Asked and Answered

There was a plain brown box on their doorstep when they came home from their walk. "Hey, are these the next pair of shoes?" he asked.

"Yeah, bring them in."

He pulled his keys out of his pocket.

"No, don't open it."

"Oh, why not?"

"Into the closet," she ordered. "No secret wanking before I've even tried them on."

"I wasn't!" he protested. He was the most transparent liar she'd ever met. Then he said, "Okay, but you can't peek either. Let's open it together on...is it Tuesday that your fertile window starts?"

"Chances start getting good on Tuesday," she agreed. She hesitated. "Listen, I know we had fun the first time I put on the last pair."

She had led him around on a leash. She had gouged bloody furrows across his back with her heels. He had thanked her after each one and begged for more.

He was smiling, maybe reliving the same memories. "Yeah," he agreed.

"Well, these are a bit higher. I don't know if I'll be as, um, mobile right away."

He, with his fetish for wildly impractical heels, had somehow married her, who owned a single pair of 1" pumps for special occasions.

She loved how the right pair of shoes reduced him to mindless putty in her hands. She just couldn't walk in them. Hence this little project of hers.

"I was going to try them on first," she finished. "Do a little test run."

"So you could be sure of putting on a good show for me?"

She shrugged and gave him a small smile.

"You don't have to do that." He was saying that a lot recently.

Men were weird. Say, Can't tonight, I'd rather spend four hours in a ballet studio, even though I started about twenty years too late to get anywhere with that, and he was all, Sure, I'm so happy you're pursuing your dreams.

But a few minutes a day learning to drive him crazy with lust? Suddenly it was You don't have to do that, and They're bad for your feet, and I'm not that into good sex anyway.

"I want to," she said, in the tone she used for pushy salesmen.

"No, we're in this together. We'll open it together, and if you can't walk, we'll do something else. Okay?"

He picked the most inconvenient times to grow a spine. She smiled despite herself. "You're sweet sometimes."

"Maybe you should be nicer to me."

She snuggled into him, putting one hand into his pocket to draw him against her. "But you get so excited when I'm mean," she cooed, and rose to the balls of her feet to nip at his ear.

He did put the box in the closet, and they did both leave it there, although she caught him a few times over the following days staring thoughtfully at the closed closet door.

Once, she came upon him standing there utterly lost in thought, with a suspicious bulge in his pants. "Are you just standing in the hallway with a chubby?" she teased. He had an adorable way of stammering and ducking his head.

Instead he said, mildly, "For all that I try to talk you out of this project, and for all that I would be really, truly okay with it if you decided to stop...I love that you're willing to do this for me."

She hated how easily he could render her speechless like that. And she hated even more how he probably didn't even think of it that way. He'd probably be genuinely hurt by the suggestion that he was one-upping her attempt to discomfit him.

So she didn't say that. Instead, she smiled and said, gently, "Hey, I like sex too." And she brushed by him before he could pull any more of this feelings shit.

She couldn't help glancing at the closet herself as she passed, though. She felt the box tugging at her like a lodestone. She was constantly aware of it as she moved around the house.

The original shoes that had started all this were 5 inches. She couldn't even stand in those without clutching his arm like a newborn foal.

2.5" had been uncomfortable, but manageable, and over the last month she'd learned to clomp around the house for up to an hour without too much trouble.

These were 3.5", higher than anything she'd ever worn. Did she really want to throw them on and hope for the best?

She chickened out, as usual. She blocked out some time on their shared calendar for "🐣", their code word for mid-day sex. When the time came, she led him straight past the closet into the bedroom.

They whipped through their old routine: a towel in case she squirted, the pillow to elevate her hips, a few minutes for her with the vibrator, a few strokes for him with her hand, then wham bam thank you ma'am.

Twenty minutes later, she lay cradled in his arms reflecting on what far they had come. Was it only months ago that this was the mainstay of their sex lives?

It felt now like a nostalgic treat. A packet of instant noodles, dressed up with slices of mushroom and ribbons of cabbage. A poached egg to pop and stir into the salty broth. A swirl of sesame oil, a dash of pepper.

She buried her face in his neck and inhaled deeply, imagining herself cupping the bowl in her hands as the fragrant steam enveloped her face. Maybe not a peak experience, exactly, but familiar and comfortable and satisfying in all the right ways.

She asked for the shoes that night, at the least sexy time possible. At the end of their hour-long "commute" from their home office via the walking paths at the park. After a good half hour hashing out the details of their grocery list. While wearing sweat pants, sneakers, and a shapeless hoodie, fraying at the cuffs.

She got the box out of the closet herself.

He held his hands out.

After a moment, she let him have it.

He had picked up on her business-like mood. Their habit of late had been for him to crawl back to the bench by the door, kneel, and ask kiss her feet. Today he instead walked over, let her sit, and then squatted and stripped off her socks and shoes.

He did take a moment to admire the shoes, turning them over in his big calloused hands and letting the light play across the matte leather. These were probably getting close to the range that he fantasized about.

"No pressure," he reminded her, standing up and offering her his hand.

She stuck her tongue out at him. Ignoring his hand, she stood up on her own. These were taller. Nevertheless, she managed to find her balance with only a little wobbling.

For a moment, she fantasized about striding defiantly away. Putting a little shimmy into her step and glancing back to watch him stare.

That was her pride, fucking with her again. She sighed and took his hand. "Let's walk up and down the hall a few minutes."

"Sure." He moved her hand higher up his arm, into the classic position by his elbow. As if she were elderly and infirm and asking for help across the street. This was exactly why she hated heels.

She took a deep breath and shook it off. It was like anything else. Just had to put in the reps. One, two, three...

After five hundred steps, she switched to counting lengths of the hallway. Down and back was about fifty of the tiny steps she dared take in these shoes.

After ten hallways, she came back to the bench. "I think that's enough for today," she said.

He knelt in front of her. She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn't in the mood, but he merely took the shoes off and put her house slippers on. "Come sit on the couch with me. I'll rub your feet."

"Yeah, okay." She let him lead her into the living room.

"Remember when I used to do this for you?" he asked.

"When I was doing ballet."

"Weird how it was never the pointe work that did it."

"Yeah, pointe isn't a muscular pain. Wasn't for me, anyway."

He worked in silence for a minute before speaking again. "It's not about me any more, is it?"

"What?"

"Sorry, I played the tape forward in my head. I was going to say you didn't have to do this. And you were going to say you wanted to do something nice for me."

She pulled her foot away. This again?

He took it back onto his lap. Did something really good in her arch. Kept talking. "But I don't think that really passes the sniff test. We've had some mind-blowing sex already. You don't need a higher heel to drive me crazy, and you know it."

Maybe she would need it later. Maybe he'd get tired of playing around with stuff teens wore to church. Maybe she was getting ahead of the curve, anticipating demand.

No, if she said that he'd merely look at her until she realized how dumb it sounded.

"I believe that's how it started," he said. "I believe you really wanted to do something nice for me. Now, though, now you're just kind of...doing it, aren't you? Like the mountain climber: because it's there. And you're here."

He paused to hold up his fingers, two and a half inches apart.

"And this is what you do, you get from here to there, for whatever values of here and there you had available when you went looking for your next project."

He knew better than to expect a reply. After a few seconds' silence, he went back to her foot. "Okay. Let's do it. I guess we'll practice in the hallway for a while?"

Glad to move onto more practical matters, she said, "Maybe another day or two. Then I can start wearing them around the house."

She scheduled them for mid-day quickies the rest of the week. No heels, no leashes, no blood, just his shampoo in her nose and then his body warm and welcoming against hers for a few minutes before they both went back to work.

The shoes stayed in the box, gracing her feet only when she practiced. Soon she was able to pace up and down the hallway alone, and then to putter around the house while he prepped dinner.

One day, she held up one hand as he came out of the closet with the shoebox. She tilted her head just so, glanced up from beneath her lashes, and smiled.

His smile slowly spread across his face.

She said, "You're over-dressed, honey."

"Yeah? How dressed should I be?"

"I'll let you know."

Slowly, holding her gaze, he took off his pants, then his shirt. His boxer briefs were tented in front.

She stopped him there. "Let's not have any drips on the floor."

He knelt before her. She let him change her socks for nylons and her sensible shoes for the pumps. She let her crossed leg hover just before his face.

"What do you want to do now, little boy?"

"May I give it a kiss?"

"Just one."

He restrained himself admirably, giving her foot a single kiss before standing to help her up.

She had a wicked idea. She was having a lot of those recently. "How would you like to stay like this until I'm done practicing?"

"You mean, wait here?"

"No, you can go prep dinner. It's a weeknight. But I'd like you to keep your shirt and pants off."

He hesitated. "There are windows in the kitchen."

"I'll go around and close all the curtains. It's getting dark anyway."

"I was going to do some fried rice."

"You can wear an apron."

He still hesitated.

"Honey, you don't have to if you don't want to."

"No," he said slowly. "It's okay. I just had to think about it. But I go around the house in my underwear all the time in the summer, right? So, sure, I'll keep my shirt off."

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Good boy. I'll go close the curtains for you."

She was done with her practice before dinner was ready, but she didn't want to interrupt him. She sat in the dining room and watched him finish. His upper body wasn't much to look at, but years of cycling and Olympic lifting had given him a nice butt, even in those saggy shorts he insisted were still worth wearing.

Finally he turned off the range hood and turned around. "Oh, sorry, how long have you been waiting?"

"Not long. Come take my shoes off."

He took a step toward her.

She rolled her eyes so dramatically her entire head moved. In her best movie villainess voice, she spat, "Crawl, boy." Then she looked at him again, letting her face relax into a grin.

He wasn't looking at her. He was getting onto his hands and knees. He crawled over and apologized so sincerely she let him lick each shoe from heel to toe before taking it off. A little shaken, she handed him his clothing.

Over dinner, she asked, "How did that feel?"

"Really weird. Not bad!" he clarified hastily. "But really weird. I'd mostly forget. Like I said, I do this all the time when it's hot. But then I'd catch a glimpse of myself in the window or some water would splash on me where my shirt would usually catch it. Suddenly I'd remember why I was doing it this time and get incredibly horny."

"What does that mean?" she asked. "Why you were doing it this time?"

"Well, because you asked me to. Come on, you know I like it when you get bossy in bed." He looked at her in confusion. "Wait, why did you ask me to stay undressed then?"

She shrugged. "Eye candy while I was practicing? I wasn't really thinking about your end of it, to be honest."

He got a pained look on his face and she realized how selfish she sounded. "Shit, I'm sorry. I don't know why I thought that was an okay thing to do."

"No, no, actually, I'm actually painfully erect." He thought about what he had just said and laughed. "Actually."

"Really?"

"It's kind of a fantasy of mine when you order me around because you want to, not because you think I'd want you to. Also, you have to understand, men get called eye candy rarely enough it still feels like a compliment."

"Wow. I'll have to think about that."

"So..." he said. "Coming back to how I was getting incredibly horny while I was cooking..."

"Yeah, I was going to offer you a hand job." She paused, just long enough to let the past tense sink in. Just long enough to savor this moment. Just long enough to pluck up the courage. "But if you're into me doing what I want and not what I think you want, well, giving you a hand job tonight is a bit more the latter..."

He look absolutely gobsmacked.

"You can always masturbate," she offered, relenting a little.

"Well, I probably will. It's not the same, though."

She reached over and took his hand. "Am I being too mean?"

"No," he said, giving her a firm squeeze.

"You promise to tell me if I am?"

"I promise."

"Because I know you're into mean girls, but I don't want to overshoot and just be a bitch."

He smiled as if enjoying some private joke. "It's not so much that I'm into mean girls as the girl I'm into is mean to me."

"I'm serious." Was he going to make her say it? Bastard. "I worry about this."

"Would you feel better if I told you some things I won't do?"

"Yeah, do that."

"Nothing public. Nothing permanent. Nothing illegal. No scat, no piss, no blood. No petticoating, no turning out, no cuckolding, no forced bi. Uh, no enemas, no sounding, no piercing. Nothing with my eyes or my hands. Shall I go on? I can, for a while. I'm super---" He made a motion with his hands, as if drawing two parallel lines in the air. "---straight-laced, as these things go."

"Uh, no, that's okay," she said, reeling.

"So were you going to do any of that?"

"I don't even know what some of that meant," she said, trying to play it all back in her head. "Wait a minute, did you say no blood?"

"Are you thinking about when you scratched my back and a couple spots oozed a little? That's, uh, not blood play. Trust me."

"Okay," she said.

"Look, I told you about the curtains and the grease splatter, didn't I? I wouldn't let you make me do anything I didn't want to do, at some level. We can always talk about it. I'm not going to get mad at you for asking."

That was what she wanted to hear. She smiled, relaxing. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay." She squeezed his hand again and he squeezed back, hard.

They left it at that for the night, but his words echoed in her head. It's kind of a fantasy of mine when you order me around because you want to, not because you think I'd want you to. And, I'm not going to get mad at you for asking.

The next day, after he'd helped her into the shoes again, she asked him, "Remember you promised not to get mad if I asked you to do something you didn't want to do?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

She had thought about how to phrase it. "It'd be a turn-on for me to see how excited you were, to know that you were thinking of me while I was practicing."

His eyes lit up. "Are you asking me to edge for you?"

She had no idea what that meant, so probably not. But he seemed so excited that she said, "Maybe? What does that mean?"

"Do you want me to stroke myself until I'm about to come and then stop and go make dinner hard and leaking?"

She could feel her face flush with blood at that description. As well as other parts of her. "I was going to play with your cock myself, but what you said sounds way hotter. If that's okay with you."

He gave her a kiss. "Yes, it's more than okay. And for the record, you can ask to play with my penis any time you want. Let me get some lube and a towel."

He came back with the lube and the towel and a confused look. "I didn't think about this until after I left, but what was with all that preamble about not getting mad at you? You do this to me all the time."

"I do not," she said indignantly. "Sometimes I drop some hints when I'm in the mood and I don't know if you are. And sometimes when you're in the mood but I'm not we pet a little without going all the way. I've never asked to play with your cock like it was some kind of toy I could pull out and put away."

He gaped at her.

"What?"

Finally, he said, "I don't even know where to begin." He ticked his points off on his fingers. "Um, first, I will reiterate that you may ask to play with my penis whenever you want. Second, do you understand that you are some kind of idiot savant of turning me on? Tell me again how my penis is some kind of toy for you to pull out and put away."

"I swear that's not how I think about it."

"I know, I know. Just, say the words, would you?"

"Your penis is nothing but a toy for me to pull out and put away," she said obediently.

"Say it like you mean it."

"Your cock is nothing but a toy for me. I'll pull it out when I want and put it away when I'm done. I shouldn't even call it your cock. It's my cock. You just take care of it for me when I'm not playing with it."

"Good grief." He looked stunned.

"Too much?"

He pointed at his crotch. "Do I seem offended?"

"Wow," she said, staring at his erection in fascination. "That's not left over from putting my shoes on? You get off on me talking about you like some kind of faceless meat dildo?"

"And...there you go again."

"Faceless meat dildo?" she asked.

"Faceless meat dildo," he confirmed.

"So, if I were to say something like..." She tried to remember the crudest thing anyone had ever shouted at her. "Less talking, more wanking, little boy. There's a reason you have a mouth, and this isn't it."

"Hot," he said emphatically. "Very hot. I don't know where you get this stuff."

She decided not to spoil the mood. Instead she said, "Tell me about edging. Is this something you do? It sounds awfully frustrating."

He smiled. "It can be. Is that a bad thing? For you, I mean."

"Mm, I guess not," she admitted. A wicked little smile crept onto her face. "I do like it when you're frustrated. I like the way you look at me."

"Right, so there's that. But, purely for myself, it's nice that I can back off and try again in a minute, and if I have enough time to do it a few times that can get really intense."

She remembered him squirming desperately as she gave him a handjob too soon after he'd finished. "Does that mean it doesn't hurt to go again, like after you come?"

"Maybe it would eventually but I've never gotten there."

Forcing herself to watch his face, she said slowly, "It sounds like the meanest thing I could do is ask you to edge only once, so you get all the frustration but none of the later sensation."

"On a weeknight, probably."

"And if we had more time?"