The dark-haired young woman looking down at the thin, fair-haired man saw a nice guy she might like to go out with. French perfume wafting from her firm, young thighs put thoughts in his head about her as well, the kindest of which was, whore!

Placing her nylon-clad foot on a flat, electronic scanner, P.J. Shields could almost see where the hose met the panties at the woman’s crotch. Her nipples, which he could see too well though the translucent pink fabric of her blouse, were too long, the areola too wide and dark.

She smiled invitingly, stretching the Bawdy-Red paint on her lips into a thin, lascivious line on her painted face—at least, that’s how P.J. saw it.

He smiled back.

The spacious shoe store had many seated customers, several three-sided mirrors, a few salesmen on rolling stools and no new shoes in sight. The full-size mirrors attached to each other at right angles, reflected everything about the person standing before them except for the store’s patented "Magic Slippers." The slippers looked like flexible clear plastic on the customers’ feet but reflected the shoe styles of their choice in the mirrors.

"I never been to The Magic Slipper before," said the girl. "I seen it advertised in the T-window at home."

"In that case," said P.J., taking a reading from a display bar on the scanner and rolling to one side with the linoleum tile-like measuring device in hand, "We’ll have to take extra special care of you."

The girl giggled. Everything the young man had done, from his Prince Charming welcome, to helping her off with her shoes, had been done with extra special care. She was glad she had worn her nicest red skirt with the two black satin pleats, her prettiest blouse with the sequined neckline and her mother’s best perfume. She didn’t know how much money salesmen in a fancy place like this made and she didn’t care. He was nice. He was handsome. He was mature. He probably had a car.

"You wanted two inch heals, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Would you like to look over the stock while I get your magic slippers?" P.J. stood, pulled a light-pen from his shirt pocket and shot an amber spot at the center mirror. All three mirrors became T-windows filled with racks of women’s shoes. "The left window is athletic-wear, the right is casual. Formal-wear is in the center. Miss..."

"Judy."

"They call me, P.J."

"P.J. I like that. It sounds so executive."

"Thanks. Do you have a light-pen?"

"No."

"Use this one," he said, handing her his pen. "You can keep it; I got a whole drawer-full"

"Thanks."

"The menu bar is on the right side of each window. See where it says rack one?"

The girl nodded.

"Every time you click on it, you’ll get a new rack to choose from—rack two, rack three, and so on. If you see a pair of shoes you like, click on’em and you can bring’em forward and turn’em any way you want to get a good look. When you’re done, click ‘DONE,’ and they’ll go back where they were. Or, if you think you might want to come back to a pair, just leave’em out. Watch."

P.J. pulled another light-pen from his shirt pocket and gave a quick demonstration. He clicked through six racks, pulling out shoes, twirling them around with the four-cornered base they sat on, then put them back by setting the point of amber light on "DONE."

The girl tried it with her light-pen. "Oh," she said, "This is easy."

"Yeah, you got it. It’ll only take a minute to get your slippers. Do you mind if I wait on another customer while you’re looking?"

"Yes. I mean No." She snickered at her mistake, and at the thick lump she had put in the cute salesman’s pants. "Go ahead. I wanna browse."

"When you’re ready, give me a call."

"I will."

P.J. hopped on his stool, fighting down the evil arousal that dark-haired slut had cause with her lipstick and perfume. He rolled two seats over from Judy to a shockingly beautiful woman in her late twenties or early thirties, with hazel eyes and dark African skin. She was wearing a tasteful, white, Softglow business suit with subtle hints of polished copper and gold. P.J. didn’t notice her good looks. He didn’t notice her business suit. He noticed her color, which was all he needed to deflate the swelling in his trousers. Dark toast women always had that effect on him. Under the circumstances, he was glad to see her.

Toasties were an unusual sight in the Magic Slipper. The ones he waited on were better than some of the whites. This one obviously had money. She could probably talk good. And, if she was a whore, she didn’t dress the part like the slut two seats to her left.

Now that bitch was cruising for a belt around her neck. He couldn’t do it as soon as he would like, but he was putting her on file. He had a lot of sluts like her on file. They were all alike, all out to lure men with their red shoes, eager to arouse men to a state of violent lust with their lipstick and perfume, then to kick and scream when they got the kind of fucking they deserved. In the end, they would all put the looped belt around their own necks and beg for a few more seconds of life.

P.J. was getting another erection. He turned his attention back to the woman in the white suit. "May I help you," he asked, with the same warm smile he had given his previous customer.

Judy saw him and the black woman from the corner of her eye. She noticed how beautiful the woman was. She noticed the rich-bitch suit. She noticed the soft, sexy way the handsome blond shoe clerk had spoken to her. She noticed how jealous she was. Blacks and blonds, she thought. She hoped P.J. wasn’t one of those fair-haired boys who couldn’t resist rich dark chocolate. Then again, women like that could have any man they wanted. All they had to do was smile and bat their eyelashes. They didn’t even have to shake their butts. It wasn’t fair. Judy knew she wasn’t bad to look at herself, but she had to work hard to look good enough to turn heads.