She Didn't Have To Lie

Taylor saw a trick. A green Honda Civic was slowing down and, yes, the guy was nodding at her. She walked to the driver's window as fast as she could, though slower than usual because of the irritation on the ball of her left foot.

"Can you tell me which way to Kroger's?" he asked.

Damn. She knew and gave the fucker directions.

A pretty, slightly built African-American woman with rich chocolate skin and a tiny wasp waist, Taylor had been on her feet and in stiletto-heeled boots for about six hours straight. Her feet were tired as usual, the toes pinched together and trapped and sweaty. She thought a toenail might be digging into the toe next to it. Worst of all, something was wrong with her left foot (corns? warts? she didn't know the difference), had been for several days, so she felt like she was carrying a jagged rock under her shoe.

Back on the sidewalk, she leaned against a wall and lifted her left foot off the ground for a few seconds. She thought about trying to find a restroom where she could rest the barking dogs but just then another car with a man in it slowed beside her.

An ugly white guy driving a white Mercedes asked, "You want to go to a motel with me, honey?"

"Sure," she said, trying to flash a come-on smile (he probably had money -- the car) but it wasn't easy with her feet screaming in their boot-prisons. She slid into the passenger seat as the radio played some schmaltzy not-rock, no-lyrics music. Taylor twisted her feet around inside her boots, trying to alleviate some of the pain.

Beep Beep Beep

"Gotta put that seatbelt on, honey," the trick said, in between puffs on a cigarette. He had a gruff voice like someone who had once been strangled. A fat, pink-faced man with a shock of white hair, he wore a standard business suit and had a slight case of body odor (she'd smelled worse) and a pronounced five o'clock shadow.

"Why don't we go to a motel?" he said, smiling and showing nicotine-stained teeth.

"Well . . . can ya be nice to a girl today?" she asked, fiddling with the heel of her boot and trying to make eye-play despite the pain, "I be having some problems with money and, I don't sell sex, that's illegal--"

"Sure is," he interrupted her bullshit, not gruffly but with a knowing smile. "Whatever we do, it'll be for love. And so will my little gift of appreciation for my new honey."

She giggled.

And pretty soon, the two were in a tiny cheap motel room together.

"How nice can ya be?" Taylor asked.

The man put two $20s beside a lamp. Taylor took them and stuck them in her purse. Saying nothing, she took a rubber out of her purse and held it in front of the trick, lifting her eyebrows and nodding.

"Don't need it, honey. I don't wanna fuck or suck," he said. "You don't even have to take your clothes off."

"Whatdaya want?"

"I want you to take your boots off and tell me how sore your feet are and how much they hurt," he said, unzipping his fly and fondling his limp prick.

Taylor pulled off the tight boots--oh what a relief!--and sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't have to lie: "I've been walking all day and my feet are sore." She wriggled her hurting toes. "My toes feel all squished together."

The trick's dick was getting hard and he was crouching before her, touching a dark, slender foot: touching the second and third toes of her right foot because there was blood between the toes where the toenail of her third toe had cut into the tender skin of the second.

"One of your toes is sliced up," he whispered in that guttural voice. The blood was fresh and shiny and had pasted that part of the hose to the toe area. He started masturbating fast. "Tell me how it feels."

Taylor didn't have to lie. "It's cut and it hurts something awful where the cut is. I had to walk and walk with my skin being constantly cut. My left foot hurts even worse, it's like I've got a stone inside it." She lifted up her left foot and the man saw a gray wart under it.

He was moving his hand up and down real fast now and breathing hard as he stared at her feet. He was really close.

"I felt like my toes were getting pushed right out of my shoes every time I took a step and like the one toe was stabbing the other one but I had to just keep on walking with a feeling like a stone stuck in my shoe the whole day," she whined as the man shot a stream of creamy white cum on her feet.

She thought: this one was different than most who want stories because usually you make something up. This time she didn't have to lie, she thought, as she pulled her stockings off--though she might have ruined a pair of stockings. She headed to the bathroom to wash the cum off the messy hosiery, noticed a hole, and decided to just toss them in the trash. Damn, her feet really did hurt. She probably couldn't do anything about that whatever-it-was on the ball of her foot until she went to a doctor but . . . she went through the drawers around the sink . . . and found . . . towelettes, a sample-sized Bactine spray, tweezers, a razor, a tiny bottle of cologne, a box of band-aids, and a little pair of scissors. She sat down on the closed toilet seat, intending to treat her toes, then had an idea.

"Sir?" she called. "Are you still there?"

"Sure am, honey," was the guttural reply.

This time, Taylor exaggerated her hobble just a bit, as she took the Bactine, the band-aids, and the pair of scissors into the other room. "Would ya like to give a girl first aid?" she asked, raising her eyebrows, lowering her head, and wriggling her toes.

"Sure," he said with a toothy grin.

"Would ya like it enough to help a girl out some more another way too?"

He took his billfold out and handed her another twenty.

She set on the edge of the bed and he pulled the chair up toward her. She handed him the scissors. He looked with evident relish at the dark, slender foot in his hand. Tenderly, he examined her wounded toe. Then he held the one beside it and, very carefully, cut its nail. Then he sprayed the Bactine on the bloodied neighbor.

"Ouch!" she said.

"Sorry, honey."

"That's OK," she replied truthfully. She liked this.

He wrapped the Band-Aid around the toe. They smiled at each other; her smile was real.

Later, as he drove Taylor back to "her street," the man said, "I'd really like to see you again."

"I'm usually around here," she replied. One foot still hurt but the other was OK. As Taylor exited the car, she told him, "I really enjoyed this session." She didn't have to lie.