So What if She Has No Feet?
by Linda Courtland
I met her at the mall, where I sell women’s shoes. She was so graceful. Her jeans seemed to just float across the floor. She let me take her to the beach, and we walked along the water’s edge.
“Why don’t you roll up your pants?’ I said. “So they don’t get wet.”
She sat down in the sand, and slowly lifted up the designer denim, an inch, then two.
She had cloven hooves instead of feet, like a precious woodland deer.
Her wary eyes waited.
I pulled her legs across my lap and gently wiped away the sand.
“You don’t think I’m a freak?” she said.
I held her right hoof, touching my lips to the pointed tip.
“Not everyone is so understanding,” she sighed.
I ran my tongue along each ridge and groove, and she shivered with pleasure.
We spent the whole summer together. Although I regularly held female feet at work, sliding them into high-heeled sandals, I was never tempted to stray. Nothing’s hotter on a woman than a pair of dark and shiny hooves.
But she broke it off one day in the food court. I stared at a corndog while the hoofed girl ripped my soul out with her words.
“I need to be alone,” she said. “Someplace new, where no one knows me.”
And now, I’m standing at the bottom of the escalator, helpless and mute, watching as my love ascends slowly out of reach, her secrets safely hidden under sexy straight-leg jeans.