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Chapter
1
"If you have any problems,
Tom, you know how to get hold of me," my wife said as she kissed
me good-bye in the airport departure lounge.
"Just get on the airplane,
Margo," I chided, I'm a big boy. I'll manage."
I waved to her as she
bustled down the ramp. It was Saturday, and she was off to help
her sister, Pat, with her newborn, and would be gone for up to two
weeks.
There were three good
things about her departure. First, I planned to lock myself up in
my den and work on that program I wanted to get done. Second, the
painter we contracted, the husband of my wife's best friend at work,
would paint the rest of the house while both of us were out of the
way. Third, I could get my special magazine collection organized.
My wife and I have always
had a healthy sex life, and I was horny before I watched her plane
pull out. I stopped by the newsstand on my way out and bought a
copy of Penthouse. Margo knows I read this kind of magazine, but
she chooses not to acknowledge it. She doesn't want to see them,
and she doesn't want to talk about them. So, like many men, I have
my stash hidden, and I have to be discrete about when I read them.
Now I'd have two whole
weeks to read at my leisure. I thumbed through the magazine in the
parking lot. I noticed that this particular month's issue had a
couple of letters about two of my favorite topics: cross-dressing
and female domination.
Even though I'd never
thought of trying it personally, the thought of men dressing in
women's clothes was something that held a hint of mystery for me.
I didn't play with Margo's clothes because I was afraid she'd catch
me. Her shoes were something else. They were sort of scattered around
the closet floor. It wasn't very probable that she'd notice if they
were moved. Besides, it was less likely that I'd have an "accident"
in one of her shoes.
There was nothing mysterious
about female domination. I was addicted. I couldn't pass up a magazine
that had stories about the subject in it. I spilled gallons of semen
into the toilet while reading them. If I only had the courage to
talk to Margo about it!
That was the hard part.
I know Margo liked me for my self-confidence and manly actions and
appearance. I didn't know what she'd think if I told her I wanted
to be dominated. "Shit," I said to myself defensively, "Half those
letters are made up, and the other half are exaggerated way out
of proportion. Nothing like that ever happens to real people."
I thumbed further through
the magazine. There were some great pictures in there! I could spend
hours on the centerfold alone! My cock rose to the occasion. How
I'd like to put it in something like what was shown in the picture.
I'd never cheat on Margo, but a man could have his fantasies, right?
I loved her, but Margo just didn't excite me like these models did.
I knew that it would
be weeks before I could have sex with Margo again! Oh well, there's
always "Rosy Palm and her five sisters," I thought. At least Margo
didn't pack all her shoes. As far as she knew, I encouraged her
to buy those pumps with the high heels because they looked good
on her. She didn't know that my appreciation of her shoes went much
deeper than that.
I had a hard-on from
the time I got in the car until I got off my bed an hour and a half
later.
-=o=-
The painter arrived
as scheduled on Monday and started setting up the scaffolding, drop
cloths, and other paraphernalia for the job. I invited him to make
use of sodas and iced tea I had in the refrigerator, and went off
to the solitude of my den.
It was mid-afternoon
when the painter came into my den and explained to me, "I'm sorry
Mr. Greer, I'm just not feeling well. I don't want to do it, but
I have to knock off for the day. I've got one hell of a headache,
and I think I'm going to lose my lunch."
Not on my rug he wasn't!
So I sent him home. Oh well, so much for getting the painting done
on time.
-=o=-
I was awakened by the
doorbell at precisely 8 a.m. the following day. I put on my robe,
rubbed my eyes and made my way to the front door. I opened it to
see a girl standing there. She appeared to be about 18 years old.
Her face had a wholesome look to it with green eyes and a sprinkling
of girlish freckles across her cheeks. She had her red hair tucked
under a baseball cap, and was dressed in an pull-over sleeveless
blouse, pink shorts and tennis shoes. The pull-over revealed an
inviting figure, and the pink shorts outlined a generous and, to
my mind, appealing set of hips and buttocks.
I looked at her with
a blank expression.
She finally broke the
silence. "Hi, I'm Linda, Bob's daughter."
"Who the fuck is Bob?"
my sleepy mind was asking me.
She obviously read my
mind. "Bob -- the painter -- the man who went home sick yesterday?
He's got a really bad case of the flu."
"Oh, sure!" I said,
suddenly comprehending. "What can I do for you?"
"It's the other way
around. It's what I can do for you that's important. I'm here to
finish the job my father started."
"You?" I asked, "You're
just a girl!"
That was the wrong thing
to say, and I knew it as soon as the last breath left my mouth.
She flushed with anger. "Don't 'girl' me," she said firmly, "I've
been helping my dad in the business since I was thirteen. I know
what I'm doing, and I assure you, I can handle a paint brush. This
contract is important to us, we need the money, and I'm going to
finish this job!"
"But I hired your father,"
I complained.
"Wrong!" she shot back,
"You hired the corporation. Read the fine print. Both my father
and I are employees of the corporation. Now am I going to stand
out here all morning, or are you going to let me in to work?"
She didn't wait for
an answer and just pushed past me. She was pushy all right, but
there was something about her assertiveness that attracted me.
She took a quick, self-conducted
tour of the house assessing what needed to be done, and then went
out to her car and got a couple more items. She went into the spare
bathroom, and came out wearing an oversized shirt, and work boots.
Both were paint-speckled, but she still wore those pink shorts.
I was in no mood to
argue with her. So, I let her work. I found it difficult, however,
to concentrate on my breakfast. Seeing her stretching and swaying
on the scaffold was getting me aroused. There was a certain grace
to her motions that was seductive. I looked eagerly for the glances
she gave me of her bottom when her shirt pulled away as she stretched
or bent over. More than once, she caught me staring at her. I was
fascinated with that gorgeous tush of hers. Finally, she turned
to me and said, "What!"
I was snapped rudely
from my dream and was embarrassed. "Nothing," I said.
"It better be nothing,"
she responded. I went back to my den to get her out of my sight,
and out of my mind. Well, half of it worked anyway. She was out
of my sight.
At noon, I went out
to the kitchen to get lunch. I saw her eating a sandwich out on
my covered patio. She smiled and waved at me, but we didn't exchange
words. At 5 P.M. I heard her voice come down the hall. "I'm leaving
for the day, Mr. Greer." I didn't even hear her car pull away.
I took out the trash
after dinner. Coming back into the house through the laundry room,
I noticed the light on in the spare bathroom. I went in to turn
it off, and saw that Linda had left her clothes in the bathroom.
She apparently hadn't changed out of her work clothes when she'd
left.
The pullover was hanging
on the hook on the back of the door, along with a bra, and a pair
of panties. Her sneakers were sitting on the floor under the sink.
The bra was a cotton athletic type, and the panties were plain white
cotton. My wife had much fancier stuff in her dresser drawers. These
items of Linda's apparel didn't have much appeal to me.
The sneakers, however,
were strangely attractive. My wife had a pair of Reeboks she wore
to aerobics class, but except for the pink trim, they looked exactly
like mine. Linda's Keds, on the other hand were uniquely feminine.
Men don't wear that kind of sneaker. For some strange reason they
drew me towards them. I picked them up, held them to my chest, and
fondled them.
The picture of Linda
at the front door came to mind. I was recalling her small, but well-formed
breasts, and those nicely framed buns in her cute pink shorts. My
thoughts continued down her body, and came to rest on these very
sneakers. I thought of her petite feet and how they occupied the
shoes. Almost without thinking, I slowly brought one of the sneakers
to my face and sniffed gently at the opening.
There was a sweaty,
yet sweet smell. I put my face and mouth into the opening, and inhaled
deeply. The odor was pungent and sharp, yet something in my mind
said that "feminine" was the proper adjective for the scent assaulting
my senses.
I hadn't had sex since
before my wife left. That was half a week earlier. It was time,
and my body knew it. My cock sprang to attention. I put the sneakers
on the vanity, dropped my pants, pulled up the toilet seat, knelt
in front of it, picked up one of the sneakers, held it to my face
and started to masturbate. I was lost in the sensation that was
the smell of her feet. When I came, I shot my load over the seat
and splashed copious amounts of semen all over the bowl.
I knelt there in a warm
post-ejaculate glow. I'd never done this particular scene before.
I had masturbated while kissing my wife's high-heeled, patent-leather
pumps, but I never considered that a lowly sneaker could have sex
appeal. I never considered that the smell of a woman's foot could
be such a turn-on. What made it even better for me was that this
shoe was worn on the foot of a strange girl. Somehow that added
a little naughtiness to it.
I put the sneakers back
under the sink and cleaned up my mess.
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