Red or dead

They were, of course, 'fuck me' shoes, shoes to get laid in, shoes that could scream their lurid wantoness across a crowded room - and they were hers. Did she want them? Could she wear them? She hadn't decided, but they sure beat the sensible work clothes that she had originally gone to buy.
Six months ago she wouldn't have even known about 'fuck me' shoes let alone owned a pair. Things had changed and when the world changes you either hide in a very deep hole or go out and buy red shoes. She had surprised herself with the choice but the shoes were another thing to add to her ever growing list of worldly changes. The realisation that her world was now akin to an expensive shellfish was a revelation. No longer the duchess of the kitchen sink, princess of the toilet cleaner or queen of fucking everything in the whole house, she was quite simply, free to choose her own footwear.

The red devils grinned slyly from the mirror. With five inches of patent sexual come hitherment, the little black dress was transformed. She took a few death defying steps towards the safety of the wardrobe. Practice would make nearly perfect and that would do for the short distance to the post box on Market Street. It wasn't far but it was all she thought she could manage. At this time of night no one would see her but her soul would know that she had actually worn red shoes in public.

By the time she reached the post box her hips had done that innate female thing and developed a sway that Rita Heyworth would have been proud to call her own. She had done it, but here under the lamppost on Market Street the shoes winked at her.
"Click your heels." they said "I don't want to go home yet."
They were right, another worldly change, a step in the right direction towards the bar down the road and a chance to see if her new footwear would live up to their very saucy name.