Sandals

I met her in the park completely by chance. It was July, hot, and I was sitting on a bench in the shade, drinking kvass and staring blankly around. She walked past, and I didn't even remember her face at first—I rarely remember faces when I see something that blows my mind. She was wearing white high-heeled sandals. The straps were thin, wrapped around her ankle, the soles were red, and her toes—neat, with a scarlet pedicure—were just visible from beneath the straps. And her gait. That gait when a woman knows she's being watched. Her feet were planted firmly, her heels touching the pavement first, then rolling smoothly, her calves tensing, her tendons taut. I watched her go. Then I saw her sit down on the bench next to me, take out her phone, and scroll through something. She crossed her legs, one on top of the other, her shoe dangling from her toes. I watched and felt my mouth go dry. I should have been drinking valerian root, not kvass. My name is Vika, twenty-six, a hairdresser. We started talking, I sat down, offered her some ice cream, and she accepted. I watched her lick the ice cream cone, but out of the corner of my eye I kept seeing her sandals, how she twirled her foot under the table (plastic, park-style), how the strap slightly dug into her ankle. I walked her home. She lived alone, unmarried, without a boyfriend. She said she was sick of everyone, nothing but idiots around her. I nodded, but I was thinking: if only she knew what kind of idiot was walking next to her right now, dreaming of only one thing—for her to keep those sandals on until at least midnight. We started dating. Within a week, I knew her entire shoe collection. Black patent leather pumps, suede stiletto ankle boots, platform sandals, autumn stocking boots—a whole other story, with heels about twelve centimeters high, as thin as a needle. And ballet flats. I hated ballet flats, but I kept quiet. At first, she didn't understand. She bought new shoes and started bragging, but I froze like a dog in front of a bowl. I watched, swallowing my saliva. Then she began to notice that I always paid attention in bed. I'd take everything off her, but leave the shoes. At first, she laughed: — What, do you sleep with your legs up or something? And I remained silent, kissing her toes, her instep, her ankles. She grew quiet, looked at me with surprise, but didn't object. Then she got used to it. About three months later I made up my mind. At dinner, after drinking some wine, I said: — Can I buy you some shoes? She laughed: - Then buy it. I don't mind. “No,” I say, “I’ll choose myself.” She looked carefully, but nodded. We went to the mall. I was like a kid in a toy store—my eyes were running wild. Patent leather, matte leather, suede, open-toed, closed-toed, strappy, lace-up, platform, stiletto. The saleswomen looked at me sideways, probably thinking I was a cross-dressing pervert. But I was just choosing. I chose a pair of black pumps with a twelve-centimeter heel. The toe was narrow, the back was stiff, and the sole was red patent leather. Vika tried them on and walked around. I watched her calves tense, her feet arch, and her toes curl slightly in the narrow toe. It took my breath away. “Do you like them?” I ask. “They’re beautiful,” he says. “But they’re high. I’ll get tired.” I paid without listening. At home, she put them on right away and twirled in front of the mirror. I came up behind her, hugged her, put my hands on her chest, and looked down in the mirror at the shoes, at the way her feet felt in them. My cock pressed against her buttocks; she felt it and grinned. — Do you like it? I turned her around, sat her down on the sofa, and knelt down. I took off her shoes, placed them next to her, and began kissing her feet. Toes, instep, ankles, calves. She threw her head back and closed her eyes. I took the shoe, kissed the heel, then the sole—it smelled of leather and slightly of her, of Vika. I ran my tongue along the welt, along the back. Vika opened her eyes and looked from above. - Are you serious? - Yes. She was silent, looking. Then she slowly smiled, stretched out her leg, and touched my fly with her fingers. "What if I put these on now and walk all over you?" the voice is quiet. I just nodded. She put on her pumps and stood up. I lay down on the carpet. She came over, placed her heel on my chest, and pressed down just a little. Then she ran it down my stomach, stopping at my fly. I looked at that heel, at the way it pressed against my jeans, and I felt like I was either going to die or cum without getting up. She pressed harder. I groaned. She removed her leg, sat on top of me, unzipped my fly, and pulled out my penis, which was already wet with precum. She grinned, ran her finger over the head, then stood up, walked over to the couch, sat down, and stretched out her legs. “Come here,” she said quietly. “Do you want it? Go ahead.” I crawled up on my knees. She placed her feet on my chest, then lifted one leg, running the heel down my neck, over my lips. I kissed the skin, licked the strap, and took my thumb in my mouth. She arched, her breathing quickened. "Take your dick," she ordered. "Jerk off while I watch." I grabbed my cock and started jerking off, and she ran her heel over my face, my lips, my tongue. Then she lowered her foot, ran it over my cock, and pressed down with her sole. I moaned, almost came right away. She removed her foot. “It’s too early,” she said. “I didn’t give you permission.” She got up and went to the hallway. She returned with a new box and opened it. Inside were platform sandals with knee-high straps, black, patent leather, with a heel about fifteen centimeters high. “Did you buy this?” I ask. “When?” "Secretly," she smiled. "I was saving it for a special occasion." I put them on and stood up. My legs were long and slender, the straps wrapped around them, the heels arched my feet so that my toes almost touched the floor. She came over and stood over me. - Lie on your back. I lay down. She lifted her foot, placed her heel on my throat, and pressed lightly. It became difficult to breathe, but my penis twitched so hard that I almost screamed. - Will you be a good boy? I nodded as best I could. She removed her leg and sat on top of me, but not as usual—she turned her back, kneeled on either side of my head, and leaned forward. I saw those sandals in front of me, the soles, the heels, and her pussy, already wet and ready, looking down at me. "Lick," she said. "And look at the shoes." I licked, looked at her heels, felt her fingers in my hair, heard her moan. She came quickly, hard, thrashing all over. Then she climbed down, turned me over onto my stomach, and sat on top of my lower back. And she began to run her heels down my back, over my buttocks, between my legs. Sharp, painful, sweet. “Do you want to cum?” he asks. “Yes,” I whisper. - Ask. I begged. She tormented me for a long time, moving her heels, pressing them, stepping on my cock with her sole. Then she took pity, turned me over, put on a condom, and sat on top, facing me. She bounced on me, and I looked at those sandals clasped around her ankles, at the straps, at the heels dangling in the air with every movement. I finished when she stood up, bent over, arched her back and ran her heel across my face for the last time. We've been together ever since. I bought her a shoe closet, a separate one, and filled it to the brim. Shoes for every taste—pumps, sandals, ankle boots, thigh-high boots, even ballet flats.