The Man Who Loved Shoes

Willy Michael's tongue slithered in and out as fast as its poor root would let him. It felt as though it would come off at any minute.

"Faster, baby, faster, if you want to lick my pumps," the soft feminine voice urged.

Willy looked up at her naked flesh, her jutting breasts. Logging on to fetishcity.com had been the smartest thing he had ever done in his life.

After this cow had come three or four more times, his mouth was going to be wrapped around the toes of those luscious white pumps.

If he played his cards right, she might even walk on his face. Willy felt himself become even harder at the thought, despite the tedium of his present prolonged ministrations to the cow's crotch. He sucked even harder, flicking his tongue in and out of his mouth so fast that he resembled a Gila monster on speed.

She had actually shown him her closet. Piles and piles of them. Every conceivable type represented: boots, slippers, moccasins, high heels, tennis shoes. He was rock hard at the thought of them. Everyone wondered what the hell Ferdinand Marcos saw in Imelda, when any woman in Manila could have been his for the taking. Willie knew. Boy, did Willy know. He could not count the number of times he had pounded his own Willy to thoughts of Imelda, standing before her magnificent closet, presenting her sagging flesh to him, awaiting his nether kiss before she would grant him entry. He grew still harder at the thought.

The cow mooed for the tenth time and pressed his head tightly into her crotch with both hands for the tenth time as she rubbed herself up and down on his mouth. This time her whole body shuddered in release.

Quickly, she pushed his head down to her feet, letting him take the toes of her magnificent white pumps into his mouth. He quickly began lapping them, alternating between the right and left, overcome by the pleasure of his feeding frenzy.

"I have something to show you," she whispered in that husky cow voice of hers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach behind the couch to retrieve a shoebox. The cardboard was crisp and white, fresher than any he had ever seen. He drooled at the thought of what might be inside.

She brought the box down to his eye level and opened it a crack. Inside he could see the red stiletto heels, the fine straps that would wrap themselves around the cow's delicate ankles like vines clinging to a magnificent tree. The red leather gleamed with new reflective polish, and that special new shoe smell wafted his way from inside the cardboard. Instinctively, he reached for the box.

"Not so fast, Dorothy," the cow said. "If you want the ruby slippers, you must first kill the Wicked Witch. In this case, however, it's a Wicked Pig. A very bad little piggy, and it's asleep in the next room.

"Watch out or he'll huff and he'll puff and he'll blow your house down. Just like he blew mine down," she added, mixing up her pig and wolf metaphors in her drunken state.

"But here, he was a good little piggy and left us this," she said, drawing a sheathed samurai sword from the same place behind the couch that she had stashed the shoebox. She quickly drew the sword from its scabbard and ran her fingers over the razor sharp edge of its blade.

"You see, he is a collector kind of piggy and keeps very good care of his treasures. Sharpens them over and over again until they can cut paper.

"What I want you to do is take this piggy's treasure and cut off its head with it. Do just this one teensy-weensy little thing for me, and I'll let you suck my toes in the ruby slippers for hours and hours. I'll take you to Oz and back, Willy. Just be my Tin Woodman and cut off the bad piggy's head. With this it will be as easy as slicing butter," she said, "and then my poor corned feet will be yours for ever and ever and ever, to suck to your heart's content.

"Just do this one little chore for me, my valiant Woodman, and my feet will be at your mercy forever."

Willy pictured his mouth wrapped around the fresh red leather of the toes, his mistress walking on his naked back with those needlelike heels, his tongue tracing the leather of the straps coiled around her calves. Reluctantly, he took the sword. He had never even played as being a pirate as a kid, much less chopped off the head of a fellow human being. But the cow said he was a bad little piggy. He had probably hurt her very deeply. And those shoes!

Reluctantly, he wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the hilt of the sword and began walking toward the door of the next room.

It was dark in the piggy's room, but Willy could see the form lying on the bed, the taut chest muscles that slowly billowed as the man breathed, the fine hairs on his tanned legs, the small hole in the armpit of the tee shirt that was tightly stretched across his chest, and the two days' worth of stubble on his cheeks. Willy's eyes were drawn to the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam lying on the floor. Evidently the piggy had his own problems. He reeked of whiskey.

Jim raised the sword and considered how best to sever the piggy's throat. He was relatively inexperienced at the art of decapitation. Should he saw back and forth to work his way through the tendons? What if the piggy woke up? He was not likely to be a very happy piggy then. No, better to just whack down hard, hope the sword could cut through a good chunk of the way through on the first stroke.

Willy raised the sword over his head like a baseball bat and took a few practice swings. He even pictured himself chewing tobacco and spat imaginary juice on the floor. As he was poised to take the final swing that would take the piggy's head most of the way off, his eyes were suddenly drawn to the man's legs. Were those Adidas sneakers he was wearing? Willy lowered the sword and ran his nose down the man's leg, letting the fine hairs tickle his nose. He stopped to smell the dirty white athletic socks, luxuriating in the aroma of stale sweat. His tongue could not help but protrude as he reached the sneakers themselves. He flicked it over the hole of the toe in the worn sneakers in order to taste the soiled athletic socks beneath. The piggy had evidently been engaging in some sport, such as basketball or squash, on a regular basis, and his sneakers were delightfully aromatic. There was the faint smell of Desenex. Athlete's foot! How Willy loved athlete's foot with its masculine redness. Willy fantasized about sucking the man's feet when he came back home after a particularly heavy workout, licking his soles, eating his sweat-soaked socks. He took the man's toe in his mouth softly so as not to wake him. It would be wonderful. He would let the man walk on him with his full 200 pounds supported solely by Willy's naked back. Willy found himself growing hard at the thought.

He looked up at the man and considered his options. The piggy had a trace of gayness in that smirk on his unconscious face. And the bulge in his pants was certainly impressive. Willy's talented mouth could work both sides of the circus. The man would love him far more than the cow.

But then there were the red shoes.

Willy knew what he had to do. Reluctantly, Willy retrieved the sword to finish the task before him.

When he emerged from the bedroom, the cow was beaming at him. Her mouth continued to smile even after her head found itself suddenly parted from the body and flying through the air. The smile remained on the head even after it rolled into the corner of the room behind the TV set and poured its remaining blood all over the plush white carpet.

But Willy didn't care about the head. Never had. He quickly grabbed the red shoes and placed them on the still quivering feet of the cow's headless body. He grew hard as his tongue worked its way over the toes, the tall heels, and the delicate straps that wound around the cow's beautiful calves. Those calves, those shoes were now his to keep. Forever. The signs of rigor mortis and the smell of decay had never much bothered Willy. He would keep those legs, those shoes with him forever back at his house. With the others.

As Willy's tongue continued its manic attack, he listened to the quiet sounds of the breathing of his new lover in the adjacent room, still reclining on the bed, waiting for Willy's eager mouth. They would be very happy together. At last. He wouldn't be like all the others. Coming here was indeed the smartest thing Willy had ever done.