Fetish Erotica
"Spiked" a flash-fiction sex story by Jay Lawrence
Mystic by Paul John Ballard, available at ObsessionArt.com
He looks like any other guy at a strip club, interchangeable with a sizeable chunk of humanity. If anyone asked for a description of him, how would the report read? Average height. Average build. Brown hair. Jeans. Leather jacket. Mr. Joe Average. Yet beneath the surface, he seethes with individuality. He is a shoe fetishist. Now, your average shoe fetishist tends to prefer a certain type of shoe. Not much point getting all steamed up about Mary Janes or Birkenstocks, is there? Your average shoe fetishist is turned on, aroused, gets a deep visceral thrilling charge from the sight of a luscious shiny, shiny pair of six-inch-heeled patent stilettos. Joe Average, secret shoe fetishist, hangs out close to the little runway where the dancers crouch and shimmy and sway and bump and grind like wild, way-out fashion models gone badly but rather deliciously wrong. He doesn’t give a toss about the thrusting, sweat-slick tits, the big, pumped-to-the-limit round siliconized ones or the little perky pointy ones, that bounce and jiggle and obsess 99.9% of the guys in the club. Mr. Joe Average, secret shoe fetishist, doesn’t even care about the rampant, musk-scented, juice-oozing pussy that is on show. His eyes are constantly, consistently, inevitably fixed upon the shiny, shiny six-inch-heeled black leather patent stilettos that skip and dance and twirl and side step and teeter and totter right on the catwalk before his eyes. His cock swells in his average, stonewashed, button-fly jeans. It threatens to burst through his average, plain-white Fruit of the Loom 100% cotton underpants. He can feel it, swollen, thick, massive, throbbing in time to the delicious fetishistic dance of the shoes. Click, click, click go the exciting little metal bits beneath the heels, setting up a fine rhythmic percussion. Throb, throb, throb responds Mr. Joe Average secret shoe fetishist’s cock. He is in heaven. Thick-cock-shiny-shoe heaven. Sometimes it seems to him as if he can even manipulate the dancers’ feet. His desire is so potent, so enormous, so magical that the shoes know and they perform for him and him alone, sensing his cock throbbing and pulsing and growing huge in his average jeans. Sometimes he holds the cool brass rail and gasps, like an average-looking but deeply fetishistic fish out of water, throbbing, pulsing, swollen, hard, abandoned, impaled upon a magnificent Technicolor shiny-shiny-sky-high-spiky-spiky dream. Hot wet cum erupts from the swollen head of his shaft and he groans, his long satisfied moan easily taken up and absorbed by the thrust and pound of the driving rock music. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. The shiny, spiky shoes retreat and advance and the build-up begins again. Got all night to watch them work their magic, get a kick, get a thrill, get a fix of those high, high, high killer stiletto shoes.
Copyright October 2011, Jay Lawrence
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.