Les Souliers Verts

I hadn’t been in Montreal long before I met Lynda in a bar. She was, I guessed a bit older than me, a brunette with shoulder length hair, a Quebecoise born and bed with a marked preference for speaking French, well what she called French at any rate. I had done French A Level back in England and thought I knew the language quite well but I really struggled to understand her. But I persisted, she switched to English from time to time, and after buying her a couple of beers I persuaded her to come to back to my flat.

We started kissing as soon as I had shut the door behind us, I quickly had her to off, and a soon as I had unhooked her bra I dropped to my knees, pulling her down just enough for me to suck at her nipples. I steered her towards the bedroom and let her make herself comfortable, while I popped to the bathroom.

When I entered the bedroom, she was lying naked on the bed, holding her hands two green stiletto shoes. I froze. She laughed.

“What are these?  Do you bring girls back who leave their shoes here?     Do you?”

He stopped laughing and got up off the bed. She pushed a stiletto heel into my left nipple and twisted until I winced in pain.

“Ces souliers verts, ils sont a qui?”

I didn’t answer,

“Ils sont les tiens?”

I nodded. I reasoned that admitting to crossdressing was likely to be the better option. She went to my wardrobe and took out a red shift dress that didn’t really go with the green shoes but which was easy to put on after three beers, and with nervous sweaty hands.

Then she said


So I did, nervously, gingerly as I had never really worn the green stilettos to do anything more than pad about the flat.

“Faster” she said “faster.”

She laughed, and as I spun round trying not to fall over I saw her hand slip down to her cunt, saw her begin to massage the swelling bud of her clit. Then she said,

“Play with yourself as you dance.”

So I did, bouncing from side to side as I danced, watching her as she pleasured herself on the bed. I was near to coming and I sensed that she was too as she arched her back and pushed two fingers into her cunt.

“Viens. Baise-moi.”

I kicked off the stilettos and moved I in her. I was hard and precome was dribbling from my bellend. She was wet and ready. I pushed in and we both came immediately. I withdrew and rolled over panting. I had been nervous, this was my first fuck in Montreal, my first fuck I Canada and I knew it wouldn’t be my last. I knew too that my next fuck wouldn’t be with Lynda.

What I didn’t know was that she was a singer.  She never told me that. And it was a couple of years later that I found one of her albums in a red shop. I played it in the car on the way home and started with I heard a sing about les souliers verts. I felt myself getting hard as I listened.

I made a detour to call in at the bar where I had met her. I needed to pull. I needed to fuck, in souliers verts or not, as she wished.

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