One Two Buckle My Shoe

….one two buckle my shoe….

Bowed and bent, in constant genuflection before women, was not a man's natural state.

Having spent so much of the day compressed like a caryatid, his back bent or buckled, so often on his knees as he forced fat feet into shoes which women would insist on having a size too small, Steve felt like some kind of Prince Charming... but with only ugly sisters to attend to.

His back ached through having to bow low over these vain obese women, his legs were stiff from his obeisance, his knees burned from the rich pile of the carpet and his fingers were raw from prising unyielding leather onto swollen feet.

And then there was the smell, too, of the tan of the leather, of the stink of the feet, the cocktail of expensive perfumes and the natural aromas which the shop's clients would always present. The women were wealthy, the shop was select, singly and in small doses their fragrances would no doubt have been subtle, even enticing, but after six hours of attending to them the aromatic assault had given him a headache.

Two young women came in, browsed, but he could tell immediately by their accents, by their manners, that they would buy nothing. None of the shoes were priced, if a customer had to ask how much then it was inevitable that the cost was much beyond their means, and to save the women time Steve mentioned how much they would have to pay for the stilettos they were admiring.

"How much?" said one, aghast.

"Let's go!" said the other, and they were out of the door.

"Silly bitches," Steve muttered, hating himself for haviing to serve the wealthy ones, despising the common ones for thinking he might demean himself by attending to them. He slipped the catch on the door after them, so he could nip in the back room for a moment, find something to ease his headache.

He had worked in the shoe shop for four months now, just part time to finance his studies, but already he felt that he was nearing the end of his tether. Pandering to bored women who had too much money in their accounts, too much time on their hands, but little else to recommend them was beginning to try his patience. His cheeks ached at the end of each day through being so nice to these people, charming them with insincere smiles, ached as much as his back did, and his knees.

No, this was not a man's natural state.

"I'll be a crippled old fart if I stick this much longer," he told himself, washing down two aspirin with a glass of water. "Give it till the end of term, I think, and then I'm out."

The woman was standing at the door, looking in, when he went back through to the shop, no sign of impatience or annoyance, standing quite still and serene; with one hand in the pocket of her calf length leather coat, the other hooked around the strap of her shoulder bag, she seemed more noble a creature than the caryatid he had imagined himself to be.

Steve hurried across to open the door, saying, "Sorry, I was just-"

She stepped past him, into the shop, saying nothing, just the hint of a smile on her dark red lips as he closed the door after her. In her wake he caught her perfume, musky enough to mask all the other fragrances that had assailed him during the day, started to follow it before remembering himself and taking up his station at the till.

Do not force yourself onto the customers, that was the first rule which had been drummed into him when he started the job. But this one…..oh! How he would love to force himself on her!

She was much his height, a little shy of six foot in the heels she wore, was slim and moved with an easy assured grace. Her rich auburn hair was as glossy as the black leather of her coat, rested in soft curls on her collar, and was echoed in the soft bronze lustre which shadowed her eyes, giving them an intriguing depth.

His eyes following her as she walked slowly around the room, he couldn't take them from her, not even when she cast him a sideways glance and what might have been a slight frown.

The woman took a shoe down from a shelf and ran her lacquered fingers over it, her nails as dark a red as the shoe itself, then pressed it to her cheek to feel how smooth it was.

"I just love leather," she said, her voice a little husky, as she replaced the shoe and moved on.

Stopping before some boots, she studied them but this time did not touch, simply tapped a finger against her lips as she considered, then pointed.

"These," she said, turning quickly on her heels and crossing the room to sit on the low settee, one leg crossed over the other.

Steve took the boots down from the shelf and carried them over to her, set them down beside her and then pulled up his stool.

When he was settled, hunched before her in his customary attitude, the woman gave a slight twitch of her foot, offering it to him, the raising of an eyebrow her only request or instruction. Without questioning, without thinking, Steve cupped one hand around her slender ankle, with the other eased her shoe from her stockinged foot and set it aside.

Inclining her head, permitting herself a wry smile, the woman then nodded towards the boots. They were almost knee length, soft black leather with high tapering heels, and fastened by six buckles at the side. Steve took one, undid each gleaming buckle, parted the leather to make room for her foot. She made no move to help him, though, she sat still and impassive, legs still crossed, so he had to reach forward to take her foot in his hand and lift it. And as her leg raised he saw her coat, which had remained buttoned all this while, part a little below the knee, offering a view of her dark silk thighs.

"Yes?" she said, as he hesitated.

"Sorry, madam," he apologised, and proceeded to slide her foot into the boot.

"Madam? Oh I like that!" she said, laughing softly, and with her foot snug inside she planted the boot firmly on the stool between his thighs. "The buckles?" she asked. "Please?"

Beginning with the lowest, working his way up, Steve started to fasten each buckle. With her leg bent, her knee raised, he could see further beneath her coat, see where the stockings ended, the pale white flesh of her upper thighs, the bare groin.

The woman was naked beneath the leather coat, he realised.

"You aren't paying attention," she chided him, disturbing his reverie. "That one is slack."

Steve quickly lowered his eyes, attended to the buckle, tightening it, and then the last remaining one. Satisfied that the boot was comfortable, the woman uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again, raising her other foot to him.

Again Steve went through the process, which was now taking on something of the aspect of a ritual, almost reverently removing her shoe, gently holding her foot, slowly slipping it into the boot. He kept his eyes fixed on his task this time, carefully fastening each of the six buckles, and would not have been aware of the woman smiling down at him, though perhaps conscious that there was something slightly mocking about her silence.

"There we are Madam," he said, giving a gentle tug on the last buckle.

"Yes, here we are," she echoed, moving her foot from the stool to the floor, then offering him her hand so that he might help her rise from the settee.

Fingertips loosely holding fingertips, Steve gave her his support as she got to her feet and stood before him, above him. She did not release his fingers, though, but held on to them still, her thumb rubbing back and forth across his knuckles.

"They suit me, yes?" she asked of the boots, rocking a little to test their comfort.

"They do indeed, Madam," Steve replied.

"And they excite you, yes?"

Taken aback by the question, Steve said, "Madam?"

She laughed aloud and let his hand fall, walked across the shop and then back, the high heels only adding to her feline grace, her sensual elegance.

Resting her hand on his shoulder as she sat again, she said, "Yes, these will do fine. You may remove them."

It seemed that her knee was raised even higher this time, or perhaps she was slumped a little lower in the settee, for the view beneath her coat left nothing to the imagination, there was no mistaking the fact that she was naked beneath it.

"And my shoes please?" she said, when he had removed the boots and seemed at a loss for what to do next.

"Of course, sorry Madam," said Steve, taking each foot in his hands and replacing her shoes.

"You lingered a little then, you know," she remarked, leaning towards him, resting her elbows on her knees.

"Madam?"

"When you took my foot in your hand," the woman explained. "You lingered over it. Did you enjoy the feel of it?"

"Oh! Sorry!" he blushed.

"You say sorry so sweetly," she smiled, raising a foot, not to rest on his stool, this time, but to place between his thighs, the sole resting flat against his groin. Rummaging in her bag, she removed a small notebook and began to write, leaning further forward still as she did so, applying some pressure to the cock which she had known would be erect. Tearing out a page, bringing her face close to his, she said, "You will deliver the boots to me, this evening, at this address."

….three four knock at the door….

When she answered the door the woman was wearing a tight sleeveless waistcoat of black suede, a short black skirt of similar material and the same shoes as before. Her hair had been pinned up, her makeup had been freshened and she was striking enough to take Steve's breath away.

Dumbly he offered her the box which contained her boots, but she shook her head as she turned her back to him, beckoned with a finger.

He closed the door behind him and followed her into the house, along the hall and into a sitting room. As he entered she was already lowering herself into an easy chair, her legs crossing to echo the posture she had adopted in the shop, the one which silently demanded his service. Crossing the room, he set the box on a table beside her, lifted the lid and started to take the boots from their wrapping of tissue paper.

"Not just yet, dear," the woman told him, and pointing to the floor at her feet, said, "Though you may adopt the position."

Regarding her curiously, Steve knelt on the carpet before her, saw one foot lift towards him and guessed that he was to remove the shoe. And then the other. Her legs were bare, she wore no stockings, and she rested one foot on his thigh, reached out to take a bottle of nail varnish from the table, shook it vigorously and then handed it to him.

"Madam?" asked Steve, looking at the bottle as if ignorant of what it contained.

"Paint the bloody toes, dear! I want to be pampered! And you-" she added, leaning forward, touching those fingers tipped with dark red nails to his cheek. "-you want to be the one to pamper me. Don't you, dear?"

Her musky fragrance was beguiling, her breath on his face so sweet, the soft purr of her voice too seductive to refuse. Slowly he unscrewed the top of the bottle, drew out the brush it held.

"Just the nails now," she cautioned him. "I want crisp clean edges, no smudging."

Steve took her bare foot in his hand, curled his fingers around her ankle to hold it steady on his thigh, with his free hand dipped the brush into the varnish and began to paint her toes.

There was something sensual about the soft stroke of the brush, the dark velvet sheen reminded him of her lips, the warmth of her foot on his thigh made him conscious of her body and the ways he could love it. He had a steady hand, he was studying to be an artist, but for the moment this woman was more exciting than any nude he had ever confronted, though only her feet and legs were bare there was more sensuality about her than any of Modigliani's paintings. As he made each stroke he had to catch his breath to still his pounding heart.

He never took his eyes from the task in hand, but he could feel her eyes burning into the top of his head, he knew they were smiling and that made his heart beat even faster.

His hand trembled, slipped from the nail to the soft white flesh.

"Tsk! I warned you!" the woman scolded him. "Clean it!"

Hurriedly Steve wiped the toe, painted the nail afresh. Then he took his fingers from her ankle, ran them along her instep to tell her he had finished.

When she lifted her foot this time, though, it was to place it on his groin. With gentle pressure on his cock, she said, "It seems to me that you are getting uncommonly warm down there, dear. Stand and remove your trousers, your shirt. I will have you in your shorts."

"Yes Madam," he said, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary about her request, standing and stripping down to his boxers, then resuming his position.

The painted foot returned to his groin, her other foot placed on his bare thigh, she said "Mm. Silk boxers. They excite you, perhaps. Then maybe I will have you in a pair of my silk knickers later."

With a cough to clear the throat, to mask any excitement or embarrassment, Steve began to paint the second foot. Each nail was covered with just a stroke or two of the brush, a perfect finish, the colour was rich and the sheen was flawless. They looked as perfect as blood red pearls and he felt a barely suppressed compulsion to kiss them.

The foot shifted in his lap a little, the toes curling as if to dry more quickly, and their soft pads drummed a gentle tattoo against Steve's cock. He looked up a moment, to ask her to be still a little while longer, and she grinned back at him.

Then he had finished, he set the brush and varnish aside and took her foot in both his hands, ran his thumbs around her ankle and then towards the toes. They were still a little too tacky to touch so he bent down, brought his face inches from her foot and blew lightly, the soft breath drying them and caressing them as gently as his fingers itched to do.

While the last nail dried he ran his fingers up her legs, beneath her thighs, towards her skirt. The skirt was soft, her skin was satin, and the one slipped smoothly over the other to give a glimpse of her naked groin. He wanted to bury his face there, but for the moment returned to her foot.

He lifted it from his thigh, kissed the sole and felt her flinch, then kissed the underside of each toe. He held it to his cheek for a moment, before placing his lips against each polished nail in turn, the softest of kisses and then more kisses between them.

He held her foot as if to worship it, and her response was to work her other foot more firmly between his thighs, inside his shorts, the sole rubbing against his cock, toes caressing it, nails scratching it harshly.

"Madam," Steve gasped, his breathing low, shallow. "If you continue with that…"

"Yes dear?"

"Continue with that and you will make me come!"

….five six pick up sticks….

"Then enough!" the woman laughed, removing her feet, planting them on the floor before him. "I will have my boots now!"

Steve reached out to pull the box from the table to the floor, took out the first boot and unbuckled it. As he was about to slip it onto the woman's foot, though, she raised her hand to stop him.

"I think we will have a touch more reverence, now that we have the privacy for it. You will kiss first my foot and then my boot."

As reverently as she demanded, Steve lowered his face to her foot, kissed it softly, then kissed the polished toe of the boot before slipping it onto her foot.

"And each buckle as you fasten it," she added, and he did as she told him, tasted the the sharp tang of silver on his lips as he touched them to each, moving up her legs until his cheek rested against her bare knee.

He repeated the same process with the other boot, again finished with his cheek against her knee. Now she rested her hand on his head, ran her fingers through his hair, stroked them along his cheek.

"You are a sweet submissive thing," she said, raising his head to favour him with a smile, but before he could respond to it her gaze darkened. "But sweet as you are you still made a mess of my pedicure."

"Madam, I-"

"Madam will hear no protests!" she said, pressing her hand to his mouth to silence him, then pointed towards the hall. "By the door is a large terracotta pot. It holds walking sticks, umbrellas and some especially swishy canes. Go bring some of those to me."

"Yes Madam," said Steve glumly, and started to rise to one knee.

"Oh no! Don't stand!" she said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "On all fours, dear. Like Madam's little golden retriever."

On hands and knees Steve moved away from her, and she grinned to see the way his arse twitched from side to side. Quite a nice arse it was, too. She would enjoy caning it, maybe later ravishing it.

"Quickly dear! Here boy!" she cried, clicking her fingers, calling as she would for any other pet. "Fetch! There's a good boy!"

He soon reappeared at the door, still on all fours, the canes clasped in one hand.

"Oh no dear! That's not how we fetch!" he was told. "In the mouth, boy! In the mouth!"

Obediently Steve clamped the canes between his teeth, then continued towards her. She reached down and took the canes from him, patted him on the head.

"Good boy!" she said, and then stood, gesturing that he should do the same, took him by the hand as he got to his feet and pulled him into the centre of the room. "Now bend, dear, clasp your toes."

Slowly he did as she said, reaching down so that the silk of his shorts stretched over his buttocks.

"With or without?" his tormentor wondered aloud, running her hand lightly over his arse, then decided, "With, I think. Madam will show some leniency this time." Then she slapped him hard with the flat of her hand. "You may thank me!"

"Thank you Madam!" Steve gasped, shaken by the blow.

"Better!" she said. "You will learn to be responsive!"

Steve was aware of her pacing behind him, her boots silent on the carpet but her perfume wafting at him from the left, from the right, betraying her presence. The he heard the swish of a cane cutting through the air and his whole body tensed, he gripped his toes tightly and shut his eyes to the pain which was sure to come.

No blow landed, though, and the teasing woman laughed wickedly.

"Ah! The anticipation! It is a delightful thing!" she said, cutting through the empty air a second time, a third.

The fourth stroke caught him cruelly across the fattest part of his buttocks and made him yelp like a puppy, made him rock forward on the balls of his feet.

"That is for making a mess of my pedicure," she told him. "Are you contrite, boy?"

"I am, Madam!" he cried, and then yelped louder still as another blow struck.

"You are?" she asked doubtfully, the next blow landing across the top of his thighs. "I think not, boy, for if you were truly contrite you would be thanking Madam for your punishment!

"Thank you for my punishment, Madam," he said, through gritted teeth.

"And again!" she demanded, landing another blow.

"Thank you!"

"And again!"

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Steve sobbed, and his buttocks were afire now, he could not differentiate the blows but just felt the constant stinging pain.

He was not even conscious of the blows ceasing, so searing was the sensation in his buttocks, until he felt her hands rest lightly on his hips. They pulled gently at him, tugged him back, and he realised that she must have lifted her skirt, for he felt his smarting buttocks drawn into her naked groin, her cool flesh soothing and drawing the fire from them.

Her hands slipped around his waist, beneath him, delved into his shorts to take out his cock. Arching over him, her breasts pressing against his back, she began to slowly stroke him.

"And now, my dear, are you ready to serve Madam as well as attend to her?"

"Yes Madam," he answered.

"Then you will get hard for me, pet, very hard," she insisted, the one hand pulling him erect, stretching out his cock with every stroke, while her other hand slipped down the back of his shorts to clutch his balls. "Are you hard for Madam? Are you rigid and aching for Madam?"

"Oh yes!" he gasped, and when she felt a shudder of delight run through his body she squeezed his balls a little tighter.

"Do not sigh like that as if this is for your pleasure," she cautioned him. "It is not. Everything is for my pleasure and my pleasure only. Understand?

It was only when he nodded that she slackened her grip, slipped her hands from his balls, released his cock and walked around to face him.

"Now let's see," she said, putting just the tip of a finger under his erection to study it. "Yes, quite hard enough now I think," she decided, and raised her hands to her hair.

Steve looked down to see her remove some clips, so that her hair tumbled about her cheeks and shoulders, and then unwind a narrow black velvet ribbon which had also fastenened it, stretch it tight between her hands like a garotte.

"To make sure you stay hard for me," she explained, grinning up at him. "And in future you do not look att me until I tell you to."

"Sorry Madam!" he said, lifting his eyes to look ahead, and felt her wind the ribbon around his balls and the base of his cock, cross the two ends over to make a knot and begin to pull it tight.

"There, that should make sure you don't come too quickly," she said, when she had his balls so swollen that they felt they might burst, and stood once more, removed her short skirt, rubbing the soft suede against his cheek before tossing it aside.

Then she pressed against him, one leg raised to curl as she went up on the tiptoes of the other foot and he was in her more easily than he had entered any woman, slipping smoothly between the soft slick lips of her cunt.

She shuffled her body, made her groin a more comfortable fit against his, then draped her arms around his shoulders and lifted her other leg.

Steve's body buckled a little under her weight, taken by surprise, and she frowned at him, said, "Stiff back and stiff cock, dear. Do not disappoint me."

And as much as this was a challenge to his stupid male pride it was also a duty he had to fulfil, for as she moved up and down on his cock, and asked whose pleasure they had to consider, he replied quite simply, "Yours, Madam. Only yours."

Steve still worked in the shoe shop, but no longer minded it quite so much. He had a new boss now, Madam, and new responsibilities. No longer did he have to fawn over the vain and the obese, Madam would stock nothing to accommodate them; instead it was her friends he served, and the friends of those friends, the shop's clientele even more select than before.

The tiny bell above the door tinkled, and even before it swung shut Steve was on his knees, head bowed, ready to kiss the shiny stilettos when they stopped in front of him.

"Good morning, Ma'am. How may I serve you?"