London Chikan
Those are big, black shoes. So very large in fact they cross the aisle of the tube without a second glance as to whom they might be blocking. In this case, it's me. I begin to cross them as my eyes cross at you and they peek up my skirt as I pass, the green eyes painted on the toes give a wink, let me know that you are looking, despite your glassy shades, the leather jacket and the bulging pocket that must hold a blade held in wait, in case there are panties that must be cut away. Midway through my traverse of those enormous boots, I pause, hover over them in midair, not wearing knickers, I want you to stare. With a jerk they move and curl under your legs, your real eyes pacing elsewhere, letting me pass, shoving me on, denying me the thrill, wishing you had let them stay under my spread legs for a second longer, but how was I to know that your boots were gay?
