A 7 Train Stiletto Show (750 Words)

This story was written for the 2024 Literotica 750 Word Challenge. Below this line are exactly 750 words.

Today was my birthday and my night was off to a great start. The train home was on time. I got a seat, my favorite seat, in the corner by the door of the first carriage. And my brilliant, gorgeous wife had been dropping hints all week about her plans for me tonight. Something about "my wildest dreams."

As usual, I scanned the crowded compartment for anyone with a stronger claim to my seat. That was when I saw them, shining like a beacon through the thicket of legs between us: the almond toes of her boots.

The soaring arch told me all I needed to know. Under that long skirt was a heel at least four inches tall, maybe five.

I loved my wife. I loved her smile, her laugh, her adventurous, generous, indomitable spirit. Her drive to get shit done, no matter how many asses she had to kick or how many names she had to take.

She was the perfect girl for me, in every way but one: she lived in sneakers. Dressy was a pair of flat Mary-Janes. Tonight, she'd be in chunky three-inch wedges, her annual concession to my fetish. The other 364 days, the rule was look, don't touch.

So it was with a clear conscience that I peeked over the top of my phone at those glorious boots.

As the crowd trickled out, I started to catch glimpses of their owner. A plain but well-fitted wool coat hinted at a trim waist. A tight braid restrained her long, jet-black hair. Most strikingly, an N95 and big sunglasses concealed her face. There weren't many of us still masking.

She crossed her ankles, tucking her feet demurely under her seat. Her skirt rode up just enough to confirm my guess: boots, at least ankle-high, with a five-inch stiletto heel.

My charade with the phone forgotten, I stared. How often do you see shoes like that on the train home?

Rarely. I would know.

I hastily lifted my bag into my lap for camouflage.

Reaching down with one hand elegantly gloved in matching black leather, she brushed something off the spotless toe of her boot. She traced the arch. She caressed the heel.

And then she gestured upward. My eyes are up here.

My face burned. She had caught me perving out on her boots. Could a woman not commute in peace? Not with creeps like me around, apparently.

But she wasn't frowning. She didn't turn away, or hunch her shoulders. Blank black lenses regarded me steadily. Despite her mask and glasses, I got the impression of a knowing smile.

She crossed one leg over the other, clasping her hands primly on her knee. Her skirt parted below to reveal a seamless expanse of polished leather hugging her shapely calves. How high did those boots go?

She swirled her foot in a languorous circle, then cocked her head. The forehead above one eyebrow furrowed in silent inquiry. Like what you see?

I offered a tentative smile, hoping she could read the crinkle of my eyes above my own mask.

It seemed she could. Settling back, she teased me through the next five stops. Pointing and flexing, turning this way and that, even moving her foot in a slow, oddly linear motion that, once the idea came to me, I could only interpret as stroking a rigid, worshipful cock with the toe of her boot.

I was rock hard by the time I heard my stop announced.

That was when she beckoned me over with one curling finger.

I wish I could say I didn't consider it. In truth, I was sorely tempted to cross the aisle and introduce myself. Instead I showed her my left hand. Then, face mournful and bag held before me, I stood and turned away toward the door.

"Fuck's sake!" a familiar voice snapped.

I whirled around. She lifted her sunglasses. My jaw dropped. "Honey?"

I helped her off the train. We held each other on the platform, laughing incredulously.

"I can't believe you didn't recognize me."

"What was I supposed to recognize? Your ears?"

She scoffed. "As if you were looking that high."

"Can you blame me?"

"Can and will." But she smiled. "Help me down the stairs? I can't actually walk in these."

"You could change into flats."

"Alternatively...I could wear them all night...and make you wait on me hand and foot."

My eyes bugged out. I grabbed her arm. "Careful, darling. It's slippery here."

"Good boy," she purred, giggling.

This vignette was inspired by the opening of Don's Novice by defiant_1, a story I find erotic but unrealistic. Most women I know would react negatively to sexual attention on their way to a job interview. Far from "giving them confidence," it would make them worry they had dressed too provocatively and were going to make the wrong impression on their future employers.

This is my attempt to provide a more plausible motivation for that basic meet-cute. Let me know in the comments if I succeeded. And if it was hot, of course!