Authors: Marie Carnay
Tags: #erotica, #shoe fetish, #contemporary adult erotica, #sexy adult short story, #romance adult erotica
A Shoe Obsession Erotic Short
by Marie Carnay
Copyright 2014 by Marie Carnay.
Cover and Internal Design Copyright 2014 by
Cover Image Copyright Andril Muzyka, 2014.
Used under license from Shutterstock.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may
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case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews—without permission in writing from its author, Marie
The characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
intended by the author.
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Story One in the Shoe Obsession Series
The perfect boots lure her inside his store,
but his hands convince her to stay.
Escape with Mandy and Dylan as they give in
to their passion and heat up a rain-soaked city night.
A 6,500 word erotic short story in the
WARNING: Due to explicit sexual content and
language, this story is intended for mature, adult readers who
enjoy erotic situations and imagery.
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Splash, splosh. Splash, splosh. Water oozed
and squished between Mandy’s toes with every step, seeping in the
loose stitching, sliding under the saturated suede. The footbeds
lapped up the water, greedy sponges sucking and slurping at the
rain until her flats were filled to bursting. She’d given up
dodging the puddles in the dark—a near collision with a fire
hydrant and a yappy dog dashed that strategy early on. So after her
feet turned prickly cold, she’d started trudging, kicking and
scuffing her way through divots and dips in the sidewalk as she
headed to the nearest subway entrance.
I’m tramping through the rain, my toes are
frozen, and Brad is tucked into his car, all toasty and dry on his
drive home. My timing is impeccable.
She inhaled a deep breath
of cold, wretched dampness, as she remembered his car: the leather
wrapping her in a cozy embrace, the window a tinted barrier
protecting her body and her shoes. Her irrevocably and undeniably
ruined shoes. A pang of loss hit her as she looked at the warping
suede, at the tassels curling from the water with every
I worked overtime for a month to buy these
shoes. Next time, I should check the weather forecast before
breaking up with my only source of door-to-door transportation.
She stomped at the thought, sending a spray of water in all
Although Brad did work in the same
building—and drive every day—staying in a dead-end relationship for
access to a warm car ride seemed trite, even for Mandy.
treat myself to a rebound. Hit a bar, get smashed, and get Brad and
his car out of my system for good.
As Mandy walked down the
sidewalk, fantasizing about the hot stranger she’d love to dry off
with, the intersection’s light turned and the little red hand
commanded her to stop.
Glancing around, she spied awnings on the
nearest shop. Scampering across the sidewalk, she made her way to
the windows and ducked underneath the awnings to wait out the
traffic. As she tipped her umbrella to shake off the water, the
window display caught her eye. Shoes. Row upon row of shoes.
Sandals, flats, heels, boots. A candy-colored window of delight,
shining just for her. Mandy drifted across the storefront, eyes
pausing on each detail: a contrasting stitch here, a grosgrain bow
And then she spotted them: a glistening pair
of black stiletto boots waiting patiently for her. The patent
leather stretched up to mid-calf with a polish so reflective she
could see her face curved wide in the platform toe. And the heel—a
spike of five or six inches that would send her shooting into the
air without a hitch in her step.
I’d be dry, warm, and really
tall. I could stomp right over these puddles and not even
Her glove trailed over the glass, outlining
the boots with her fingers as she stared. Craving hit her, slamming
into her stomach and wrenching her insides the more she ogled.
bet they’re outrageously expensive. But I could charge them. Work
overtime for a year to pay them off.
She bit her lip as the
possibilities tumbled around in her head, desire and reason
fighting for control.
Maybe just one in-person peak. Feel the
leather for a second before I go home.
As her mind made
excuses, her feet took over, propelling her frozen toes toward the
door and into the warmth of the shop before Mandy could talk
herself out of it.
She walked in and deposited her umbrella in
the empty stand before the door swung shut behind her. Slipping her
gloves into her purse, she walked over to the window display. The
boots stood there, still patient, still waiting. She reached out
and picked one up, turning it over to look for a price tag. “Oh,
wow. Okay. More than a year,” Mandy said out loud as her eyes went
wide at the price.
Her fingers ran over the leather, the
burnished softness of the patent slick under her fingertips. The
stitching melted into the gleam, fine even humps arcing around the
heel, snaking around the platform toe. She slid the zipper down,
the teeth smooth and effortless, and reached inside. Her fingers
melted into the suede lining, a seamless glove for her brand-new
pedicure. As she slid her hand free and re-zipped the boot, the
smell of leather—dark, sultry, and decadent—filled her nose and she
inhaled deep. The smell of new shoes could weaken her knees and
open her wallet like nothing else.
She tapped the heel with her nails and the
clack-clack of the plastic echoed throughout the shop. They were
the perfect city rain boot, all glamour and style, but warm and
I have to try these on.
But as she reached to set the
boot back on the pedestal, the lights flicked off overhead.
Mandy spun to face the darkness, eyes
searching and scanning until a figure loomed in the entrance to the
back. A large, most certainly male, figure.
What the hell?
The boot slipped from Mandy’s hand and crashed onto the floor as
she backed into the display. Her heart surged, a rapid fire
thumpity-thump, as her throat dried and her hands sought purchase
on the shelves behind her. Her fingers wrapped around a stiletto
sandal as her instincts to run wailed inside her head, but before
she could break for the door, the light flicked on.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I’d locked the
front door. We’ve been closed for over an hour,” the man said as he
smiled at her.
Mandy tried to smile in return, but managed a
weak grimace. “I-I’m sorry … the light turned off and I …” she
stammered as she let go of the sandal and bent down to retrieve the
I am an idiot.
Mandy pulled the boot to her chest,
pressing the cool leather to her naked collarbone as she collected
herself and stood up.
“I’m sure I gave you quite a fright. Can I
get you anything? A glass of water?”
“No … um … I’m sure I sound paranoid, but …
you do work here, right?”
He laughed and walked toward her, reaching
out his hand. “Yes. Dylan Williams. I own the store.”
“Mandy. Mandy Hawthorne,” she replied as she
slipped her free hand into his. His fingers wrapped around her hand
and held her, a momentary embrace as they looked at one another.
His smile softened his angular features and lifted his thick brows,
exposing eyes that crinkled and warmed as they searched her face.
Stubble a week old hid his tanned, copper skin, and his lips—all at
once pouty and luscious and beyond kissable—made him everything
Brad was not. And a whole lot more judging by his grip. She
tugged—a tiny yank—and he released her, letting her fingers slide
away from his in a smooth caress.
“So … like I said. Can I get you
Mandy smiled, a flash of white lighting her
face as she raised an eyebrow in question. “These boots? In a size
seven?” She waved the boot in front of her as she gave Dylan her
best pretty-please smile. “Please? My toes are frozen. And
drenched. And I just have to try these on.”
Dylan looked down at her feet and let out a
low whistle. “Did you walk through the gutter to get here? What
happened to your shoes?”
Mandy looked down at her shoes, the red suede
blotched and warped, the rain dripping onto the floor. “I walked
here from my office … in the thunderstorm outside … with an
exceptionally bad choice in footwear.”
“Here, sit down. I’ll get you a towel. And a
bag for your shoes.” Dylan waved to a couch in the middle of the
As she took off her coat and sat, the
butter-soft leather wrapped around her thighs. “Where on earth did
you find a green Chesterfield?”
“Oh, I’ve had it for years. A friend of mine
runs a furniture business. I traded her free shoes for the sofa
when I opened the store.”
“Wise decision. I’d sit here and try on every
shoe you have. It’s wonderful.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
Mandy nodded as Dylan turned towards the
back. She watched as he walked away, noticed how his gabardine
pants hit all the right places and the muscles in his legs flexed
beneath the wool. His dress shirt barely hid shoulders no day job
at a shoe store could manage to create. And as he slipped behind
the cash register and into the back, Mandy let out a trapped
He must spend hours at the gym. I can only imagine what
he looks like naked.
She closed her eyes and leaned back on the
sofa, her head coming to rest on the tufted back as she poured over
the image of Dylan in her mind. All that tanned skin hiding under
his professional clothes, all that buzzed dark hair screaming for a
hand to run through it.
He’s exactly the type of rebound I need.
Remind me why that lazy excuse of an ex-boyfriend isn’t worth my
time. Too bad we’re in a shoe shop and not flirting at a bar.
Mandy shifted on the couch, crossing and re-crossing her legs as
his body filled her imagination. She undressed him in her
mind—sliding his shirt off his bronzed shoulders, undoing his belt
As she began to slide his imaginary zipper, a
hand slipped off her soaked shoe and she jumped upright. “Oh!” she
exclaimed as Dylan smiled at her. He crouched in front of her,
slipping off her ruined shoes and sliding them into a bag on the
“You startle quick. I thought you’d fallen
asleep. And you need to warm your toes before you get frostbite.
They’re almost blue.” Dylan picked up a towel and wrapped it around
Mandy’s feet, the warmth sending shooting pain up her feet and into
“Ouch! That’s hot,” she said as she tried to
pull her feet away. But his hands wrapped around her, dwarfing her
ankles with his grip as he held her still. She couldn’t budge if
she wanted to.
“I warmed the towel. You need to dry out and
heat up. Just relax. The pain will stop in a minute.”
As she sank back into the couch, Dylan’s
hands began a gentle rub—a rolling of the towel over her
feet—sharpening the pain but warming her toes at the same time.
With each knead and roll of his fingers, the pain subsided, and
Mandy let herself relax. Her head rolled back, her breathing
mellowed, and her eyelids fluttered closed. He slid the towel away
and continued the massage, rubbing her toes, the balls of her feet,
her arches, with such precision she’d have paid for the service. As
his fingers rubbed her ankles, swooping over her bones and slipping
down her instep to her toes, she inhaled a deep breath, arousal
coursing through her body as he labored.