Women, Wine and Heels

by Gray Fisher

  The door chime jingled and five young women walked in, and approached the receptionist.

  “Hi, we have a group appointment for mani-pedis.”

  “The name on the appointment?” asked Heather, the managerial-looking one.

  “It’s the Collins party…a wedding.”

  That drew my attention, as I realized I was looking at a bridal party. Their hair had already been done elsewhere, it appeared, as they all exhibited tight ringlets, flowing waves, and one perfect bun. None were over 30, and all were lovely.

  Heather said, “They’re finishing up a couple of people back there so you all can have the room, so it will be just a few minutes. You’re welcome to have a seat, and help yourself to cucumber water.”

  Between the two couches and assorted chairs, there was just enough space for this group of beauties, including a spot right next to me. Two of the girls wore sandals, and their feet didn’t look like they desperately needed pampering. This was more a pre-wedding team event, I figured, what bridal parties do in the hours before the big event.

  It wasn’t long before a dark brown-haired woman began looking in the direction of my feet. I tried to remain casual, but a subtle smirk came across her face. Momentarily, she turned and began whispering to a blonde with ringlets, who also began looking in my direction, though as inconspicuously as possible. The fact that one of their friends sat beside me made it easy for them.

  I felt an unwelcome stirring in my groin. It wasn’t paranoid of me to think everyone in the room was looking at my feet…they were. The newcomers, however, seemed to enjoy the spectacle a bit more. Their eyes seemed to communicate with each other, and, their inhibitions probably reduced from a few drinks earlier, a couple of them began to giggle.

  That was my undoing. A sensation bathed my lower stomach, that feeling familiar to anyone about to give a big speech to a bunch of strangers, or anyone caught in an embarrassing situation. My mouth started to become dry. My humiliation in this predicament only allowed me to stare forward, lest making even momentary eye contact with anyone open up an entry for conversation or questioning.

  That strategy worked, at least for a few moments.

  “I like the color,” blurted the blonde, looking down at my toes then up to my face. Her four friends giggled, and one or two of them guffawed. The other waiting women smiled, and at least one’s jaw was agape.

  “Um, uh, thanks,” I gulped.

  “Who was your technician, she did a nice job.”

  “It was, uh, Laura,” was all I could say.

  “Well I’m gonna ask for Laura then when we go back. She does nice work.”

  She clearly was keeping the conversation going to twist the knife of my embarrassment just a little bit more. And, despite my best efforts, the front of my pants began to tent. My situation suddenly became hopeless.

  That elicited some more giggles, mainly among the bridal party. One or two whispered to each other. My cheeks burned.

  “Put your shoes on now, Gray, we’re going next door.”

  Mercifully, Stephanie returned, her hair now noticeably darker.

  Standing up was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment. I hesitated.

  “Honey, I don’t mind waiting a few minutes, if you need to leave a tip or something.”

  “No, I already did that. Let’s go, Gray. We’ll look at some underwear at Lisa’s.”

  I tried to command my erection do go down, but it persisted with my wife’s authoritative tone. I took my time putting on my socks and shoes, but they were slip-ons, so I could only stall so long. With no way out, I stood and turned immediately to face the doorway. My wife took my hand in an “it’s okay” type gesture and led me to the door.

  “Have fun next door, Gray,” the blond girl said insouciantly. The door chime sounded, and I heard a round of uproarious laughing as we shuffled out.

  At What Cost?

  I first spied Sasha “across a crowded room,” as they say. But it wasn’t her face that I saw. Rather, I could only see her legs…beautifully sculpted, encased in taupe nylons, and tapering into a pair of black, patent pumps with classically rounded toes and tasteful three-inch heels. What compelled me most was how she kept dipping her toes in and out of her right shoe while engaged in conversation.

  It was a friend’s Christmas party, and as the crowd dissipated near the kitchen island, I could see the rest of her. She wore a form-fitting burgundy cotton dress which cut off at the knees, a blinking, red and green necklace, and several shiny bangles on her left wrist. My eyes finally made their way to her face. I surmised she was about 46, just a couple years younger than me. She had a broad, toothy smile and wore oval-rimmed glasses. Her straight blonde hair was parted on the left. Overall, she bore the mien of an academic, a school teacher or college professor perhaps, someone comfortable in a room of adults after helping shape young minds all day. She wasn’t a beauty queen, but she was attractive and fell squarely into the category of MILF.

  I continued to watch, transfixed, as her red-painted toes dipped in and out, in and out of those shoes. For most of the next 90 minutes or so, I didn’t let her out of my site. Her shoe play was maddening for the likes of a foot guy like me. I made pleasant cocktail party talk with other people, of course, but my eyes were usually looking past whoever was chatting me up at Sasha’s lower legs. Several times, I caught her slipping out of both shoes at the same time, and once I noticed as she mindlessly brushed her left foot over the side of her right leg, as if scratching an itch. Later, she took a seat in a plush chair and let her right shoe dangle off her toes, sipping her wine, enjoying the festive mood a few days before the holiday. Needless to say I was getting aroused. This woman had very pretty, talented feet, and seemed to enjoy showing them, consciously or not.

  Late in the evening, as the party wound down, I stepped up to Sasha, who was talking with a young couple, and introduced myself. I learned that her son went to elementary school with our host’s daughter, and they’d become friends through school functions. Her husband couldn’t make the party, as he was in Arizona on a business trip.

  “At the holidays? That stinks,” I said, with genuine sympathy.

  “Well, he’ll be home the day before Christmas. Otherwise, he knows I’ll have his ass over my knee,” she laughed.

  The other couple chuckled as well, but I gulped at the comment. Clearly, it was meant as a joke, but just hearing it from her mouth made my penis throb.

  Unbidden, an image of myself, naked, over those taupe-hosed legs leapt into my mind. It was a very pleasant thought.

  I mostly maintained solid eye contact as we talked, only occasionally stealing glances downward, where she continued dipping one foot, then the other, out of her pumps. After a few minutes, the other couple stepped away, and Sasha and I continued making small talk, about the party, about holiday plans. I was wrong about her; she was a physical therapist, not an academic. Explains her toned body, I thought.

  We stood at the top of a step down into the living room area. At some point, she looked downward, and I followed her gaze to her feet, where her right shoe had fallen down the step onto its side. She fuddled with it for a few seconds, trying with her foot to upright it so she could slip her nylon-clad toes back in. On instinct, I bent down and, with a bit of a chivalrous flourish, maneuvered the lovely pump upright and held it in place with one hand as I guided her pretty foot back in with the other. A quick, furtive glance around revealed no one noticed, not that I would’ve cared if anyone had.

  “Thanks,” Sasha chuckled. “But I would’ve gotten it eventually,” she said.

  “I’m sure. Looks like you’re very talented that way.” Yup, Mr. Smooth, that was me.

  “Oh yes, I’ve had a lot of practice,” she replied as our eyes met. Then, “Good view, huh?”

  My face began to flush. I’d been cool about it, or thought I had. Maybe I lingered a bit too long with my hand on her foot?

  “Uh, didn’t notice any view,” I said, trying to sound
nonplussed.

  “Uh-huh,” Sasha replied, with a smirk and a subtly arched brow. I could tell her foot once again came out of the shoe, no doubt the toes scrunching up against the insole, but I dared not look down. It took every fiber of my being not to.

  Did I mention that taupe is my very favorite color hosiery? It is at once classy, subtle, and just muted enough to reveal details of the foot, including toenail color, while effectively disguising any flaws of the leg above it. It gives a woman’s stems the appearance of health, like a well-cultivated tan. I wanted nothing more at that moment then to kiss that taupe foot, maybe lick the arch.

  I summoned enough willpower to look only at her pretty eyes as we continued our friendly conversation for another 10 minutes or so, but soon she stepped away to say her goodbyes, as she had to get her son home.

  I thought about Sasha quite consistently for the next two days, wondering when, or if, we’d cross paths again. I found her on Facebook, and sent a friend request, which she accepted. I now had access to multiple photos of her with her family, working out with a group of like-minded friends, and posing with co-workers in rooms full of weights, flex-benches and medicine balls. Sadly, precious few good photos of her legs, particularly encased in nylon. And none of her feet in heels. Sneakers were her footwear of choice, it seemed.

  I mulled my next move. Upon reflection, it was rather simple.

  “Thanks for accepting my friend request, it was really great meeting you,” I wrote her on Messenger. Maybe it wasn’t Shakespeare, but it kept the lines of communication open.

  Several hours later she wrote back, “Yes, good meeting you too. It was a very nice party.”

  We exchanged a few niceties, including me vaguely pointing out that we had a few “common interests,” while I built up the nerve to make my next move. I needed to tread carefully, so as not to offend her and risk her telling our hosts about Gray, the degenerate foot freak. That would be way embarrassing, and as such, a legitimate risk. Or worse, she could tell her husband.

  Finally, after a long pause, even as online chat goes, I wrote: “I felt like we had a good rapport. Do you mind if I ask a question? Can I count on your discretion?”

  Several minutes, then “Yes. What would you like to ask?”

  “It’s a bit difficult…”

  “Just say it.” The responses were coming faster now. I think I’d intrigued her.

  “Um…where did you get the blinking necklace?” There was wisdom in keeping things light, I thought.

  “That’s what you want to ask?”

  “Well, actually…”

  “Actually?”

  OK, Gray, I thought, in for a pennyloafer, in for a foot.

  “I’m wondering if you’d send me the pantyhose you wore at the party. I will replace them with a new pair.”

  It was out there. What’s the old saying, “Do something that scares you every day”? This was enough scares for an entire month. I was petrified. But the thing about online messaging is once you click SEND, it’s done and there’s no undoing it.

  Another long pause. This one lasted a minute, then two, during which she was probably processing what she’d just read. As the seconds passed, I decided I’d made a huge mistake.

  “Hmmm…I see. Washed or unwashed?”

  “Unwashed.”

  “Thought so. What’s your address?”

  Could it have been so easy, I thought. I gulped. My cock tingled. My hand grasped it, as now it was me processing things.

  I paused from stroking, and responded with my street and house number.

  “I thought you liked the view,” she wrote.

  I began blushing again, despite the fact I was alone. My head got light. I will treat those pantyhose like a cherished artifact, I thought. My hand returned to stroking.

  “There’s something I’d like to send you first, though, and you’ll need to send me something back.”

  Now I was the one who was intrigued.

  “Sure, what do you have in mind?” I tapped.

  “A CB-6000.”

  “What’s that?” Though I had an idea.

  “It’s a…cage.”

  “A cage? Hmmm. Why?” I knew the horrible answer as I asked the question.

  “A cock cage. You want my smelly worn pantyhose? You need to earn them.”

  She explained how it would work. She’d mail me the cage with the padlock and key. I was to lock it on (despite never having worn one), then text her a photo, and mail her back the key. When she had the key in hand, she’d send me her hose.

  “I don’t know…never done that before.” Even so, my penis throbbed. The CB-6000 was very small, I learned through a quick search online. And if I sent her the key…

  Then again, she’d HAVE to see me again, at some point, so I could unlock myself – or so she could do it. But how long would I have to wait for that privilege?

  As though she could sense through the net that I was wavering, she next wrote, “Maybe I’ll wear the pantyhose for a few more days, maybe even at work under my scrubs.”

  Reading that sucked my breath out. I could feel her tightening the screw, overcoming my resistance. She’d only known me in person for about 30 minutes, yet somehow she could read into my fetishistic desires. My response was short.

  “OK.”

  “Great. I’ll send the cage.” Her response left no more room for discussion. My cock was fully inflated. Then, as if once again reading my mind: “And no playing until after it arrives.”

  It was a difficult two days, but it would become more difficult once the CB-6000 arrived. I’d never dealt with such a thing before, and found it challenging to remain flaccid long enough to get it on. The mere act of affixing it to my appendage at the behest of this woman I hardly knew, but whose legs and feet I so lusted for, kept me in a semi-aroused state. Finally, with great effort, I got the stainless steel in place. Locking it was the moment of truth, frightening to me, despite the fact I held the tiny key in my hand.

  Sasha, in her new-found boldness, had requested a photo, so I took one and sent it to her.

  “Very nice,” was the response, followed by her address. “Now mail me the key.”

  My mind was still swirling at how this woman who looked to be completely vanilla was now in control of my manhood, and seemingly enjoying it, albeit with aplomb. She had yet to say anything overtly sexual to me, sent nary a photo of herself. It was all very…businesslike.

  “When will I get it back?” I had to ask.

  “I’ll mail you the pantyhose tomorrow. I’ll give you the key soon, I’ll decide that after I have it hand.”

  The non-committal answer once again sent a shiver down my spine, and a tingle to my cock, which began to swell in its confinement. Basically, I would have what I desired…unfettered access to the lovely nylons that she’d worn at the party and likely for a few days afterward. They’d be mine to commune with – the feel, the odor of the various parts. Yet, unbelievably, there’d be no way I could fully enjoy them with this insidious thing locked on me. What a conundrum!

  With trepidation, I dropped the key in an envelope and sealed it. Dropping it in the mailbox was one of the most frightening things I’d ever done.

  True to Sasha’s word, the hosiery arrived a few days later. I’d already suffered extreme frustration from not being able to fully grip myself, let alone stroke. Yet I felt odd pleasure knowing I was denying myself for her satisfaction. The taupe pantyhose, gossamer-like in my hands, made my head swim. I dared to bring them to my face, knowing that simply doing that would cause discomfort down below. I immediately noticed the smell…earthy, a hint of body lotion, melon maybe. A little bit of sweat, not overwhelming by any means but enough to proclaim they’d been well-worn.

  The gusset revealed itself to me. I considered saving that, along with the feet of the hose, as my reward for when I was unlocked, but my willpower utterly failed me. I needed to explore these parts, despite the fact they’d add immeasurably to my sexual frustration. Bu
t wasn’t that a reward in itself? Wasn’t my stifled erection what Sasha was counting on, and by extension a source of pleasure for the feeble likes of me?

  I inhaled these parts deeply, and my nose was greeted with Sasha’s essence. Sweat. Her juices. A hint of vinegary foot odor. I was suddenly beside myself. I slid one leg up my arm and touched the cold steel with that hand. It was fruitless, but it was all I could do to keep from losing my mind. I felt connected to her physically, and in her sway mentally. A bead of sweat formed above my eyebrow. I marveled at the power an article of clothing could have on me. Yet the ultimate enjoyment would elude me, at least for the time being.