I have this delicious fantasy, allow me to share with you!
I have a lust of vintage-style lingerie and foundation garments. Girdles, waist-cinchers, bullet bras, garter belts, stockings, slips and half-slips. These things just send my heart a flutter! There is something undeniably sexy about the feel of a full-coverage, open-bottom girdle hugging my figure, slimming down my waist and curving down my buttocks, tightening and lifting and minimizing so I look amazing in that tiny pencil skirt or that delicious wiggle dress.
My fantasy is to be out shopping, maybe for shoes, and I am wearing a full circle skirt that comes down to my knees. Because I am a proper lady, I am wearing a modest girdle under my skirt with attached garters for my delicate back-seam stockings. Did you know that back in the day, a lady wouldn’t be caught dead outside without proper stockings? Anyway, I am off shopping for THE PERFECT heel, which of course requires going to multiple stores.
I find a lovely young shoe salesman, and he takes a liking to my vintage look right away. He’s solicitous, witty, and obviously knowledgeable about the latest styles coming out of Italy and Spain. He kneels down on his little salesman stool to measure my feet. He deftly lifts my foot into his lap and removes my patent leather Mary Jane with the finesse of a long-time employee. He casually runs his hand up the back of my calf to the hollow of my knee, and almost absent-mindedly caresses up and down, up and down, as we discuss color, heel height, and the benefits of stiletto versus wedge.
He runs off to gather a few choice selections, and as I wait I lean back into my chair. I arch my back ever so slightly, and smile at the pose I strike. Breasts riding high on my chest, perfectly formed into soft domed cones of flesh. The sweater I wear barely covers them, each half peak with stretched cashmere on top. I know they are supple but firm to the touch, and I surreptitiously drag my hands down my chest, luxuriating in the feel of soft cashmere.
He returns, and catching me at my dalliance near makes him drop the shoe boxes he has stacked in his hands. Ever the professional, however, he is able to keep his composure and resume his place at my knees. This is where the fun truly begins… Did you know that, since girdles by design come down over a woman’s hips, it’s impractical to wear underwear? Sure, we could wear overly loose “tap pants”, which were like high hipped satin bike shorts, loose in the leg but cut high up on the hip to allow for movement, but honestly, who wants to wear that when one could wear nothing? I put my left stocking-clad foot in his lap, my toes gently brushing the crotch of his pressed slacks, and I get a very satisfying twitch from him as he tries to ignore that I’ve found out about his erection.
He takes out the first pair of shoes, and delicately slips the first on to my foot. It’s a patent red pump with a 4 inch curved heel. He begins to tell me about the designer, running his fingers along the edges of the shoe to mark the stitching, the full shank heel design, the open padding at the arch and the reinforced toe. He caresses my foot through the shoe, and I am amused because he is clearly enjoying himself a little too much.
The second shoe he shows me is what I like to call a bedroom shoe. 5 inch spike heel, straps around the ankle, deceptively delicate lace over the instep and toe, but open to allow a peak of my red-painted nails. This isn’t a shoe one wears to the opera, this is a shoe one wears to see up in the air or wrapped around a lover’s back. After he buckles the last strap, I place the toe of my shoe on his upper thigh, and cock my knee ever so slightly out. At his vantage, I know he is able to barely see under my skirt, and I’ve just given him a glimpse of my secret womanhood. I watch him lick his lips, and the hand that was so demurely holding my ankle slowly climbs up my silky leg, to my knee and just beyond my skirt hem, his fingertips just brushing my thigh.
Of course I can’t let him get carried away. I put my right foot into his lap, again smiling at myself. The poor man is nearly bursting his zipper! Abashed, he gets to work undoing my Mary Jane and replaces it with the mate of my spike heeled come-fuck-me shoe. I ask him if they make my legs look longer, stretching my right leg across his body, and I watch his eyes follow the hem of my skirt as it slides up to the edges of my thigh. He can see the tops of my stockings, now, and at this point I can tell that he is barely holding on to his decency.
He holds my foot, and with his other hand caresses the shoe, massaging my foot inside, and strokes the heel like he might stroke himself. I make no indication that I want him to stop, so he runs his hand, ever so slowly, up the length of my leg, until he meets the top of my stockings. I trap him with my legs, one on either side of him as he sits between my knees. I lean forward, my skirt now pushed to the tops of my thighs, all the world can see my stockings and the hint of the nothing underneath. I watch his eyes dilate in anticipation, in lust for the stocking-clad woman with the stiletto heels. I give him the softest of kisses on the lips. Chaste, modest even. I stand in front of him slowly, my skirt brushing his face as it falls into place.
I side step him, half-turning to thank him for his attentive and professional help, and walk out of his store. I can feel his hot gaze on me as I leave, and I know that the look of shock and lust on his face. He won’t soon forget me.