spare_change
11-05-2005, 06:22 AM
Damn, I hate this job! Selling shoes has got to be the worst job in the world. If I didn’t need the money when I go back to college, I would tell that asshole boss to shove it. I can’t believe he made me work Friday night – doesn’t he realize I have a social life? Or, at least, I want to have a social life. By the time I get this place closed, it will be after 9:30, and all the hot chicks at the Sports Grille will be taken. Oh well, only 40 minutes to go. Damn, I hate this job!
I picked up a box of shoes, and headed to the back room. Think I will get a head start on the vacuuming, so I can get out of here faster. As I pushed through the curtain, the irritating tinkle of the bell on the door signaled entry of a potential client. Damn!! Probably some fat old bitch who wants to put her size 11s into the size 6 stilettos.
As I slip thru the curtain back into the main showroom, I see you standing there. Soft brown hair, flowing to your shoulders, caressing soft cheeks slightly pink, startlingly green eyes with a hint of bemusement, a smile of mischief on soft lips of misty red, a white blouse that did nothing to hide firm breasts obviously not restrained, pert nipples poking against the silk, a tight black skirt that stopped mid-thigh, long legs encased in nylon, firm calves leading to black heels, patent leather, of course. All in all – a pretty classy chassis!
As I allow my gaze to climb back up, stopping briefly at tourist attractions of interest, I note a hint of Shalimar – unquestionably, my favorite perfume because of its soft, yet commanding, scent. As my eyes caress soft breasts, hard nipples, I dream of clouds of softness, firmness of mountains, and the warmth that lay between. Finally, my eyes move up to your face – that bemused smile again as you look over the top of your sunglasses – obviously aware of my transgression and obviously not minding.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” staring into pools of emerald that many would say were the window to your soul, but to me seemed to be the pathway to heaven.
“Yes,” your voice melodic and soft, “I would like to buy some shoes. You do sell shoes, don’t you?” Again, that little twitch of a smile taking the sting out of the words.
“Absolutely,” I say, putting on my best salesman persona. “Do you have anything particular in mind?”
“Yes, I do. I noticed those beige pumps in the window. I would like to try those on – size 7”, you say over your shoulder, as you move to the fitting chairs, selecting one, and settling gracefully into it, obviously not aware that your skirt has slid up slightly. I sneak a peek at soft thighs, milk white, disappearing into the darkness beneath the skirt.
Hurrying into the back room, I suddenly realize that I am half aroused, the stirrings beginning to start within me. Damn, she is good looking! I scramble up the ladder to get the shoes off the top shelf – they are always on the top shelf. Grabbing a box, I slip down the ladder, and rush to the curtain. Stopping, gathering myself, composing myself – and, damn it - adjusting myself, I push the curtain aside.
Obviously, you haven’t realized your skirt has slid up, because you haven’t adjusted it. As you sit there, I notice your legs are slightly parted, obviously relaxed. As I move toward you, you look up, the radiance of your smile pulling me. I grab the fitting stool, slide it in front of you, settle myself on it, and pull one of the shoes from the box.
“Here you are, ma’am, size 7, just like you asked.” You kick your shoe off, and slowly move to place your foot on the fitting stool. I can hear the rustle of nylon as your thighs brush, and I see the skirt slide up ever so slightly.
I lean down, taking your foot in my hand, lifting it slightly as I slip the shoe over your foot. The roughness of nylon in my hand, the softness of your skin, startle me, amaze me, arouse me. As I start to look up for your reaction, I pause – peering into the darkness beneath the skirt – willing your legs apart, wishing them spread. But, all I see is the whiteness of that soft flesh above your nylons. Wow! She must be wearing a garter, I think. Is that blue? A momentary flash – just a glimpse. YES!!! She is wearing blue panties! I stop – stricken, mesmerized. DAMN! I hope she can’t see that I got a hard-on. The last thing I need a customer complaint to the asshole.
As my gaze rises, once again, I use the opportunity to look at her breasts. I see them moving beneath the silk, nipples moving slightly as they push against the shirt. Are her nipples harder? Are they sticking out more? Or, am I imagining things?
I look up – see you watching me, carefully, steadily. Slightly shaken, I manage to squeak out, “How does that feel, ma’am?”
“They feel just fine. Like the looks of them?” you say. I stop –startled – did she see me looking at her chest? I watch her gaze measure me – look me up and down – stop for the briefest of seconds – and again that sly smile! Oh my god, she knows! She can see it!
“Uhhh, yes ma’am – those shoes look very nice on you.” I stutter and stammer.
“Do you have these in black, too?” you ask.
“Yes, we do. Would you like to try them on?”
“Please,” you say, in that voice that envelops me, wraps me in warmth. I rise, standing in front of you. I see you staring straight ahead, not looking left or right, but intent on something – damn! She’s staring at my crotch! Now we both know I am hard as a rock, only my jeans holding it back, the bulge of it against my left leg!
I rush into the back room, climb the ladder, grab the box, and rush back to the showroom. As I settle on to the fitting stool, you look over my shoulder.
“It’s after 9 on the clock over there”, you say, “Isn’t that the time you close?”
“Well, yes,” I sputter, trying to think of some ploy to keep you here. “But, I don’t mind. I will be glad to stay and help you find the shoes you like.” God, I don’t want her to go. I just want to bury myself in those eyes, bury myself between those breasts, bury myself between those thighs. I jump up and lock the door, and put out the Closed sign.
As I turn, you rise from the chair, as if to test the shoes. You walk toward me – closer, closer - stopping. Again, a hint of Shalimar. Looking up, you smile softly, and utter those magic words, those words of time immemorial, those words thousands, millions have waited for, those words over which wars have been fought, lives forfeited, fortunes spent.
“You going to fuck me or sell me shoes?”
I picked up a box of shoes, and headed to the back room. Think I will get a head start on the vacuuming, so I can get out of here faster. As I pushed through the curtain, the irritating tinkle of the bell on the door signaled entry of a potential client. Damn!! Probably some fat old bitch who wants to put her size 11s into the size 6 stilettos.
As I slip thru the curtain back into the main showroom, I see you standing there. Soft brown hair, flowing to your shoulders, caressing soft cheeks slightly pink, startlingly green eyes with a hint of bemusement, a smile of mischief on soft lips of misty red, a white blouse that did nothing to hide firm breasts obviously not restrained, pert nipples poking against the silk, a tight black skirt that stopped mid-thigh, long legs encased in nylon, firm calves leading to black heels, patent leather, of course. All in all – a pretty classy chassis!
As I allow my gaze to climb back up, stopping briefly at tourist attractions of interest, I note a hint of Shalimar – unquestionably, my favorite perfume because of its soft, yet commanding, scent. As my eyes caress soft breasts, hard nipples, I dream of clouds of softness, firmness of mountains, and the warmth that lay between. Finally, my eyes move up to your face – that bemused smile again as you look over the top of your sunglasses – obviously aware of my transgression and obviously not minding.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” staring into pools of emerald that many would say were the window to your soul, but to me seemed to be the pathway to heaven.
“Yes,” your voice melodic and soft, “I would like to buy some shoes. You do sell shoes, don’t you?” Again, that little twitch of a smile taking the sting out of the words.
“Absolutely,” I say, putting on my best salesman persona. “Do you have anything particular in mind?”
“Yes, I do. I noticed those beige pumps in the window. I would like to try those on – size 7”, you say over your shoulder, as you move to the fitting chairs, selecting one, and settling gracefully into it, obviously not aware that your skirt has slid up slightly. I sneak a peek at soft thighs, milk white, disappearing into the darkness beneath the skirt.
Hurrying into the back room, I suddenly realize that I am half aroused, the stirrings beginning to start within me. Damn, she is good looking! I scramble up the ladder to get the shoes off the top shelf – they are always on the top shelf. Grabbing a box, I slip down the ladder, and rush to the curtain. Stopping, gathering myself, composing myself – and, damn it - adjusting myself, I push the curtain aside.
Obviously, you haven’t realized your skirt has slid up, because you haven’t adjusted it. As you sit there, I notice your legs are slightly parted, obviously relaxed. As I move toward you, you look up, the radiance of your smile pulling me. I grab the fitting stool, slide it in front of you, settle myself on it, and pull one of the shoes from the box.
“Here you are, ma’am, size 7, just like you asked.” You kick your shoe off, and slowly move to place your foot on the fitting stool. I can hear the rustle of nylon as your thighs brush, and I see the skirt slide up ever so slightly.
I lean down, taking your foot in my hand, lifting it slightly as I slip the shoe over your foot. The roughness of nylon in my hand, the softness of your skin, startle me, amaze me, arouse me. As I start to look up for your reaction, I pause – peering into the darkness beneath the skirt – willing your legs apart, wishing them spread. But, all I see is the whiteness of that soft flesh above your nylons. Wow! She must be wearing a garter, I think. Is that blue? A momentary flash – just a glimpse. YES!!! She is wearing blue panties! I stop – stricken, mesmerized. DAMN! I hope she can’t see that I got a hard-on. The last thing I need a customer complaint to the asshole.
As my gaze rises, once again, I use the opportunity to look at her breasts. I see them moving beneath the silk, nipples moving slightly as they push against the shirt. Are her nipples harder? Are they sticking out more? Or, am I imagining things?
I look up – see you watching me, carefully, steadily. Slightly shaken, I manage to squeak out, “How does that feel, ma’am?”
“They feel just fine. Like the looks of them?” you say. I stop –startled – did she see me looking at her chest? I watch her gaze measure me – look me up and down – stop for the briefest of seconds – and again that sly smile! Oh my god, she knows! She can see it!
“Uhhh, yes ma’am – those shoes look very nice on you.” I stutter and stammer.
“Do you have these in black, too?” you ask.
“Yes, we do. Would you like to try them on?”
“Please,” you say, in that voice that envelops me, wraps me in warmth. I rise, standing in front of you. I see you staring straight ahead, not looking left or right, but intent on something – damn! She’s staring at my crotch! Now we both know I am hard as a rock, only my jeans holding it back, the bulge of it against my left leg!
I rush into the back room, climb the ladder, grab the box, and rush back to the showroom. As I settle on to the fitting stool, you look over my shoulder.
“It’s after 9 on the clock over there”, you say, “Isn’t that the time you close?”
“Well, yes,” I sputter, trying to think of some ploy to keep you here. “But, I don’t mind. I will be glad to stay and help you find the shoes you like.” God, I don’t want her to go. I just want to bury myself in those eyes, bury myself between those breasts, bury myself between those thighs. I jump up and lock the door, and put out the Closed sign.
As I turn, you rise from the chair, as if to test the shoes. You walk toward me – closer, closer - stopping. Again, a hint of Shalimar. Looking up, you smile softly, and utter those magic words, those words of time immemorial, those words thousands, millions have waited for, those words over which wars have been fought, lives forfeited, fortunes spent.
“You going to fuck me or sell me shoes?”