Ladies Footwear Quotes

I’m turned on by women who are comfortable in their own skin; and I’m turned off by those who are uncomfortable in their own shoes.

What in the world are you wearing-is that my sock?" "Nay." With mock solemnity, he said, "it is a priceless token given to me by my most esteemed and beautiful lady. Her footwear is more precious to me than rubies or gold." I missed a step, laughing as I swatted his bicep. "Dork." "If my lady commands it, a dork I shall be.

To be a shoefitter in Mansfield's was my love's young dream, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly small, of Clyde Road ladies.

I want to wear flip-flops for the rest of my life.  They’re not just mere footwear.  They can act as makeshift fly swatters, they clap for you when your hands are tired.  And once I saw a lady take off her flop and swat her kid on the butt.  Yeah, that was probably going to be me one day.  ‘The beatings will continue until morale improves.

As if not to be outdone by the fair sex, as ladies headwear ranged ever higher, so too men’s footwear became ever longer. By 1367 a fashion for long-toed shoes called Krakows, after the capital city of Poland at that time, emerged and by 1450 the shoes were known as pikes or pigaches after a kind of pail with a long handle. A decade later they were universally recognised as Poulaines as in ‘souliers a la Poulaine’, otherwise shoes in the Polish fashion. The monstrosities lasted over 300 years, with the term Poulaine always referring to the long, pointed beak of the shoe only and not the shoe itself. The shoes were eventually legislated against as the ridiculous extensions became longer and longer until walking was almost impossible.

Try as she might, Annabelle could think of no subtle way to ask him. After grappling silently with a variety of phrases, she finally settled for a blunt question. “Were you responsible for the boots?” His expression gave nothing away. “Boots? I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, Miss Peyton. Are you speaking in metaphor, or are we talking about actual footwear?” “Ankle boots,” Annabelle said, staring at him with open suspicion. “A new pair that was left inside the door of my room yesterday.” “Delighted as I am to discuss any part of your wardrobe, Miss Peyton, I’m afraid I know nothing about a pair of boots. However, I am relieved that you have managed to acquire some. Unless, of course, you wished to continue acting as a strolling buffet to the wildlife of Hampshire.” Annabelle regarded him for a long moment. Despite his denial, there was something lurking behind his neutral facade…some playful spark in his eyes…“Then you deny having given the boots to me?” “Most emphatically I deny it.” “But I wonder…if some one wished to have a pair of boots made up for a lady without her knowledge…how would he be able to learn the precise size of her feet?” “That would be a relatively simple task…” he mused. “I imagine that some enterprising person would simply ask a housemaid to trace the soles of the lady’s discarded slippers. Then he could take the pattern to the local cobbler. And make it worth the cobbler’s while to delay his other work in favor of crafting the new shoes immediately.” “That is quite a lot of trouble for someone to go through,” Annabelle murmured. Hunt’s gaze was lit with sudden mischief. “Rather less trouble than having to haul an injured woman up three flights of stairs every time she goes out walking in her slippers.” Annabelle realized that he would never admit to giving her the boots—which would allow her to keep them, but would also ensure that she would never be able to thank him. And she knew he had—she could see it in his face.

I remove my shoes in what can only be described as the most sensual display a man has ever made with his footwear.

Do you need assistance with your dress?” “I do not.” She shifted, and Ben heard her draw in her breath at the sight of him peeled down to his breeches and boots. He sat on the bed, giving her his back so he could tug off his footwear. Maggie came around the bed and sat beside him. “This doesn’t feel right.” When he wanted to hurl his boots hard against the bedroom wall, Ben instead set them tidily beside the bed. “What doesn’t feel right about it?” “It’s broad daylight and we’re not married and we’re not marrying, either.” “This marriage business troubles you exceedingly,” he observed. “What is about to happen between us has happened before, Maggie, and at your instigation in even broader daylight than this. I believe you enjoyed yourself, and I most assuredly know I did. Do we need to complicate matters beyond that?” She turned green eyes on him, luminous with some emotion he could not name. “I suppose not.” Her busy, brilliant mind wanted to complicate it—he could see that much in her troubled expression—but his not-very-brilliant, lust-clouded mind was determined on simplicity. He took her hand and put it over the fall of his trousers. “It isn’t complicated at all. You want me, and I’m happy to oblige you. Take the dress off, Maggie, or I will tear it from your body.” And this—this sincere threat of sartorial violence—was what finally won him a small, impish smile. “You would not tear it off me, but you might ruck it up and wrinkle it beyond salvation.

Where does a young lady in Wakefield, Connecticut, purchase combat boots?” “Goodwill,” she said. “You’re wearing Goodwill combat boots?” “Yes.” “Congratulations, Eleanor. Your footwear has achieved irony.” Before