The Haunted Menagerie

I would have made it out, but for the shoes.

You pay your two bits, they say, you go through the Menagerie, and you see things the likes of which never appear on Earth. Daunting things, horrible thingsā€¦ wonderful things (lustful things). You can take as long as you like, but there are two rules.

Two rules, and I broke both of them. If only they hadn’t had the shoes (black patent leather, three inch heels formed into a spike). If not for those shoes, on those feet, on those legs. Six pairs on twelve legs, beckoning me.

Rule number 1: Don’t leave the path. It’s in every fairy story, isn’t it? There’s even railings. You have to climb over them and into the exhibit. I passed grotesque monsters (tongues and limbs flail everywhere and sensual moans waft over the path). There was a squad of well triple-breasted cheerleaders desperate to show off the color of their panties (red thongs or black lace or plain cotton white). A sea of pink skin in the multi-armed lesbian orgy (tongues and limbs flailing everywhere while sensual moans waft over the path).

I passed all that until I saw the shoes. Little holes in the front where red painted toenails covered in sheer hose poked through. The hose ran up the calf and over knees before disappearing. I grabbed the red wooden railing, the paint flaking off where my hands wrenched around it, and I was up and over, and into the garden where they walked.

Break Rule number 1 and you stay in the exhibit until the night is over. Break Rule Number 2 and you must stay there until Halloween is over. I just wanted to see, to know. I knew better than to touch. Surely I knew better than to touch?

Maybe. I would have made it out, but for the skirts.

Pencil skirts, grey and severe and hugging the legs (covered in stockings). I fell to my knees on the grass and looked at them. Hips swayed and legs walked. The shoes which could press or impale. I leaned back my head to look, and I reached out for the zipper on the closest pair of legs.

Rule Number 2 is Don’t Touch.

I pulled the zipper down, damning myself and freeing the skirt, and showing the garter and lack of panties. That’s all there was. Shoes, stockings, garter, legs and hips and pussy. (No torso, no head, no breasts, no..)

Disembodied hands grabbed at my hair. (Don’t touch them and they won’t touch you, that’s the real rule number 2.) The legs stepped over me and the pussy settled down on my mouth, and I licked.

Sensual moans wafted over the path. I don’t know where they came from, but the legs, the hands came, and then there were others. Six pairs of shoes, 12 legs, six pussies, one tongue. I knelt there and they used me.

My clothes disappeared and my hard cock became their plaything. As one rocked on my face, another teased my cock with her heels. Stabbing my balls, pressing my cock into the garden floor.

I stayed there all night. I stayed there until the Menagerie wrapped up and left after Halloween.

That was years ago, five for fifteen? I don’t know. I stay here, and every night they use me. I could leave, but for the shoes.

The shoes always make me stay.

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