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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2006 Stiletto Flash Contest
First Prize


Saint Margaret of Cortona is the patron saint of prostitutes but right now she’s got a plane to catch. Saint Madam for short. Gauzy red skirt, creamy legs and black high heels. Saint Madam’s plane takes off at eight. She likes to get to the airport early to try to do some good.

Shineman shines boots, shoes, ladies’ shoes at the one-man stand in Terminal B weekdays six to four. All day, mostly men, heads jammed in a newspaper and they walk off fast right after they pay.

Saint Madam floats past the stand but then she stops, turns, sees her chance to do some good. Climbs up and plants a slow high heel on either footrest. Red skirt falls between to cover what it covers. Saint Madam slides her hands to her knees, beams down on Shineman and tilts her head soft to the side.

Shineman’s blank face stays low, hands slippery in the boot-black. It’s like Saint Madam figured – he’s got the moves. Snaps the rag so hard against the heel it shivers up her backside. Slides the wet brush along the crevice where the sole binds to leather, and the glide shoots right to where her legs open up. And a thumb, one wet thumb just now and then on creamy skin, below the ankle where the leather puckers out. Shineman, eye-level with warm button-flies and pussies all day long, he just keeps his eyes on the black.

Saint Madam tilts her head the other way and lets the light bend around her face. Hikes that skirt a little and leans forward and whispers, right at him while he snaps and shines: I need to tell you something.

He says: ma’am?

And then Shineman wishes he hadn’t because now Saint Madam slides her ass forward so her knees almost touch his shoulders and she says: Shineman, you need to know we come here for the fuck. You snap that rag so good, we go straight from here to the restroom down Terminal B to finish the job. Look how you handle that boot-black, Shineman, up and down, and don’t tell me you don’t know. Don’t tell me you’re ashamed. You think we come for shiny shoes? Look up.

Shineman doesn’t like to look but he does, quick, at her lit-up face. She shakes her head, no, knocks him knee-to-shoulder so he understands, Jesus. She means to look right at it. And there it is, damn near polished, pushed out, just right there eye-level between black shoes and white thighs. Christ.

Saint Madam holds a couple beats so he can see what he’s done, how red, how ready, then she brings her knees together slow.

Shineman’s eyes are stuck in place. Boot-black drips from his elbow.

Saint Madam beams. She says: you don’t need to be ashamed. She pushes money into his shaky wet hand, a fat wad of bills, and Saint Madam floats on down toward the sunlight where the planes take off.

Ann Rosenquist Fee is a writer and editor in Mankato, Minnesota. Her work appears monthly in Static, southern Minnesota’s arts and culture magazine,

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To: Ann Rosenquist Fee

Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2006 Stiletto Flash Contest
First Prize