Beauty and the Boots
- 2 years ago
- 20
- 0
My Beautiful Boots. free porn video
You know what it’s like; it’s twenty past five on a Saturday afternoon and almost too late it dawns that you have to have a new pair of boots, boots that is with serial killer heels (not boots for wandering aimlessly around in or standing pointlessly in puddles or rivers at low tide) and that you have to have them now, not tomorrow or the day after but now, today. You will not do what a sane person would do and spend hours on the internet patiently trawlling the websites of ‘JustFab’ ‘New Look’ or ‘ebay’- even though they’d cost a fraction of the price you’d pay in the high street- you need them now, and please don’t tell me I’m going to regret my impulsivity because I’m not listening and besides, I know you’re probably right.
As for style obviously they’ve got to be over the knee- or under if that’s all you can lay your hands on so late in the day- it doesn’t matter, just so long as I get some and in so doing my life will be complete and my feet will love me forever. The boots of course will be to die for and I will look and feel totally and absolutely fucking amazing in them to the extent that I’ll need a minder or two to keep the love-struck t-girls from tearing me to pieces desperate to get their hands on me.
The boots soon to be purchased will be so amazing you could dance all night in them in the certain knowledge that your feet will not only exit them in the early hours of the following morning free from blisters and crippling agony but actually looking and feeling like the feet of a nineteen year old sex goddess.
And totally amazing as it may seem the boots will do so because they were made by tiny innocent little hands that most likely aren’t there anymore, or if they are will have bits missing, lost among the detritus of the factory floor, along with countless other tiny fingers s**ttered beneath heavy machinery.
But now isn’t the time for guilt, I mean for goodness sake,I’ve got the clock against me and the last thing I need are images of tiny hands and fingers littering the factory floor where my boots were made, and anyway, it’s probably all automated these days and the k**s all work in a chemical plant where my make-up is made.
Now is a time for action with the hands on the clock showing that not only is time against me but that there’s only one place still open to make that dream a reality, and horror on horror that place is The Westfield Centre in Stratford East London.
I know, fucking Westfield right, and you’re probably thinking ‘is this to die for fuck-slut mental?’ Because well come-on, I mean Westfield, a retail hell-hole swarming with zombies in possession of rolls of cash and credit cards and a place you’d only ever willingly go at twenty past five on a Saturday(or any day come to think of it)if you were either a; a zombie with a credit card or b; fucking mental or c; the husband of a fucking mental cunt whom had had no choice in the matter because your other half said you were going and that was fucking that.
Apart from the above the only other reason I can think why any sane person would even think about going would be if they had applied for Selection with a certain Special Forces outfit and that they had rather cunningly added- as a part of Selection- ‘Escaping and Evading’ the zombie swarm that roams aimlessly within , and one would do that by entering at the M&s end of the Centre and exiting via a window of the Ladies toilet on the twenty sixth floor of The Vue Cinema Complex at the other end, a distance a c***d in leg irons could manage easily on a good day, but in reality a test so gut wrenchingly awful it would make the gazillion mile march that candidates attempt later in The Brecon Beacons feel like a stroll to the corner shop for a copy of ‘Jugs Monthly’ and a packet of fags.
Or because it was twenty past five on a Saturday and you were me and you were having a pair of life completing boots and sod anyone who thinks otherwise.
Of course, you don’t have an Oyster card like any normal person that would allow you to travel on public transport because that would be too easy, and you being me spend more time imagining money and what it must be like than actually having any, and on the rare occasion you actually have one it’s not long(usually around two days or less)before you cash it in to buy food from the local Co-op petrol station, and it’s the Co-op not because I like their obvious panache and their ethical trade policies-if indeed they have any ethical policies since their prices would suggest otherwise- it’s because it’s late and Lidl-where you’d get four loaves of bread and a box of ethical practices for the price of one at the Co-op-closed hours earlier- so it’s the ethically suspect Co-op and the even less ethical self-appointed Night Manager and his policy of five items or less-and before you ask it’s not official policy but the policy of a lazy cunt who doesn’t see why he should have to make any more than one exhausting trek to the food aisles for some shifty cunt at the serving hatch who’s clearly up to no good, since no decent person would be awake let alone up and roaming the streets at such an ungodly hour and besides, he’s the fucking Night Manager and fetching things for dozy looking cunts leering in through the security glass at the serving hatch is a job for a far lesser employee, even if he-The Night Manager-is the only actual person actually working the night shift.
Failing that there’s the all night shop where it costs six pound thirty for a small tin of beans and a packet of chicken flavoured ‘Dreamies’ and no they’re not for me, they’re for my/your beautiful little cat called Cammi.
But I digress; No Oyster means no bus and since buses no longer accept proper money because it’s too expensive/dangerous/so last season/dirty and dripping with the blood of c***d prostitutes, or just too heavy for the suspension, or to send someone down the bank the next morning to pay it in I have to ride my bike, my bright yellow bike, the same unroadworthy bright yellow bike upon which I’ve narrowly escaped injury or possibly almost certain death on more occasions than I care to remember, although I know it’s at least three.
If like me-and since you are me-you believe that inanimate objects conspire alone, or with other inanimate objects to ruin if not to actually take your life you will know that this bike is a killer in the making and has it in for you. You don’t know why that should be or what you did to deserve it, you only know it wants you dead with your head as a trophy to parade throughout Walthamstow on its rusting handlebars.
Maybe it’s because it resents being bright yellow and like the video cassette in that film ‘The Ring’ it holds me-or whom ever possesses it- responsible for its yellow livery and as sure as cogs are cogs it’s gonna get you.
Then again it could be as mundane as the lack of oil and maintenance that’s to blame but along with those little hands there’s no time to dwell upon the if’s and buts of if only this and if only that, I’ve got boots to buy and the clocks ticking.
Thankfully on this occasion it didn’t have the time to plan my end as I rode that hell-spawned bike like the wind-although not so fast as to avoid the abuse of motorists and pedestrians either cut up by or narrowly missed as I sped along.
When I arrived at Westfield and shackled the hateful bike to a crash barrier I strode purposefully up the stone steps, along the concourse into the centre, doing so as if I belonged there so as to avoid drawing attention to myself from the swarming undead gathered in groups and family pods laden with designer label carrier bags zig-zagging in what at first glance appears aimless but is in fact directed toward sniffing out one last must-have item to add to a wardrobe of designer clobber they’ll never wear because they’re undead, with only their Brain stems functioning, and asides from extras work in zombie apocalypse films and television series the only things they can do is bite people and defecate in their own pants. Oh, and they can somehow shop with money that could be better spent by me, and on shit they’ll never need.
And Brexit I hear you say, well that’s right. They all somehow voted for a course of action they could never explain to themselves or to anyone in possession of a functioning brain.
As with previous forays into the Centre I am unable to blend in completely and begin to attract attention. I’m not sure if it’s simply the case that I’m perceived by the female undead as a good looking, fit and capable portion of gorgeousness- that being so it follows that jealous boyfriends would want to see me thrown or pushed underneath a moving tube train, although a bus would do at a push or, it could simply be I attract attention because I unknowingly mince along like a limp-wrist-ed Personal Dresser with half a cucumber lodged in my bottom.
Of course it must be the former, although if it were the later I'd be a hit with the boyfriends as well, and they'd almost certainly probably secretly imagine having a go on my cock whistle-not because they were gay or anything you understand, but purely for research purposes(this research may also include bumming my bottom into a point in the future)Meanwhile their girlfriends will privately-or maybe even definitely publicly-harbor a desire to talk hair and cosmetics with me and at the same time wonder dreamily if the collection of fine furniture in my pants is polished and smooth- or not as the case may be.(between ourselves I can tell you I have an outstanding sheen)
I’m not going to lie or waste your time and eyes in order to make you like and want me as your style guru-or even more-by telling you my trip was a success, it wasn’t.
My first port of call was Primark and a place with enormous potential to deliver, but it didn’t.
They only stock sizes up to 8 sadly and my school gurl error of asking innocently if they ‘have these in a size nine?’ gave the game away and the swarm of hip young zombies were alerted and I was driven from the shop by pointing legions of undead teenage girls, cackling and screeching like demented, defecating zombie Baboons as the actual real Manager hurled great handfuls of steaming excrement at mostly me but was mercifully distracted by the arrival of two clearly lost but hot zombie milf's intent on buying something young and sexy to complement their fulsome-albeit undead Middle aged bodies-and lost interest in me in order to focus his brain stem on taking them for every penny they possessed.
In H& M I’m spotted entering by a uniformed store detective who attempts to covertly shadow me as I march with purpose toward the Ladies Fashions. He either wants my telephone number or suspects me suspiciously of being a suspect shop lifter, but having spotted his game from the off I give him the slip with some fancy footwork(and some not so fancy hiding behind a thick pillar and hurry out in the direction of Marks&Sparks, leaving the brain dead store dick scratching his unfeeling testicles and wondering if it was too early in his shift to bite someones leg.
Marks&Sparks also prove to be useless in the boots department. chiefly because they don't have a department that deals in boots, although I do buy a gorgeous black suspender belt ‘for my partner’ a claim that appeared not to convince the sneering middle aged assistant, who served me with all the disdain one might expect if she'd walked into her bathroom to find a naked me with a pair of her fragrantly soiled knickers on my head and her husbands cock in my hand.
Two more shops follow and the message I got from all of them was that it was the wrong season for long boots, mind you one of the shops was Anne Summers and they don’t even sell boots but do sell a dazzling variety of vibrators dildos and butt plugs for every occasion and orifice, and it took me at least an hour to remind myself I was on a mission to buy boots not anal toys and find the exit.
So it was the wrong season-and sensing a looming shoe quest defeat I wasn’t prepared to accept-I hurry into a boutique that could easily have been called ‘Fleeced’ as it offered for sale shoes so expensive that no one could afford them as those displayed bore no price tags and looked more like art installations, that rather than being for sale were something zombies came simply to admire.
I appeared to be the only male in the place, and as I could only be there if a; id stumbled in by mistake or b; I was a pervert or one of those transvestites-which were essentially the same thing judging by the looks I got-that wore women's things in their shed or bedroom if the wife happened to be away.
I was the latter of course and we all knew it, just as they knew my story of looking for a pair of size 9 boots for my partners birthday was a contemptible lie, I mean come on, what self-respecting man could ever hope to present his wife with a pair of shoes she’d actually want, let alone actually wear.
And as my remaining determination to see the mission through drained into my socks
I accepte defeat and handed over £70 for a pair of strappy ankle boots with five inch heels that even then knew I’d probably never wear.
During the ride back to Walthamstow, and between near misses with cars driven by maniacs I did my best to convince myself it would be alright, that I’d get back and put them on and look and feel complete.
And so I did; I arrived home in one piece, took them out of their beautiful box and put them on and felt anything but complete and sexy. I hated them just as they hated me; I mean really, what was I thinking, tottering around on heels so high that a single fall could be fatal.
I took them off and back into their box and we’ve avoided each other ever since. The box did however eventually see service holding letters and bills, but sadly to this day no alternative employment has been found for the boots.
You might be heartened to learn that I did later buy a pair of beautiful sex-boots- and it was much later- and I did so by doing all the things I should have done that late afternoon but didn’t. I used the internet and ebay and resisted my impulsiveness, trawling for hours until I found them-and they me, and as we gazed at each other through the screen we somehow knew we were made for each other.
As for style obviously they’ve got to be over the knee- or under if that’s all you can lay your hands on so late in the day- it doesn’t matter, just so long as I get some and in so doing my life will be complete and my feet will love me forever. The boots of course will be to die for and I will look and feel totally and absolutely fucking amazing in them to the extent that I’ll need a minder or two to keep the love-struck t-girls from tearing me to pieces desperate to get their hands on me.
The boots soon to be purchased will be so amazing you could dance all night in them in the certain knowledge that your feet will not only exit them in the early hours of the following morning free from blisters and crippling agony but actually looking and feeling like the feet of a nineteen year old sex goddess.
And totally amazing as it may seem the boots will do so because they were made by tiny innocent little hands that most likely aren’t there anymore, or if they are will have bits missing, lost among the detritus of the factory floor, along with countless other tiny fingers s**ttered beneath heavy machinery.
But now isn’t the time for guilt, I mean for goodness sake,I’ve got the clock against me and the last thing I need are images of tiny hands and fingers littering the factory floor where my boots were made, and anyway, it’s probably all automated these days and the k**s all work in a chemical plant where my make-up is made.
Now is a time for action with the hands on the clock showing that not only is time against me but that there’s only one place still open to make that dream a reality, and horror on horror that place is The Westfield Centre in Stratford East London.
I know, fucking Westfield right, and you’re probably thinking ‘is this to die for fuck-slut mental?’ Because well come-on, I mean Westfield, a retail hell-hole swarming with zombies in possession of rolls of cash and credit cards and a place you’d only ever willingly go at twenty past five on a Saturday(or any day come to think of it)if you were either a; a zombie with a credit card or b; fucking mental or c; the husband of a fucking mental cunt whom had had no choice in the matter because your other half said you were going and that was fucking that.
Apart from the above the only other reason I can think why any sane person would even think about going would be if they had applied for Selection with a certain Special Forces outfit and that they had rather cunningly added- as a part of Selection- ‘Escaping and Evading’ the zombie swarm that roams aimlessly within , and one would do that by entering at the M&s end of the Centre and exiting via a window of the Ladies toilet on the twenty sixth floor of The Vue Cinema Complex at the other end, a distance a c***d in leg irons could manage easily on a good day, but in reality a test so gut wrenchingly awful it would make the gazillion mile march that candidates attempt later in The Brecon Beacons feel like a stroll to the corner shop for a copy of ‘Jugs Monthly’ and a packet of fags.
Or because it was twenty past five on a Saturday and you were me and you were having a pair of life completing boots and sod anyone who thinks otherwise.
Of course, you don’t have an Oyster card like any normal person that would allow you to travel on public transport because that would be too easy, and you being me spend more time imagining money and what it must be like than actually having any, and on the rare occasion you actually have one it’s not long(usually around two days or less)before you cash it in to buy food from the local Co-op petrol station, and it’s the Co-op not because I like their obvious panache and their ethical trade policies-if indeed they have any ethical policies since their prices would suggest otherwise- it’s because it’s late and Lidl-where you’d get four loaves of bread and a box of ethical practices for the price of one at the Co-op-closed hours earlier- so it’s the ethically suspect Co-op and the even less ethical self-appointed Night Manager and his policy of five items or less-and before you ask it’s not official policy but the policy of a lazy cunt who doesn’t see why he should have to make any more than one exhausting trek to the food aisles for some shifty cunt at the serving hatch who’s clearly up to no good, since no decent person would be awake let alone up and roaming the streets at such an ungodly hour and besides, he’s the fucking Night Manager and fetching things for dozy looking cunts leering in through the security glass at the serving hatch is a job for a far lesser employee, even if he-The Night Manager-is the only actual person actually working the night shift.
Failing that there’s the all night shop where it costs six pound thirty for a small tin of beans and a packet of chicken flavoured ‘Dreamies’ and no they’re not for me, they’re for my/your beautiful little cat called Cammi.
But I digress; No Oyster means no bus and since buses no longer accept proper money because it’s too expensive/dangerous/so last season/dirty and dripping with the blood of c***d prostitutes, or just too heavy for the suspension, or to send someone down the bank the next morning to pay it in I have to ride my bike, my bright yellow bike, the same unroadworthy bright yellow bike upon which I’ve narrowly escaped injury or possibly almost certain death on more occasions than I care to remember, although I know it’s at least three.
If like me-and since you are me-you believe that inanimate objects conspire alone, or with other inanimate objects to ruin if not to actually take your life you will know that this bike is a killer in the making and has it in for you. You don’t know why that should be or what you did to deserve it, you only know it wants you dead with your head as a trophy to parade throughout Walthamstow on its rusting handlebars.
Maybe it’s because it resents being bright yellow and like the video cassette in that film ‘The Ring’ it holds me-or whom ever possesses it- responsible for its yellow livery and as sure as cogs are cogs it’s gonna get you.
Then again it could be as mundane as the lack of oil and maintenance that’s to blame but along with those little hands there’s no time to dwell upon the if’s and buts of if only this and if only that, I’ve got boots to buy and the clocks ticking.
Thankfully on this occasion it didn’t have the time to plan my end as I rode that hell-spawned bike like the wind-although not so fast as to avoid the abuse of motorists and pedestrians either cut up by or narrowly missed as I sped along.
When I arrived at Westfield and shackled the hateful bike to a crash barrier I strode purposefully up the stone steps, along the concourse into the centre, doing so as if I belonged there so as to avoid drawing attention to myself from the swarming undead gathered in groups and family pods laden with designer label carrier bags zig-zagging in what at first glance appears aimless but is in fact directed toward sniffing out one last must-have item to add to a wardrobe of designer clobber they’ll never wear because they’re undead, with only their Brain stems functioning, and asides from extras work in zombie apocalypse films and television series the only things they can do is bite people and defecate in their own pants. Oh, and they can somehow shop with money that could be better spent by me, and on shit they’ll never need.
And Brexit I hear you say, well that’s right. They all somehow voted for a course of action they could never explain to themselves or to anyone in possession of a functioning brain.
As with previous forays into the Centre I am unable to blend in completely and begin to attract attention. I’m not sure if it’s simply the case that I’m perceived by the female undead as a good looking, fit and capable portion of gorgeousness- that being so it follows that jealous boyfriends would want to see me thrown or pushed underneath a moving tube train, although a bus would do at a push or, it could simply be I attract attention because I unknowingly mince along like a limp-wrist-ed Personal Dresser with half a cucumber lodged in my bottom.
Of course it must be the former, although if it were the later I'd be a hit with the boyfriends as well, and they'd almost certainly probably secretly imagine having a go on my cock whistle-not because they were gay or anything you understand, but purely for research purposes(this research may also include bumming my bottom into a point in the future)Meanwhile their girlfriends will privately-or maybe even definitely publicly-harbor a desire to talk hair and cosmetics with me and at the same time wonder dreamily if the collection of fine furniture in my pants is polished and smooth- or not as the case may be.(between ourselves I can tell you I have an outstanding sheen)
I’m not going to lie or waste your time and eyes in order to make you like and want me as your style guru-or even more-by telling you my trip was a success, it wasn’t.
My first port of call was Primark and a place with enormous potential to deliver, but it didn’t.
They only stock sizes up to 8 sadly and my school gurl error of asking innocently if they ‘have these in a size nine?’ gave the game away and the swarm of hip young zombies were alerted and I was driven from the shop by pointing legions of undead teenage girls, cackling and screeching like demented, defecating zombie Baboons as the actual real Manager hurled great handfuls of steaming excrement at mostly me but was mercifully distracted by the arrival of two clearly lost but hot zombie milf's intent on buying something young and sexy to complement their fulsome-albeit undead Middle aged bodies-and lost interest in me in order to focus his brain stem on taking them for every penny they possessed.
In H& M I’m spotted entering by a uniformed store detective who attempts to covertly shadow me as I march with purpose toward the Ladies Fashions. He either wants my telephone number or suspects me suspiciously of being a suspect shop lifter, but having spotted his game from the off I give him the slip with some fancy footwork(and some not so fancy hiding behind a thick pillar and hurry out in the direction of Marks&Sparks, leaving the brain dead store dick scratching his unfeeling testicles and wondering if it was too early in his shift to bite someones leg.
Marks&Sparks also prove to be useless in the boots department. chiefly because they don't have a department that deals in boots, although I do buy a gorgeous black suspender belt ‘for my partner’ a claim that appeared not to convince the sneering middle aged assistant, who served me with all the disdain one might expect if she'd walked into her bathroom to find a naked me with a pair of her fragrantly soiled knickers on my head and her husbands cock in my hand.
Two more shops follow and the message I got from all of them was that it was the wrong season for long boots, mind you one of the shops was Anne Summers and they don’t even sell boots but do sell a dazzling variety of vibrators dildos and butt plugs for every occasion and orifice, and it took me at least an hour to remind myself I was on a mission to buy boots not anal toys and find the exit.
So it was the wrong season-and sensing a looming shoe quest defeat I wasn’t prepared to accept-I hurry into a boutique that could easily have been called ‘Fleeced’ as it offered for sale shoes so expensive that no one could afford them as those displayed bore no price tags and looked more like art installations, that rather than being for sale were something zombies came simply to admire.
I appeared to be the only male in the place, and as I could only be there if a; id stumbled in by mistake or b; I was a pervert or one of those transvestites-which were essentially the same thing judging by the looks I got-that wore women's things in their shed or bedroom if the wife happened to be away.
I was the latter of course and we all knew it, just as they knew my story of looking for a pair of size 9 boots for my partners birthday was a contemptible lie, I mean come on, what self-respecting man could ever hope to present his wife with a pair of shoes she’d actually want, let alone actually wear.
And as my remaining determination to see the mission through drained into my socks
I accepte defeat and handed over £70 for a pair of strappy ankle boots with five inch heels that even then knew I’d probably never wear.
During the ride back to Walthamstow, and between near misses with cars driven by maniacs I did my best to convince myself it would be alright, that I’d get back and put them on and look and feel complete.
And so I did; I arrived home in one piece, took them out of their beautiful box and put them on and felt anything but complete and sexy. I hated them just as they hated me; I mean really, what was I thinking, tottering around on heels so high that a single fall could be fatal.
I took them off and back into their box and we’ve avoided each other ever since. The box did however eventually see service holding letters and bills, but sadly to this day no alternative employment has been found for the boots.
You might be heartened to learn that I did later buy a pair of beautiful sex-boots- and it was much later- and I did so by doing all the things I should have done that late afternoon but didn’t. I used the internet and ebay and resisted my impulsiveness, trawling for hours until I found them-and they me, and as we gazed at each other through the screen we somehow knew we were made for each other.
Maris
- 13.05.2020
- 17
- 0
