Furs and Hides

My very first girlfriend, the first girl that lasted longer than three or four dates had possessed such a figure. Emily's tits were barely even noticeable, but her ass was very noticeable, and her thighs were very thick. Emily had been quite an active participant in the back of my 1992 Toyota Celica, fucking almost frantically.

It wasn't until after our relationship had died, mostly to my immaturity, my taking Emily for granted, that I realized that Emily had been trying to make up for her perceived shortcomings. If I knew where to find her, I'd tell her just how beautiful she was. I'd tell her, every now and then, in the shower, I still spank it, thinking about her big juicy ass.

I continued to rub Achu's back, now including her slightly large ass in my touches. I eased her panties down her thick thighs, then peeled them off. I also wiggled out of my jeans and boxer shorts.

Achu gave a grunt as I rolled on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. She wiggled slightly, looking over her shoulder at me. I smiled and kissed her bare shoulder softly.

"Uh!" Achu grunted as my cock pushed against her moist pussy.

Even though Achu was a virgin, according to Vickie, there was no hymen to block my progress. Emily also had no hymen, even though I had been her first. She confessed, she'd used a dildo to break through the thick membrane. I was sure that someone's fingers, or a toy, or maybe even a candle had plucked Achu's cherry long ago.

"Uh!" Achu grunted as my thick cock pushed into her. "We, we're, the book says..."

"Didn't read the book," I grunted, grateful I'd spanked one load out before I'd left my shower.

Even with that precaution, I was dangerously close to my climax. Achu was very tight. And her large buttocks were very inviting. When I bottomed out, I could actually feel the opening of Achu's cervix rasping against the very sensitive head of my dick. I held myself still for a long moment, until I was sure I could move without ejaculation.

Hey, this might be the only time I get to fuck an Indian lesbian. I was going to make the most of it.

I began to pull out. Achu gave a little squeak when I shoved myself back in. I smiled and began to pick up speed.

This was the bitch that had stolen my wife from me. This dyke had known Vickie was married and she had still stolen her away. I slammed myself into her, bumping repeatedly against her cervix. From what I understand, that can be painful.

"Ooh!" Vickie let out a little moan.

"Are you, you're touching yourself?" Achu squealed indignantly, looking back at Vickie.

I pulled Achu onto her knees and really started hammering in and out of her. She squealed again and suddenly, my crotch and thighs were wet. I almost laughed as I realized, Achu had just orgasmed. From a cock.

"Aw damn," I suddenly bellowed and pumped a load into Achu's pulsating pussy.

I held myself deep inside of her. When I was finally finished, I pulled out. Achu quickly rolled onto her back and wiggled two pillows underneath her ass, elevating her hips. I'm sure that's what the book said to do.

Looking at her pussy, I could see that it was covered in a dense profusion of black hair. The hair went from hip to hip and even had a thin line of hair travelling up her belly to her navel. It is a good thing I'd taken her the way I had; that clump of pubic hair was very unappealing; I would have most likely lost my hard at the sight of all that hair.

I don't mind a bit of hair, if it's trimmed. Personally, I really like a bald beaver. I did have one girlfriend, the first one after Vickie and I had divorced, that shaped her brown mop into a cute little heart, right above where her slit began.

"Hope that did the trick," was all I could think to say as a naked Vickie scrambled onto the bed to join Achu in a passionate embrace.

I dressed and left the house. I don't know why, I've never claimed to be a psychologist, but God damn I felt empty. Just absolutely empty.

The Austin show was a real money-maker. I was swamped with orders and pulled a couple of all-nighters to finish them up. Thankfully, my cell phone has a Calendar function that reminded me of my appointment with Theresa Smith and her bridal party.

Oh, and, Kelly didn't make the Austin show. I gave Charlie a two hundred and fifty dollar bonus for working the show solo. From the look on her face, she had expected more. A lot more. Oh well; I'm not responsible for Charlie's feelings.

Theresa's apartment was in a very nice building. Her apartment was large and spacious and her furniture was expensive looking. Apparently attorneys can make a pretty penny in Oklahoma City.

Theresa greeted me with a squeal and a hug and kiss. To say I was a bit startled was an understatement. Her six bridesmaids, the two mothers, and a few other women very quickly descended on Theresa's apartment.

Theresa showed them the shoes and boots she'd bought from me, I handed out the Polaroids of other shoes I'd done, showed them the hides readily available.

"Eel?" Theresa asked her mother, a petite blonde that certainly did not look old enough to be Theresa's mother.

"Hmm, Mr. Lott, what colors can we have in the eel?" Monique Smith asked.

"Any color you can imagine, Mrs. Smith," I said.

"Seriously? Any color?" a host of the women squealed.

"I'll be doing the tanning myself, so yes, you show me the color, I can match it," I assured them.

Mrs. Fallchy, mother of the groom was a harsh looking woman that didn't let one smile crack her unhappy face. She refused the offer of wine, coffee, soda. She didn't want any of the small sandwiches or other finger foods Theresa had set out. When everyone was looking at the eel, she asked about ostrich. I found my sample and let her feel the hide.

"My dress is a charcoal gray," she said.

"Because she couldn't find anything in funeral black," someone muttered.

I found a photograph of a sensible pump that just happened to be in ostrich. Mrs. Fallchy Studied the photograph, studied the ostrich sample again, then nodded.

"I wear a..." She began.

"Oh, no, Mother Fallchy," Theresa interrupted. "Remember? I told you, Mr. Lott does a mold of your feet."

"So now I have to take off my pantyhose?" Mrs. Fallchy snapped unhappily.

"And how much does this cost?" Mrs. Fallchy continued with her complaints as I prepared the gel.

"I'm paying for it," Monique Smith said.

The six bridesmaids all agreed on light blue eel skin pumps with four inch heels. Theresa likewise wanted eel, in white, with five inch heels. Monique Smith asked for a pair of four inch heels in alligator, black, as well as a pair of python boots, for the rehearsal dinner.

Mrs. Fallchy left the moment her mold was completed. None of us were sorry to see her leave.

"So, is Brandon looking forward to finally getting some of the pussy?" one of the bridesmaids asked Theresa when the door shut behind Mrs. Fallchy.

"Who said he's getting any pussy?" Theresa asked and the women all squealed and laughed.

I prepared the next mold. One by one, the girls took their seats, complained about the temperature, the consistency of the gel.

Two of the bridesmaids flashed me their pussies, smiling widely as they did so. Monique Smith also flashed me her pussy, showing me that blonde was her natural hair color.

The three other girls weren't in the wedding party, but they also ordered shoes. They didn't bat an eye when I gave them the prices; obviously, I was sitting in the middle of some very serious bucks.

"Brandon and his daddy are coming; mother, behave," Theresa warned and Monique gave a cackle of delight. "The others will be here in about an hour; that okay, Mr. Lott?"

"That's perfect," I agreed, putting the twelve molds into the bedroom I'd been shown to earlier.

The other girls left and it was just Theresa, Monique and myself. I busied myself with setting out the hide samples for Brandon and his father to look at, as well as the various photographs of men's shoes.

Brandon Fallchy, and his father, Jack Fallchy were pussies. There's no nice way of saying it. They were both pussies, wimps, spineless pansies. Theresa told Brandon what shoes he and his groomsmen would be getting, in black emu. She'd selected the slip on style, with tasseled strap across the arch. Personally, I have always thought that particular style was a tad feminine. As evidence, I point to the fact that Kelly has two pairs, one in deep green and the other in beige.

Jack actually called his wife to see what kind he should get. He apparently had no opinion of his own.

And the entire time, Monique treated us to glimpses of her neatly trimmed blonde bush and her juicy looking boobs and light brown nipples. Both Jack and Brandon sported erections and I fought against laughing at the pathetic lumps in their slacks.

Mrs. Fallchy had told Jack he was getting the cheapest shoes I offered, in the cheapest leather available. Black, of course; it was the most practical after all. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"Oops. I am just so clumsy! I dropped my pen," Monique said as I helped Jack to stand in the gel for his mold.

I didn't need to look to know that Monique was bending over, giving Jack a good look at her crotch, buttocks, or boobs. Jack nearly stumbled in the goo and I steadied him.

Tim Servie, Brandon's college roommate and best man groaned when Theresa and Brandon showed him what he would be wearing. He asked if Theresa would reconsider, please get a lace-up oxford instead.

"See, my heel? Real narrow," Tim said as he untied his shoes.

I looked at his shoes and noticed some very unusual wear on the soles and heels. Glancing up, I saw a Rolex watch on Tim's wrist.

That wasn't unusual; Jack and Brandon also wore Rolex watches. Personally, I was surprised Jack's wife let him leave the house with such a finely crafted piece of equipment. But Tim's was on his right wrist. I didn't know Rolex made a left-handed model. I mean, it makes sense that they would; I had just never seen one before.

"Stand naturally," I told Tim.

The unusual wear became obvious; Tim's right leg was nearly a full inch shorter than his left leg. I knew Tim Servie would have hip and spine problems in just a few years.

And, his heel was extremely narrow. His foot was very nearly a perfect triangle in shape; I was sure that even lace-up shoes slipped up and down on his heels.

"Mr. Servie; I think you're going to love my shoes," I assured him when I told him he could sit again.

Theresa's father, Mr. Smith; I was never given his first name, was an Asian man that was at least seventy years old. He looked over my selection then ordered an oxford in pebble grain leather. Monique gave him a soft kiss and told him she would be a few hours; wedding plans demanded her time. Theresa also kissed her father's cheek.

"Theresa, I uh, you want to go get a bite to eat?" Brandon asked Theresa as the last of his groomsmen left.

"What? I'm just supposed to leave my guest here? Huh?" Theresa snapped at him. "Huh? I'm just supposed to say, hey thanks for driving all the way up from Dallas, see you later? God, you're pathetic. You are just so thoughtless."

"Bye," Monique said after the door closed behind a thoroughly chastened Brandon and Jack. "Going down to the Whistle; see if I can find someone to fuck. Teasing them always gets me so jazzed; I swear!"

"Got some crabmeat fettuccine heating right now," Theresa said to me. "It'll be ready in about twenty minutes; want a beer?"

"Yeah; that'd be great," I agreed.

"Mind if I get comfortable? I've been in this get-up all day," Theresa called out from the kitchen.

"No, go ahead; it's your place," I said, checking over my notes in my cell phone.

Theresa's breasts were nice, at least a C, with large dark areolae. Her tummy was flat and her hips flared out nicely. Her pubic mound was hairless and quite prominent. Her inner lips stuck out, very wet with her excitement.

"I set the timer," Theresa smiled, handing me a bottle of beer. "I make you cum before it goes off, I get my shoes free?"

"Just your shoes? Or all of them?" I asked, unzipping my jeans.

"Just mine; good God. I wouldn't take advantage of you like that," Theresa giggled.

I watched as Theresa sank her mouth over the head of my cock. She was an attractive, sexy young woman, and she knew it. Her almond eyes looked up at me, smile on her puffy lips as she sucked my dick.

Brandon might not be getting this pussy, but her mouth was as good, if not better than most pussies. Then I remembered; she and Brandon were getting married because Theresa was pregnant. If Brandon wasn't getting the pussy, how was Theresa with child? That thought did take a little of the excitement away.

Her mouth was phenomenal. Theresa's pussy was indescribable. Her inner walls squeezed, pulsed and fluttered all around my cock. I remembered Achu's overly hairy twat and again, that edge of excitement waned.

Theresa leaned forward and fed me a nipple. I nibbled, sucked and tugged on her store-bought titties as she bounced up and down on my cock. When she tensed in a screaming orgasm, I almost lost a pair of shoes. Then I thought of her cruel treatment of her fiancé' and was able to stave off my cum.

Twenty minutes later, the timer chimed. Theresa sullenly climbed off of my cock. She did giggle when I playfully slapped her on her nearly flat backside.

"Going leave me this way?" I asked, gripping my still hard cock.

"Got all night," Theresa responded. "I'm hungry though."

All night turned out to be around three hours. Just after midnight, Theresa climbed out of my bed and went to her own bedroom. We'd not used her bedroom; Theresa claimed that her bedroom was her sanctuary.

She was not a morning person. Theresa almost snarled when I suggested a morning fuck in her large walk-in shower.

Arriving home, I got busy on the orders. For Tim Servie's shoes, I built up the outer sole of the right shoe one quarter of an inch. You'd have to look really hard to notice the additional height. The insole, however, I guilt up nine sixteenths of an inch. I also included a side vent and elastic band on each shoe, to assist in slipping his shoes on and off. I was sure that Tim would be a repeat customer.

For Mrs. Fallchy, Monique Smith, and Theresa Smith, I also fashioned a small clutch to match their shoes. The clutch was just large enough to hold a cell phone, some keys, and a few cosmetics. Part of my reasoning was, I didn't want the grief from Mrs. Fallchy claiming she couldn't find a purse to match the shoes.

Charlie, Kelly and I did a show in Bossier City, Louisiana. An hour into the show, I told Kelly to take his cell phone out to the van and lock it up; we were there to work. He huffed and threatened to quit. I reminded him it was a pretty fair walk from Bossier City to Dallas, or to Oklahoma. He could text his newest fuck buddy that night, after the show.

While there, Achu called and tearfully admitted that our first attempt at impregnation had been a failure. I assured her that we would try again. I put my phone back in my pocket.

"Oh. But it's okay for YOU to..." Kelly huffed.

"Look, bitch, I'm the boss. You're not. Got it? Or do I need to repeat it?" I snarled.

"Come on, Kelly," Charlie said, pulling Kelly out of the booth. "Need to see these prints this old guy's got."

An older man had overheard our conversation and idly flipped through my hide samples. He asked the price for a pair of ostrich boots and a pair of alligator boots. He agreed to both and I prepared the gel for him.

"Know the difference between a pussy and a cunt?" he asked, after looking around to verify that his wife was out of earshot.

"No. But apparently, I am doing research," I said.

"A pussy is what the cunt has between her legs," the customer said and we both had a good laugh.

Overall, Bossier City was a dud. Both Kelly and Charlie complained at the piss-poor commission. I let them know I was plenty disappointed in the show as well.

I also let Kelly know his work had been appreciated, but I no longer needed his services. He looked shocked, then actually burst into tears.

"But, but next week's Oklahoma," he whined.

"And?" I asked. "Ricky wants see you that bad, tell him to Uber your ass up there."

"Fuck you, you heartless bastard," Kelly shrieked at me.

At the Oklahoma show, Charlie worked hard. She worked her way through modeling every single garment we had available. The python jacket caused a minor stir when Charlie walked around, jacket unzipped three quarters of the way down, letting everyone know she wore no top or bra underneath the slinky, clingy garment.

Becca Strickland helped garner me a few sales as she waltzed around the building, proudly showing off her python boots. And Trish Lipscombe made a bee-line for my booth. She set her pretty face in a scowl, waving her no longer bandaged hand at me.

"Yeah, yeah, your hand hurts," I cut her off. "But how's your coccyx?"

"You don't never mind about my coccyx," she snapped, fighting hard against smiling.

I noticed that her hair was again piled on top of her head, in the ponytail style I'd told her I liked. She was wearing a pale green blouse and some very short khaki shorts. Those shorts let me know that Trish Lipscombe had a very delectable and pale rear end.

When a potential customer wandered over, Trish looked at my belts, my whips, some Polaroids. Then, after the customer left, clutching the receipt for her alligator pumps, Trish started sniping at me again.

Charlie managed to wrangle a group of women to my booth; the buckskin half-shirt with the brightly colored beads drawing them in, Trish said 'Bye' and wandered off.

On Sunday, Ms. Lipscombe again popped up. She was wearing the khaki shorts with a red and white checkerboard patterned halter top. And, yes, her hair was on top of her head. Again, I was informed that her hand hurt. And again, I was told never mind about her coccyx.

Trish and Charlie whispered about something. Charlie looked at me a few times, but I was busy talking to a young man that claimed he was the next Brad Paisley, without that annoying country twang. I didn't point out that he had that annoying country twang down perfectly; I wasn't sold on his guitar skills though.

I told him I was partial to Yngwie Malmsteen's fretboard virtuosity and the expertise of Uli Jon Roth also left me breathless. The next Brad Paisley looked at me blankly.

"Steve Vai?" I suggested, and got the same blank stare. "Robin Trower? Shit, never mind."

But Brad Paisley's worst fear bought three pair of pants in python, diamondback rattler and red patent leather. And paid in cash. Charlie took her sweet time measuring him and the young man seemed to enjoy her insistence on measuring his inseam twice. On each leg.

The kid then flipped through some of Peter Linden's albums and argued with Peter about who was better; Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin. Both agreed to disagree, but both agreed that Nickelback was highly overrated.

When it came time to tear down, Trish actually helped us. Charlie would have been happy to let Ms. Lipscombe do all of the work but a glare from me had Charlie lifting her fair share.

An hour into our drive home, my phone buzzed, alerting me that I had a text. I do not, I will not look at my phone when I'm driving. Charlie asked if I was going to check my phone and I told her that I would not.

"Might be important," she suggested.

"As important as my life?" I asked. "Know how many people wind up in the morgue because they looked at their phone?"

At the next Waffle House, I pulled over. Charlie whooped; she'd finally convinced me that McDonald's sucked and she would not eat at Mickey D's ever again.

'My coccyx' was misspelled. The attached picture was of a perfectly shaped pale butt. I was glad for the table between Charlie and myself; my boner was immediate.