Two Views, Same Shoes (fm:fetish, 1220 words)

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View One

The unpainted toes slide across the label. "Sensuelle" in inviting script across my instep. They glide down the gentle ramp and nestle contentedly in the sling of supple black leather, as the arch demurely obscures my single work description. "Sensuelle..."

A gentle wiggle of the smooth heel as she seats herself between the thin black straps. Short unadorned fingers fasten the small brass buckle to encircle the slender ankle in one more binding, thin black strap. Not so tightly as to prevent the free movement of the foot...yet tightly enough to stimulate—to constrict and contain...

My twin accepts her tenant also, the mirror image of mine. Another brass buckle fastened around a duplicate ankle.

I relax as my occupant breathes into me, allowing my leather to expand gently and caress her, It is a mutually acquiescent exchange—her blood sets up a subtle vibration through my leather. My leather contains her life force. I am alive by inference. I have vicarious breath. It is a kind of reciprocal slavery...by holding fast the tension in her foot I change the shape of the energy that I get to enjoy as my own. I will revel in it as if alive, as if animated, as if on fire...as if dancing myself awake from the dream of the death from which I am fashioned.

View Two

There are those who put their shoes on last; a finishing touch to their preparations. They stand before the mirror and admire the completed effect. I prefer to put them on first; wearing no more than the scents given me by my creator and that of the emollient lotion with which I dress my clean, pale skin. Slowly and with delight I lavish the scented lotion over my feet and legs before slipping my toes into the waiting shoes. My favorites: black, open toed, moderate heel, ankle strap. A blend of comfort and irresistible brute force to clothe—albeit minimally—one of my most erotically vulnerable parts.

The lotion smooths the entry and my feet welcome the black leather captivity that encompasses them... I fasten the buckle that secures the ankle strap, bracing my heel against the slick surface of the shoe. I rock my full body weight up onto these mobile pedestals and note how everything has changed. The shape of my calves. The pitch of my hips. How my shoulders arch backward in counterpoint to the slight weight of my breasts. How my relationship to familiar objects has changed due to the modest increase in height. How my perception has changed... How I feel somehow "bigger," more able to speak freely, move freely, act freely... I want to dance.

View One

We move as one unit from carpet to linoleum, then carpet again ad finally the richly varied textures of the street. Each change requires balance and together we make the infinitesimal adjustments—in the hips, the knees, the shoulder, the ankles—that makes concerted movement possible. She has many years' experience now of how her body moves in space and how differently it responds when perched atop me. I make her pay attention. To her body. To her movements. To the pleasure of the womanness she carries in her pelvis with each step. To every placement of her foot upon the Earth. To her source...

View Two

When I stand next to you in these shoes, I have to forcibly move my mind away from how much closer my breasts are to your mouth...

View One

Ah, the twisting, coercive movements of dance. She bends and sways with the music, bringing her hips lower to the ground as if to use them to grind me into the smooth wooden planks. Slowly my bottom surface scrapes the floor as her knees languidly carve the air back and forth above me. I grip her feet more tightly as her body articulates the sensual rhythm of the music. Like an appointed emissary, I send that

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Cornish1 writes Mon 18 Mar 2024 16:41:

Richly worded, well written, sensual to a degree, but not erotic. Leaves me feeling nothing.

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