath catch as I did so. I raised an eyebrow. This perfectly put together woman, this artificial construct bought and paid for by some anonymous rich bastard of a husband.... was into the seamier sides of sex. I spit on my palm again, and I watched as her hips started to rotate... slowly, infinitesimally slowly. I could smell her heat over the intoxicating scent of the Guerlain... and I couldn't take it any more. "Whore." I said quietly as I pressed myself into her ass, feeling the tight pucker resist me at first. "Slut." I said just as quietly as I used her hips as counterpoints. "You would have given yourself to anyone." I pushed two inches into her... and used my fingers to stop her from saying anything. ----------------------------------- Should there be a part 2? Or more? Let me know. Nikki's Shoes Ch. 02 Just to the left, there's a towering maple tree. 50 feet, 60 feet... does it matter? It dwarfs whoever stands next to it. To the right, a small scrubby pine that stands like a bewildered teenager at a dinner party populated entirely by greying adults. Behind it? More gravestones. This one in particular said "Katherine Faulkner". "Wife." "Mother." "1968-2009" It said more in those simple words than I could have ever eulogized, and I laid white tulips on top of the red granite in her memory. I missed her long dark hair, and her beautiful green eyes, and her lushly perfect body, and I wanted to hurt someone or something. I turned around and walked to the small bench off the asphalt path leading to my dead wife's grave, and I sat down heavily in the heat and humidity of a late August afternoon. Not for the first time, I thought about the abject cruelty of a God that could take my wife, and leave Paris Hilton breathing. It could have been five minutes, or an hour... I wasn't sure which, and I didn't much care. My sons were at my inlaws' place; I had taken the day off work, and the pitying looks of my coworkers on this anniversary were far too much for me to endure. I looked up at the sky and noticed a solitary condensation trail from a far-off jet, and I thought seriously about getting on a plane to somewhere that I could start all over again. And that's when I saw her. She was walking towards me. I actually laughed out loud, because I didn't want to be living in a Stephen King novel, and I didn't want to entertain the thought of my wife coming back as some kind of grotesque horror, but how else does one explain a vision in a midnight tank dress? Especially given that she was the exact image of Katherine? I watched, in equal parts awe and mounting terror, as her long legs effortlessly climbed the shallow path. I took in the complete sweep of her, from the over-sized black sunglasses, to the pale face and the ruby slash of lips. I drank the sight of her, greedily, gorging myself on the black crepe de chine that caressed her body from neck to knee. I felt my throat close up as I saw her bare legs down to MY GOD... those Alexander McQueens on her perfect manicured feet. Those were the shoes I'd bought for Katherine on the day of the accident. $925... 5" stiletto heels, with gold leather straps moving over her ankles and insteps and toes in a very subtle nod to bondage and slavery, to gladiators and victory, to sex and death. I saw them at Nino's... and I knew that they belonged on Katherine's feet just as I belonged inside her. I knew that she would wear them for me, and I knew that she would wear them for herself, and I smiled at the memory, and I frowned at what this creature in front of me had just done. The click of the heels was muted by the heated asphalt. I knew what they sounded like when Nino's assistant Marnie had worn them to show me their devastating effect. I wanted to hear Katherine's laugh again as I gave them to her; the pleasure in her eyes as she opened the box was like that of a child with an unexpected treasure. I shook my head to clear it, and I looked up again to see this woman, this creature, this nightmare standing in front of me, with her arms crossed over her chest, shaking, no, trembling. "You're not supposed to be here." I didn't think the dead could speak. But her voice sent chills down my spine nonetheless. "Nobody's supposed to be here. I checked." I listened to her petulance and arrogance, and I stood up. My charcoal gray suit hid me from her gaze, and I was thankful for the modern equivalent of armour, because it certainly prevented her gaze from transfixing me completely. As I looked at her impassively, I realized that she came up to my height, and I shivered involuntarily. The resemblance was uncanny. "I didn't tell anyone I was coming. I didn't realize I needed an appointment." I said, stupidly, realizing how completely moronic that would have sounded. She took off her sunglasses. She put them in her little Hermes clutch, and she looked at me, eye to eye, standing about two feet from me, not giving any ground at all. "I don't like being here when others are here." That gave me pause. "You grieve alone?" Her eyes turned into little hard emeralds. "Who said anything about grieving?" She walked past me, and a subtle smell of Guerlain washed over me. Thank God she didn't smell like Katherine, because I would surely have lost my mind on the spot. She sat on the bench, and as I turned to face her again, she crossed her legs. I tried not to stare at the heels she wore like weapons, but that was pointless. You have to look. You have to stare, and prostrate yourself and worship those potent symbols and everything they signify from the evident awareness of sexuality all the way to the certain knowledge of giving, and abandon, and carnality. There is nothing as powerful as a sexual message. Nothing. And here we were, in a graveyard, and I was surrounded by the present and the past, and confronted with a need that would absolutely continue to dominate my future. "If you're not grieving, what the hell are you doing in a cemetery?" I inquired, not taking my eyes off the vicious heels. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she took the time to uncross her legs, put her feet on the ground, languidly stretch out her left leg and cross it over her right knee, idly bobbing her left foot up and down so that the afternoon sun would catch the golden leather straps and reflect warmly right into my paralyzed brain. "I came to laugh. I came to give thanks." Of course she did. In that instant, I took in the picture. Rich older man. Younger devastating trophy wife. Bought and paid for. The price must have been exacting, I thought, for her to come and gloat. "Which one's yours?" I heard her voice rise in the haze. "Mine?" I echoed, trying hard to reclaim my fading strength. She stood up and walked amongst the stones. I watched the ripple of her ass under the black dress, and I couldn't help but think of Katherine bent over the kitchen table, or in our bed... She stopped here and there, and finally she came to see the tulips sitting on top of Katherine's marker. "Don't..." I croaked as she lifted a tulip to her lips. She was desecrating her. She was violating my wife. She was killing her memory. She sat casually, right on the tombstone. Her ass and legs obscured all of the print except for the "9" at the lower right, and I wanted to slap her, but I just couldn't. I walked quickly towards her and stood looking down at her as she traced her lips with the tulip's petals. She looked like she was about to suck it into her mouth. And that's when it overtook me. My erection sprang forth, unbidden, betraying me completely. The blood engorged me; I heard only the pounding of countless corpuscles in my head, joined with the faint whine of bees and the rustle of leaves. I saw only my wife, and I felt only my need. A strangled gasp tore from my throat as I sank into the flowerbed directly in front of the gravestone, and I took her foot in my hands, delicately tracing the straps of her shoes, marveling at how warm her feet felt. I didn't look at her at all. I didn't want to face my shame and my desperation, but I couldn't run from what I had let happen either. I moved both my hands up the backs of her perfect calves... my mind telling me they were Katherine's. I bent to kiss her knees, just inside her thighs, and she moaned softly as she hitched up the hem of her dress. I felt her put a sharp heel right inside my left collarbone, and she shoved. Hard. I sprawled back on the turf, and looked at her, puzzled, confused, angry as hell... and then it was my turn to moan. She had hitched up the hem entirely, and exposed a dark purple thong. It cupped her obscenely, outlining her, showing her more nakedly than if she had been wearing nothing at all. She turned. She knelt. Her hands gripped the top of my dead wife's tombstone, and she looked over her shoulder at me. Her stiletto heels pointed at me like daggers, but the thought of being hurt was not anywhere near my black heart. "First here" she whispered, her eyes flaring with an unholy passion. "Then on my husband's" she cried... her hands gripping the red stone tightly as I approached. As I sank into her, the entire liquid channel of her gripping me like a condom, I begged an absent God for forgiveness. I was betraying my wife on her memory. I reached under her and gripped the perfect silicone-enhanced breasts painfully, squeezing them so that she could feel at least a fraction of my pain as well; the only thing I got for my effort was a groan of complete lust. And those shoes, they made me... they made me. -------------------- As usual, comments welcomed and appreciated. If you're going to comment, make it constructive if you're going to slag my writing. I want to improve, and crap comments don't help. If you don't like it, say why. If you _do_ like it, then tell your friends.