Mario had an intensive gaze that led women to believe there was something mystical about him. It was true that pretty girls evoked a certain concentration in him bordering on the manic. But his gentle features invariably deflected any suspicion of perversity or obsession. He imagined one day what his paradise would be, leading to his decision to invite several of his female friends at once. The mystery of Mario's eyes intently fixed on them, awaiting an answer, invariably functioned with each of the girls he hoped would grace him with her unstockinged presence. And they came, all of them. He had told them he could read their fortune, but in a new way, the way of a lost art that had been passed along in his family, in secret, from generation to generation. He could read the soles of their feet, follow each of the lines of that tender base of a woman, each innocent curl of their toes and curve of their instep, read all the delights and passions awaiting their lives, and - this he kept to himself - he would read them in such a way as to subtly suggest himself. But Mario underestimated the girls, and overestimated himself. The jumbled pairs of bare feminine feet summed to a force of erotic power that strained his heart past the ability to beat. Not even mouth-to-mouth resuscitation could save him.

Story #229