"I've only ever seen you in jeans and loose sweaters," I observed, "so this is way over the top for me."
Nikkole posed provocatively at the doorway to my home office, one hand on her hip, the other behind her lustrous hair, and rhetorically asked, "Like it?"
Like it? Hell, I loved it. She was a brand new person -- in every way. Up until now, Nikkole had just been an attractive young woman who came in once a week to clean up my administrative stuff. I just stared, dumbstruck by the metamorphosis from young grunge to sensual femininity enhanced by her meticulously applied make-up and styled hair.
Nikkole was wearing a white silk blouse and a beige business suit with a skirt that was tight and hemmed higher than one might expect. On her feet she'd chosen to wear open-toed high heels that went at least three inches in height. And her legs were clad in nylon that appeared at the upper end of the quality scale.
"Wow," I enthused, "You ARE stunning! What's the occasion?"
With more assertion than I expected, she said, "Not so much an occasion, Allan, as it is the broadening of peripheries. You need to know that I'm a multi-faceted woman whose interests run deep."
I admitted that personal appearances tend to categorize what we think of people; that a theme develops and takes root.
"Exactly," she said. "And up until now, you've thought of me as the cute kid who organizes your paper work. So, what does my appearance tell you now?"
"Well, adjectives include sexy, refined, stunning, feminine, aggressive, sensual. In short, Nikkole, you're a knock-out."
"I'm glad you feel that way, Allan, but I knew you would. Don't think I haven't seen you practically drooling over women who come even close to looking like this. You've got a thing for it, haven't you?"
She was right. I do have a "thing" for it. It drives me nuts. All I can ever think of is being collared and at the end of a leash controlled by a woman who looks like she did now. But I wasn't going to admit that to her.
Instead, I said, "Of course I do. I love that look. It makes me remember that I've got a sex drive."
Nikkole gave a pensive look before saying, "I don't think it's so much your sex drive as it is what actually drives you. You've just admitted this is the look that turns you on -- the look that captures your imagination. In other words, Allan, you've got a thing for it and it goes far beyond how you just tried to trivialize it."
"Of course you're right, Nikkole," I responded, "but, frankly, just how far it goes really isn't something I want to get into with you."
"Afraid?" she asked.
"Maybe, but the reason is closer to it's none of your business."
Rather than take that blunt response as criticism, Nikkole instead brightly said, "Okay. What needs doing today? Point me to the mess."
The mess, as she called it, was where it always is -- across the room at the second desk I'd set up for her. I pointed at it, she smiled then walked over and sat down, crossing her legs causing the short skirt to rise even higher. That delicious nylon-upon-nylon sound that stockings make invaded my brain.
Ten minutes later, she turned her head, gave me a penetrating look and said, "Since I've been sitting here, you haven't done a thing but stare at my legs and shoes. Like it or not, buster, you just made your hang-ups my business. It's your fetish, isn't it Allan? You adore high-heeled shoes, feet and legs. Admit it."
"Okay," I said. "I admit it. Happy?"
"Now we're getting somewhere," she said. "And there's something I'm going to admit. I did this makeover because I wanted to see the impact it would have on you. I'm very happy to see that you're giving me proper attention."
"You deserve it. Like I said when you came in, you look spectacular."
Neither of us said a word for a few moments, both reflecting on our respective admissions. But I knew a corner had been turned on what promised to be an exciting new dimension to our relationship and, I suspected, Nikkole was having the same thoughts.
In a coquettish gesture she slowly crossed her legs, letting her heel dangle in a way that -- to a fetishist like me -- made thinking of anything but her desirability impossible. While my body language didn't give me away, my imagination was running amok, practically panting with lust.
Somehow Nikkole discerned this. I suppose it was because of the familiarity we'd nurtured over the time she'd been working for me. She displayed a knowing smile, her eyes focusing sharply almost holding me spellbound. It was at that moment that I noticed a couple of buttons on her silk blouse were undone, allowing a view of magnificent cleavage.
Seductively, she asked, "Well, now that we've brought out your desires what should we do about them?"
I stumbled my reply, still managing to dodge: "I-I'm not sure, Nikkole. Do you have anything in mind?"
"Allan, what I want you to do is crawl to my feet. Will you do that for me?"
Without saying a word, I dropped from my chair to hands and knees and moved across the floor to her crossed legs. Staring at the shoe on Nikkole's crossed leg, I remained quiet, watching as she dangled the high heel before my eyes.
"Mmmmm," she said. "You look good down there. It's where you belong, isn't it? Where you've wanted and needed to be? Does it thrill you to have your lips and tongue so close to my shoe?"
Nikkole's question was emphasized by her foot moving in circles, closer and closer to my mouth. For the first time, I understood how easily hypnosis could be effected through concentration on an object. I licked my lips, practically salivating, before realizing the affirmative message I was sending.
She laughed, enjoying my predicament.
And then Nikkole moved the open-toed shoe so that the tip protruded into my open mouth. "Kiss my toes for me," she softly commanded.
Hesitating briefly, I began pecking her toes - just the tips.
"I said kiss them, Allan. Big, wet, passionate kisses. Suck them. Adore them. Worship them."
Any lingering hesitation was lost as my passion overwhelmed my intellect and I lost myself in adoration of her toes, her shoes, of HER!
And then I made the mistake of licking.
"Stop! Lean back."
Stunned, I obeyed but the confused look on my face gave her further cause for being angry. Nikkole extended her hand toward the side of my head and took my ear lobe between two fingers, just the way an angry mother would do a child, and said, "Your submission is evident, Allan, but you need obedience training so that you do only what you're told. Did I tell you to lick?"
Looking down in embarrassment, I responded, "I'm sorry, Nikkole. You're just so beautiful."
"From this moment on address me as Mistress, never look me in the eye and do only what you're told."
My obedience was underlined by an immediate, "Yes, Mistress."
"You need to be at the feet of, and submissive to, an attractive and dominant woman like me. Strict training will make you an adequate slave. Tell me that's what you want?"
"Yes, Mistress," I said. "Please turn me into your pet, adoring you the way your slave should. Please teach me to serve you and obey you through discipline and denial."
"Yes, Mistress. Help me be even more obsequious by denying me regular orgasms. Instead, Mistress, please allow me to lust for you but please take control of when and how I cum."
Her response was a stillness, the silence unnerving me. The weight of her eyes on my bowed head was a tangible, reducing me to worry over whether my words had been appropriate.
A few moments later, Nikkole said, "Stand up, Allan, and let's finish this work. If you keep your mind on business for the rest of the day, I'll have more to say later on about what just happened."
Her statement was like cold water thrown in my face. The transition from being wholly attuned to obedience to returning to a vanilla mindset was, to say the least, disappointing.
Back at my desk, I tried to focus but it was hopeless. Nikkole's allure, her very presence, overwhelmed thoughts of doing anything that went beyond being at her feet. After a while, I reasoned, it was her order to keep my mind on business for the next few hours. By doing so I would be demonstrating my obedience. And so, in my submissive need to please her, I managed to put together an incredibly productive day.
Shortly before 4:30, just ahead of knocking off the work day, Nikkole looked up from her desk and said, "Allan, beg me to take you and train you as my slave. Tell me of your desire to be collared and leashed, humiliated, bound and whipped until you've been broken to my needs. Beg me to take ownership of your cock and balls."
On the instant, I moved from my chair to a kneeling position on the floor, eyes lowered, and answered, "Yes, Mistress Nikkole."
"Say you want to be wholly-owned, taken and trained as my property."
(For other of my Femdom and Fetish stories, double-click on defiant_1. Your comments and votes are much appreciated.)