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Introduction:

After the 'War of Roses'
Stilettos




The fuckin’ Times was a lousy pillow at best. At worst, it became a lumpy, smelly bag of bumps.

I pulled my hood over my head, snuck down into my roll.

The clicks woke me.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Not polite, y’ know, like loafers or tennies. No. Fuckin’ attitude.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

I didn’t need this shit. Not now, not ever. I divorced this crap.

Click-click. Click-click. Click-click.

What the fuck you plannin’ on? Living in my fuckin’ face.

They stopped.

The clicks quit.

Going into my hood, I headed down.

Oouchf! Fuck! One god damn pointy kick in the fuckin’ ribs.

Squinting, I looked up. Looked up legs that went to the fuckin’ moon.

Legs that ended inside a micro-skirt swathed in darkness framed by the fuckin’ sun.

‘Hey, bozo.’

What the fuck . . .? ‘Piss off.’

‘Oouchh!’ This fuckin’ kick hurt.

The bitch was lucky she was wearin’ stilettos or I’d stomp her ass.

‘Wasssiat?’

‘Up.’

Up! Fuck ‘up’! I was fuckin’ tired. I drifted.

‘OouchhH!!’ Fuck, that hurt.

‘Squoots!’ Hadda be fuckin’ Squoots.

Now knowing there was no way out, I rolled to a sitting position.

‘Where’re the God Damn keys?’

‘I don’t have any ‘God Damn’ keys.’

‘OOouuchhH!` Right in the fuckin’ nuts!

‘The Corniche, you miserable asshole, the Corniche.’

‘You gottem.’

‘Aaargghh!’ I might never walk upright again, let alone screw.

Claws. The manicure ended in claws: claws that had my groin in a love ‘em or lose ‘em grip; ‘don’t screw with me, you burned out whoreson of a weasel. Gimme the fuckin’ keys.’

God, take me here. I do not need to live through this. Hell hath no fury like that a former Jewish princess.

‘You got the house, you got the beach house, you got the chateau, you got my wine cellar, you got the kids (okay, so I won one), you got my broker, you got the matching Rolls, whydiya need the Bentley?’

‘I could care less for that piece of crap. I just want you shouldn’t have it.’

God, I wanted her.

I remembered buying the shoes: Milan, spring two years, Squoots had a fuckin’ mini I couldn’t have used as a hankie, silk hose that would drive a butterfly to masturbation.

Sinking lower in the chair she said, ‘Più piccolo, per favore.’ Good choice, with the view the venditore was enjoying, the only thing that could possibly get smaller was the shoe. He was enlarging by the moment.

Since they weighed at least eight ounces, Squoots had them sent.

Back at the Ambasciatori Palace on the Via Veneto, Squoots said her feet still hurt.

Still Hurt? We just paid 8 hundred-fucking-50 American for a pair of bootettes which she wasn’t even wearing yet! How could her feet hurt? The mind strayed, boggled.

Choice: attend the feet or wake up half the Via Veneto and seek shoes until dawn.

‘Cara, let me see your piedi dolorosi, perhaps I can help them.

She fell back into the loveseat: ‘Try my cavallo, try, or I shall perish.

Gathering towels, a basin of warmed (carefully) water, and cremes unguere, I approached her feet: delicate, finely boned, sleek – reminiscent of the sleek edged muscles of a racehorse or the sinewy paw of a cat.

Soaking her left foot, I massaged it gently in the water. Relaxing, sliding down the love seat, Squoots came to a stop with her right foot in my crotch.

It moved. Wiggled.

I moved. Wiggled.

It explored.

Taking a breath, turning from the road that said ‘notice this, you’ll shop all night’, I finished massaging her left foot, took a heated towel from the bath rack, dried it gently.

I selected an unguent, began kneading it into her toes, between each, around all, deftly into the arch, firmly into the heel, embracingly around the entire porcelain foot, circling her ankle and smoothing into her calf.

Her right foot moved. Surely a random muscle spasm.

Pounch! There it was again.

I looked up, the Madonna looked back.

Two of Madonna’s fingers were lost in her curls, circling, slowly circling.

I grabbed the unguent, warmed it fiercely between my palms, began to attend her calf.

Her right foot made a circular movement. I leaned into it, her foot pressed back, poking, exploring, rubbing . . .

Was this my Squoots?

‘. . . lina oggi . . . Cerruti . . . Trussardi . . . Fendi . . . Schiaparelli . . .’

Damn. I was losing her.

Scrapping the oils, I began nibbling behind her knee, a sniff, a lick, a kiss . . . moving around to her thigh, licking and kissing my way across the tender whiteness toward the great furrier reef . . . it was within a tongue’s reach!

‘. . . Ferragamo . . . Missoni . . . Pucci . . . Frissell . . . Capucci . . .’

God! I was losing her.

Caution to the winds, I hurled myself upon that glorious pelt, rummaging with my tongue until I found entry to the moist fecundity I cherished.

Staying my eagerness (and prolonged hunger), I gently licked her clit, kissed around it, teasing, touching, sucking.

Her hips moved.

Sweet Mother of Christ: HER HIPS MOVED. The last time was in the gynecologist’s chair two years ago when the speculum was chilly.

As I opened my fly, Squoot’s foot dove in, weaving a tango with my cock. Humping her toes, I redoubled my efforts to the north.

I must be with an imposter. Hey, what the fuck? A fuck is a fuck.

Jesus, not only was her cunt accepting, it was getting moist – I once thought Moses cursed it the same time he parted the Red Sea. Now it was ready to grow oranges in Israel.

I humped, I licked, I sucked, I lapped. Squoot seemed to be responding. I wanted to run to the window and look for a new star.

‘. . . Fontana . . . Giorgini . . . Valentino . . . Armani . . . Ongaro . . .’

No. This was definitely Squoot. Her eyes were rolling up, her feet twitching.

In desperation I called the desk: ‘. . . Segna . . . Sicons . . . Gucci . . . Versace . . . – size eight, as many colors as you have, stiletto. They must be fresh in the box. Don’t knock, just roll the cart inside the door, next to our chair. You’ll recognize it. Pronto! Pronto! Prego!

Seizing Squoot’s newest pair of Miu Miu, I fanned across them to her delicate, aristocratic nostrils. Eyelids fluttering, she seemed to return to me.

‘Whazzat?’

‘Me, oh porcelain princess. I have been drinking from your sweet fountain even as your delicate toes played among my manhood.’

‘Izzat what happened? My crotch feels horny. Wanna fuck?

Wanna fuck? Wanna fuck! Did the God Damn Salmon swim two fuckin’ hundred miles just for some fresh fucking seaweed? Can’t be too anxious. ‘Uh-h, yeah, sure.’

‘Do me.’

It had been a while but I did not need the manual. Robe off, shorts history, I vaulted into her, cock vertical, near bursting, balls ready to rupture, every sperm aligned, ready for the mad dash into Squoot’s womb.

‘You gonna use anything?’

‘Use. Use what? Your tubes are tied, mine and cut and pasted, what the fuck am I gonna use?

‘Summa that new heated KY would be nice. It adds, ya know?’

Resisting the impulse to simply rupture the entire tube as deep into her cunt as logistics would permit, I greased up, approached the unholy grail.’

‘Ya gonna do me with some?

I did. You don’t need to know how. I just did.

‘That’s nice. Ya gonna do me? I’m getting tired.’

It wasn’t pretty. I did her, slamming my cock in until I though I could see it in the back of her throat. We humped, we fucked, I sucked every drop of juice from her cunt, gnawing on her clit while I was in the neighborhood. Rolling her over, I lunged into Squoot’s ass, relishing in the heat and the grip – if she chose, I could never leave that deep, moist cavern.

She granted me freedom . . . amazingly because she had accidentally gotten horny – it must have been accidental, it happened so rarely in spite of my most ingenious ploys

Now she attacked, like a starving baby after its bottle, Squoot’s lips clamped onto my cock like a remora on a shark. Not content with creating an erection, she sucked, she slurped, she inhaled until cum filled the air. Mirror, walls, hair, cheeks, nipples, all was like a dripping Dali painting.

Knock. Excuse me, this is a class place: Tap.

What had I said? ‘Don’t knock.’ They had just knocked. Maybe they wouldn’t come in.

Silently the door opened. Three bellmen with luggage carts coasted in, came to rest next to ‘our’ chair.

They turned and left.

The Maitre d’ asked, sotto voce, ‘Will there be anything else, Signore? Spumanti?’

‘Si, Spumante, due, prego.’

Squoots was still out but coming around. I toasted her with a modest vino bianco drunk from her still writhing grail. Her hips ground into my face, my cock seemed to have disappeared somewhere in her mouth – I couldn’t tell as her claws were so deeply into my buttocks I could not have achieved separation if my balls were on fire.

Jeez. I could not believe this night. Who was this woman, was it too late to trade?

In her thrashing, Squoots knocked over a box: Biagiotti, stiletto, size 8, umber.

Even before the smell of fine, fresh leather and bootmakers’ glue hit my senses, I knew I had lost. Squoot’s eyes were rolling up . . .

. . . Moschino . . . Krizia . . . Cavalli . . . Bulgari . . .
1 comments

CarnalvoreReport

2012-08-16 00:49:27
This is funny - but you gotta be into fashion and divorce humor.

I think this guy knows my ex-.

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