KILLING THE MARABOU SLIPPERS
Molly Laster

They looked like any other innocent pair of bedroom slippers. But maybe they weren’t quite so innocent. Maybe they knew what they were doing all along. You’ve seen the type—smug in their open-toedness. Willful in their daring high-heeled glory. Decadently trimmed with a bit of tender white marabou fluff on the front, just to get your attention.

I’d never owned shoes like these before. Sure, I’d seen versions of them in lingerie catalogs, insolently positioned with toe toward the camera, daring the casual peruser to purchase them. And I’d even drooled over such fantasy footwear when worn by my favorite forties screen stars. But those women had the clothes to go with the shoes—angel-sleeved nightgowns with three-foot trains, tight satin slips with plunging necklines. Such sexy slippers weren’t meant for someone like me—a girl who owns plain white bra and panty sets, who wears gray sweats to bed, whose one experience with a pair of black fishnets was a comedic disaster. What purpose could a pair of wayward shoes like these possibly have?

Still, when I caught sight of the immoral mules at a panty sale in San Francisco, I bought them. Even though they were a size eight and I’m a size six. Even though I found the very sight of them fairly wicked. Even though my own bedroom slippers at home were made of plaid flannel and had been chewed on repeatedly by my golden retriever puppy.

I simply thought Lucas would like them.

He did.

“I’m gonna fuck those shoes,” he said when I pulled them from the silver Mylar bag. “Sweetheart, those shoes are history.”

I’d never seen him react like that to anything. My tall, handsome, green-eyed husband has a healthy libido. I definitely get my share of bedroom romping time. But as far as kinkiness goes, he has always appeared positively fetish free. No requests for handcuffs. No need for teddies or “special” outfits to get him in the mood. No urgent trips to the grocery store at midnight for whipped cream, chocolate sauce and maraschino cherries.

“Put them on,” Lucas hissed. “Now.”

I kicked off my patent leather penny-loafers, pulled off my black stockings, and slid into the marabou mules. The white bit of fluff on the toes made the shoes look like some sort of pastry, a fantasy confection created just for feet. My red toenails peeked through the opening. Dirty, I thought. Indecent.

Lucas got on the floor and kissed my exposed toes, stroked the soft feathery tips of the shoes, then stood and quickly shed his outfit.

“They’re bad,” he said excitedly, positioning himself over my feet as if preparing to do push-ups. He’s ex-military and has excellent formation for this activity—his body becomes stiff and board-like. The sleek muscles in his back shift becomingly under his tan skin. In this position, his straining cock went directly between the two mules.

“Oh, man,” he whispered. “So bad they’re good.”

He went up and down over my shoes, digging his cock between them, dragging it over the marabou trim, sighing with delight when the feathers got between his legs. I could only imagine how those pale white feathers tickled his most sensitive organ.

“They’re so soft,” he murmured.

I’d been staring down at him, at his fine ass—clenching with each depraved push-up—at his strong back, the muscles rippling. Now, I looked straight ahead, into the full-length mirror across the room, taking in the total effect of our afternoon of debauchery.

I was fully dressed: long black skirt, black mock turtleneck, my dark hair in a refined ponytail, small spectacles in place. If you ended the reflection at my shins, you might have placed me for exactly what I am, an editor at a tech company. Below my shins, however, was Lucas, doing ungodly push-ups over my brand-new shoes. My slim ankles were bare, feet sliding slightly in the too-big marabou-trimmed mules. If you disregarded the shoes, and imagined Lucas moving in stop-frame animation, he might have been culled from a series of Muybridge pictures. But with the shoes in place, and with Lucas’s body moving rigidly up and down, this picture looked more like something from a fantastic pornographic movie.

I stared at our images and felt myself growing more and more aroused. My plain white panties were suddenly too containing. My skirt and sweater needed to come off. Arousal rushed through me in a shuddering wave. But I kept my peace—this wasn’t my fantasy, wasn’t my moment. It was Lucas’s. All his.

He began speaking louder, first lauding the shoes, “Sweet, so sweet.” Then criticizing the slippers as he slammed between them, “Oh, you’re bad…bad.”

I stayed as still as possible, watching in awe as Lucas, approaching his limit, arched up and sat back on his heels, his hand working his cock in double-time. Small bits of pure white feathers were stuck to the sticky tip of his swollen penis. More feather fluffs floated in the air around us.

“Give me one of the shoes,” he demanded, and I kicked off the right slipper. One hand still wrapped around his cock, he used the other to lift the discarded shoe and began rubbing the tip of it between his legs, moaning and sighing, his words no longer legible, no longer necessary. Then, suddenly, as if inspiration had hit him, he reached behind his body with the shoe, poking the heel of it between the cheeks of his ass, impaling himself with the slipper while he dragged the tip of his cock against the shoe I still wore.

I watched closely as his breathing caught, as he leaned back farther still and then came, ejaculating on the slipper before him, coating those naughty feathers with semen, matting the feathers into a sticky mess. Showing them once and for all who was boss.

When he had relaxed enough to speak, he looked up at me, a sheepish expression on his face. “Told you those shoes were history,” he said, red cheeked. Embarrassed. “Told you, baby, didn’t I?”

I just nodded, thinking: The death of an innocent pair of marabou slippers. What’d the shoes ever do to Lucas? Nothing but exist.