Shoe shop delights

Missy Martinez steps into the boutique already hungry for something sleek and black. She lifts a pump, turns it, lets the light lick the patent leather. The salesman kneels without a word, slides her heel inside, lingers a breath too long. Her toes flex, bare under the straps, and his eyes catch there. She watches him watch, smile curling slow. When he brings the next pair she spreads her knees, skirt riding high, no hurry. He swallows. Missy slips one bare foot against the swell in his trousers, a lazy, deliberate press. He hardens under her sole. She laughs, low, then takes him in hand—smooth, firm strokes while the leather still dangles from her ankle. His breath stutters. She leans forward, heavy breasts brushing his shirt, and takes him between her lips, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, slow suction broken only by the soft pop when she pulls off to lick the head. Her foot stays busy, pressing, rolling, until his hips buck and he spills hot over her instep. She rubs the gloss into her skin with the toe of the new shoe, then stands, already reaching for the next pair.