Trust Ch. 02

[Is this the ultimate plimsoll fetish sex fantasy?]

Chapter 2 – If a picture paints a thousand words

Spring segued into summer. I was working hard and playing hard and in many ways I was having the best summer I'd known for quite a few years. I started the cricket season in top form and stayed there, consistently averaging over 60 with the bat and below 19 with my bowling, easily topping the team averages in both. At work I secured several prestigious new clients and contracts for the firm and got a promotion and several performance awards. In early July I went sailing around the Med for a couple of weeks with Pete and a couple of other mates. The highlight of the trip was when we anchored near another yacht and I filled a couple of memory cards with telephoto lens shots of a fantastic girl with model girl figure and looks and a perfect tan, wearing a tiny blue and white polka dot bikini together with a matching headscarf and perfect white Keds lace-ups gleaming in the sunshine. Pete gave me some real stick about it for days afterwards but she was well worth it.

Things were going so well and I was having so much fun that I almost forgot my quest for my perfect plimsoll girl. I did have some brief encounters with plimsoll-wearing girls, but none that I could have taken further. They were either already spoken for, foreign tourists asking for directions, students with no interest in a guy at least 10 years older than them, or young teenagers. But all that was to change the day I went back to work after my sailing holiday.

The first day back at work is always tough and after a long, hard morning session that extended well into the afternoon I was glad of the opportunity for a few minutes down time sitting in the relatively peaceful surroundings of a small public park around the corner from the office, with a sandwich grabbed from a nearby deli'. It was well after normal lunchtime so I had no trouble finding a park bench of my own. I took off my smart black brogues that I wore with my suit, peeled off my socks and relished the freedom of wiggling my toes in the cooling air before slipping my bare feet into my favourite pair of black slip-on plimsolls that I carried in my briefcase. Then, still flexing my feet inside the light, cool canvas caress of my plimsolls, I settled back to enjoy a couple of chapters of my paperback.

I was just about to take another bite of my sandwich when my phone rang. I answered it with what I hoped sounded like a polite "Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Chas?"

I was immediately attracted to her voice: warm, confident, well-spoken with what I thought was a slight hint of West Country. I chose to be friendly in an uncommitted sort of way.

"Yes, I'm Chas Bartlett. Can I help you?"

"I hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient time and I apologise if I am."

I was already warming to her straightforward and genuine manner.

"No, not at all," I replied, "you've picked the best time you could have done today."

"I'm glad about that." She sounded like she really meant it too. "I don't want to take up too much of your time so I'll just take a moment to introduce myself. My name is Emma; actually it's Emily-Jane Curtin but everyone calls me Emma; and I saw your advert on 'Find Your Fetish Friend'."

I couldn't believe my luck.

"It's great to hear from you, Emma. Have you been a member for long? I would have contacted you straight away if I'd seen your profile when I joined."

"I only joined yesterday." The note of excitement in her voice seemed genuine and natural. "When I saw your profile I was sure you would have been snapped up ages ago. But then I thought 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained', so here I am. Have you had lots of replies?"

I was too excited to even think about trying to bolster my ego by lying to her.

"No, you're the first person who's called me. What made you want to get in touch with me?"

"I liked what you wrote about yourself and the way in which you wrote it. You really came across to me as a genuine, friendly guy who enjoys a full life and isn't just obsessed with his fetish even if it's important to him."

I was touched by her compliment and by her sincere expression of it. What she said next gave me even more pleasure.

"And, as I happen to be a ballet-loving, white-plimsolls-and-ankle-socks-kind of girl, I reckoned it would be a pretty good idea if you and I met up one day very soon."

I thought my birthday and Christmas had suddenly come both together.

"I'd really like that. Are you free this Saturday?"

"Not Saturday I'm afraid. It's my sister's hen night. But I'm free on Sunday."

"That's great." I clenched my free hand with excitement. "How about going to the Prom concert? We can have a picnic in Kensington Gardens beforehand and maybe have a drink afterwards."

"That will be lovely. I was going to that Prom anyway because I love Mozart and Shostakovich. But I can't be too late afterwards as I have an early start on Monday morning."

"OK." I smiled, trying hard not to let my excitement take over my voice too much. "How will I know you?"

"I can send you a photo right now. If you've got a laptop with you can see me full screen in all my glory."

"I can't wait." I stopped trying not to sound too excited. I was touched at the thought that she had planned beforehand to send me the photo. The image file arrived on my phone and Emma rang off for a couple of minutes while I transferred the image to my laptop so I could see her for the first time in high resolution. I thought for a split second about running a virus check but straight way decided not to and opened the file. I gasped at the sight that filled the screen.

She was sitting on a beach with her back to an old and well-weathered wooden breakwater that partly shaded her from the bright sunlight that beautifully highlighted her shape and form from behind. She was a beautiful, shapely, leggy girl with sandy blonde hair falling loosely in natural waves to her shoulders. She wore a red halter-type bikini top that held and displayed her gorgeous breasts to their full advantage, a pair of worn and faded short denim shorts that showed just the right amount of her shapely thighs and most wonderful of all, at the ends of her lovely long, slender and very shapely legs tapering to the most sexy looking ankles I had ever seen were a pair of beautifully shapely feet wearing brand new, pristinely white Keds lace-up plimsolls with the softest looking cotton rich white ankle socks.

The photo looked professionally taken. The balance between natural backlighting and frontal fill in lighting was expertly done and her pose and angle to the camera were perfect for showing off to full advantage her face, figure, legs and feet. But what excited me most of all about her was her expression. Her whole lovely face, with the strong and gracefully feminine curves of her forehead and jaw line, and her gorgeous almond eyes glowed and radiated with her bewitching smile which was just like the visual equivalent of her voice: warm, open, candid and confident while at the same time hinting at mystery and deep inner strength. My hands shook with pleasure and excitement as they held the edges of my laptop's screen.

She phoned back again.

"Do you still want to meet me?"

I really liked the self-confidence behind her humour. Here was someone assured that she would be accepted on her own terms and with no need to fish for compliments.

"Are you kidding? You look fabulous and it's a fantastic photo of you. Do you do modelling?"

"I've got a couple of friends who are photographers who I help out sometimes," she replied. "That photo was from a publicity campaign for South coast beaches. The photographer wanted me to wear flip flops but I persuaded him that I'd look better in plimsolls."

"I certainly agree with that," I said admiringly. "Are you wearing plimsolls now?"

"I certainly am," she laughed, "white lace-ups like the ones in the photo. I practically live in them. Are you wearing plimsolls too?"

I told her about what I was wearing and innocently asked her what she was wearing with her plimsolls. Her reply made me nearly fall off my park bench with excitement.

"Apart from white ankle socks, suntan lotion and a pair of Ray-Bans I'm not wearing anything right now."

I began to feel constricted inside my trousers and my heart began to thump as I pictured her. It was a conscious effort to remain sounding composed and at ease as I spoke.

"Do you make a habit of sunbathing wearing only white plimsolls?"

She giggled as she replied, "I'm fortunate enough to be the only person living in a large detached house with a garden that isn't overlooked, so when I'm at home on my own I spend all my time naked in my plimsolls, except when I wear ballet shoes for my daily practice. The dance studio where I teach ballet is only a short walk away and I have plenty of free time between classes so I spend a lot of time in plimsolls and nothing else."

My mouth was dry with nervous tension but nothing would have kept me from taking the plunge now. "I love being naked in plimsolls or ballet shoes as well. My sister keeps a lot of her clothes and her ballet kit at my flat for when she comes over from New York so I wear her gear as well. I've got a website with loads of photos of me. I'll give you the password for it." I had to take a deep breath to stop becoming completely carried away in my excitement at meeting, at long last, a gorgeous girl who shared my passion so uninhibitedly. It took me several seconds to recover my composure.

"I can't wait to meet you." I had rarely spoken with as much sincerity and feeling as I was speaking now.

"The feeling's mutual. How will I know you?"

I could almost feel her smile in her voice.

"I'll be the guy jumping up and down in excitement wearing a white button down shirt with rolled up sleeves, blue shorts and white Superga lace-ups and holding a picnic basket, waiting for you at Kensington High Street tube at six, if that's OK with you of course."

"That sounds perfect. I'll see you then. Oh, can I ask you something before I go?"

"Yes of course."

"Did you run a virus check on the file I sent you before you opened it?"

I felt a huge satisfaction in being able to tell her the truth.

"I reckoned I could trust you."

"I think you and I are going to get on very well. See you Sunday."

"So do I. I'll be waiting"

We rang off.

I decided on a special celebration when I got home. After showering, I put on Bryony's black satin thong and her black satin strapless bra. Then over a pair of her black fishnet ballet tights I pulled on her very sexy high-thigh leotard with thin shoulder straps and a low back criss-crossed by more straps and finally her black satin pointe shoes, with their black satin ribbons criss-crossing neatly and tightly around my ankles. I made up my face with dramatic dark eyes and blood red lipstick that matched my nail colour and then put on my long raven haired wig, which I tied up in a perfect ballet bun decorated with a floral circlet, enjoying as I did so the view in the mirror of the feminine pose of my arms and tilt of my head as I reached back to tie my hair. I took lots of photos of myself doing ballet poses. Then I took off Bryony's black ballet shoes, put on a pair of white ankle socks and white Keds, took more photos of myself and spent the rest of the evening in my costume in a state of gradually increasing sexual excitement.

Around midnight I couldn't contain the tension inside myself any more. I rushed into my bedroom to where a tall mirror stood in the corner and stood before it with my legs apart. I took deep panting breaths as I looked with deep pleasure on the feminising transformation I had achieved. The smooth, lithe and trim form of my body looked completely at home with long, flowing hair, makeup, sexily shaping and revealing leotard and fishnets, cute girl's white Keds plimsolls a size small to make my feet look smaller and prettier and cute little white soft cotton ankle socks turned down around my ankles. I undid my ballet bun and shook my head so that the long dark tresses of my wig tumbled and swayed across my bare shoulders. I sighed deeply as I smoothed the open palm of my hand over the bulging crotch of Bryony's leotard.

I slowly peeled off the figure hugging lycra sheath of her leotard, enjoying the sight of its descent down the criss-crossing ladders of my legs and off over my carefully and daintily pointed plimsolled feet, before feeling myself some more through her tights and her thong. I pulled the tights down to my knees and enjoyed feeling the tug of them on my legs. I sighed with delight as I glided my fingertips over the silky smooth satin curtain containing the aching, throbbing swelling within.

Tentatively, I slipped my fingers inside the thong and cried out at the first electrifying touch on my stoked up manhood. Unable to wait any longer I pulled down the thong and breathed deeply in exultation at the sight and the feel of my genitalia released from their soft yet close feminine confinement of black nylon, lycra and satin.

Taking a firm hold of myself, I began to thrust myself through my grasp with the jerking push-pull of my buttocks as I braced my thighs against the insistent pull of tights and thong and my feet tensed and seemed to grasp the floor through the soles of my plimsolls, ankle socks and tights to give me greater purchase. With each thrust I imagined Emma lying on her back on the cool grass in her secluded garden, spread-eagled beneath me moaning and crying out with pleasure, her groin and her breasts cradling and cushioning my body and her white plimsolled feet rubbing against my legs as I filled her deeper and deeper.

But as I felt myself approaching the edge, the familiar image filled my mind's eye as it always did: Bryony lying on her bed before my gaze, naked down to her white plimsolls and ankle socks; her white tennis dress, sports bra and panties strewn around her as she had pulled them off and flung them aside in her eagerness for me, her arms resting on the pillow either side of her head, her legs spread wide revealing her womanhood flushed and florid and wide open; as she glared at me, wide eyed and open mouthed, willing me to plant myself in her.

Then, just as I was about to sink my shaft into the deep mine of her delights, the scene changed – as it always did. Now Bryony lay; delicate, pale and submissive; beneath Laurelle's statuesque bulk astride and bent over her, dark and dusky in the half light. Bryony's mouth, which had been open with longing for me, was now clamped around the apex of the formidable mound of Laurelle's left breast bearing down on her face while Laurelle supported herself on her sturdy left arm and with her right hand tenderly and skilfully played on Bryony's clitoris until she brought her to orgasm.

As Laurelle began to insert a dildo into Bryony's clench to intensify her pleasure the scene was suddenly obliterated and I cried out as my own pleasure erupted and a spreading spatter of milky clouds obscured my image in the mirror. As my final release slapped softly against the surface of the mirror I felt my knees begin to buckle with the exhausted intensity of my climax and, hobbled by the stretchy constricting pull of thong and tights against my trembling thighs, I staggered back onto my bed. As always happened, my initial feeling of dizzy euphoria dissolved in a moment into deep, nagging guilt.

Could I ever tell Emma about the deeply buried, hopeless lust for my lesbian sister that had held its unbreakable grip on my imagination for so long?