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Stories - a slaves Rendition

The Shoe Store
(submitted by: Mistress Chloe of London [website])

When a male sales assistant tries to take advantage of his beautiful client, he realises that he's bitten off more than he can chew....

Weary in the late afternoon of a day during which she'd caught up on her long-neglected correspondence with multiple suitors, had the latex gown she'd bought for that evening's fetish ball altered, and shopped at length for accessories, Charlotte was in no trifling mood when she finally got over to High Heel Heaven 15 minutes before the shop was to close, and in no way appreciated the way the males salesperson's eyebrow arched with arousal at the sight of her. I have in mind a pair of black patent sandals with extremely high heels, she informed him, sighing, taking her compact out to ensure the perfection of her lipstick. Size 5. Very well, madam, he said, smirking in a way he probably - and mistakenly - imagined quite roguish. He disappeared into the back of the shop. His colleague, a pale, Rubenesque redhead of around 25, gathered some possessions from behind the counter, and called goodbye to him as she walked to the door. It isn't five yet, he poked his head out to tell her, but his expression suggested that he was just giving her a hard time for the sport of it. Close enough, though, she said, especially since I took only half my lunch today. Charlotte, who thought it inexcusably unprofessional of the two of them to have this exchange in her hearing, glared at the salesman, who ducked back into the stockroom. He emerged with four boxes of shoes in hand, knelt in front of her, and slipped off her pumps. "May I say," he asked, smirking again as he guided her left foot into a sandal, "that madame has by far the prettiest little feet I've seen in several days?" "You may not," Charlotte snapped. But his smirk receded for only a moment as he buckled the other sandal. Charlotte stood. In spite of their five-inch heels, the sandals were reasonably comfortable, thanks to their platforms. Walking a few steps, she noticed with surprise that the street outside was empty. "And Madame's legs," the salesman felt called upon to observe as Charlotte returned to her chair and offered him her feet, "are, if I may say so, a match for her gorgeous feet." There was simply no discouraging this bloke. She wondered if a note to the shop's owner might be in order. He had the first pair of sandals off now. But instead of reaching for
a second pair, he held her right foot. "Extraordinarily pretty," he said, as much to himself as to her, as he kneaded the ball. It felt glorious, but what could be more inappropriate. She tried to withdraw her foot.
To her surprise, he didn't let it go. "Let me," he said, his expression now stripped of irony. "Let me." "As though you'd listen if I said no," she said, alarming herself by sounding very much less authoritative than she'd intended. Her heart stopped as she realized that, with no one passing by outside and no one else in the shop, she was at his mercy. And he was unmistakably rigid. Panic surged through her. The hairspray in her bag. A faceful of that would surely slow him down. But he'd read her mind, and seized her wrist before she could get a hand on the bag. "Whatever it is you need in there, love," he said, "can wait until we’re finished." He tossed the bag behind him. He pulled her to her feet by her hair. His lips on her neck. His knees high between her legs. His voice a hot wind in her ear. "You rich bitches, coming in here like the fucking Princess of Wales, imaging that you'll be kowtowed to. Well, not today, love." He pushed her to her knees and freed his cock in a single motion. He had a handful of her hair again. But she had a handful of something far more sensitive than hair. And now it was he on his knees, and he whose face glowed red from the violence of her gloved hand across it. And he, at last, demonstrating proper deference. "Thank you, Mistress," he managed semi-intelligibly as she forced her index and middle fingers deep into his mouth. You find my feet pretty, you impudent little scoundrel? she demanded mockingly. Well, I'm going to allow you to kiss them. He moaned delightedly and bent to the task, but just before his lips reached her foot, she abruptly stepped backward. Do you imagine I have all afternoon, worm? she snarled. He crawled after her. Again she stepped away just as his lips were about to touch her foot. And then again. And again. It appeared as though he might burst into tears. The sight made her laugh with cruel delight. She made him bring her a drawerful of the knee-high stockings the shop lent to customers who would otherwise have been barefoot. She jammed three into his mouth, and then gagged him with a fourth. She tied his hands behind his back with a fifth and wrote on his bare chest in lipstick, I'm an impudent little toad. As she confiscated his trousers and briefs, his eyes grew so wide with embarrassment and panic that she thought they might pop from his head. She chose the two pairs of sandals she liked best of the four, informed him that he would pay for them out of his wages, and left him. There was a fetish ball to prepare for, and the cab ride home was likely to take over an hour in rush hour traffic.

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