A quiet girl lets her shoes do the talking while a heel enthusiast hangs on her every footstep.

I’m so horribly shy that at parties I often feel as if I not only blend with the furniture, I become transparent — as if you might not only forget about me, but be able to see completely through me. This is what I was thinking at my former roommate’s anniversary party, when a deep voice from behind me said, “I spy a shy girl.”

I turned around quickly. A man with dark curly brown hair and soft blue eyes leaned over the edge of the sofa toward me. He’d only said the words loud enough for me to hear, which meant he’d been incredibly close to me in order to for me to hear him over the dance music.

“Where?” I asked sarcastically, gazing out at the rest of the guests. Everyone else seemed to be dancing.

“Right here,” he said, and he climbed nimbly over the back of the sofa and sat at my side. I liked his bold air, and I felt more confident than usual, myself, thanks to the glass of top-shelf champagne I’d already downed. Having a handsome man take interest of me at a social event was a new experience, and I appreciated the change from the loneliness I’d felt mere moments earlier.

“Do you win a prize?” I asked. “Pin the blush on the shy girl?”

“Something like that,” he said, and he leaned in even closer to me, so close I could feel his breath on the side of my neck. “I spy something else, too,” he said.

For some reason, his words made me shiver. A sweet, delicious tremor ran all the way down my spine and then back up again. I felt myself growing warm, even though I was dressed only in a simple strapless sheath. The partiers nearby paid us no attention, yet I felt as if the sparkling lights overhead had been strung there just for the two us. There was a feeling of magic in the air.

“What’s that?” I asked, whispering in his ear.

“I spy a girl who likes to wear her heels high.”

I went scarlet, as crimson as the soles on the shoes he was now lifting onto his lap, forcing me to swivel so that my back was pressed against the gold brocade armrest of the sofa. Now I had my feet in a stranger’s lap, which would have been unusual on the most normal of days. But even more bizarre was that he’d spotted my fetish in a matter of minutes.

“I do like a good shoe,” I said, stating the obvious. It was as if his fingertips stroking the shiny leather were working as a truth serum. A waiter passed by with a tray, and I snagged a second glass of brashness. “So do many girls,” I said, indicating the women dancing. There was a fashion show of different styles of shoes on the floor — clogs, boots, kitten heels. “What makes my shoes so special?”

“You like the tall ones. You like the ones that are as tall as you can manage.”

“How do you know this?”

He grinned at me. “Wallflower,” he said as the music died down between songs, “we’ve been at several of these events together. Think back. The engagement party. The Jack-and-Jill shower. The wedding. There’s been plenty of time for me to drink you in. Top to bottom. And what I’ve noticed is that every time I’ve seen you, you’ve had on a gorgeous pair of skyscraper heels.”

He was playing with my shoes now, running his hands all over the expensive creations. I wished that we were alone, so that I could really confess to him. But there we sat, in the middle of a party — or, on the outskirts of one. I couldn’t think what to do next. Luckily, as the band kicked up again, he said, “Come with me,” and he pushed my feet off his lap and stood. I scrambled to his side, and I held his hand as he walked me from the main room down a long hallway.

“We’ll have privacy back here,” he said, opening the door to a guest room and ushering me inside.

“Privacy for what?” I asked. My voice shook. What was I stalling for?

“Privacy so that you can take off your dress and stand there in your stockings and exquisite heels and tell me all about your favorite types of footwear.”

Things like this don’t happen to me. I had no experience meeting a man who could look at me and not see through me but see exactly who I am. I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away, so even though I am shy, I did what he said. While he locked the door, I unzipped my dress and let the silk fabric rustle to the floor. I undid my strapless bra and pulled the black satin away from me. Then I stood in front of the stranger in my garters, stockings, panties and heels, and I said, “My name is Elena, and I own ninety-eight pairs of shoes.”

“Oh, beautiful girl,” he said, “I can’t wait for you to show them all to me. What do shoes do for you?”

Thank God, I’d had the bubbly earlier. I could feel the champagne in my veins as I said, “Shoes turn me on.”

“Yes… ”

“They make me wet,” I continued. The words came in a rush, tumbling one after the other. “Even only looking at pictures in magazines. Or sometimes advertisements on the sides of buildings or on the metro.”

“So your porn is… ”

“… whatever fashion magazine I can get my hands on.”

“And when you go shoe shopping?” He asked these questions as if he already knew the answers, as if he merely wanted to confirm facts that were already crystal clear in his mind.

“I often have to take breaks in the lady’s lounge, just to touch myself and get everything under control again.” I’d never told anybody this before. Not ex-boyfriends. Not best friends. This was one of my deepest, most treasured erotic secrets. I didn’t think anyone would understand the cravings to which I’ve become accustomed. But the way the man was looking at me made me desperate to tell him everything. I took a deep breath and cocked a hip forward. I knew I looked good. Without the dress, I was like one of the advertisements I spend my nights gazing at. I told this to him. “There is something so sexy to me about seeing a shoe in a magazine, fantasizing for several weeks, and then striding into a store and trying on the exact same shoe.”

As I was talking, I began walking, back and forth in front of the stranger. I ought to have known his name. He was right. We had been at all the events together. But I’m notoriously bad with names, and people rarely seem to pay much attention to me. Shy often equals invisible, like I said. But now, I was more than visible. I was onstage.

“What do you do at the stores?”

“First, I try on the pair I know I want. Then I excuse myself, and I go to the ladies’ room and I make myself come. It doesn’t take long. All the buildup does me in. I press my back against the wall, stick my fingers up my slit, and I get myself off. Then I freshen up, go back to the shoe department, and in that heady glow of orgasm, I buy my dream shoes.”

There. I’d said it. If what I’d told him turned him off, he still had time to leave. But, of course, he didn’t.

“What do you do when you get the shoes home?” the man asked.

“More of the same,” I said. “But better.”

“Show me.”

I stopped walking. “I’ve never shared this with anyone before,” I told him. I wanted him to know that. I wanted him to understand that this was special.

“I find that hard to believe,” he chided me. “You’re so obviously a walking fetish. Men haven’t ever glommed on to the fact that you get off on your shoes?”

“What else do you find hard?” I asked, and I walked over to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and I pressed my body between his legs. His erection was like wood. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I let my hips press forward. He stroked my hair off my face and kissed me. How sweet his lips felt on mine. Even sweeter was the knowledge that he was going to make my wildest fantasies come true. I’d never had the nerve to tell a man what I wanted before. So I’d never been fucked while wearing shoes. I had the feeling that this man would have no problem delivering on my desires.

“Show me,” he said again. I climbed onto the bed and spread my legs.

“First, tell me your name.”

He smiled at me, all white teeth against his tanned skin, and he ran his fingers along the soles of my shoes once more. “I’m Tony,” he said, and he lightly shook my foot as he added, “Pleased to meet you. Again.”

“Again,” I repeated, softly.

“Like I said, we’ve met at every one of these shindigs. But I’m guessing you’ll remember my name now.”

This was an unexpectedly arousing introduction. I let one hand wander to the split of my body, and I ever so slowly began to run my fingertips up and down my pussy through my panties. I was already wet, but I made sure I was positively dripping before I made the next move — one I’d never done in front of any partner before. Tony was bringing out a side of myself that I’d only imagined sharing with someone.

Slowly, I raised my legs in the air. I continued to play with myself while staring up at my shoes. I pointed my toes. I arched my heels. I crisscrossed my legs in a scissor move usually seen only in aerobics classes. Tony made himself fully comfortable on the edge of the mattress, watching my various gyrations.

“So, you like to look at your shoes while you masturbate?”

I nodded. I was getting really worked up.

“What else do you like?”

“Sometimes, I surround myself with my favorite pairs,” I told him in the hushed sort of whisper of true confession. “I spread them out on the bed, and I get in the middle. Then I close my eyes and breathe in deep. See, the scent… ”

He laughed. “The scent of the shoes turns you on, too?”

“Yeah.” I felt that familiar blush start again. Had I gone too far? Apparently, not, because Tony parted my legs and got in between them, so that I had my ankles hooked over his shoulders. “I like that, as well,” he said, and I was gratified that he was going to be doing some confessing. That it wasn’t only me spilling secrets. “I get turned on walking into the shoe section of a store. The smell of the leather as much as the confections on display.”

I sighed, relieved and happy that he considered footwear to be a dessert, exactly the way I do. Then I suddenly realized what we were doing. He was mock fucking me while I had my legs in the air, one shoe on either side of his head. I say “mock” because I was still in my panties and he hadn’t taken off a stitch yet. I could feel his hard cock even through the layers of fabric, but I needed more. “I want you to fuck me,” I said.

“I can do that if you do something for me.”

“What?” I asked.

“Don’t take off the shoes.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

I pulled off my panties as he got undressed. I tried to remember the different times we’d met in the past, but my memory was hazy. Our mutual friends have quite a social club. Their events always included several hundred people. Even the more “intimate” gatherings had been packed.

He climbed back onto the bed and began to kiss me once more. I loved the way we fit together. It was uncanny. When I wanted his lips on mine, he gave me the perfect type of sultry kiss. When I wanted something more, he began to move down my body. I bent my knees and raked my heels down his naked back. He quivered and let out a deep guttural moan, but he did not stop his erotic kissing journey. I knew exactly where he was going. He knew where he was going. But getting there was far more than half the fun.

My heart beat like the sound of high-heels on a hardwood floor. I didn’t dare close my eyes because I didn’t want to miss even one orgasmic second. He kissed over my pussy, indulging me with one tiny tongue flick between my juicy lips, before continuing toward my toes.

Oh, we fetishists are perverse, aren’t we? Most women would have longed for a more in-depth encounter of mouth on pussy, but I didn’t want that. I wanted him to make love to my shoes. He licked and nibbled his way to my feet, and then the excitement truly began. He sat on the edge of the mattress and set one of my heels in his lap. I didn’t move. I let him do everything. He lifted my other foot and brought the shoe toward his mouth. With finesse, he began to kiss and stroke and lick every inch of my patent leather heel. While he made love to my left shoe with his mouth, he slowly began to hump his groin against my right shoe. I sighed with delight, and my sigh was practically a hum. I had never been this turned on in my whole life.

Gently, he set my left foot down and lavished the same adoration on my right shoe. “Oh, God,” I groaned. I started to stroke my pussy once more, watching him cradle and kiss my glossy heel.

When he had reached his limits, he moved so that he was between my legs, my knees hooked over his shoulders once more. Oh, yes, I thought, the words sounding in my head. Oh, yes, please, yes. I was ready now, ready to feel his tongue on my clit. He dove forward, and I pounded my heels against his naked back as he ate me out. This was divine, fucking a fellow shoe fetishist. I felt as if I had finally found my sole mate!

He licked and sucked my clit with the same preciseness as he’d bestowed upon my expensive footwear. I thought of him kissing my shoes as he suckled my pussy, and in seconds, I was coming hard, grinding my hips upward, smearing his face with my abundant juices. Before I could even catch my breath, he moved so that we were in a sixty-nine and his cock was poised over my lips. I parted my mouth and drank him in, realizing that he was now in the position to lick my split while stroking my shoes. Honestly, I don’t know which part turned me on more.

Tony bucked his hips forward, and I sensed that I had lost my rhythm. Immediately, I began to work him with my lips and tongue, feeling his big hands moving up and down my ankles, along the straps of my shoes, to the toes and back up again. In my mind, I pictured wearing all sorts of shoes for Tony in the future. My gilded gladiator sandals. My thigh-high black suede boots. An adorable pair of rhinestone-studded silver spikes. The vinyl cobalt blue boots that seem to ripple when I walk.

“Do you like that?” Tony asked suddenly, and I would have responded, but my mouth was too full of his cock to make more than a moan of assent.

“Let’s try this,” he said, and he pulled out and moved around, so that I was on my back with both of my legs up in the air once more, and he was in me deep. This gave him the opportunity to continue to admire my shoes, and it gave me the chance to really stare at the man who was rocking my world.

All at once, everything fell into place. As he gazed into my eyes I realized exactly who he was.

“Oh, God,” I said. “You had a beard before.”

“Yes.”

“And a girlfriend?”

“We split.”

“I remember you now!”

He laughed as he lowered my legs and moved up my body. “Wrap your legs around me,” he said. “I like that.”

Tony was a footwear magnate. I had known about him, but had crossed him off my list of possible lovers since he was taken. I couldn’t believe my luck. I wrapped my legs around him, as he’d instructed, and he pounded into me good and hard, just the way I like it. I was nearly creaming so quickly after the last time when he said, “I need to come, Elena. I need to come on your shoes.”

His words brought me to my climax, and he waited me out like a gentleman, allowing every last flicker of pleasure to beat through my body before he moved us once more. He positioned me so that I was on my back with my legs together, knees bent. He stood in front of me, his hand working his cock at a rapid pace. Then he was coming, showering his seed all over my high heels. I loved the way his semen looked sliding along the surface, and I even traced my fingertip in the creamy liquid, drawing little designs. Tony went to the adjoining bathroom and returned with a wet washcloth. The care he showed in cleaning my shoes got me turned on all over again, but I didn’t give in.

“Come home with me,” I said. “I have so many shoes to show you.”

“Promise me one thing,” he said as he slipped my shoes back on for me.

All I wanted to say was, “Anything. Anything!” But I cocked my eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

“Always wear your shoes to bed… “ he said, and I leaned over, making sure he could feel my shoes pressing against him, and kissed him full on the mouth. “I promise,” I whispered when we parted.

I’d transformed from a shy girl to a model of shoe-fetish behavior in one evening — and all it had taken was one high-heeled step.

Check out the Full Gallery