| Lola Banks - Erotica |
Sole Sister - Short Story Erotica Mavis’s arms were getting tired. She had four shopping bags on one wrist, and three on the other. She’d lost thirty pounds and she and Janelle agreed, when the weight came off, they’d shop ‘til they dropped. She still planned on reaching her goal of one- hundred-thirty-five, regardless one-fifty beat the hell out of one-eighty. Despite her inner strength and her self-designated nickname, African Queen, her doctor said, her 5’6 frame wasn’t meant to haul all that extra baggage. She snickered, unless of course the baggage in question was, Liz Claiborne. Mavis wore plus size designers for years, and now, hallelujah, she could fit into extra large, Liz Claiborne. “Girl, I’m about to pass out.” She said, slightly winded. “I need to sit for a while.” Janelle clicked her tongue, a habit that drove Mavis half crazy. “Good luck. I don’t see an empty bench anywhere. These people and their hundred kids, and their buggies and diaper bags.” She paused and squinted. “I think I see some benches up there.” She pointed ahead. “Besides, I got another store to hit. Don’t you want to stop in Frederick’s of Hollywood? They got some nice bras for big busted women.” Mavis smiled at her friend. She’d hoped her poker face would keep Janelle from knowing the truth…her hair style, how short it was, with long red bangs over one eye, made Janelle look like one of them gangsta-girls. “I wouldn’t mind something silky.” She waddled forward, growing more uncomfortable. “Yeah,” Janelle laughed. “You know I’m gonna pull out my Visa at Frederick’s.” Mavis chuckled. “I know you will.” The windows glared with earthy, fall colors and patterns. Though stripes were back in, Mavis wouldn’t be caught dead in anything horizontal. Never mind what designers claimed, east-west lines added five pounds. She had to stop again; she tried to keep up with the weekend warriors, those brave enough to battle the crowds, and cope with clusters of teens, no doubt up to no good, screaming infants and squeaking tennis shoes. She’d managed for most of the day, but now her head throbbed and when she thought about it, so did her feet. Mavis gazed downward and gasped. Her ankles were riddled with edema, swollen and bloated, like, she shuddered to admit, elephant legs. Worse, her inflated feet attempted to free themselves from her brand new, open-toed, two-inch heel sandals, and broke a strap. Utterly embarrassed, she modeled her best phony smile, same one she used with her boss, and said, “Why don’t you go on Janelle. Seriously girl, I need to rest.” “I hear you Mavis.” They stood in place and eyed their radius of Mall for a seat. Gusts of people swirled around their sides as if they’d stopped in a gushing river. “There ain’t no place to go,” Janelle said. “Why don’t you walk back to the food court Mavis? It ain’t too far.” Ain’t another habit of Janelle’s that drove Mavis nuts. Not to mention, sending a dieting woman to the food court was like telling an alcoholic to wait in a tavern. Mavis decided she could have weighed one-hundred pounds and the food court would still be farther than she wanted to walk. For crying out loud, Mavis thought, if Janelle had any kind of sense, she’d notice my feet look like deceased rodents, and I only have one functioning shoe. Mavis visually combed the shops for somewhere to just catch her breath, let her gnarled piggies uncoil. About three display windows down, she spotted a shoe store. Not a Jimmy Choo or Nine West and based on their, buy one, get one free sign, they weren’t even using quality leather. That or she’d determined, they had some poor children in Honduras laboring in a sweat pool. Though, beggars can’t be choosers and at that moment, her feet pulsed with such gnawing pain, she’d have sat next to Satan. “See that quiet, empty shoe store on the right?” “Yeah,” Janelle said as she unwrapped a stick of gum. “Want some?” “Uh, no.” Mavis hated the way Janelle smacked her Juicy Fruit, as if she were the only person on the planet. “You go on to Frederick’s. I’ll be in that shoe store browsing catalogs.” Mavis and Janelle laughed. “Alright then. I’ll hurry,” Janelle said. “I have some calls to make,” Mavis lied, “So take your time.” “Okay Mavis.” Janelle weaved the crowd like a pro. She shopped every weekend, her days off, whereas Mavis, unhappy with her body shape, would run in and run out. Get what she needed and escape criticisms of any kind. No room for negativity when you’re trying to succeed a goal. In excruciating pain, Mavis hobbled to the lower-end shoe store. As a single woman, with no debt and a decent job, she wouldn’t be seen near a place that catered to cheap shoppers. But, she silently repeated, beggars can’t be choosers. The doorway became the gates of Heaven—she couldn’t take another whiff of a scented candle or hear echoed screams of raging toddlers, or notice one more peculiar stare from a stranger. She began to wonder if her dress was too short, or the colors were wrong, or if her aching feet gave her a lemon-face. “Kiss my ass,” she mumbled to the world as she entered. Between the aisles of junk shoes, Mavis spied chairs in the back. There were some in front but she assumed she’d be there a while, which she also noted, was none of anyone’s business. She limped to a seat in the rear, let her bags slide off her arms, onto the floor, and plopped into a chair. Not the most comfortable, but what could she expect from a bargain store. Mavis panted, her feet hurt so bad she might as well have walked on hot coals, or cactus plants. She bent forward and tried to remove the broken sandal, but it was embedded into her swollen flesh—her skin held onto the shoe like a child clinging to a toy. “Oh for God’s sake,” she uttered as she straightened upward in her chair. In front of her, from what seemed out of no where, stood a salesman. The tall, pasty-white, skinny fellow with thin blonde hair asked, “May I help you?” First thought to cross her mind was, who dressed him? He wore dark gray slacks and a lighter gray, long-sleeved, button-up shirt, and of all things, a gray bug-tie. Ladybugs, dragonflies, yellow spiders, sure the colors were vibrant enough, but bugs? Mavis thought, if he had any sense, he’d know most women don’t care for bugs. He might increase his sales if he didn’t force his love of creepy, crawly things on the female, and mind him, the money-spending gender. She eyed his nametag; she preferred to know who she spoke to. “Oh uh, hello Mr. Weaver. I’m just resting. You don’t mind do you?” “No, not at all.” His silvery-blue eyes inspected her feet, studiously as if he were a podiatrist. “Let me help you.” He propped on one knee, before her, the African Queen, and gently elevated her wounded left foot—placed her heel upon his thigh. “You have lovely feet.” Mr. Weaver stroked the creases of her toes. Her burning blisters stopped pulsating. “That does feel better.” He situated on both knees, lifted her other foot and rested it on his vacant thigh. “We really should reduce the swelling. There’s nothing more distracting then injured feet.” He rubbed her fattened insteps with the pads of his thumbs. His soft touch sent a soothing tickle up her legs, between her thighs. Shocked, she folded her limbs inward. “Really, I’m good. I just need to rest for a few minutes.” Mr. Weaver grinned. His voice traveled a notch above a whisper. “I don’t mind.” His lanky fingers slithered around her ankles and a light tug coaxed her legs to extend. He had both of her feet in his lap, and he stroked her insteps with his finger tips. Like two feathers brushing down from her ankles to her toes, he did this a multitude of times—she’d lost count, and a bit of her self. Tiny currents of electricity coursed under her skin and she realized she’d closed her eyes. Her lids sprung open, “Mr. Weaver,” she said feeling a little drunk and naughty. “I think you’ve helped enough, thank you.” He slid his fingers under the incurvatures of her feet, and gently drew invisible circles on her soles. She wanted to pull away but the tickle made her woozy. Euphoria inched up her calves, up her inner thighs and finally, tapped her clitoris. The eager flutter wiggled upward to her breasts and erected her nipples. Like the inkless tips of ball points, they pleaded to be sucked. “Does this feel good?” Mr. Weaver’s eyes submissively sought her approval. His need for her blessing amplified the tingles, caused the small of her back to balm with perspiration. She nodded once, letting him know, he may continue. Mr. Weaver fixated on her eyes while he leisurely lifted her leg at the ankle, slipped off her sandal. Then he placed her foot in one palm and set his other palm on top, caressed at both degrees, upper and lower. Every pang dissolved and her clit twittered incessantly. She tried to pinch her thighs together, so she could calm her excited, black pearl but Mr. Weaver held her leg outward, as if he knew what she was experiencing and insisted she enjoy every second. He stroked her meaty calve, set her left foot down, and elevated her right. Repeated the process…slithery fingers, barley-there touch, accommodated the top and sole of her foot. Mavis struggled t breathe. Her nipples were harder than rocks. She thought they’d pop off if she didn’t touch them but somehow the torture of letting them yearn, of letting them grasp at relief from the fabric of her dress, enhanced the twitch between her legs. Mr. Weaver set her foot down. Having two, naked feet in his lap, he used both of his hands to singly massage each of her toes. He started with her biggest. Tenderly, he clamped his forefingers and thumbs over her largest pigs, and rotated. Smooth, like rolling dough-balls for Christmas cookies. “Oh Lordy,” Mavis winced in pure pleasure. Her body became pliable and she wondered if he’d aim to please knowing his strong Queen was melting? The air-conditioner kicked on and blew coolness across her heated face. She wiped a drip of sweat from her neck and discovered the rings of loose skin orbiting her gullet, all held puddles. She tilted her chin upward toward the frigidness but when Mr. Weaver applied pressure to a region beneath her bunion, her clit began to pound, like a heartbeat, thump-thump-thump. She tried to keep herself together but simultaneously angled to grind her moistened treasure against the chair’s cushion. Her feverish fur hadn’t been aroused by anything without batteries in far too long, and Mr. Weaver’s fingers were soft and gentle, and they cured her aching feet. His fingers brushed from her toes up her calves, to her knees. He smiled and placed one foot on his right shoulder and one foot on his left shoulder. This forced her to slide backward onto her coccyx. Even though she wore panties, he gazed up her dress, watched between her legs as if he were witnessing a volcano erupt. He pressed each of her ankles to his cheeks, never losing sight of her cream-colored panties, and massaged the very center of her soles… Mavis’s entire body flushed with zealous tingles. He rubbed a spot that seemed directly connected to her clit, his caress aroused an amazing nerve ending. Her clitoris couldn’t hold its breath any longer and it throbbed harder and harder. Her muscles tensed and her surroundings vanished. Harder and harder, her clitoris pulsed and in a numbing moment, she sighed in the levity of the best orgasm she’d ever had. Her juices poured down the walls of her vagina. She would have laughed or cried but Queen’s remain stern in front of their servants. Mr. Weaver smiled. “Are you feeling better?” He set her feet on the floor and rose. “Uh, oh yes.” She breathed heavily, hoisted upward in her chair and smoothed her dress. She hadn’t noticed before, but one of the dragonflies on Mr. Weaver’s tie had the most beautiful wings. She eyed her old shoes. Her broken strappy lay on its side looking strangely relieved. Mavis’s knees continued to tremble. “Would you bring me a selection of size sevens?” “Certainly,” He said as he bowed his head and wandered off. “Whew,” Mavis muttered. “My, my.” She glanced around the store—saw some faux, snake-skin bags she liked. Mr. Weaver returned with several pairs of shoes and since her feet weren’t swollen anymore, she was able to try them on with ease. When she left the store, she’d added a jumbo-sized bag to her shopping spree. She’d purchased two pairs of sneakers, one pair of new sandals, a pair of boots, and a handbag. Flowery scents wafted in the air, and conversations bloomed throughout the Mall. Smiley families sauntered joyously, and groups of teens, no doubt struggling through puberty, infused the halls with youthful zest. Janelle headed toward Mavis…best friends are like that, perfect timing and all. “Awe Mavis, did I take too long?” Janelle smacked her gum. “No girl, I’m good, believe me honey, everything’s wonderful.” “Ooh,” Janelle clicked her tongue. “I see you got some new shoes, those are cute.” “Thanks girl. Hey, you got another stick of gum? My saliva tastes like glue.” “Sure Mavis, shoot, ain’t no big thing.” Janelle stopped, extracted a pack of Juicy Fruit from her purse and handed a stick to Mavis. “Thanks.” She stuck the gum in her mouth. Janelle nudged Mavis’s side. “You got a wicked glow. You must like shopping.” She smiled. “We ought to do this once a month.” Mavis chewed. “I was thinking more like, once a week. I have got to update my shoe closet.” |
| Copyright 2007 Red Pulp Underground |
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