The Shoe Bench

Here's something short I dashed off for an anthology of erotic horror set in a house that manifests the rooms it needs to entrap those unfortunate enough to enter. This story is set in the foyer, where a craftsman loses himself in his work more literally than most.

Martin had been making custom cabinetry for forty years now. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fucked up so badly. His quote specified a shoe bench. Nowhere did it mention the matching console table.

Confused, he opened his notebook. Here were the measurements and some sketches for the bench. Then it was all sketches of the customer. Asian girls with their stark black-and-white colouring were drawn in pencil.

What he didn't find was anything about the table. No measurements, no drawings of the funny cutouts she'd wanted in the shelves. Most of all, no price. Fuck.

He didn't use to make mistakes like this. He was getting too old. He'd been thinking more and more about giving it up. Close the business, sell the shop. He yearned for a smaller, simpler life, one with fewer people. Maybe a woman, even. He wasn't unattractive, and he certainly wasn't useless, not yet.

Enough daydreaming. Putting his notebook away, he tipped the hand truck onto its wheels with a groan. He'd bring both pieces in and try to negotiate a price on the spot. Maybe he could at least cover the materials.

She opened the door on the first ring, looking exactly the same as last time. Hair and makeup immaculate, crisp blue dress the same shade as the siding on her house. He followed her legs in their sheer hose down to the creamy swell of her insteps, forced almost vertical by stiletto pumps like he hadn't seen since he was stationed in Japan.

Martin jerked his eyes back upward. Did he imagine a knowing glint in her eyes?

She said nothing as he brought the pieces in. She wanted them next to the door, where she had a line of shoes and slippers. Martin braced a hand against the wall and sank into an awkward half-squat. He didn't get up and down as well as he used to. She made no move to help.

When he was done, she opened the doors under the table and nodded approvingly at the cutouts in the shelves. Then she sat on the shoe bench. She crossed her legs and looked expectantly at him. Against his better judgment, Martin found himself sinking to one creaky knee.

Her foot hung before him. He did not look higher. That wasn't what he was here for. He slipped her shoe off and put her slipper onto her foot. She crossed her legs the other way. He repeated the process.

She stood. He stayed on his knees. He was painfully erect. This was the closest he'd been to a woman in years.

Trying to buy himself a few seconds to calm down, he started putting her other shoes onto the shelf by the bench. He handled them carefully, even reverently, although she wasn't there to see anymore. She had walked away at some point.

He'd forgotten to ask for his money. That didn't seem important anymore.

Her pumps were dusty and he didn't have anything to clean them with. He breathed on them and buffed them with his shirt sleeve. When that didn't work, he stuck out his tongue and ran it over the leather.

Some part of him was disgusted. He was licking her shoes.

Another part was terrified. What if she came back and saw him?

Martin kept going. He went over every inch, even the soles. He needed to get them clean, so that they were ready the next time she wanted to wear them.

He saw now how the entire arc of his life bent inevitably to this moment. The close calls in his mother's closet. The furtive assignations with the panpan girls in Yokosuka. The unsatisfying dates after his return stateside.

When both shoes gleamed to his satisfaction, he put them on the shelf with the others. He got his hand truck and his moving blankets and his clipboard with the invoice for less than half the work he'd done, still unpaid. He loaded it all into his van and drove home and sat in his driveway in a stupor.

He didn't understand what had possessed him. He had friends, a business, a sister. If word got around...

At last, Martin got out. He emptied his pockets onto the driver's seat. Wallet, keys, even his father's watch. Slamming the door closed, he walked all the way back to the blue house.

She opened the door before he could knock. She was still wearing her blue dress and the pumps he had cleaned for her. He smiled, proud of his work.

She led him to the table he'd built. She opened the door for him. He folded himself into the compartment underneath. The funny cutouts in the shelves made perfect sense now. He was glad he'd padded them with leather. It might be some time before she needed him again.

I'm afraid my stories are going to be shorter for a while, and maybe just worse. My free time is more fragmented, less predictable, and overall less abundant now than when I started publishing here. It's a good change for me, on the whole, but I haven't figured out how to turn out longer works under these constraints. So this is my way of keeping my hand in until I do.

If you liked this, please rate and, even better, comment. If you didn't like this, especially leave a comment. This is my first attempt at erotic horror and I'd love to know how I can improve. You can also "follow" me to be notified when I publish new stories.