The Chic Shoe Boutique
There is something intensely sexual in shopping for shoes; the ambiance of the boutique, the intimate attentions of the sales assistant, the erotic appeal of trying on the shoes themselves. It is an activity that I relish, pacing myself, enjoying the experience, loving the build-up to the ultimate release.
Antonia, who I had come to know so well, was there to help me again that day. She knelt at my feet, surrounded by boxes, being attentive and solicitous, humoring my needs. As I often do, I started this exercise by trying on sandals; later I would move on to the heels that really satisfied my need. The colors were bright and flirty, the styles free and wanton. I wiggled my toes luxuriously, enjoying the freedom, appreciating my nail color set off against the gaily colored straps.
I enjoyed the feeling of the sandal’s straps as they gently grasped at my skin, delicate yet strong, they bound the shoe to my foot. They left a light, red mark when Antonia removed the shoe, a mark that reminded me of the welt from a light whipping or perhaps the marks left after the removal of a too-tight restraint.
Antonia’s hair had a wonderful fragrance as she knelt at my feet; it reminded me of meadows of wild flowers, hand picked posies and freshly cut hay. Her fingers felt wonderful as she fitted the shoes, gentle and caressing, cool and soft. She would slip a finger beneath the straps, testing for tightness, assessing my needs. I felt myself warm to her touch as she tended to my comfort; my desire was hers to feed, my satisfaction hers to offer.
As always, it was the high heels that made my heart really race! Much has been written about the posture change they cause: hips tilting provocatively and causing them to sway as one walks. I adored the feeling of power as I strutted on stilettos around the Chic Shoe Boutique; I felt so confident, so feminine, so in control of it all.
There were boxes piled up all around when I decided I had had enough, yet Antonia tempted me with an offer of “just one more.” The shoes were to die for! A tropical shade of blue with four and a half inch spiked heel pumps that telegraphed passion and desire, but it was the ankle strap that made my day: exotic and delicate they had a small clasp from which to dangle a small trinket or token of lust.
I will never forget that smile as Antonia looked up at me from down there on the floor; it was the self-satisfied look of a woman who knew that the tables had turned. Our eyes were locked together as her fingers buckled the straps; she had no need to look down as she had obviously done this before. It was her next move that left me in shock: she dipped in to her breast pocket and pulled out two little padlocks, and slipped them into the clasps and clicked them shut.
“They are titanium,” she announced, “and so are the ankle straps; you will not get them off without the key that I hold.”
She was positively glowing with self confidence; the submissive attitude had gone. I was stunned; this turn had caught me totally unaware! I just stared at her as she stood up straight. She looked down contemptuously at the pile of boxes at my feet, flicked her hair back and walked away. I was left sitting there, looking down at those wonderful shoes that were now locked to my feet, wondering how I had landed myself in this situation and how on earth I would ever get out.
The Price of Freedom
When Antonia walked back from the store room, my eyes were drawn to the cane that she held in her right hand. I watched, dumbstruck, as she locked the boutique’s front door. She paused and started to pull at the chord that would close the blinds on the door, then she looked right at me, shrugged, smiled and walked away; she had thought better of it, leaving them open, a window for any passing voyeur.
I was still sitting in the chair, boxes of shoes spread around my feet, when she returned and stood over me, the cane still tapping rhythmically in her hand. I looked down at the courts I was now locked into, and then back up at her.
“What will it take to get these off?”
“Oh, you need to pay, of course!” Her smile was anything but angelic; it was sardonic, laced with menace.
I felt the shakedown coming, but was willing to pay whatever it took.
“How much? Fifty, a hundred?”
I was tempted to throw in a jab at how only whores took money, but thought better of it and bit my tongue.
She raised her eyebrows and gave me that maddening smile again.
“No, that’s far more than you could take.”
More than I could take? I was confused; she was the one trying to get the payment.
“I think four will do just fine; two for each lock.”
She swished her cane up and down and the penny dropped. My heart seemed to stop and my stomach churned.
“Up now, let’s have you in front of that mirror; I am sure you would love to see your own payment!”
I scrambled to my feet and picked my way to the full length mirror that covered the ends of one of the shelves. I felt wobbly on my legs now; the confidence was gone, my sense of superiority had vanished. As if in a daze, I heard her tell me to remove my top and skirt; in my own little world felt grateful that I had dressed so well that day.
My courage returned; I could take anything that this woman threw my way. Despite the loss of my outer clothes, I was still dressed to kill! My lingerie was pink and lacy; I had worn suspenders and stockings for my shopping trip that day; it was a pity that in a moment of joi de vivre that I had chosen not to wear panties to complete it all. My shoes…well, what can I say that has not already been said? Even if I could not remove them, they were killer shoes, sexy to the max.
I stood in front of the mirror and admired myself, psyched myself up, and promised myself that I could take whatever was thrown my way. I stood sideways to the mirror, and then bent forward gracefully to grasp my knees. Despite the imminent threat, I felt sexy and desirable, trim and fit. The heels seemed to make my legs look longer and slimmer, my calves tighter, my bottom more alluring.
I knew that I actually wanted this to happen, that I would push back to meet the cane and that I would welcome the pain and the warmth, the submission and the payment. I could not see Antonia in the narrow mirror but I could watch the cane tapping on my bottom. She gave me the first two strokes in quick succession; I was stunned at how deep the pain was, how unprepared I really was. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the cane digging down into my flesh, the quick rebound, and then that incredibly fierce heat that seemed to cut down to my very core.
I yelped and stood up suddenly, as if jolted by an electric prod. My hands shot back to try to massage the heat away, to dissipate it, to make it all feel better again. I watched myself in the mirror; my fingers spread across my cheeks, pushing in down against the welts, rubbing frantically, all vestiges of dignity now gone.
I felt Antonia’s hands on my back, pushing me down again, once again making me offer myself up to her cane. She tapped my heels apart with her toes, forcing me to spread, to offer her the visual stimulation that she needed for her own pleasure. I waited with trepidation, frightened that I would not be able to take the pain, to make the payment she had demanded of me.
I believe she went easier on me for the second two strokes, or perhaps I have forgotten how vicious they really were. I recall the double tap of heat that seared me once again, bruising my already battered flesh, striking welts into my skin; and then it was over, and I was walking around the boutique unsteadily on my heels, rubbing my bottom furiously, wishing desperately that the terrible throbbing would fade.
I felt Antonia’s eyes on me as I stepped away, knowing ful well that she was getting off on my pain, but I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure she was seeking, to show my vulnerability or to lose my head. At last that intensity diminished and I recovered my poise. I walked back to the chair where the boxes were stacked, and still wearing only the briefest of my lingerie set, I sat down and waited; I waited for Antonio to kneel at my feet again and remove my locks.
It was an instant role reversal that took place yet again. I watched with satisfaction as she took her position on the floor, her body between my spread legs, her hands resting lightly on my knees. I was grateful then that I had not worn panties that day, that my lower lips were free, my arousal proudly on display.
Still seated, I lifted my legs and placed them around her neck, balancing their weight on her shoulders, offering my tumescent lips for her to please. I felt her hands change position, as she grasped my inner thighs lightly and forced me wider for her better access. Her head dipped down as she bent to lap my juices; her tongue darted and stroked, probed and poked. I felt her lips gently sucking my clit, drawing me out, taunting and teasing, driving me on.
The heat from my swishing combined with the heat from her mouth, washed over me in sensuous waves of pleasure, delivering a wonderful healing warmth that pushed me over the edge. I know I cried out more from the orgasm than the caning; it was pure physical pleasure with Antonia delivering her best.
We walked back to my apartment hand in hand; the boxes had been cleared off the floor and tidied away, the door blind drawn and the shop front locked. I still wore the killer heels; the straps would be securely locked until Antonia chose the time of my release. Our co-ownership of the Chic Shoe Boutique had paid dividends yet again; it was a match made in heaven. We could work and play by day or night, domme or sub as the opportunity presented, but at the center of it all was our mutual love for high heels and each other.