Black stilettos. The shiny kind, at least four inches tall. I was on a mission to find them, I had to have them; they were oxygen, and I couldn't breathe. So there I sat, clicking away at all my usual fetish wear websites, eyes flicking over page after page of women with fake tans, fake breasts, and these hollow, fake smiles. There is nothing sadder than a woman with a fake smile, I swear to god.
So anyway, I was clicking and clicking, looking for that perfect pair of sexy shoes, and there she was. She was beautiful in that classic way: like Betty Paige isn't dead, like sexy doesn't have to be slutty, like creamy skin and a smile still exist. She was seated on black fabric, wearing only a garter belt, panties, nude stockings, and elbow-length opera gloves to go with her perfect black stilettos. Everything that she wore (except the hosiery) was black, even her hair, but she was jubilant, looking off-camera with a smile that said she knew more than I do. And for no reason at all, I wanted her more than anything. Even more than the stilettos, which is saying something. I was alone in my apartment, fiancé at work, roommate visiting family. I wouldn't be disturbed.
I unbuttoned my jeans and slipped them off, getting goose-bumps on my legs. I stared at this girl on my desktop, imagining what it would be like to wrap my lips around one of those tiny, pink nipples... but I'm getting ahead of myself.
I closed my eyes and imagined that I was a photographer, silently pushing aside my panties, running my fingers over my pussy. In my head, she was even more beautiful in person. She was taller than me, almost 5'5, but in the heels she was almost 5'10, towering over me. Her pendulous breasts, natural D's, were only a little larger than my own, but her nipples were much smaller than mine, and almost transparent. In my fantasy, I saw myself arranging her on the black cloth, and the thought of touching her soft skin made me shutter. My fingers slid over my cunt, already sticky-slick with my wetness.
In my head, she was very professional, like being half-naked in front of a total stranger meant nothing; this was only a job for her. I told her to lean back, feet kicked out. After all, the subjects of these photos were the shoes, not her. Photographer-me was getting wet; I always take charge with the ladies, and this was no different. Thusly, when I arranged her for the next series of photos, I let my fingers graze her nipples. They hardened at my brief touch; our eyes met, and suddenly this was no longer just a photo-shoot. In reality, the first finger of my right hand entered my hole and I shivered, moaning at my own touch.
Deep in my reverie now, I imagined my photography session getting sloppier and sloppier as I repeatedly tried to come up with excuses to touch this elegant creature. We were both panting, as I wondered if that was a moan that escaped her lips just now? I looked down at her, and suddenly, I pushed her down and mounted her, crushing my lips to hers in a kiss that I had been aching for since the moment I first saw her. Back in my apartment, I groaned, shaking hard as I fucked my cunt with two fingers, and realized that my fingers alone would not be enough to get me off.
Interrupting my fantasy, I went in search of help. My bedroom yielded no results, as all my vibrators were dead, batteries drained beyond hope. Cursing, I stumbled around my apartment, horny as hell and filled with suitably pseudo-lesbian rage. Goddammit, there was a raven-haired beauty in need of pleasure stuck in my head, and my poor cunt was being finicky! Desperate for any sort of sexual fulfillment, I turned on the television and cranked the volume as far up as it would go. Feeling like a complete idiot, I pressed my throbbing pussy up against the side of the device and decided that the vibrations were suitably erotic when added to the stimulation of a dildo inside me. Trying to ignore the blaring ESPN buzzing against my vagina, I closed my eyes and re-joined my sexy model.
In my mind, our lips met, our tongues met, our bodies melted against one another. Following the delicious logic of daydreams, I was already naked, and I rubbed my bare cunt against hers, which was still panty-clad. She moaned beneath me, and I could feel her raw desire. Popping the garters from her stockings, I took off her panties, but left the garter belt. Her pussy was shaved, like mine, bare and sopping—and begging for my tongue. I wasted no time on pleasantries, burying my face in her cunt, licking her with long, wet strokes. Tasting her was like tasting a good white wine; she was crisp and fresh but tangy enough to interest my taste buds. She covered my face in her juices despite my efforts not to let a single drop spill. I tongue-fucked her, and then slid in two fingers so I could worship her breasts.
Her nipples were hard. Like two pink pencil erasers, they stood straight out from her creamy, white mounds that seemed to have never seen the sun. I tried to swallow her breasts, tried to cram them into my mouth all at once, I wanted to take her inside me by way of my lips. Unsuccessful in this endeavor, I went back to her pussy, which was trying to take in my fist. Inside, she was raging hot, all humid wetness around my hand. To accompany my fingers, I sucked on her clitoris hard enough to make her yelp above me. Back in reality, I was humping my TV, my hands furiously twisting my nipples as I ground against the machine, the dildo long since lost in my dripping hole. I was so lost I could almost taste the flood from inside me when it gushed forth. I screamed, and in my head, she screamed, too.
Minutes later, I climbed down off of my television and turned it off, grimacing and embarrassed at the huge wet stain drying on top of it. I removed the dildo, also dripping, and headed to my computer. On my desktop, she sat smiling, not having moved of course. I smiled, too, and decided not to buy the shoes she modeled. I bid her a fond farewell, then closed her window and continued my search.