Zusa Goes Shopping
by Lloyd W. Fredericton
I’m taking a little shopping trip and if you’re a good boy, I’ll allow you to come along.
I am stunning, as usual, in a white silk blouse with the top three buttons undone and a charcoal gray skirt, short enough to melt minds. A maroon blazer, dark brown leggings and black, knee-high boots complete my look.
My golden blonde hair rests on my shoulders. My favorite pair of librarian-style glasses frame my sky-blue eyes.
As I glide through the mall, men of all ages (and more than a few women) steal peeks, turn heads, or outright stare with their mouths hanging wide open. With every glimpse, sideways glance, and fleeting look, they grow a little weaker and I become that much stronger.
With shaking hands, shoppers pull out their phones to record a few moments of my rocking hips. Little do they realize they’ll spend the rest of their lives watching the video over and over, pining for me, dreaming of me.
I arrive at the atrium and scan it, looking for my prey. And there you are, talking on your phone, engrossed in conversation. You haven’t noticed that you are in the presence of a Goddess. You will soon pay the price for your self-centeredness.
A man in a business suit throws himself on the ground in front of me and pledges his undying love. I’m not impressed. I step over him, but let the heel of my boot grind into the back of his hand. He blurts out, “Thank you” between sobs.
I’ve already forgotten him as I walk up to you, tap your shoulder, and ask in my most heart-breaking, knee-buckling voice, “Do you have the time?”
Agitated you turn and reply, “Look, honey, I’m on the ph—”
Your eyes meet mine, and you freeze. The thrill of stopping a man with my gaze never gets old. I grin, displaying perfect white teeth, and you instinctively smile back.
“My name is Zusa,” I say in my huskiest voice.
You have not blinked since my eyes locked onto yours. My eyes, my voice, my scent causes your mind to reel. You are lost in a hypnotic haze.
With great effort you manage to speak. “Um —er, my name is…” You drift off, sinking into the depths of my blue eyes.
“I don’t care.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Your name is unimportant to me.” I glance at the cell phone still in your hand. “You can hang that up.”
Without breaking eye contact, you tell the other party, “I’ll talk to you later.” You end the call and slip the phone into your pocket.
“Good news,” I inform you. “I’ve decided to allow you to come shopping with me.” I grab you by the arm and direct you down the concourse. You walk awkwardly due to the growing bulge in your trousers.
In Nordstrom’s I try on leather mini-skirts, tight cashmere sweaters with plunging necklines, little black dresses, and my favorite: a shimmery silver evening gown with a slit to my hip.
You become more bewitched with each change of clothes. You can think of nothing but my incomparable beauty. The bulge in your pants grows. You believe you are in heaven. You are correct.
Now it’s time for you to earn your keep.
The sales girl rings up the purchases. The total comes to just over twenty-six hundred dollars.
I turn to you, lock eyes, and in my most seductive voice say one word: “Wallet.”
Your mouth twitches. There’s hesitation in your eyes. You mind, coasting on auto-pilot, tries to re-assert itself. Your hands remain at your sides. You are thinking ‘She can’t really expect me to pay, can she?’
Of course I can! You just need a little encouragement. I loop my arms around your neck, and press my body to yours. The bulge continues to grow. I lightly kiss your neck. I can feel your resolve slipping. My soft lips brush your ear. I whisper. “You want to buy these clothes for me.”
I break the embrace and your body shudders. “The more your struggle, the weaker you become.” I see submission in your eyes. I win. Again.
Shaking hands remove your wallet from your pocket. I slip out a credit card and give it to the clerk.
She has watched our entire exchange and flashes me a quizzical look.
I tell her, “At least there’s one thing men are good for.”
She laughs and agrees. Your face turns bright red.
The transaction complete, you dutifully carry my bags and we head to the make-up counter.
I attract quite a crowd as I try on a variety of new lipsticks and glosses. Men stop and gawk, intrigued with the delicate care and skill with which I paint my lips. No one stares more intently than you.
A certain dark shade of red, looks exquisite on my lips.
“That one’s on sale,” the clerk says helpfully.
“Charge the full price,” I reply. “I want only the best, the most expensive, and nothing on discount.”
You look on with a blank state, dimly aware that I am systematically draining you dry. The total comes to just over six hundred and we’re off to the shoe department. I wonder which one of us is enjoying the moment more.
I try on all manner of boots from adorable platinum ankle boots, to a pair of mind-blowing over the knee suede riding boots. Strappy sandals show off my beautiful toes and wrap around my shapely calves. Even a pair of high-top Chuck Taylor’s sets your heart-racing when I wear them.
My shoes excite, thrill, and tempt you. In your mind a new fetish is born. You adore me, but now you adore my feet with a passion bordering on obsession.
At the register the clerk runs the credit card: declined. Again I demand your wallet. This time I remove all your credit cards. With a new card the transaction is approved; eighteen hundred dollars for all my new shoes.
At the perfume counter, I am exploring new scents when your cell phone rings. You make no move to answer it. After being exposed to me for a few hours, you are practically catatonic. I brush my hand across your chest, reach into your pocket, retrieve the phone, and answer.
It’s your boss. He’s angry and demanding to know where you are. “Sorry, he’s involved in a very important undertaking. He’s shopping with me.” I hang up, turn the phone off so we won’t be disturbed further, and return it to your pocket.
With an evil grin I say, “I think you might have some explaining to do tomorrow. If you still have a job.”
The distraction of the ringing phone will cost you. I have been trying to decide between perfumes. I tell the sales girl I will take them all. It’s over thirteen hundred dollars. I laugh as I max out another of your cards.
At the jewelry counter I’ve chosen a dazzling array of earrings, bracelets and necklaces. But your last credit card is declined. I use a few gift certificates sent from online admirers to complete the sale.
“Come, my toy. We’re through here.”
You waddle along, weighed down by my bounty, trying to keep pace. Men still can’t help but stare at me, secretly wishing to trade places with you. They are so envious of my shopping toy.
I instruct you to place all the bags and boxes in my car. My haul for the day is so large it fills the trunk and back seat.
“Wallet,” I command.
You hold it out for me. I return the useless credit cards, but remove most of the cash, leaving behind just a few crinkled one dollar bills.
“That about does it.” I turn to leave.
“Please don’t go,” you implore.
“But my toy, you’re over your credit limits and have no cash. You’re no longer of any use to me.” I laugh, because it’s funny. And true.
Your voice wavers. “Please, give me a chance. I can get more money. I’ll get a loan from my 401(k), or refinance my mortgage.”
At the sound of the desperation in your voice, my heart beats a little faster. I do so love it when men beg and plead. “Those are both excellent ideas.” I reach out and caress your face. “Your creativity should be rewarded.”
I embrace you and pull close. My cheek brushes yours, and you tremble. Into your ear I whisper, “When your funds are replenished, visit MsZusa.com and you may please me with gifts from my wish list.”
I kiss you on the cheek. The traces of lipstick are prominent on your face. The red outlines of my lips mark you as my property, brand you like cattle. My kiss also renders you completely enchanted, unable to either move or speak. “Thank you again, My toy. Ta, ta.”
I enter my car and rain begins to fall. As I maneuver the car through the parking lot, I mentally add up all my gifts for the day. Close to nine thousand dollars. It’s raining harder now.
As I’m about to turn onto the street, I look in the rear view mirror and see you standing there, motionless and spellbound.
It seems like such a bother to turn around and release you. Anyway the cold November rain will break the spell. In an hour. Or two. Probably.
Besides I have to get home and start work on a new shopping list. I’m redecorating my living room.
And if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you take me shopping again.