Little Mall Princess

"If that were me, I would have found a way to twist him up and then get him underneath my fucking foot."

When I heard the girlish voice make this statement as I stood there transfixed on a brand-new HD TV on display near the entrance to the mall Sharper Image outlet, I ignored it, thinking that such a direct statement from such a pretty young voice must be directed at someone else.

Afterall, I was a thirty-something dude in Saturday afternoon clothes who'd run into the mall for a second to return a DVD player that ejected anything I put into it. And made strange burnt plastic smells when it actually did run for a while.

But as I watched the end of a major news story unfold on that HD screen before me, I realized that the girl and I were watching this as a pair of random congregants before the electronic dissembler of a breaking development. And just we watched this one dissembler, a random pair, chancing to have simultaneously passed by this mall TV as the world was finding out that the young girl who'd been kidnapped in Monterey a few months back had been found alive, but in the hands of a sadistic creep who'd brainwashed her into assuming the role of his "wife" and sex slave. The cops had actually been forced to pepper spray her in order to arrest the sweaty old potato of a man that had stolen her from her parents' house!

I turned a bit to my right and acknowledged the small woman who had made the comment, and as I did, she repeated it with a bit more gusto.

"If that were me, I swear I would have found a way to twist that ugly guy up and then get him underneath my fucking foot. Men are easier than that." As she finished this sentence, she looked up at me, happening as she did to catch the exact moment when I was about to turn my gaze away from her so as to demonstrate the proper level of indifference.

But I was late, which she sensed, and which spurred her on to another sentence. "I know you're a guy, but don't you think that a guy could be handled by a pretty gir, if she has a brain, so that she could convince him not to rape her?"

Strangely forward question for a teenage girl to ask a stranger out of the blue, but I felt the "Go with this" switch flip in my head as I smiled at her. I came up with what I thought was a cogent repartee in "Yes, if a woman knows what she's doing, a male is fairly susceptible to her whims. As a matter of fact, if women decided tomorrow that they found men who walked about on their hands to be more attractive than stand-up guys, 90% of the males on Earth would be slapping palms to floor within a year."

She smiled back and stuck out her hand. I shook it, and raised an eyebrow.

"I just moved here," she said as she released my hand, "and I guess I got here just in time to see the end of this story. That girl will eventually recover, but if she knew how to play that guy who took her, this would have ended up a whole different way. Anyway, I'm Martha. Like the nineteen-hundreds, I got named Martha." She smiled up at me and I instantly liked the quirky smile and heavy eyebrows this little woman featured amongst the allure of her sparkling deep green eyes.

"So... what's your name," she asked. She put her hands on her hips as she looked at me. She was probably about sixteen, maybe seventeen. She had a very expressive face, bold but feminine, with a certain intelligent sarcasm playing upon her features. She wore a little lipstick and some fairly heavy black eyeliner, but she let her freckles live on her cheeks, where they, well, worked. She wore a black top with long tight sleeves over a torso that was definitely not thin, but was instead, in a word, lush. Her breasts were large and she carried a bit of a soft padding around her belly and hips. I saw that her hands were very small, and that she took care of her long nails. She'd painted them a glossy black, and she wore many silver rings. Regardless, her hands were so tiny that the black nail polish failed to afford them any air of threat. They looked like painted and cute little claws. Her wrists were circled with dozens of silver and beaded bracelets.

"My name's an old-style name, too, Martha. I'm Hiram. Grandpa's name. But I go by my middle name, which is Mike." I found myself smiling back at her as she held her gaze. Her eyes truly did sparkle.

"Well, my dad dropped me off here, cuz I told him that the mall's as good as any place to find out what kind of people live in a new town, so I guess I'm here shopping without money... as usual," she crossed her arms over her chest, kind of squeezing her breasts up subtly from underneath. She may have thought it was subtle, anyway, but I'm not stupid. She was puffing them up. At thirty-eight, I knew when a girl was accentuating one of her features while attempting to remain less than obvious. I only smiled internally this time. "Good to meet you, Mike," she finished.

The live update on the television monitor that had been the catalyst for this conversation now switched back to regular programming after promising the usual "updates as they develop." I knew that both the girl and I wanted to continue this conversation if for nothing else than that we were both bored and knew nobody local, and were craving some socialization. After all, she was twenty years younger than I, and quite pretty, and I was your average-looking late-thirties divorced guy in sloppy clothes trying to get in and out of the mall as quickly as possible.

As luck would have it, a new topic of conversation was presented to us when the regular show was resumed before our eyes. Rosie O'Donnell was hosting her show then, and when the feed cut back into it she was standing next to a dominatrix in full leathers, holding a paddle, standing over her slave, who was waiting on his hands and knees for the spanking that Rosie was interviewing his mistress about. Rosie was firing off serious questions, and the tall woman in the glistening catsuit was happily answering them. She was his wife, and he her husband, yes, but they lived a lifestyle Female Domination lifestyle. He acted as her total slave and dedicated himself to her happiness, and she gave him the life of submission that he found healthy and rewarding. Very simple, because she herself enjoyed having a husband who devoted himself entirely to her, and she had a personal fetish for control. As the show cut to commercial, she began to demonstrate how she liked to addle her slave. Rosie claped, the audience hoted loudly, and I stole a quick glance over at the intriguing Martha to see that she was enthralled at what she watched, but also had a knowing smirk on her face. The commercial break interrupted, a local pest-control place, and Martha asked me, "Have you ever heard of this? It's like a new thing, where the husband is his wife's slave, and they both like it."

"Yes, I've heard of it," I replied. I quite well knew of this sort of relationship; in fact, the reason I had lost my second wife was a direct result of trying to talk her into a marriage like the one being discussed onscreen before me. "It's, as you say, becoming more common. But not many couples are ready to go on TV and tell people about it." I chuckled as I ended this sentence to see if she'd return it, but she was already thinking about her next sentence.

"I think that the world would be better if women had as much power as males. Like, if women were able to lead countries that have violence and division. I think women are better at resolving conflict. I know that there have been some, but I don't think that if Israel and Palestine and Iran were run by women that we'd all have to worry about being blown up at any given time. What do you think... um, Mike? Mike, right?"

"Yeah, Mike. Right, Martha. I think you're right. If women wanted to, they could control the world."

"Yeah, but too many women fail to recognize their powers. I mean, no offense, but most guys are really, really easy to get to, um, to handle. I think I mean, they're easy to... dominate?"

Dominate? Yeah, she'd said it. I didn't let the realization flicker on my face, but as she started walking slowly toward the mall's main corridor while she began her next sentence, I stepped right along beside her without a thought.

"Yeah, the word is 'dominate.' If a girl knows a guy wants to taste her, she can give him just enough at just the right time to keep him in line. Want a Starbuck's?"

Her non-sequiter broke up my response. "Yeah, on me," I replied with a giant dopey smile.

"Good, follow me," she said as she grabbed my hand and pulled me. She walked briskly as she let my hand fall from hers with a hint of a final parting squeeze. I stayed right behind her as she wove through the mall crowd, my eyes on her luscious buttocks. She was wearing a black wool skirt, longer than her knees. It had a charcoal-gray windowpane pattern woven into it, and it was a bulky skirt, not even designed to flatter the female ass. Nevertheless, I could tell that she had a nice round ripe and generous rear-end. Her legs were covered with black tights, and on her feet were black Keds with white laces. Old low-top sneakers, well-battered and worn.

She grabbed a table at Starbuck's, one of the few that wasn't filled with shoppers, and sat upon the single stool. "Oops, guess you gotta stand, Mike!" she said with a glimmer of humor as she hopped up onto it. "But, you gotta buy drinks anyway. Get me a venti iced coffee, black, with two Splendas. And a side shot of espresso, black."

I looked at her with a raised eyebrow, querying her wordlessly about whether or not she was going to add a "please" to this, and knowing that her response would add either way toward an answer to an as-yet-unasked question in the air. She simply looked down at the table and picked up the promo plaque, pretending to read it as a devilish smile crept across her face. "You know, Mike, you should already be in line getting me those drinks. I wanted them five minutes ago. Didn't you see how fast I led you here?"

"Yeah, I saw, Martha. I'll go get 'em."

I got in line for drink orders. For this most-intriguing Martha, I purchased a big coffee and a small thimble of Starbuck's jet fuel, to-order. I got myself a regular coffee with extra cream and sugar.

I returned to the table to find Martha on her cell phone. She pointed to the space in front of her to indicate to me to put her drinks down, and as I looked to her eyes for a word, she turned away a bit and covered her phone. "Mike, I'm on a call, here, please just stand there for just a sec, I'll be done in just a minute. Open my coffee for me, though."

I stabbed a hole in the lid of her iced coffee, unwrapped a straw, and stuck it in for her. She took it from me as she delved into conversation, turning her back on me as I stood there sipping. I heard her end of the conversation, though, and tried to make sense of the snippets. "No, I'm out, and I don't know when I'll be home, so have dinner without me. No, by myself. I don't know, I really have no idea, and I'll call in a while. Jesus, Ma, just have another drink and get to your couch, I think "People's Court" is on. Yes, bye, bye, see ya, bye."

She flipped shut her phone and looked at me again, the twinkle returning to her eyes as she covered her mouth expression by sipping her drink. "That was my mother, " she unnecessarily told me, "and she wants to play responsible by calling about where I am. But in an hour, she'll be skunked on the couch, and I'll walk right past her when I get home."

"That's too bad, " I start to say, but she shakes me off. "Nope, no big deal. Been that way ever since she dumped my father a couple years ago, and we moved here to get farther away from him, because he kept on stalking us. But he's too broke and drunk to even think of coming all the way here. And mom holds down a job, so she's not totally out of control."

I didn't know what to say, so I just said, "Well, that's good."

"New subject," she came back brightly with. "We were talking about women being able to rule the world if they would only use the power that most of them ignore, or are ignorant of, or just don't use because they themselves like to be submissive. Do you think there are more submissive women than men, Mike?"

Wow, I thought to myself, immediately following that with a mental red flag printed with her age: seventeen. But I could answer safely... "I really don't know. I don't have much experience with that kind of thing."

She drew a large gulp through her straw, and reached icy emptiness. She held the cup out toward me. "Really," she said, that smirk still there, "go get me a refill."

I took the cup and didn't realize until I was already in line that she'd forgotten "please" again. When I'd purchased her item, I returned to her seat and decided to tease her a bit by holding the cup out to her but saying "What's the magic word?" playfully as I yanked it back from her outthrust little hand. She simply raised an eyebrow to me and said "Oh, Mike, stop."

She put out her hand and I gave her the coffee.

"Um, no straw, Mike?" she asked as she tipped the top toward me. I fetched her a straw, unwrapped it, and stuck it in to the hole she held out for its entry.

She pursed her ips over the straw and sucked. After a long sip, she said "Okay, tell me about you. Why are you here, where did you come from, why do you bite your nails?"

I blanched a bit and instinctively curled my hands to hide my nails. Agh, I hated the habit, but found myself unable to stop. They weren't all short and disgusting, or chewed up, but they were obviously a set of bitten-down fingernails.

"I come from Connecticut, but I've lived most of my life in Florida. I came here because my wife at the time got a good job here out west," was my answer.

"Uh, not quite done. 'Wife at the time'? Where is she now? And why do you bite your nails?"

I gave her a "Who are you?!" look, but of course continued as she sipped demurely. The top of her straw was smudged with the dark lipstick. "Well, she's gone, we're divorced. Have been for three years almost. And I guess that's why I bite my nails."

Martha wagged her finger at me. "Nope, there's more to this. First of all, I'll bet that yo've been biting your nails since you were a kid, and second of all, I bet she left because she didn't like to be making more money than you, because she's not comfortable dominating. I'll bet she didn't want to be the dominant wife, deep down. Am I close?"

Again with her knowing smirk, she sucked up the last of her second coffee, then held the espresso out to me. "Take the cap off for me, Mike."

I took off the cap and gave it back to her, even though it would have been nothing for her to have popped off the plastic lid herself. Interesting.

"So, am I close?" she persisted sweetly.

I contemplated my answer. She suddenly cut in. "Don't even answer. Take me shopping, okay?"

"Uh, well, where do you want to shop?" was my witty reply. I hadn't been spending much money for the past three years. The house was paid for, my job was a well-paying exercise in anonymity, and I realy hadn't gone out much since my wife had moved out and away. I could take this girl with the drunken mom and intriguing conversation for a little shopping.

"I don't know, around the mall. I need new sneakers. Wanna help me shop for some new sneaks, and buy 'em for me?"

Oooh, now this was getting good. The downstairs tingle started with her innocent treading upon my strongest fetish. Ah, the foot of woman, my most-treasured subject of fantasy. I attempted to portray ambivalence. "Uh, sure, I guess yours are a little worn out."

She stuck her feet out to her side so that I could see just how worn her old Keds were as she waggled them. I fell into transfixion staring at them, and she carefully watched my response.

When she pulled her feet back underneath her chair and out of my view, she looked right at me and said "Buy me all the stuff I want, and I'll sneak you into my house and fuck you tonight, with conditions."

I dropped my jaw and blurted "What!?" at her in surprise.

"I said, Mike," and she now tickled my forearm with one of her well-manicured black nails, "that if you take me shopping for whatever I want, you'll be coming home with me tonight to sneak past my passed-out mother into my bedroom, where I'm going to teach you how I like to get fucked. With conditions., but you'll definitely get laid. Sound like a deal?"

All I could say before my defenses and judgment crumbled to the ground was "How old are you, Martha?"

"How old are you, thirty-nine?" she countered.

"Yeah, and you...?" I stammered back.

"I'm too young for you to fuck without taking a risk, put it that way. But... I am in high school. So, just trust me, follow my lead, because I'm experienced, and I already know how you are. If you play this right, I think you'll satisfy one of your fantasies tonight, I'll be happy too, and then we'll see whatever happens from there. Take me shopping, you already made up your mind. Follow me."

She popped up and scurried away, and I kept up with her as she dove into a few stores, my credit card coming out a half-dozen times to pile up three bags of tops and skirts and other solid-black items of clothing. She only wore black, apparently, other than the white laces on her sneakers and the chrome-pyramid belt around her waist.

"Okay, just new sneakers, then let's go have fun," she spoke up to me with a happy smile and an out-of-breath voice. Speaking of her breath, I caught a whiff and felt the immediate jolt to my heart that sweet fresh girl-breath hammers me with. "I just need a new pair of these, and then I'll drive to my house. You follow behind me. I'll show you where to park, and how to sneak into my bedroom. You got a cell?"

"Yeah, I do," I replied.

"Good, Ill check my mother, then you just wait for my call, and then come in through the back door I'll show you."

"Okay, Martha... are you sure? Because you could just keep the clothes and change your mind."

"Oh, Mike, believe me, I know that if I wanted to, I could have you maxing out a credit card right now in return for just the couple hours with me. But I think I like you. I don't like dominating young guys."

"Okay," I eagerly spoke, answering her smile with my own, "Let's get you some sneakers and then let's go fuck."

"Yeah, but remember... my way, my house, my rules!"

"Yes, your way, I know, that's just fine," I replied, and that was all until we reached the shoe store she wanted to buy her new black Keds from.

When we walked in, a little guy in a referee shirt smiled too obviously as he approached the voluptuous teenager. "Can I help you Miss?" he leered. She looked down at him. She was five-foot-six, and he was about five-four. "Nope, I have my little helper right here," she told him as she grabbed my waist and squeezed me into her soft body. I picked up a hint of her scent; no perfume, just the fresh scent of a ripening young woman tinctured with the reminiscent scent of girlhood. Her breasts, well-covered by her loose top, were even larger than I'd suspected. I felt her right one against my left arm as she pulled me close.

"Okay, Miss, just let me know what you decide and I'll get it for you."

"I want to try on a few," she replied, "So we'll get you in a little while, because I want to take my guy home soon. Okay?"

The little clerk looked at me and cackled. "Lucky frickin' Pharoah," he told me. Pharoah?

Martha sat in a fitting chair and told me to kneel down so I could help her pick shoes. She pointed a glossy black nail to the floor-space before her seated self. She extended her right leg. "Take off these old shoes, Mike."

I unlaced her right sneaker and gently removed it from her foot. As I slid it off, I saw that she wore no socks, just had bare white feet of pure porcelain inside. The intoxicating fragrance of girl-foot invaded my brain, and whether she perceived this or not I became hers for the moment, hers without any remaining resistance.

"Other one," and she put her left leg out to me. I gently unlaced it and slid her bare foot free. Her feet were small, but formed perfectly and with exquisite, delicate detail. Lightly veined, highly arched, aligned small curly toes, and the glossy black nail polish causing that incredible alabaster-black enamel contrast.

"Okay, I want you to get me a few sneaks to try. Let's start with those."

I looked to where she pointed and saw a pair of black leather rock-climbing grip sneakers. "I'm size five," she said, "what are those?"

There were no fives on display. I got the attention of the little leering clerk and he fetched some from the back.

"Put them on me, Mike," said Martha, "and lace 'em up so I can try 'em out."

I was probably a bit too worshipful as I carefully slid the cute little shoe over her outstretched right foot. "I like watching a guy kneel before me, Mike," she giggled. "Do you like being where you are?"

I thought it was a rhetorical question, so I didn't answer. She pulled her foot away and repeated herself. "Well, do you?"

And that was the moment I cracked. Freud would understand why I replied with "Yes, Mistress," instead of the "Yes, Martha," that I was absolutely intending to say. I corrected myself quickly.

"Too late, I heard you. Look, I'm horned out, we gotta go. I'll take these but I still need Ked low-tops, or maybe Converse. Find some size five black ones of either and get them to my feet so you can buy 'em for me and we can get out of here."

I ended up buying both pairs as we fled the mall toward the heat that deliciously awaited.