He would take it out of the box, unbutton his shirt, cradle it against his naked chest, press the long, slim heel hard against him, feeling the prick of the point. Then he would finger the sharp toe. When he closed his eyes he could imagine the long, shapely leg leading up from the shoe to its dark junction. Sometimes he dressed the legs in the current shades of stocking, in Monsoon or Desert Sand, Tornado or Sirocco. Usually he chose Sirocco, a dark, mahogany colour that reminded him of black girls’ legs. And the diamanté bow flashed at him, winked at him with a titillating knowledge. But his fetish for the shoe was a dangerous fascination. Because if Lizzie ever found it there would be hell to pay. After last time she had sworn there would be no more. No more giggling girls on the end of the telephone. No more ‘staying overnight on business’. No more nights when her husband arrived home stinking of cheap scent. No more disgusting discoveries in the car.
What do You think about A Wreath For My Sister (2012)?
