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The Shoes

By Phillip Ghee (USA)
Part 4

  Alisa had not seen or heard from Giacoppo. It had been several weeks since he had abandoned her. She harbored some guilt over her at times insensitive treatment of the little man. She questioned her conscience. Once again she debated with herself over the acceptance of such a personal gift, not to mention the wholly unorthodox service of such an intimate shave. However the allure of the shoes was too strong and it subdued any plans or thoughts to rectify the situation. In fact she soon found herself donning the high heels, prancing gaily fully up and down the patio and to and fro the circumference of her property, tapping the silver tipped heels louder than necessary. Yet aside from the momentarily distracted attention of the children and, to the annoyance of interrupted song birds, she attracted no audience whatsoever. Giacoppo had not been available to marvel at her. She had developed a second sense in relation to the man. Even if he were in hiding, she would be able to sense the hot and carnal motion of his squinty eyes starring hungrily over her body. Why Giacoppo had abandoned her so abruptly began to worry her.

    She looked inward. She puzzled. Her walking was beyond reproach. Even if she had no other audience to test it on. The sheer ecstasy she gained from walking was self-evident. Had she offended the man more than teasing him? Sure, she had expressed some dominance over the man yet she felt as though he had done the same during those rigorous training days of high heel walking. Perhaps he wanted her to excel to meet the demands of the shoes. She looked outward. "The dresses," she concluded. They did not do the shoes or the steamy stockings justice. The billowing cotton dresses that she wore were the fashion of the day. At least it was standard issue for married women, family women, women of propriety, woman of character, and women of principle. Alisa had come to believe that it was her choice of bright and vibrant colors that would punctuate her youth and vitality, setting her aside from her more subdued and often middle-aged contemporaries. Yet upon deeper inspection she was forced to admit that the sunny clothing attire did nothing but pacify, attempting to disguise the dark of night complexion of the high heels. She concluded, she would utilize if need be, the very last breath of her creative talents to create an outfit worthy of the delight of the shoes, and Giacoppo’s favor.

    Her first rejection extended not only to her style of dress ware but to all dresses in general. Maybe some of the more fashionable dresses like the ones portrayed in Bojek’s contraband of magazines might have sufficed but she was now flying straight toward another path. Dresses were submissive attire, she theorized, meant to enslave women in girlish confinement. The shoes had allowed her to strike down the enforced censorship that restrained her femininity, her sensuality, her sexuality and cumulatively, her very power over masculinity. No, a dress would not do.

    Woman in power, real power, not the figureheads of royalty and crown, wore skirts, form fitting skirts. They wore snug blazers, masculine styled coats and jackets, hats, caps and shoulder boards. She vowed not to walk in the shoes again until she had perfected such an outfit. The alluring cry of the shoes was so great that often she would find herself awakened at midnight, with almost sinister designs in mind, so enticing that surely they would be banned in public. Feverishly she took to the task, unsure what had come over her. 
    
    After days of shopping for and rejecting many worthwhile fabrics, she made her irrational choice of material. She had no use for the soft fabrics that embellished the femininity. She had no desire to adorn the material with sequins, beads, lace, fabric flowers or frills of any type. She selected a harsh wool blend. The dark wintry fabric was originally woven to give birth to a man’s suit, a powerful man’s suit. The cloth, inherently grayish black, was superimposed with a vaguely and barely distinguishable, thin lined, plaid overlay, of metallic silver hue. The harshness of material seemed as if it could shred her tender, pale white and almost translucent skin to pieces by merely running over naked body. And this was exactly what she wanted. She wanted her newfound power reflected because she had become to believe that she had become a weapon of man’s destruction. She was aware that her body, especially while in the shoes, generated a lot of movement. On further evaluation she erred on the side of caution and blessed the savage material with a silk lining, if not for her, at least for the silk stockings she reconciled. She did not want to become a casualty of her own special armaments.

    Alisa worked fast and furiously on her design. She made choices that would most certainly be intentionally scandalous. In those days the acceptable hemline, even for skirts, fell considerably below the knees. She purposefully measured and cut the material so that it might actually rise the width of a man’s fully spread hand, above the knee. Even after cutting the material to such an outrageous length and after fashioning it into the skirt, she still felt the need, or fancy, to add a back slit up the middle of the skirt. The daring slit measured in centimeters, As such, it matched the notorious heel length of the shoes. She had yet to attempt to squeeze into what apparently would be an insanely tight fitting skirt. Yet she felt unnaturally confident that every measurement was to perfection, as is she was guided by an unseen and supernaturally endowed hand.

    Next she turned her attention to the blouse, saving the jacket, which would become her ‘piècederésistance’ for last. She toyed with the idea of counterbalancing the sheer sexuality of the skirt with something innocent, say a headmistress’s blouse or a frilly, private girl school styled shirt. But the shoes had another desire. She considered a military style blouse, like the ones the secretaries in the Armed Forces wore. Or she could adopt the bureaucratic look of women, mostly typists again, in the Greek Polizia, complete with clownish bow tie and all. That's it - she would Ying and Yang it by counterbalancing the male aspect with that of the females. But the shoes had a more provocative desire and neither blouse nor shirts were in its vocabulary. She had gradually begun working on the top portion of the outfit. She still had to choose between jacket and blazer. She decided to go with the jacket format as it allowed her more range in regards to fit, length and design. She knew she was going to make it snug and she was going to make it short so one could observe and appreciate the full impact of her slinky serpentine form unabated.

   Unlike the skirt, she was driven as if possessed, to work continuously on the design of the jacket even at the expense of quality time spent with her children. She fashioned the finished product to fall slightly above her cherished slim waist torso. The sparing cut of the jacket would mean that it would be as snug and form-fitting as the skirt, if not more so. Starting at the top, the jacket hosted an elongated French-styled, dog eared and flared collar, stolen right from the pages of Bojek's hidden stash. The shoulders were only slightly padded, thus allowing her perfectly proportioned strong shoulders to bear the responsibility of her frame. The precisely tapered trunk showed that this woman was not just for show, like Bojek's fantasized ladies. This outfit required a strong firm back with correct posture to pull it off. Then there was the matter of the front of the jacket. She had yet to pour herself into the outfit. She needed to see what mayhem was possible.

                              "Giacoppo! Come down here now," she yelled, not fearing the neighbors overhearing and abandoning all pretense of aloofness. “I need you with the helping, with the walking and all." She further commanded at a more hushed tone. “You need to watch," she closed with a final plea.

    Giacoppo heard the urgent directive and responded accordingly. Alisa had positioned herself in such a manner that an approaching Giacoppo would only be able to view her from behind. Upon entering the courtyard, especially after such an absence, and beholding the apparition before him, G. entertained the idea that perhaps this was all some sort of dream and that in reality he was still safe and asleep in his bed, snuggling with his sheets, all the while immersed in a more lucid than usual dream of his Slavic temptress. In caution he slowed his pace. Maybe it was the unveiling of a nightmare instead. In due time, the picturesque scenery would unravel into Hellish forms and visions. Perhaps this would explain why the siren-figure was wearing a stylish, black, wide brimmed, funeral outfit complete with black lace veiling, fancied by wealthy women forced to attend summer funerals of dear departed spouses. Was this the dreaded succubus sent by the Holy Fathers to torment the wayward souls of the excommunicated? Whom or whatever this was bore no resemblance to the once innocence albeit, playfully precocious, former Moldavian farm girl. Even the bouncy and bountiful auburn locks which spilled from the hat, falling halfway down the back, seemed more inviting, most lustrous than they had appeared in prior days. Giacoppo considered leaving in hopes that a quick and abrupt change in dream-story continuity would cause him to wake from his lustful slumber. Yet the siren's allure, her sexy silhouette, was too strong for a lost sheep such as he, Giacoppo continued his advance into the light of the courtyard. He measured each step as to prolong his approach, maximizing each and every second of this sudden gift of unadulterated bliss. Not even the tactile reality of his earlier encounter with the shave could now compete with this hallucinogenic feast. He wished his approach would last a millennium, if not forever.

    Alisa had one leg perched provocatively and precociously high over a stool. While her softly swaying leg held dominance over the stool, her resting foot also rested firmly upon it. She appeared to be fully engaged in undoing this strap and that, adjusting and readjusting this buckle and that snap. Her leg lifted, revealing high and viewed as such, enhanced the complete showing of the long vivacious limb accumulating in pleasingly plump and fertile thigh. A midnight black, ever so slightly raised seam, that Giacoppo could not recall from earlier recollections, flowed in a uniformed line down the middle of the sheer silk stockings, staining its way, lapping an erotic course as its made its way down and around every curve and every plain, eventually emptying out into the eagerly waiting hull of the shoe.  The closer he advanced the more apparent it became that this was not a dream. Acknowledging this, G. was obliged to stop his progression, still an arm's length away. Biology had arrested his movement. He decided to conduct an interview from where he stood.
                                       ”Senora!  What is matter with you?  How can you forget to walk?  Did Giacoppo not teach you well?
    She did not grant the maestro the courtesy of a turn around. She continued her fussing about. While patiently waiting for a response, G. took liberty to continue his detailed observation. The other shoe rested, but just barely, on the courtyard floor. She had strategically balanced herself on the ball of the foot. This was method that Giacoppo himself had taught her, this method of stretching the lower portion of the calf while all along framing the upper calf muscle into a delectable hump of succulent flesh. This flexing also allowed for the bonus benefit of raising her lower back and accentuated regions high into air thus revealing a perfect apple bottomed silhouette so engaging that if she had indeed been fruit, Giacoppo would most assuredly gorged himself until all had been joyfully consumed. The heel itself hovered, in the air, slightly above the concrete floor, offering a tantalizing and taboo glimpse of the oxblood painted under-sole. To this shoe G. began his journey of the stocking's seam from the bottom up, traveling the silky trade route on a course that would certainly lead to Shangri La.
    She removed the much fussed with foot and alternatively lifted the other leg high above the stool and planted the other shoe there. Was there no end to how high her legs ascended, G. marveled? She heard the man gasp. Now was the proper time to answer.
                                         “It’s all your fault Giacoppo." She accused. "These devilish straps won't let me walk right in my new outfit. You come here and fix it right now." She further commanded. This assault on the integrity on his craftsmanship had the momentarily advantage of allowing an ego-distracted Giacoppo to regain the freedom of civilized movement just long enough to complete the mythic journey. He greedily grasped each side of the planted foot. He now was the one to fuss with this strap and that snap. It is unclear if his actions were any more productive or even needed than that of his temptresses. With one hand he occasionally returned to the area of her ankle-bone which he found obscenely fascinating. How could something so rock hard reside under such butter smooth soft skin without damaging it? He boldly sought answers, at times palming the pronounced ankle bone, at other times massaging it, searching it with his stiff probing fingers. He did this openly. It seemed he had mustered the courage to also drop certain pretenses. 
    Instead of a rebuke, which he feared might still be hurled his way, the only sounds that G. detected coming from the former Moldavian farm girl were a short and vaguely muffled abrupt sigh. Although he still could not view her countenance because she still was turned away with a richly raised leg, inches away from the man’s face, he imagined that the sigh came forth from parted and puckered ruby red lips hidden behind the mysterious black lace veil. G. returned his attention to the other shoe now gracing the courtyard floor. He had the excitement of viewing it from the vantage point of two competing mounds of shapely Alisa. He had to listen very closely but, he was sure he could make out a soft tapping out of a not so undecipherable code of the silver tipped heel, at critical junctures.
   G. signaled for the other foot but she waved him off. "Enough!" She concluded. “Let’s get to the walking. And you better hold me this time, Giacoppo, be a man. I mean gentlemen," she corrected. “You need to support me.  I might really fall and I don't have money to waste buying new material."  G. was a little incensed not only had she still not faced him, she now made innuendo about his manhood."Place your hand here," she directed, placing her own hands just slight below her waistline and resting on the curvature of his higher hip. Incensed or not, G. jumped at the opportunity and straight forth went to take hold of her lady lumps with the intention of manhandling just a bit. That would show her who was a man. He firmly grasped the vivacious area in question with plans of issuing an Italian squeeze. Yet he was taken aback, repelled by the harshness of the material of her suit. There was nothing ladylike about. It was harsh, bristly and cold, without feeling or sensation. In disgust he relaxed his hold. Beneath the shadow of the wide brim, summer funeral hat and behind the lacy mysterious veil, Alisa smiled. Naturally, she could feel Giacoppo's quick reversal and retreat of his masculine and aggressive action. And that was exactly the kind of reaction she wanted the outfit to emit.
   She walked the course of the courtyard with Giacoppo behind her like a bridesmaid in tow supporting her train, or rather, caboose. She was truthful in some respect. The sheer tightness of the skirt caused her to alter her walk. He stride was now shortened, her legs held closer together, her bottom squeezed by the material instead of Giacoppo. The alteration in her walk was however more stimulating then frustrating. G. hated the material yet knowing what lay just beneath the shifting surface forced him to maintain some sort of meaningful contact. Upon reaching the end of the walkway she turned to fully face G. for the first time since his arrival. Giacoppo stood there frozen, all movement, except for a sliver of uncontrolled saliva that slowly crept from the corner of his mouth. He was correct the lips were painted ruby red; this he could ascertain even though the veil was still employed, falling just under the painted lips. From that point downward a river of pearl white flesh raced down her chin, down a long and regal neck and then opened up into a sea of milk. To say the blouse-less jacket had a plunging neckline would be an understatement for it concealed about as much skin as the shoes themselves. It was as if she was an advertisement for a wine glass filled with milk. The goblet-like opening premiered her bewitching and generous chest to degrees safe only while standing upright and in a fixed position. The scarcity of material barely contained rising bosoms which would more fully liberate themselves at any second. The reckless exposure did not stop there. A more restrained and narrow river of flesh exited from the goblet’s sea  of milk and made a trek  downward, reaching just above where Giacoppo supposed her navel had embarrassingly sought to hide itself. The man looked her up and down, trembling as he did so. He placed one hand into his mouth, transfixed and in a trance. He accidentally bit his own finger. Giacoppo fled.
     Alisa was satisfied. Bojek had been delayed but his arrival had been confirmed by telegram. He would be home or at least in the house next week. Alisa had paid her debt to Giacoppo. She was through with him.
   G. raced in order to gain entry to the safety of his own rat's nest of a cluttered apartment. Once inside he immediately begin to rent garments in the fashion of repentant Old Testament prophets. He literally tore the drench sweat soaked undershirt from his body. He removed his equally soaked trousers and with great disgust flung them into the garbage can, belt and all. He ran a cold bath and quickly immersed himself in the seldom used tub. Having baptized himself, he frantically searched the cluttered apartment until finding a prayer robe that he had not seen in twenty years or so. Next he prostrated himself on the littered covered floor before an old, broken and rotting cross. The cross he had salvaged from an abandoned and dilapidated Greek Orthodox Church. The cross itself, even in its deteriorated condition, was more gaudy and elaborate than the simple wooden crucifixes he had been raised on in the Roman Catholic Church. He just hoped that it referenced the same God. Had he a Holy Cane stashed somewhere in his hoarder's apartment, he most assuredly would have used it to beat himself, this time, before prostrating himself before the Lord.