ANON: Owen has a thing for Claire leaving her heels on when they have sex.
For some reason this doesn’t quite match the prompt. But, it’s also quarter to five in the AM. So, I’m just gonna drop this and run away. Sleep forever and then colour something in like the little girl I am not, but kinda wish I still was.
He was obsessed with her shoes. From the first day he met her, the clack of her heels resinating against linoleum, echoing across cold, hard metal. Black and blue, beige and pink, the colours varied, mostly solid, none of that leopard print shit. The brands changed, or at least he thought so anyway, the shape would variate, thick pumps and thin stilettos. Owen, although highly uneducated in the shoe world, always managed to recognise the blood red sole of her Louboutin’s.
He never moved beyond simple obsession, watching her approach in sleek black stilettos or matte white pumps. His eyes mostly fixated to her shoes, when his attention wasn’t glued to the fire of her hair or the intensity in her eyes.
Something shifted after the incident. Ever since he told her she wouldn’t last three seconds waltzing through the jungle in her ridiculous shoes. She proved him wrong. Claire Dearing made it from start to finish, she ran, she jumped, and she fell in those beige Manolo Blahnik’s. She lived though, made it to the very end, covered in mud, soaked in sweat, clothes torn to rags. Her shoes remained in one piece, heels attached, still wrapped around her feet. As if to drive it a little further, she never complained, not a single squeak about twisted ankles.