Celeste Part 1 8 min read

It had all started normally enough. I had met Celeste at a party, I forget which one, but I could never forget that moment when I first saw her strut across the room. She was perfect, more than perfect. Stunningly beautiful, yes, but so much more than that. There was something about the way she moved with such absolute poise and confidence, with such certainty. I was mesmerized, utterly in awe, a shock almost. It didn’t even occur to me that she might talk to me, let alone be interested in me. She was on another level. In fact, I remember thinking that at the time, she was just on a completely different level to me.

Yet somehow we got talking. We swapped numbers and said we’d meet up. I didn’t believe it, of course, but it happened. In fact, she’d phoned me. I suppose that was a theme in those early days, she would be the one who took the lead, the one who was in control. I was so unbelievably lucky just to be anywhere near her, so of course, I’d do whatever she asked. We dated, but always on her terms. I’d pay for everything, do all the running around. She’d always decide what we would do, where we should go. I’d get a message to go and pick up her dry cleaning and bring it to her, to pick up some groceries for her. Why wouldn’t I if it meant I got to see her? I’d regularly get a text message from her and drop whatever I was doing, dash to her flat as quickly as possible and fix us a little dinner while she sat back and relaxed. It felt like I was being chivalrous, a gentleman. What can I say? I worshipped her. I’d have done anything to make her happy.

I knew that she loved clothes, so I’d happily take her shopping, spend all I earned on her. More than anything else though, her passion was shoes. Not just any shoes though, she loved, absolutely adored, patent black classic stilettos, the higher, and the more expensive, the better. I maxed out my credit cards. I had to take a second job and move into a smaller apartment, but it was worth it to see her happy. It was more than that though. I’d always had a bit of a foot fetish. Every moment I spent with her in a shoe shop, every time I saw her wearing such beautiful shoes, put me in a state of delirium. I hadn’t told her, of course, but to have found someone so perfect who had such a shoe fetish of her own was simply unbelievable, my wildest dreams had come true and I’d have done anything to keep it that way.

After a while, she gave me a key to her apartment. It was a big step in our relationship, I can’t describe how happy it made me feel. It made things easier for her too. I’d pop around just before she was due home from work. I’d run her a bath, make some dinner, and do any cleaning that needed doing. After a week or so of this, I couldn’t resist the temptation any longer and went up to her walk-in shoe closet. I just stood there, surrounded by all of her shoes and boots. There must have been hundreds. On that occasion, I just took it all in, felt guilty, and quickly left. The next day, I found myself standing there again, but this time I plucked up the courage to pick up a pair of patent black Christian Louboutins. I remembered buying them for her only a few weeks ago, not least because I’d had to sell my prized record collection to afford it.

I couldn’t help myself. I found my tongue licking its way across the shiny point of the toe of one of the shoes. I felt every tiny divot as I licked clean the soles, and tasted salt as I licked clean the insides. I placed them reverently back on the shelf and headed back downstairs to prepare Celeste’s dinner. That had just been the start. From then on every time I was there on my own I would spend time working my way through her extensive shoe collection. I got a particular thrill from cleaning those that I know she had worn the day before or that she might wear the next day. The idea of her walking around in a pair of heels that I had licked clean for her was an unbelievable turn-on.

To be honest, I was surprised that she hadn’t become suspicious, hadn’t wondered why all her shoes were always so clean, why some of her well-worn heels were suddenly looking completely rejuvenated. Maybe she had, or maybe I just got careless, but I will never forget how I felt that evening when sat on the floor in her shoe closet with my tongue working its way along the soles of a pair of her brown leather work heels, I heard her clear her throat. My eyes shot up to see Celeste standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, a slight sneer across her beautiful lips. I froze, the shoe still held to my mouth, my tongue still pressed up against its sole. A wave of panic, of humiliation, rippled up my body. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. What could I have possibly said?

Celeste smirked, took a step forward, and raised her right foot off the ground. Her black patent heel hovered in front of my face, the tall slender heel thrust so close to my eye that I could feel it against my eyelashes.

“Lick the sole clean.”

She said it slowly, not an order but an instruction, calm and measured as if she was telling a shopkeeper what she wanted from behind the counter. I hesitated for only a fraction of a second then did what I was told, first one shoe, then the other.

“Lie down”

I did. Without hesitating for a moment she stepped up onto my chest as if it was the most natural thing in the world. She fiddled with some shoe boxes on the top shelf of the closet, those spike heels sinking deep into my flesh. I wanted to scream, to make it stop. But I didn’t. She stepped off and walked away, leaving me there, confused, humiliated, in shock. I brushed myself off, headed downstairs, and made her dinner as usual. We didn’t speak about it, but I knew that something had changed forever.
The next morning, before leaving the flat, she stared into my eyes and spoke very calmly and deliberately.

“You stay here all day and you clean every pair of my shoes and boots. Every pair. They will be absolutely spotless by the time I get home.”

And that’s what I did, it took the whole day, nine hours or so. My tongue was raw red but I just kept going. When she arrived home she went straight to her shoe closet to inspect them.

“Not a bad job, but there’s one pair that you missed.”

I was confused for a second, I was sure I’d not missed a single pair. She looked at me dismissively, rocked back on one of her tall spiky heels, and pointed down. That’s where It really started I suppose, that moment where I found myself on my hands and knees licking the sole of her shoe as she stood above me with a look of impatience and contempt. From that day on I would find myself in that position so often that it simply became part of my life, became as natural as waking up in the morning.

Our life together changed quickly. Most days, she’d have me lick her shoes clean as she sat and ate dinner, or whenever she came home from work. It sounds ridiculous, but it really did become completely normal. I would lie there, naked, by the door, and she would simply wipe her shoes on my outstretched tongue or if she felt like it, step up onto my body and sink those heels in wherever she wanted. In the evenings, I would lie under the sofa with only my head sticking out whilst she rested her feet on my face for hours at a time, sometimes barefoot but often with those killer heels resting on my cheeks or eyelids. One slip and who knows what kind of damage they might do. She would watch television, chat on the phone with her friends, and ignore me completely. It amused her too to have me lie naked in front of the sofa whilst she absentmindedly toyed with my cock with her feet. She would sit back reading or surf the internet on the laptop, seemingly oblivious to what she was doing. She would almost always stop if she felt me getting close to ejaculation, keeping me for hours in a state of arousal with no gratification. On occasion she would let it happen, but only because she wanted to use it to moisturize her feet. She had made it very clear that was all it was to be used for from now on, that and conditioning the leather of her shoes and boots, but only when she requested it.

“This has been a good start,” she announced after a few weeks, “but I shouldn’t have to step up onto you. It’s inconvenient. You should just be part of the floor.”