Earlier I posted the Story of Kurt the Cobbler or How to Succeed in Publishing. This is the erotic version or How Romance Writers Can Use Their Tongues...
|Kurt the Cobbler as he really appears in this tale|
Kurt the Cobbler lived in Fabelonia, a small village on the outskirts of Famenfortunia. Passion thrummed in his veins for the trade that had given him strong hands and broad shoulders. He had hair as black as boot polish and eyes as bright as silver grommets. At the age of 34, his shop, Beneath the Bench, was everything to him. All night long and most of the day, Kurt’s clientele came to him to have their heels hammered and insteps molded. He gave them what they wanted. He was very good at his trade.
On this particular day, Kurt was finishing a commission for the village banker, Iwana Scrue. Iwana was as thin and lissome as a shoelace, but as sharp as the tacks that held her sole in place. She had heard of Kurt’s renown and had granted him many commissions from Beneath the Bench. He had a special technique for tongue placement so that it slipped from side to side in a type of massage but never fell away completely. Kurt thought it odd that as he cobbled Iwana she would scream out her own name. But he was too kind a cobbler to ever protest.
When Iwana ordered a pair of thigh-high boots made of butter-soft coypu leather lined with goose down, Kurt set aside all other work. He traced his long thick fingers from the cleft of her legs, across her inner thighs, behind her knees and around her ankles. She shuddered. He pounded. Soon the boots were finished. Kurt was very proud of the boots. He was polishing the final brass eyelet just as Iwana traipsed into the store, plopped her bounteous butt on the sleek wood of Kurt’s bench, and wiggled for attention.
The shoemaker knelt in front of Iwana and slipped the boots on her long lithe legs. They fit as if sheathed in her own skin. Iwana stood up and then sat down, stood up, and sat down. Stood up and sat down thrice more until Kurt groaned.
“Do you like it?”
Iwana sighed. “They’re too something or other.” She stood up, straightened her skirt, and left the store.
Kurt had worked on those boots for two weeks and set aside all other hammers and screws to complete the job. Now he had no money and no food. But he still had his tongue technique. That had to have some worth.
What was he to do? Frustration grew. Gripping his pole, he lifted himself up and moaned. “I think I’ll go fishing.” Fishing for fish would be a good distraction to the growling in his stomach.
Just as he stepped outside his door, a bluebird twittered by. In its beak, it gripped a piece of butter bun, still fragrant from the oven. Kurt followed the aroma up the street to Bettina Barista’s bakery. Bettina waved to Kurt and came from behind the counter. She had rosy cheeks and a great big heart inside her great big bodice. As she approached, Kurt spied a tray of the fresh buns and gingerly lifted one to his lips.
“Kurt,” Bettina said breathlessly, “I’d always hoped you would sample my buns.” She tilted down her heart-shaped face, peeked at him from beneath dark lashes, and pouted. “But there’s nothing here but boobs for someone as talented as you,” she muttered, gesturing across her ample chest to her two slow-witted sisters who stood behind the glass counter.
Kurt’s broad smile showed teeth white and square. He arched a brow and cocked his head.
She clasped him by his burly bicep and led him to the back of the store. “Please come try my soft meringues.” Handing him a pale, quivering mound that was peaked and nearly as big as his head, she whispered. “You must lick it to really enjoy it.”
Kurt’s hooded gaze held Bettina as he flicked his tongue across the point of her meringue. It pebbled beneath his ministrations and his eyes flared wide at the sensation.
Bettina smiled mischievously. “The sugar granulates on contact.”
Overwhelmed with emotion, his eyes misted over. “Bettina, you have sweetened my day and now I know what I must do.”
Her cornflower blue eyes widened in surprise as he swept his arm around her broad waist and pulled her against his chest. Heat flared down his back, reaching into the seat of his pants, nearly setting him on fire.
Bettina squealed. “Come away from the oven. Your shirt will catch.”
She drew him into a shadowed corner. Without a word, he pressed his mouth against hers, nipping and coaxing with his tongue until she opened to him. His hunger grew as her scent of vanilla bean filled his nostrils. He pulled back, breathing hard. “Vanilla?”
She glanced down at her breasts that showed above her apron, trembling in time to her heartbeat. “I spilled some earlier.” Lowering his head, he licked at the sticky trail before burrowing his face in her pillowy softness.
Bettina wriggled with delight. “It’s true what they say about your tongue.”
“Yes!” His dark eyes smoldered as he lifted his head. “It is true. I have a skill. From now on, I will only make shoes that I like. If people buy them, I will know that I have done my best work and I won’t sell my tongues just because it's what someone else wants.”
“Oh, Kurt,” sighed Bettina and she wrapped her arm around his neck, tangling her fingers in his silky curls.
From that day onward, Kurt worked hard in his cobbler’s shop. Each new shoe was an expression of his inner desires. For Bettina, he crafted a special pair of wide width slippers with insoles as soft as the meringue that had captured his heart.
And they lived happily ever after.
Of course, there’s a moral to the Erotic Story of the Cobbler. After all, he lives in Fabelonia. There are actually five morals:
- Buns are best served fresh.
- Help others but don’t try to please everyone.
- Display your wares but don’t give them away.
- Find your voice and your tongue.
- Keep on cobbling.
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