My fiancee Lana and I recently moved to a new apartment. On the second day of the move, the first night we'd be sleeping there, one of the dozens of boxes to unpack was a great big box filled with Lana's shoes. I've got a thing for shoes, and Lana knows it; it's kind of an agreement that she can buy any pair of shoes she fancies as long as I can fuck her in them. So needless to say, she's got many, many pairs of shoes.
As I was pulling them out, I couldn't believe she had accumulated so many, and didn't recognize a lot of them. No big deal until I found a pair of tall sparkly heels, of the sort that I would certainly remember, not least of all because I would likely have bought them. More curious were what appeared to be signatures in black permanent marker all over them. Guys' names. Something from a bachelor party maybe? But then why would Lana have them?
I just put the shoes on the closet shelves with the rest and kept unpacking. Later on, when Lana had got back from some errands, I asked her what they were all about.
She froze when I pointed to them. She's a bad liar. I gave her a quizzical look.
"Well, you know how you always talk about how you wish I were more of a slut?" she asked.
"Yeah..." I said cautiously.
"There're eleven signatures on the shoes," she said, as if I should understand what that meant. Seeing that I didn't, she continued, "And I wore them for each of the eleven guys whose signatures they are..."
You fucked them. "How long ago did you, um, start collecting?" I asked, utterly in shock.
Her eyes lowered, long black lashes dousing her blue eyes, and blushed. "Three months about?"
Holy shit! My mouth hung open.
"It was going to be for your birthday, you know?"
"My birthday isn't for 6 months. Were they going to have, what, thirty-three signatures by then?" I asked, incredulous.
"I was thinking about maybe getting a second pair," she said, still not meeting my eyes.
"Uh huh." I just stared at her, her eyes pleading, but my expression of disbelief with a hint of goofy smile eventually sparked a naughty smile on her face.
"You wanna hear about it?"
I nodded, and she proceeded to give me details of each encounter attached to one of the signatures. How she'd dressed up in her tiniest camisoles and skirts, and gone to the club to pick guys up while I was working (and once, three nights in a row, when I was away). How she'd insisted on keeping the shoes on -- not that anyone wouldn't want to fuck my fiancee in those shoes -- and on getting the autographs afterward. In all, there were ten encounters. The math is left as an exercise to the reader.
Now, while I'd love to tell you all the intimate details of what ensued between me and the love of my life that night, we can do that another time. Suffice it to say that I was signature number twelve.
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