When Margaret closed her eyes, Harold was no longer the comely shoe salesman, sitting at the foot of the angled fitting stool on which she presently rested her scantily bootied size 11.
Much to her delight, he was now reclining seductively on a studded leather incline bench, muscles rippling, skin glistening with the well wrought glow of an intense workout. Her delicately placed, perfectly painted toes serving as resistance while he, groaning with primordial pleasure, lifted his too taut core- closer, closer.
So close she could smell the virility of his testosterone laden sweat, when he intimately indulged himself on her delectable digits; devouring with them-any desire she may have had of remaining virtuous to her virginity.
Her titillating toes still languishing on his luscious lips- Harold spoke.
“Sorry Ma’am, but you’re gonna to have to uncurl your toes if I’m ever gonna fit you with this oxford.”
This is written in the spirit of the 1972 movie, Up The Sandbox, starring Barbra Streisand.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction