M was the best friend she had ever had, though they had still never met after all these weeks. She understood Sally on the most basic level—what drove her, what made her happy, what made her feel like the strong, confident woman she knew she was inside. All of the years of therapy had helped her to function in the “real world”, which was good, but what she needed in her life was passion and the only thing she had ever felt passionate about was too dangerous to indulge.
Her new friend described her own feelings of delicious helplessness when succumbing to her own obsession. The excitement when seeing the object of desire for the first time; the instinctual need to reach out and touch it; the hesitation that made contact all the sweeter when it was permitted—these things they shared. She understood the buzzing electrical shots that traveled from the soles of her feet directly to her clit when she slipped the first shoe on. She never felt as powerful and alive as when she gently eased the extreme arch of the high heel over her foot and forced it to bear her weight. The heels were usually so high and made her foot so arched that there was always the slightest doubt that the shoes would be able to hold her upright. She felt a dizzying sense of abandon in those first few seconds, but she was always able to steady herself and stand taller than ever, queen of all she surveyed! She could conquer anything in these shoes—except for the shoes themselves. It was at that moment that she became their slave. She could not go back to that life.
Her friend sympathized with her, made her feel “normal” for having these feelings, which her family, friends and even support-group mates never did. They all tried, but they just didn’t know what it was like to feel that way. The gamblers came close, but she always lost them when she started to describe her slickening cunt and pulsing labia in those moments after she put the shoes on. Walking in the shoes was better than sex for her. The shoes were in control and she was wearing the shoes. The shoes liberated her to feel a passion that she would never allow herself to feel without them. The shoes were sex, power and beauty.
Yes, her friend understood, but she never could figure out what drove her. She wrote about shoes like she understood, but she felt that there was more to the story. She was sure it would come out sooner or later.
M wrote about how her life had been before she was in control. It was nearly the exact same story—a string of low-paying worthless jobs and evictions, followed by the contempt of her loved ones and constant need for more stimulation. But M was now the one in control. She owned her kink like it was her pet, only letting it out when it was convenient for her. She nurtured her obsession, but didn’t let it control her. How she admired M!
After weeks of tutoring M felt that it was time to test her new-found resolve. She would control the shoes, not let them control her! She would go slowly, merely putting her toe into the water, so to speak. She would check out Payless, who always had cute styles, but weren’t the quality she demanded. These shoes would not be too alluring. She could be their master.
She took the subway uptown, getting off in a neighborhood that she usually did not frequent, but where a low-quality shoe store was bound to be. It felt vaguely seedy, going to a bad neighborhood for shoes, but didn’t everyone come here to fulfill their vices? At least she didn’t need to avoid the police in her endeavor.
She passed two day-time hookers chatting on the corner. They were both wearing metallic-colored sandals, band-aids peeking through the straps. The sight made her both sad and a bit horny. She knew that her prey was nearby.
After a few blocks, she was rewarded. The storefront advertised a clearance sale, but from the faded ink on the banner, the knew the sale must be months old. She took a moment to gather her resolve, reminding herself why she was there. She would pass this test.
She entered the stuffy hot store and was almost knocked backward by the sight of the hundreds of cheap shoes stacked so carelessly on top of each other. It was an atrocity the way they were all linked together with plastic as though they were captives in this horrible purgatory. She must save them!
A few of the customers glanced her way wondering when the crazy lady was going to freak out and tell them to repent. She took a deep breath and remembered why she was there. These shoes are just cheap clearance shoes. She wasn’t here to do anything but pick one up, maybe try it on, and leave. She was NOT allowed to buy anything. That was made clear. Her assignment was to look and touch only if she felt strong enough, but none were allowed to return with her. She stood a bit straighter and headed for the clearance rack in the back.