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The Objects of Desire
By Nixie Fairfax
Copyright 2018 by Nixie Fairfax
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adults only. All characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
Arthur could tell the girl was a likely prospect the moment he saw her staring at the bubblegum-pink Tantino Extravaganza high-heel sandals on their spotless Lucite display stand. (Arthur took great pains to ensure the display was spotless, dusting it with almost reverential care every morning when he arrived at the shoe store, the same way, perhaps, a Venus fly-trap kept its sticky maw clean and free of debris to appear to be an attractive landing-pad for dumb, doomed flies.) The girl had that look, that desperate, hungry look, her consumer-culture soul wracked with an almost feral yearning for the shoes. But it was a yearning she clearly couldn’t satisfy, because she just kept staring at them with those needy eyes, like a starving waif with her gaunt, grubby face pressed to a bakeshop window. She never made a move to ask a clerk to let her try on a pair. Which almost certainly meant that not only did she lack the funds for the super-pricey footwear but that she was the diffident, unassertive sort who felt awkward bothering a salesperson to try on shoes she knew she couldn’t afford. So, yes, a very likely prospect.
A glance at her feet confirmed her suitability. She was wearing flip-flops (God’s gift to foot lovers; Arthur thanked the sartorial laxity of the modern world for this unintended blessing), inexpensive ones, plain but serviceable, with black rubber soles and a lemon-yellow thong tucked deep into the crevice between her big and second toes, leaving her feet almost completely naked. And even from three aisles away, those feet looked exquisite. He needed a closer look to be sure, though. There had been a few incidents in the past when he thought he had found a perfect specimen, but up close discovered calluses or corns that quashed his rising arousal as surely as the sight of a cold sore.
He set down the clipboard and made his way toward the girl, adopting a hurried, focused air of important business to deter questions or requests for assistance from customers. Luckily it was a slow time of day, and the few customers in the store were busy trying on shoes or surveying the boxes that lined the walls like huge, varicolored bricks.
Soon Arthur stood behind the girl and to her right, an angle that allowed him to get a good, long look not only at her feet but at the rest of her too. He pegged her at a solid eighteen years old. She had that soft, doughy look which most girls under twenty-five seemed to have these days. A look of being not quite done cooking yet. Of somehow still being children despite officially being adults. He wasn’t sure if this was simply because he had hit middle age, or if it reflected an actual change in young women themselves, if perhaps the increasingly infantilized culture were inculcating a sort of prolonged adolescence.
She wore a canary-yellow cap-sleeved cotton shirt with lacy trim at the collar and the edges of the sleeves, and a seven-colored rainbow embroidered on the chest above and between the small but nicely shaped and very firm-looking breasts. Below that, a pair of pink denim short-shorts that barely covered her bottom. Her long blonde hair was healthy and well-conditioned, looking quite lustrous under the 100-watt incandescent bulbs in the recessed ceiling fixtures. Her eyebrows showed that she was a natural blonde. She wore no makeup except a layer of pink gloss on her full, pouty lips, the lower of which was pinched between her teeth as she regarded the pricey shoes on their Lucite throne.
But her feet. Oh, her feet. Those long, tanned legs, as sleek and fit as those of a fawn, terminated in the most delightful pair of feet Arthur had ever laid eyes on: small and pink and perfectly shaped, the skin as soft and flawless as a baby’s, no calluses or bunions, no veins or wrinkles, no imperfections of any kind. And no nail polish either. Excellent. Arthur hated it when beautiful girls defaced the perfection of their young, lithe bodies with paints and chemicals and dyes. Leave those tricks to the aging whores who need them. If one is in the bloom of youth, why smother that bloom’s natural glory with reeking concoctions in tawdry little bottles?