Something new.
Shoes.
No … .not shoes.
Heels … Sexy ones.
The kind that make a woman’s arch …
arch.
I am in the store, staring at row after after row of boxed heels. A hundred different styles are on display. For today, it’s my new candy store.
Decisions, decisions.
I’ve narrowed it down to two black pairs.
One spiked, the other a sturdy platform.
On and off and on and off; I can’t decide which pair feels best. Standing and shifting my weight, I rock back on one heel to see how it presses into my arch.
The motion makes my legs grow longer. Watching myself in a department store mirror, the sight energizes me. Still … decisions, decisions.
Unselfconsciously, I saunter toward the tall, gigantic, full-length mirror. Which pair is prettier? More feminine? More vixen? Which is for me and which is for him?
Nearby, a tall and imposing man takes delight in my obvious frustration.
“Decisions, decisions … .” I say and, look at him, my arms falling into an ‘oh what to do?’ pose.
“First- world problems,” he sighs.
I look down at the heels, then back at the mirror, then down again.
With a serious tone, he offers, “I’d like to help you make this decision.”
It’s a joke, but we pretend a lot depends on this decision–that this choice may alter my life forever.
“First, tell me how you feel in them.”
I describe how this particular pair makes me feel elegantly feminine with its narrow heel.
“Let me see you walk in them.”
So I do. I walk back and forth numerous times. He takes it all in with a discerning gaze.
“Those are beautiful on your feet, but they’re not made for walking. It’s apparent you can’t walk well in them. Still … ……” He chuckles as he comments and I appreciate that he’s thinking of my comfort. “Let’s see you in the other pair.”
We share a quiet moment as I sit quietly to unbuckle the narrow straps. This turns into a delicate performance wherein my ankle becomes the star, gracefully being revealed. My breasts smash against my thigh, accentuating my cleavage. I catch his eye. He looks hungry, even bold.
The next pair makes me four inches taller, maybe five inches, but not more and as the man next to me begins to shrink I feel as if I’ve accomplished a new stature . Also black, but with wider straps, this pair has a platform and a thicker heel. Despite their height, I can walk well in them, my hips sway as if saying oh yes. We choose these.
“I’m buying them for you.”
Pleased and surprised, I let him. Then he asks me to join him for a drink, perhaps at that place down the road. It’s quiet and they have a good cocktail menu.
“Sure, I’d like that.” We chat as we walk out to our cars. He holds onto the box containing my sexy vixen shoes. Smiling, he tells me he will “see me there”. He leaves with my shoes.
He arrives before I do. Scanning the bar, I spot him in a back booth. I look to see if he has my shoes with him. He does not. I play along. I can always go back and buy the pair myself, I reason. We talk about everything except the heels. I enjoy the our game and I enjoy him.
“I probably should get going.” I say, regretting the late hour. Without hesitation, he pays the bill and walks me to my car. While we say goodbye at the car, he stands very close to me. He is very tall again. I imagine him trying to kiss me. As I gesture as though I am getting into my car, and finally mentions the heels.
“Do you want your heels?” he asks, eyes narrow.
“I do indeed want my shoes!!!” I squeal.
What happens next transitions to my apartment. We make up a new game– or he does, anyway–that turns into some kind of audition. I don’t just get my new heels; I have to earn them. Do I actually deserve these sexy beasts of a shoe? To prove that I do, I have to bring them to life. It’s not as simple as just wearing them. I have to embody them and let them change me.
I take the game seriously. Scoping out my apartment, I choose the best place for him to sit and the best place for me to start. My special spot has soft lighting; twilight filters through the window. It’s warm, I take off my jacket. When I bend over to strap on the heels, my cleavage is on full display. I play with different ways of sitting that show off my legs. While it feels like just the beginning, and I’m not sure where to go from here.
I press him for input. “How am I doing?”
“My dear, you are very alluring, but your outfit just isn’t doing it for me. I am sorry, but that’s the truth. You need to change clothes.”
Lucky for me, just last week I bought two pieces of very sexy lingerie. “If you can give me a moment, I can fix that for you.” Probably he’s expecting something less, but what the heck.
I change into a subtle, light pink, (almost beige) babydoll with black lace brocade that covers everything except my breasts. My large areolae and nipples peek through the sheer fabric. I let down my hair, tousle it, and give it a wild look. Next, some light lipstick and I’m off. I don’t feel nervous walking back out. I feel tall, and I’m embracing the vixen. I own this.
“Oh! Now THAT … that is amazing. You look amazing. Gorgeous. Thank you.”
I sway around the room, fully experiencing the way my lower half of my body has changed thanks to having the extra length in my legs. Satisfied, I place myself on the love seat, sitting with my legs wide open. Normally my feet barely touch the ground, but now I sit with a distinctly female prowess, with the sense of being firmly planted and supported. The shoes have become a gateway to another personality.
At that time I felt I earned the shoes, but he challenges me for more. His overall demeanor has changed. He seems more intrepid, and speaks candidly. “You are doing great with your shoes. They are yours, you more than deserve them. But I won’t lie. …I want more.”
The air around us grows more tense and charged.
“How do you feel about that?”
The question comes out hesitant and slow. I know he’s checking in, fishing for consent.
“I’m just getting warmed up,” I reply, “so let’s see what happens. ” I replied. “I will let you know if I need to stop.”
We agreed to continue, to delve a little deeper into the magical game we’re playing. He encourages me to kick him out at any time. I thank him.
Beneath its veneer of formality, this is still very much a very sexy conversation. I’m discussing boundaries while watching the bulge beneath his form- fitting jeans. It’s enough to create wetness between my inner lips. Standing tall in front of him, my nipples grow erect.
All around us, the room fills with a charged, anticipatory energy. I notice he’s holding a pen in his hands and turning it mindfully. If only my nipple was that pen. It must have been in his shirt pocket earlier — or maybe it is mine. Suddenly, as though he meant to all along, he flings the pen to the ground. “Pick up the pen and bring it to me,” he demands with a devilish grin.
Harmless enough to pick a pen up off the floor, but he has me do it over and over again. Each time, he flings the pen maliciously to a different part of the room. Each repetition, I learn how to be the ‘Goddess of Picking Up The Pen’, the sole goal in my life in that moment. There is timing to master. Bringing the pen back to him is not like handing someone a pen at the bank. The act has to be alluring and sensual. He is training me, and it is hot. That my movements never satisfies him becomes part of the game too. There is always another correction, a further layer of complex instruction. I pick up the pen and I give it to him, and I pick up the pen and I give it to him, and always my movements are sluttier, sexier, more provocative .
For the last pen toss, he flings it far across the room. “Crawl back to me with the pen in your mouth.” I do. Previously, he’s instructed me to keep my eyes on him while slowly heading back toward him. It is exhilarating. Intensely aware that my breasts are pulling down, even though they are secured within my stretchy lingerie, I crawl slowly, feeling like a tigress. When I get to him, I gently place the pen into his hand.
Now I am seated in- between his legs. “Back up a little, dear.” I scoot about half a foot back and struggle to sit comfortably on my knees. The heels will not allow my feet to lay flat. He notices this and offers. “Try squatting for me.” Crouching and balanced on the platforms, I feel incredibly sturdy and even animalian. I like it. “Caress your breasts. Pinch your nipples.” I alternate between caressing my breasts softly to kneading them firmly, from lightly circling my nipples to pinching so hard I make myself wince.
Concerned he may be going too far, he hesitantly asks me to rub my pussy. I want to do it. Touching myself over the sheer fabric of the lingerie, I can tell I am deliciously wet. I give a sigh of pleasure. Within seconds of rubbing my clit, I squirt, –just a little. I was already so aroused that it did not take much. At the narrow part between my legs, my lingerie reveals the fluid from my pussy. I continued to rub myself, squirting again. Now the lingerie is soaked.
He looks pleasantly surprised. Leaning and put his elbows onto his knees, he to lowers himself to meet my eyes. “You are quite the woman.” Silently, his eyes checks in with mine and I give no indication that he has crossed a line. “Will you take off your lingerie?” I do not give a verbal yes, but stand up and begin to slowly undress, pulling one shoulder strap down at a time. My voluminous breasts are finally disrobed, I stand naked in front of him, standing tall once again in my new heels.
“Drop the lingerie on the ground.” After I do his bidding, he flings the pen to the far end of the room again and tells me to get it as before. I crawl back with it in my mouth. This time, I am even was more exposed, my breasts dangle and bob as I crawl. They graze against my arms as I move them forward. They feel soft, but their weight feels heavy.
“Stop at your lingerie. Squat and straddle it.” He does not tell me to drop the pen, so I keep it in my mouth. It all feels incredibly submissive. “Let’s see how much you can make yourself squirt. Don’t get it on the carpet, only on your lingerie.”
Squatting, pen in mouth, two fingers inside me and pressing on my G-spot, I rub my clitoris. I squirt over and over. Muffled sighs and soft moans escape my mouth while he watches with devouring eyes, mesmerized. My lingerie becomes soaked.
“Put the lingerie back on.” he commands.
I do. Now standing before him, I model the freshly- soaked lingerie now clinging to my body. He rises up, takes a handful of the fabric into his hand, and squeezes it to release the ejaculate into his free hand. Cupping a small handful of my squirt, he gently wipes my face with it, never once breaking his eye contact.
Eventually, the spell breaks. We return to our little universe and laugh nervously. After he leaves, I run to the mirror to look at myself. I am a mess, I laugh … and so damn sexy.