Shoe maniac

Anne lives for beautiful shoes. Every couple of weeks she slips through the bell-chimed door of her favorite boutique, heart quickening before she even sees the new stock. The shelves hold fresh temptation—glossy red pumps, sling-backs threaded with gold chain, sandals feathered at the ankles. But the real draw stands behind the low counter. Mira, the shop assistant with hair pinned up loose, always smiles when Anne enters. Today Anne lingers barefoot on the carpet, flexing her toes. Mira kneels, laces a slender ankle strap through gold hardware, and Anne feels the warmth of her palms against skin. The leather tightens. Mira looks up; her pupils have grown darker. Without glancing away she traces a fingertip along the arch of Anne’s foot, a slow, deliberate stroke that promises much more than a perfect fit. The boutique is empty. The lock on the front door can wait. Anne parts her knees, invitation clear, and Mira rises to meet it.