My adventure with Nine West Goor

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nwgoor
Posts: 5
Joined: Wed Aug 20, 2014 6:47 pm

My adventure with Nine West Goor

Post by nwgoor » Sat Aug 26, 2017 6:05 pm

Hi everyone,

I've been a fairly long-time member to this forum. I enjoy the photos everyone is sharing, but perhaps more so, the stories. The tales and adventures written by some of you teleport me into the alternate reality of the story. Oftentimes, I read and draw immediate parallels to my own experiences: I feel the rush, the adrenaline; I feel for the safety of the protagonist, because one sloppy move may uncover the ploy. And ultimately I root for those who cross the proverbial finishing line; job well done! Just don't get cocky while leaving the scene; don't blow your cover! (so many puns)

Not all stories are entirely believable though; sometimes the incidents are almost too fantastic, but it's hard to judge. To all those recounting their stories here: thank you and keep up the good work! And with that in mind, I'd like to share my own 3+ year adventure, hoping to contribute my innermost daemon. My story is actually tied to my username, nwgoor. That stands for the model Nine West Goor, a pointy, high-heeled leather ankle boot with polyurethane lining. A delicious pair of boots ...

I was working on a medium-sized open floor with a very diverse mix of roles. This was great, because some of the accounts and sales folks were females with varying degrees of fashion sense. There was literally something for everyone. I may dedicate a separate story for my all-time favorite boot-wearing lady sometime. But this story is about the ankle boots of a young Latin female, fairly short (shoes size 7.5), not skinny, but not big either. She was easy on the eyes, yet not exceedingly hot, and otherwise very nice.

I've always been into female sneakers: the thought of a woman's pheromones sunk into the plush cushion of the inner workings of the shoe ...; the intensity with which a woman wears the shoe ...; the oftentimes careless abuse of the leather uppers ... they all make my heart pound. I've also discovered the pleasures of boots and pumps: boots hugging a woman's calf, snug and tight, warm and cozy; pumps with their cliche dominance ... dreamy! I found my ideal poses with boots: lots of material to cover as much of my erogenous zone as possible; the feeling of different types of leather and polyurethane. The pumps, on the other hand, an easy-to-grasp design to experience the entirety of the interior: the insole which, throughout a pump's lifetime, has one of the most intimate relationships with a woman's foot; the toe prints cemented in the mysterious cup of the shoe. All these delightful thoughts make me wish I could miniaturize myself and move into one of these shoes.

But ankle boots ... how does one worship that? They're too high to get effective penetration. They're too low to get outside coverage. I still don't love ankle boots as broadly as I like sneakers and boots. But the model worn by that certain lady in the office, and the pair which would ultimately become my cozy fireplace-featured den for more than three years, the Nine West Goor, was my heavenly pleasure and sin.

Prior to my adventure I've never toyed with the idea of risking my job over a pair of shoes, or many as it later turned out. Little imagination is necessary to think of the HR consequences of a stunt gone wrong. And it's not like the worst thing that would happen is that you're forced to replace the object in question with a brand new one. Hell, that wouldn't be a punishment, that would be a bonus! And yes, I thought of doing that covertly anyway, but it would draw obvious attention and likely a security footage review. But all this risk is also what elevates the experience to beyond what occurs in the privacy of your home. It's a double-ended sword.

I didn't sit far from this lady, close enough to hear her speak and also positioned in a way that I could see what she was wearing. I don't recall falling in love with her ankle boots right away; after all, one does not wake up one day with a mature fetish for shoes; it takes time, observation, and growing appreciation. What struck me was the black leather's shininess, their worn condition, and of course their ownership: The boots were clearly worn with scuffs on the pointy toe; the lady wore them very frequently, especially during winter months, but also during other seasons; something called out to me. For all I understood, these boots were loved for their style and their comfort. When a pair of shoes is one of those go-to items for a woman, they become that much more attractive to visit.

Fortunately, the pair remained at the office for much of their life. At first, tucked in the desk's file drawer; sometimes tossed under the desk; other times placed in a grab bag of shoes. Recall that this is a 3+ year adventure during which everyone at the office moved desks many times, and a person's relationship with their office space changed as well. There was no consistency and after every such move, I had to find the lady's desk again and get comfortable with the new layout, co-workers' habits and preferred times at the office.

Unfortunately, I don't recall my very first encounter with these boots, but I recall oh-so-many afterwards. The plan was always similar: stay as late in the office as necessary for most if not all folks to disappear. This wasn't difficult; I had enough work to fill a 16-hour workday. Somewhere between 7pm and 10pm, I would take a stroll across the floor to confirm that everyone has left. I would take my linen shopping bag to her desk, grab the boots from the file drawer or elsewhere near the desk, quickly dump them into my bag, and make my way to the men's room. Sometimes I had to go to a men's room on a different floor in case the cleaning crew was busy already. Once again ensuring that no one was in the entire bathroom, I would occupy a stall and go to work.

These ankle boots were terrific. Initially, they were scented by a detergent, I presume from the socks. The scent didn't drive me crazy or anything, instead it conveyed a feeling of comfort and serenity. Over the course of my 3+ year journey with them at the office, that scent would eventually change many times over. Much like a dog marking its territory, I ended up marking these boots. At least in spirit, I conquered them and made them my own.

The boots were overall very clean, but they were clearly worn. Their owner made them into her office boots, which preserved some of the cleanliness, especially on the outer sole. That was insofar important that I became very intimate with them on many occasions. Dirty shoes are an aphrodisiac to some extent, but the last thing one needs is a rash, the result of some otherworldly street goop.

The leather upper creased around the area where the sole bent from walking. That's also the area where the leather was most supple. Around the ankle, the leather remained stiffer. The leather around the pointy front toes were clearly worn down with lots of scuffs and scratches. Looking at, touching, and feeling the inside and outside of these boots was like reading a book - they had this entire story to tell of where they've been with their lady owner.

The inside of the boots were mostly lined with polyurethane, with only the heel lined with suede. This turned out to be a factor of major importance. Even though leather is the most luxurious and most sensual material for a boot's lining, for the purposes of our pleasurable trade, polyurethane is still better than fabric lining. Essentially, the entire interior of these boots were washable. It cleans up well and keeps the aftermath of a trip to the stars least conspicuous. It is a gift that keeps on giving after every use.

The boots were designed to exude dominance. They were intended for slender feet which were forced to bend at quite a high angle at the foot's ball. Along with the intended shininess of the upper leather, and the pencil heel, these boots drew quite a picture when in action. The tightness of the boot interior proved to be immensely advantageous. Once inserted the leather upper would tighten so beautifully around one's private part providing a firm but gentle grip. In the meantime, the sack would be packed soundly in the boot's heel area.

My routine with these beautiful ankle boots would change over time, which reflected my confidence in remaining under the radar. I can't make any assumptions of how observant the lady owner is about subtle changes to her footwear, whether that be scent, looks, or feeling. Only now do I understand that most women tend to have an almost hypocritical relationship with their shoes. They love them for all the style, dominance, and comfort they embody, but at the same time, they couldn't care less about the details, especially on the interior.

The first few months, I would explore the leather upper exterior. I would cum on the shiny black leather every which way, but always in such a way that it would clean up quickly and absolutely. Since I had both boots available, I would sometimes treat my face to one of them while pressing and hammering my hard cock against the other. I would let my tongue glide over the leather upper, over the polyurethane interior after opening the side zipper. Sometimes I would spit on them, later also into them, and glide the bubbly saliva around the shoe with my tongue. At the time of climaxing, I would bite down on the boot lining my face so that the shaft would keep covering my nose. Now I had both hands available to maneuver the boot around my privates and the stream of love juice that emerged. The climax was intensified by my hard breathing into the boot which was firmly attached to my face. This feeling, which I'm sure everyone here has experienced many times over, is divine!

How many times I've retreated to the men's room to enjoy a mini vacation with these boots, I don't know. It was several times a week. My confidence in my secret relationship with them grew over time. I studied the lady's behavior vis-a-vis her boots. She kept wearing them. Half a year into my adventure, I did overhear her say to one of her female colleagues "I need new booties". I'm not sure how afraid I was to see her boots disappear, because the fact that she referred to them as her "booties" in her cute female voice made me forget myself at that moment. It was time to elevate my game!

My saliva intimacies did show some subtle signs on the suede interior heel; it left the type of rings caused by water stains. But this proved to be a non-issue since the lady owner didn't notice. It was time for my privates to transcend the exterior leather shell and visit the insole and the mysterious cavity towards the pointy toe. I would unzip the side zipper, fold over the rear and ankle support, penetrate the tight interior boot cavity and enjoy the grip on my cock while I thrust the boot back and forth. The size of the boot was almost too perfect; the interior grip was gently but effective. The exterior circumference of the petite boot was just the right size to have a firm grip around it. And when the load came, it was launched at joyful velocity into the tiny toe cavity. Because I was sitting on the toilet most of the time, the boot with my private visitor was erect at an upward angle. After cumming into the toe cavity, the juice would immediately begin its gravitational journey along the insole and eventually collect in the heel area, where my balls were parked. It was a bit of a mess, but a welcome mess.

Despite the broad spread of cum, cleanup was always a breeze. A few paper towels cleaned the interior area; I would always use a wet one towards the end for good housekeeping. The suede heel bore most evidence of my mischief, but with so many overlaying sessions, the patch featured largely noise from many liquid stains.

I enacted my ritual frequently, several times a week. Eventually I applied interesting deviations, such as filling the cock-ridden boot with saliva prior to insertion as a fabulous lubricant. There was no good reason to use a lotion when I could fill the boot with more of my own liquids. The sensation was spectacular - a lubed cock thrusting like a piston in the tight space of the boot. Sometimes I would enjoy the thrusting for a prolonged period of time, drying out my own lube. No problem, I had much love to give.

Another very stimulating deviation was a combination of ass and cock activity. I would position one of the boots on the rim of the toilet, then sit on it while parts of the boot graced my rear orifice. The industrial toilet seat was coincidentally perfectly designed for this exercise: unlike a residential toilet seat, where the plastic rim follows continuously around the front of the toilet, the industrial toilet seat has a gap. And that's where a shoe fits like a glove. With the boot placed snuggly into this gap, with the boot's shank slipped over the toilet rim, supported by its heel sticking over the outside of the toilet rim, and the pointy leather toe facing inward, I would slide forward enough over the toe until it touched my anus. Moving forward even more would increase the area over which my rear touched the pointy toe, all the while spreading the boot's upper leather over my ass-ball-connection. Rocking forward and backward mildly on the toilet seat created a very pleasant sensation all around my ABC. Eventually, I would spread saliva over the leather upper prior to sitting on it to improve the sliding sensation and reduce friction around the anus. Combined with the lubed sensation of my hard rod thrusting in the second boot, I reached my nirvana of boot pleasuring.

Many months passed in which I applied this routine on a weekly basis. I liked my job; all of this was icing on the cake!

At some point in time, I decided that I would try to apply additional bodily fluids. It was as important as ever before to exercise restraint. Try a few subtle things first and see what works for me and also what keeps the act safe. I must confess that I had a very hard time relieving myself, even in a limp state, at the sight of a shoe as a target. I feel as though it was a psychological barrier; I had to close my eyes and think of something else just to get the stream started, but of course this conflicted with my desire to watch my urine flow over the leather. It took some training to improve my experience. In my modified routine, I would use the boot intended for my ass and simply urinate over the front upper leather, the toe area. It was incredibly exciting to see the juice flow over the uppers and drip down from the sole. I couldn't relieve myself at full speed - that would have caused far too great of a mess. Little squirts and slow streams, however, added to the sensual experience I had with these beautiful specimens.

Eventually, after more than two years, I upped my game again in a risky move. I don't know what caused me to perform this act, whether it's something I had read about, or it was instinctive. After all, many of us who are older have come to learn about and develop our fetishes not by reading about it on the internet, but rather it was in isolation that our senses gravitated towards women's shoes and other artifacts. This particular experiment was in part influenced by some light partying at the company with a few bottles of beer in the evening hours. With elevated happiness, reduced risk averseness, and, importantly, a well-filled bladder, I saw my opportunity to drown the boots on the inside.

After the typical cat-and-mouse game of waiting for the cubicle area to clear, I snatched the boots. At this point in time, I should say, I had to take elevators from different banks just to go to the part of the office where the boots lived. This was not a particularly great problem; it was merely an inconvenience which surprisingly added to the adrenaline rush. In inebriated state, I hunkered over the boot in the bathroom stall, the boot which was going to be christened by my warm fluids. It wasn't easy to get the flow started. The psychological barrier still existed, and in this case was intensified by the fact that my limp noodle was literally hanging inside the zipped-up boot. On the one hand, my heart was pounding of excitement; on the other I had to work hard on not getting hard, because I have a hard time relieving myself then. It took some time, but eventually the stream kicked in. I never paid much attention to my peeing activity; but through this experience, I learned just how much volume of liquid a person can stow.

The boot filled up quickly with my urine. It was such a pleasant surprise to feel how the temperature of the upper leather increased as I kept filling up the shoe. Not long into my act, I did notice the first leak sprung towards the pointy toe. The boots was obviously no longer structurally sound; the constant wear by its lady owner ruptured some of the material. The little mess it created didn't bother as it dripped right into the toilet. But before I saw my valuable juices drain out of the boot, I made sure to double down. I emptied the boot of my liquids right into the other boot. I observed with excitement how the warm yellow fluid, now contaminated with small particles and dust from inside the boot lubricated the other boot. I repeated this exercise a bit; I likened it to a 4-year old playing in a sandbox. My sandbox happened to be a toilet and my toys were boots. I was loving it!

Eventually, I kept a boot with liquid and applied my standard ass and cock ritual. Thrusting my ass back and forth on the boot with splashing liquid inside was a sensual elevation. The cleanup from this experience wasn't quite as straightforward though and I felt that I may have crosses a critical line; perhaps this would raise questions. After thoroughly drenching the boots in my urine, the leather soaked up a good amount of liquid. It would take several hours for these boots to dry up; there was enough time over night, and I recall that the weekend was ahead anyway (alcohol at work would not be a mid-week activity).

I returned to my beloved boots the following week. Even though they dried up nicely, the original female scent was now completely supplanted by the scent of stale urine and the summer breeze would not return. I have permanently marked my territory. This was both a great experience, but also a loss: I felt like some of the boot's character and personality disappeared. Alas, this didn't deter me from proceeding with my fun. I even repeated my urinating activity a few times in the following months, one of which could have had a terrible turn of events. After completing a joyride and its cleanup on a Friday, I returned the boots to their original location. For some supernatural reason, my wife and I had an argument that weekend which lead me to go to the office that weekend to cool off. And what better way to cool off than to take that opportunity to play with my favorite boots? I borrowed them, retreated to the men's room, but before I could even commence my routine, I noticed a paper towel stuck in one of the boot's pointy toe cavities. Did I forget to remove the paper towel from the previous cleanup? Wow! I was glad to have ended up in the office to correct my mistake before it was discovered by someone else. This was a moment of reflection and a vivid reminder to stay focused despite all brain activity tending elsewhere.

I think towards my third year and beyond, the boots weren't being worn anymore by their lady owner. I couldn't confirm, because I worked on a different floor anyway and visited the boots only at night. I thought many times whether I should just lift them out of their sad state and take them home. But that would eradicate some of the excitement of hoping that they were, in fact, still used. That, in and of itself, made these boots more valuable sitting under a desk and borrowing them profusely than physically owning them. I also considered many times swapping them out for a new pair, or at least a clean used pair of the same size. The latter might have worked without raising questions. In some sense, I regret not doing so when I left the company.

I did end up purchasing a new pair of the same model but different size for my wife. I was hoping to rekindle my feelings. But, it's not the same. I've also found and purchased this model on one of my trips to the thrift store. It is a nice pair, well used, but in good condition. Despite it resembling the original pair, it also failed to excite me in the same way. I will keep that pair as a visual reminder though. I've come to understand that, at least for me, the shoe, its design and material, its condition and buried pheromones are only worth so much in sensual currency. The remainder is the character and personality of their owner and the circumstance in which the shoe is discovered.

I'm pretty sure that these lovely boots don't exist anymore; they've probably been thrown out by now. RIP, dear Nine West Goor ankle boots. You've been a great source of joy for me for over three years.

Here are a few photos I took about a year into loving them.
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artrosis
Posts: 11
Joined: Thu Jan 31, 2013 9:44 am

Re: My adventure with Nine West Goor

Post by artrosis » Mon Aug 28, 2017 4:02 pm

Great story. That's a wonderful relationship you had with your coworker's boots. I hope you'll find another pair of boots to excite you and become intimate with.

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