The Shoe Queen - Part I
Posted 22 September 2006
Note: Due to its considerable length, this post has now been split into two parts to provide a natural break for the reader.
In the final diary entry before I took the pages offline I described how, in a completely opportunistic moment, I seduced a man into fondling and kissing my breasts while I massaged him to climax. The whole thing took no more than ten minutes or so, but the brevity of the encounter doesn't in any way lessen the significance of what I did that day. In those few minutes I had crossed what many would regard as the boundary between acceptable and unacceptable moral behaviour.
At first this might seem a strange thing to say when you consider that I had already cuckolded my husband and for several weeks had been enjoying extreme sexual adventures with another man. But from the outset, my relationship with Matt was based on more than just sexual desire. Right from when we very first met we connected in some way that went beyond the physical, and I'm certain it's this aspect that makes my husband's cuckolding so painful and disturbing for him - he knows that beneath the veneer of lust there is love. Martin must bear the burden of knowing that his wife loves another man, even though that love doesn't transcend the love she has for him.
But the man that I masturbated - I'll call him Simon - holds no such special distinction and I can quite honestly say that I don't think it would have mattered who it was that stood in front of me in that situation. The fact is that I had left the house that day wearing latex underwear and was feeling horny. My breasts were tightly buckled up in rubber, and an opportunity presented itself to show them off. Such moments had happened many times in the past, but then I was Maria the faithful wife, and this stayed my hand. Without the constraint of marital fidelity my inner desires had been given free rein.
A normal woman wouldn't have needed the bonds of marriage to keep her in check. Her own moral sense of what is 'proper' and the fear of the opprobrium of others would have kept the urge contained and left it as a tantalising fantasy that could be explored further mentally when she got home, either alone or with her partner. But in my own case, no such bounds existed. Personal gratification, the desire to see a man lose all self-control, and above all the opportunity to use such an encounter as a weapon against my husband, completely subjugated any considerations of decency or prudence.
In a sense too, I had cheated on my lover Matt. He had already made clear his unease at the idea of me having liaisons with other men, even if they were mild. What would his reaction be if he discovered that I had pleasured another man? Wasn't there a real risk that I would instantly become soiled goods in his eyes? That he would no longer be able to see the sexy, attractive Maria, but instead only see Maria the whore? Even this possibility hadn't stopped me.
In the impulse of the moment that day I can't really remember which, if any, of these considerations I became conscious of as I unzipped Simon and took his erect penis into my hands and began to skilfully massage it. All I can recall is the glorious feeling of satisfaction as I watched all barriers break down in him. In those few minutes he was totally mine; I had him in my complete power, and that feeling put me on a high that left me inwardly breathless despite my calm external aura.
That excitement in no way diminished as I drove home. Simon's cum had saturated both the inside of my skirt and one of my stockings, and I found I couldn't stop touching the relevant areas so I could feel the wetness against my leg. Then when I got home I had the gorgeous treat of abusing Martin, watching with wide-eyed joy as he kissed, licked, and finally consumed another man's semen. This was not a superior man like Matt though. On the contrary, this was just an ordinary, everyday, uninteresting Joe. With a cruel and callous disregard for his self-dignity and ego, I was remorselessly kicking my husband to the bottom of the pile.
Still the pleasure didn't end. From then on and through to the early hours of the following morning, the sordid encounter with Simon was relived over and over in my head as I rammed buzzing phallic devices into my vagina and rear and sucked on realistic rubber pricks. I didn't stop - couldn't stop - until I had exhausted myself to the point where I just collapsed into sleep.
The following day I woke up to find myself surrounded by the many sex toys I had been abusing myself with the day before. Various items of leather, rubber and PVC clothing were strewn around the room, carelessly discarded as I had changed from one outfit to another before doing myself once again with my stimulators in front of the bedroom mirrors.
It felt like I could hardly move. I have had longer masturbation sessions before, but these normally involve a slow build-up to each orgasm, walking around the house or surfing the Net as I let a strapped-in rubber plug gradually coax me to release. This one was different though - constant intense stimulation from devices set at or close to their maximum, with each orgasm a seemingly endless wave which would last up to a minute or more. And when each one was over I only had to picture for a moment in my mind Martin's tongue licking the remnants of Simon's cum from my suspender clip to set me off again. Only sleep brought me any relief.
I ached and I was uncomfortably sore. You might imagine from my comments on morality above that in the cold light of a new day I was ashamed and racked with guilt. Inexplicably however, I wasn't. In fact I felt exhilarated. If there was any regret whatsoever, it was because I had let several years go by - years when I was at my most physically attractive - before doing what I had done with Simon. I should have been seducing, dominating and masturbating men long ago, I conceded. Just as I had found when I finally cuckolded Martin and had sex with Matt, the reality was far more fulfilling than the fantasy.
As I essentially argued in the diary entry where I recounted the incident with Simon, I think I was comfortable with what I did that day because I was able to accept on an entirely objective and rational level that, through my husband's nurturing, I had become a truly oversexed slut. I could either shy away from that fact and live a false life, one where I kept my urges and desires suppressed for the sake of living to some commonly-held notion of morality, or I could embrace it, and indulge my sexual ambitions to the full. I decided that morning, within the blink of an eye, that I was going to do the latter.
At the same time I had enough common sense to stand outside the situation and look at what was happening to me. I had the feeling that events were moving too fast, and there was no doubt that this was occurring because of my online diary. In an effort to impress readers and introduce fresh material I had started to take risks. Would I have done what I did with Simon if there had not been several thousand 'witnesses' to the dirty deed? Maybe eventually, but not so soon.
When I subsequently took the diary offline I immediately felt the pressure on me ease, despite the regret I experienced from losing something that had become so precious. Suddenly I didn't have to find something original or outrageous to do that week and there was no impending deadline for its reporting. I'll tell you now that I don't intend to get into that situation again - from now on the diary is going to be purely reflective of my life, not its driving force. I expect this will mean there will be periods when I don't write for some time, simply because I have nothing new to say. I know that some of you will find this hard, and from the remarkable feedback I have received recently (you are all too generous with your praise) I am very conscious of how much pleasure many readers get from my updates. Nevertheless, I am now very happy with the way I am pacing myself and there is no doubt in my mind that this new approach to how I familiarize you with events in my life is the correct one.
The removal of the need to show off to the world couldn't have come at a better time, because it soon became apparent that the brief dalliance with Simon had been a mistake. I saw him again about a week after I posted my last diary entry in February, and I'll admit I was very excited about the prospect of prostituting myself once more. This time I planned to take things further and make the whole episode last longer.
I went directly to his house that day and I wore a white blouse with a black rubber peephole bra underneath. The dark latex could be seen quite obviously underneath the silky material of the top, but it wasn't so blatant that nothing was left to the imagination. In the car I kept trying to visualise what Simon's reaction would be when he set eyes on my rubber-encased breasts once again, and the thought of him uncontrollably licking and sucking them had me reaching between my legs on more than one occasion. Today I'm going to leave him my bra, I thought. I had little doubt as to the sort of things a man like Simon would do in private with a piece of my latex underwear.
When he opened his front door it took all of five seconds for me to realise that not only were fun and games firmly off the agenda for the day, but that our relationship had fundamentally changed. The playful grin that normally greeted me was absent, and worse still, he couldn't even make eye contact.
"Hello there," he said with embarrassment stamped to his face, and for a moment I wondered whether there was a two foot dwarf standing by my side, because judging by the direction of his gaze, that was to whom he appeared to be talking.
"Hi," I said, and I moved forward to enter the house. But Simon didn't budge and I had to immediately check myself. "You okay?" I asked with concern.
He bit his lip. "Look," he said, still talking to the dwarf, "before you come in... I don't think... you know, it's about what... I don't think..."
"Okay," I said, "I hear what you're saying... Simon?... Simon, look at me!"
He finally managed to raise his eyes to mine.
"Okay," I said firmly. "I get the point."
He nodded and then looked down again, standing to one side to let me inside. After that his guard remained, and we had a very uncomfortable ten minutes together. To call our conversation stilted would be generous - monosyllabic is probably more apt. It didn't help that I was standing there in a mode of dress that made it plain what my intentions had been when I knocked on the door.
Before I left I tried to broach the subject, to at least clear the air:
"Simon, about last time, as far as I'm con..."
"Please," he interrupted, "I'd rather not talk about it. It was a mistake. It was... wrong."
"Please, Maria, no! I just don't want to talk about it."
For a moment I stared at him darkly. He had come very close to igniting a side in me that no one save my husband has seen before. Whatever guilt he was suffering because of our brief tryst, whatever angst I had precipitated through my manipulations, to be cut short like that was close to intolerable for me. I came within a hair's breadth of lashing out at him, telling him what a weak, pathetic little man he was. Yeah, Simon, with a weak, pathetic little prick. Fortunately I stayed my hand, but I didn't apologise - I certainly wasn't going to express any regret for what had happened.
"Okay," I said levelly, "suit yourself."
And with that I left, saying nothing more. Driving back home in my car I worked myself into a state of incandescence, an unconscious defensive response to the wounding of my pride. For the truth was that I had been rejected - no, worse, I had been rejected by a man that I did not consider in any way worthy of me. Submissives like Simon were mine to discard. Mine. I couldn't accept that moral conscience had overcome desire for Maria. It didn't seem possible.
It was poor Martin who felt the full force of my ire when he arrived home that evening and I will not expand further on the retribution he innocently received, other than to mention that in compensation for my loss of control he was allowed to sleep in my bed for the following three nights, an unprecedented concession on my part. It was bad enough that I had reacted to Simon's rebuff with such childish petulance; it was unforgivable that my husband had suffered as a consequence.
Fortunately, with the more dispassionate lens of hindsight, I learned much from this incident. It was a sobering reminder of the danger of using my sexuality indiscriminately, of allowing lust to overcome reason. If you remember I had nearly walked into this trap with an old friend at a party three years previously (see the 22nd October 2005 entry) but this time I felt the full fallout. You may recall that I said there was a special kicker regarding our relationship with Simon, something that had made my liaison with him all the more shocking if knowledge of it ever became public. I'm still unwilling to elaborate on this, but I can tell you that the newfound distance between Simon and myself had repercussions in the ensuing weeks. Such disruption has made me (thankfully) far more cautious and calculating in my ambitions. I can easily imagine that back in February of this year I might have masturbated or even fellated a good friend's husband in an opportunistic moment at a party or other social function, but you won't find me contemplating any such action now.
I must stress to you that it's the impulsiveness of my conduct with Simon that I regret, not the conduct itself. I have no misgivings whatsoever about the things I did with him, or in later making my husband clean me up when I returned home. The thrilling feeling of controlling a man in that way will forever send a shiver down my spine, and as far as I'm concerned there's no question that a good number of men over the next few years will be helplessly ejaculating over my clothing just as Simon did that day. And some of them will be doing their own cleaning up.
There's an interesting little coda to this episode which I suspect isn't going to do me much good. A couple of weeks before I resurrected my diary online I had a phone call from Simon. It was the first time we had meaningfully exchanged words since I had seen him that day in early March.
"Hello Maria, it's Simon."
I was surprised that he had called, but had no trouble responding. My voice was so cold his phone must have iced up.
"What do you want, Simon?"
"Look, I'm ringing to say I'm sorry for the way I acted that day when I saw you. I was... well, shocked, you know, by what happened. It was so... well, out of the blue, I guess. I don't like how it's created this gulf between us. I'd like... you know, to have things as they were."
A variety of sophisticated, ladylike responses came into my mind at that point - phrases such as 'Screw you' or 'Go fuck yourself' - but I was nevertheless intrigued. Why had he really called? Was it our friendship he wanted back... or more?
"You want things as they were before the 'out of the blue' moment? Or before you got cold feet?"
There was a pause then. He was clearly considering his response.
"I want..." he started, but faltered. Then after another pause: "Like I said, I'm sorry for the way I acted that day. I'd like, erm... things the way they were before I upset you."
He waited for a reply but I said nothing, and it was Simon who broke the silence:
I let him wait a little longer. Then I suddenly said: "I'll think about it," and with that I killed the line.
Despite my frosty manner, the damage of his phone call had been done. The brush-off I received from Simon in March had inevitably dented my belief that I was irresistible to submissive men, and that was no bad thing. A little humility would hopefully help stay my hand in future and would deter recklessness. But to discover that Simon had regressed from moral stalwart to grovelling apologist in only a matter of weeks badly undermined the lesson I had learned, even if at a rational level I tried to persuade myself otherwise, as I still do now. Had he just wanted our friendship back then it would have been less dangerous, but that wasn't why he called. That brief conversation told me that Simon had been lying in bed each night and, despite doing everything he could to divert his mind elsewhere, the thought of running his tongue along the smooth black rubber holding Maria's breasts was tormenting his soul. To suck those engorged nipples again as she lightly ran her fingers up and down his cock... to have her take his wrist and pull his hand up her skirt... oh Maria, please, no... don't... no... stop...
I haven't spoken to Simon since that call. Both logic and intuition tell me that it would be wise to keep him at arm's length in future and leave things as they now stand. The problem is though that I haven't forgiven him for that day at his house, and this has nothing to do with any feelings of rejection, which I have long since discarded. No, my animosity towards him stems from his failure to deal with the situation in what I consider a mature manner. I had been prepared to discuss the matter with him and make it clear that if he didn't want to mess around with me then fine, we would move on and put the whole thing down to foolhardy indiscretion. But that wasn't enough for him on that day. On that day I was unclean, and he couldn't even look me in the eye despite being one half of the original exchange. The memory of his dismissal isn't going to easily pale.
I don't regard myself as a vindictive person but I guess you could say that there's a vengeful streak in me if you consider how I have exacted payback from my husband. This may explain why sometimes when I'm lying in bed with my hand between my legs and the head of a large dildo in my mouth, a little red character with a forked tail and trident jumps on to my shoulder and whispers to me how much fun it would be to use my skills on Simon, to methodically mould him to my own warped design. And as thirteen inches of black rubber slip beneath the bedcovers and head towards my expectant pussy, I close my eyes and imagine a moment four years from now when my work is complete. A woman is standing in the doorway to a kitchen - a woman wearing a gold band of marriage. Her hand is held to her mouth, reflexively placed there as her body anticipates the release of the bile that has risen in her throat. She cannot speak, and the man who is lying on his back on the kitchen table dressed in women's clothing is still unaware of her presence. She can hardly believe that it is Simon - her Simon! - in the black PVC miniskirt, stockings and high heels. Nor can she believe that it is Maria - oh my God, Maria!! - who is standing in front of her husband in black leather boots and corset.
"Fuck me, Mistress! Aaah, yes, fuck me!" moans Simon as he pulls his legs further upwards to help accommodate more of the large black phallus that is strapped to Maria's lower body.
"Does that feel good, my baby?" Maria purrs as she slowly pumps her body back and forth, simultaneously masturbating Simon with her long leather gloves. "Do you want all of it?"
"Oh yes! Please Mistress, please give me all of it!"
"Do you wish it was Annabel fucking you now instead of me, Simon? Would you really like her instead?"
"No, Mistress. I only want you. It's your cock I want. Only yours..."
"Only mine? Wouldn't you like to be fucked by a real prick while you lick my wet pussy?"
"Oh yes! Yes! I want that!"
"Whose pussy do you love most, Simon? Annabel's or mine?"
"Yours Mistress. I love your pussy. I only love your pussy. I only love you."
As her nausea reaches its zenith, the woman sees Maria turn her head towards her. There is a wide smile on the younger woman's face, a smile of supreme fulfilment, a smile that comes from seeing years of meticulous preparation unfold exactly as she has planned.
"Sorry, Annabel," Maria shrugs with openly faked regret, "I don't think you're needed. But hey, stay and watch if you want. At least stick around till we start the kinky stuff..."
The Simon episode persuaded me that liaisons with friends or those in the local community had high attendant risk and it would be so easy for me to end up as some sort of social pariah. 'Patience, Maria', I kept telling myself. 'You must have patience.' I even added this word to the desktop background on my laptop so that it was always there to remind me to consider all my moves carefully. I needed to think through all actions and try to anticipate any comebacks. Even if things went wrong, I could limit any damage if I had a well-prepared cover story. Never do anything on the spur of the moment. Never.
Nevertheless, my overall ambition to enjoy sexual encounters with different men hadn't diminished, and in fact those ten minutes with Simon had removed any doubts I might have held that such exchanges might not live up to expectations. As I sat at home writing my offline diary, my thoughts kept gravitating to the Working Girl post I made back in February. There was no getting away from it - using my day job as the outlet for my sexual ambitions was the least risky way of getting the kicks I wanted. I was already indulging in some prick-teasing activity with my clients and it wouldn't be difficult to drop hints that things could go further if a client wished. Furthermore, in most cases a client would have far more to lose than I would from any entanglement with me if it ever became public. It would be in his interests to be discreet, especially as the sort of sex that I enjoy goes well beyond what might be considered normal.
As you know, originally I wasn't going to discuss my clients in this diary. As it stands now though, if I held to that intention then there would be little point in my returning online. So, one of the conscious decisions I made when I resurrected my pages was that I would be quite open about all my extramarital relationships, business ones included. One problem this immediately presents me with is the maintenance of client anonymity. It's almost impossible to disguise who I'm talking about in these posts unless I change almost every fact about a person, which as far as I'm concerned would make the diary lose its essence. Apart from obvious changes such as names and places, I'd rather you know that no fictional embellishments have been made to characters in my narrative. This also makes it much easier for me to write. Consequently I'm going to rely on the fact that anything I describe here with a client will have happened behind closed doors. As such there will never be any proof that what I say has actually happened, unless that proof comes from a client himself - I'm vulnerable to that, but then again I get a kick out of it.
Lest you get the wrong impression, don't think that I suddenly started coming on to my clients in the ensuing weeks. I'd hate to admit that the falling out with Simon had dented my confidence, but I think it's true to say that for a while I wasn't as sure of myself as I had been. I was prepared to wait for the right moment. Such opportunities had presented themselves in the past and only fidelity had stayed my hand on those occasions.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I visited a business client on the Wednesday of the week that I was making my videos with Matt, when my husband was abroad. Although this meeting served to maintain the pretence that I was working that week, I had another reason for seeing the particular client I called on that day: Matt knew I was attracted to this businessman and I wanted to see how my boyfriend would handle it if I left the house dressed in a shamelessly arousing way.
I had discussed with Matt a number of times how I was prepared to flaunt myself in front of my clients and how I would like to taunt Martin by having sexual encounters with some of them. Matt was understandably very uncomfortable with this, even though he knew that any objection on his part would be tenuous considering he was screwing another man's wife. This issue of Matt's reaction to me having relationships with other men was causing considerable anguish in me. I wanted sex with other men. I wanted Matt. Could I realistically have both? And if I had to make a choice between the two, which would it be?
This at least was the rationale behind my visit that day to see Robert, one of my longer-standing clients, and I was hoping to get more insight into Matt's feelings on the issue. However as I stood in front of the mirror and started lacing up the twelve-strap leather suspender belt I would wear that day, any scientific justification for what I was doing basically evaporated. It was Matt filming me, not Martin, but frankly you wouldn't have known the difference. I just couldn't help myself; I am the world's most unashamed prick tease.
This is actual (edited for readability) dialogue from the video, and I'm standing in front of the mirror, apparently talking as much to myself as to Matt:
"For the client it's probably sexier to see just a couple of suspender straps under the skirt, but I like to wear this belt sometimes. I like to feel the tension of the rear suspenders as they stretch when I sit down. It really turns me on, and I'm sure the client can sense that."
Then when I put on the stylish latex bra:
"You see this ridge here on the cup? You'll see in a minute how the contour of that is outlined through my top. The bra's not really designed to be worn underneath anything. It's a bit of a two-edged sword - it creates a slightly odd shape, but on the other hand it's clear to an onlooker that I'm wearing something exotic."
And the lace-edged leather panties:
"Hmm, I probably shouldn't wear these today really. They're always pretty wet when I come back from seeing someone like Robert, and with Martin not around to restore them..."
Because I was looking at myself when I said all these things I couldn't judge Matt's reaction, but when I glanced at him he didn't seem to be doing anything other than concentrating on the camera's small LCD screen, making sure he was getting everything in shot. For my own part I'd worked myself into quite a state, just as I often do when I'm dressing in front of my husband. It was soon after this that we went downstairs and filmed me eating my special strawberries. Matt made no comment whatsoever about anything that I'd said and he didn't seem outwardly agitated or angry. Indeed he was beautifully hard when I started sucking him.
It was as I was about to leave that he finally showed some reaction. I had just walked into the hallway carrying the leather case which contained my work papers and laptop. Matt was standing by the doorway and he was shaking his head.
"I just can't believe you're going to see one of the company's clients dressed like that," he said.
"I've done worse," I replied. "You should see the leather skirts I've worn for Charles W------."
Matt came up to me and pushed one hand underneath my black jacket, fondling my rubber bra through the black short-sleeved jumper I was wearing. His other hand moved to my rear and started massaging my backside, fingering the rear garter straps at the same time.
"Would you do it? Would you really do it with him? Or is it just a tease you get off on?"
I was so turned on I didn't have to put on an act. I gave him the truth:
"On the way in my car I'll be dreaming that Robert's doing what you're doing right now," I said quietly as I moved my mouth to Matt's and started kissing him. "And yes, I'd really do it with him. No question."
When our lips parted Matt exhaled heavily through his nose and swallowed hard, as if he were about to say something but couldn't find the words.
"I'd better go," I said. "I'll see you after lunch. You'll be here won't you?"
"Yes," he said, expressionless. The usual mirthful look was worryingly absent. "I'll be here."
I had my leather opera gloves on that day, and if you're getting sick of seeing or hearing about these then it's tough I'm afraid because I wear them as much for my own pleasure as for anyone else's. I love the feeling of sexual power that I get when I'm wearing these and I also love the sensual experience of removing them and putting them back on again when I'm in front of a client or in a restaurant. Since I can only wear my ultimate weapon - my thigh boots - rarely in public, the gloves serve instead to advertise my dominant, oversexed tendencies to the outside world.
I doubted that Robert would be paying much attention to my gloves though. In fact I doubted that he would be paying much attention to me at all if previous visits to his office were anything to go by. Although the gloves, skirt, stockings and shoes would have most men squirming in their seat either with embarrassment or arousal, I calculated that I could rely on Robert to remain impervious as usual to my unconventional clothing. Matt didn't know it, but Robert wasn't even on my list of those clients I had recently marked for some closer attention.
Although I won't deny that Robert has always attracted me due to his physical appearance, there's always been more to it than that. He's good looking, but not overly so; he dresses well; he's athletic, in a well-toned rather than muscular way (much like Matt, and I hope I haven't given the impression that I'm into muscle-bound bodybuilder types); and he's fairly tall, although I'm above him in my high heels. On top of all this though is the fact that I have always found him very hard to read, and this adds enormously to his appeal.
Robert is a negotiator, and a high-powered one. Officially he's more than that, but essentially it's for his negotiating skills that he is hired. One vital commodity required at the level that he works at is the ability to remain impassive at all times, even under great duress when much is on the line. He uses me to give advice on certain aspects of UK and European legislation, of which I have specialist knowledge. In this capacity I have sat in on meetings where he has acted as principal, and I can tell you that he is tremendously impressive. Nothing ever fazes him; he is calm, cool, and utterly unreadable. You could hire top body language experts to watch him on close circuit TV and they'd get nothing from him. No perspiration, no fidgeting, no giveaway eye movements. I'm not saying he's expressionless, just that he doesn't give anything away. I'm sure he'd make a great poker player.
Admirable though such a quality may be for business deals, it's more than disconcerting when he persists with this trait in all of his affairs. Disconcerting for me that is, because as you know I very much rely on the feedback I get from a man's expressions, glances and voice timbre. Over the course of several meetings I tried all my usual little tricks on him with my clothing and footwear and got nothing in response. Big zilcho. I tried to probe his interests with casual conversation, hoping for some opening where I could get a sense of what aroused him. Again, nothing. He was a closed book.
It was frustrating because I sensed that he wasn't in any way boring or shallow and I also found it hard to believe that he wasn't in any way provoked by what I was wearing, even if he disapproved. This was borne out when Martin and I attended a dinner where we were seated at the same table as Robert and his wife. It was extraordinary, almost as if a different man were sitting with me. He was laughing and joking and his conversation was as diverse as it was stimulating. Only Martin was realistically on his level (Matt I'm afraid, despite all his qualities, would have been out of his league). I'm sure you can understand why such an enigmatic individual was so interesting to me - we all want what seems to be beyond our reach.
I was also puzzled by his marital relationship. As much as I found him fascinating at that dinner, I found his wife particularly hard work. I know you might be suspicious of any observations I make about a woman who is married to someone I fancy, but I don't think I was alone that night in thinking that Robert's spouse is not particularly likeable. Very attractive, yes, but also vacuous and completely self-interested. At one point the table discussion became a little deep as we debated whether globalisation was really benefiting Western economies. Martin was arguing that capital was benefiting at the expense of labour, and that redistributive taxation couldn't easily ameliorate this as it had in the past because capital nowadays could be so easily offshored. After contributing nothing to this exchange, Robert's wife suddenly killed the conversation dead with a comment that was so appallingly insensitive to those less well off than herself that we all sat there speechless, completely stunned. Even Marie Antoinette would have winced had she been present. I looked at Robert and his eyes had gone suddenly cold. It left me wondering how a marriage could survive such an obvious lack of affection.
About eighteen months ago I was at Robert's London office for one of our twice-yearly meetings where I bring him up to speed on impending law changes which may affect his dealings. I had long given up trying to evoke any response from him with my attire and I'd reverted to wearing the sort of mundane clothing that thousands of women business professionals put on every day (in fact - shock, horror - I think I was wearing trousers that day). I refused to stoop to such lows with my footwear however - my shoes were as different and suggestive as ever.
There was a pause in our conversation while I brought up some information on my laptop. I wasn't looking at Robert as I tapped away on the keyboard, and I remember how my fingers froze when he made what sounded almost like an aside:
"Great shoes, Maria."
I immediately looked up, but found that he was studying some papers he was holding, not my feet. There's an expression beloved of the British tabloid press which perfectly describes how I felt at that moment: gobsmacked. Robert's comment was so unexpected and so out of character that for a moment I tried to mentally perm as many syllables as I could that might possibly have resulted in a phrase that sounded like 'great shoes'. I failed.
"Er, thanks," I managed to reply, muttering it somewhat indistinctly in case I'd misheard him.
The worst part was that his transferred focus hadn't left any opening for a probing of what this might have meant. It's not in any way unusual for me to get a compliment like this, but it's never normally a surprise - long before the statement is uttered I will have received numerous signals of any attraction and mentally I'm way ahead of the admirer. A comment such as this could be a doorway to so many possibilities, but he had left me floundering. Robert had just become even more infuriating than ever.
At our next meeting I was back in stockings, and the shoes were higher. I was all geared up to watch his every glance if I could. I needed to see how he looked at me. I needed to know what he was thinking.
He threw me completely once again. As soon as I sat down he casually cast his gaze down to my feet and said: "Ah, the Shoe Queen."
And what the hell does that mean? I thought. Was he laughing at me? It suddenly occurred to me that his comment at the previous meeting might have been nothing other than veiled sarcasm, in which case my whimpering 'thanks' must have had him inwardly sniggering at my naivety. This interpretation was reinforced by the fact that I could see no emotion in his eyes - none of the excitement or lust that I would expect to find if he was genuinely aroused by my footwear.
Despite my discomfort I managed to come up with a response that at least allowed me to save some face and at the same time pique his interest if my fears were groundless.
"You'll have to excuse me," I said as coyly as I could, "I've got a bit of a fetish for extremely high heels. If you think these are bad, you want to see the ones I've got at home..."
He raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he said. "Oh."
And that was it. He then changed the subject completely as he started to discuss a potential merger he had been approached about. I totally missed his opening sentences on this. I just wanted to scream with frustration - I couldn't believe that things had been left hanging.
Is that it? 'Really... Oh'? Is that all you've got to say?
Robert had failed the Turing Test. He'd been good, but I'd just outed another experimental android.
When I arrived at his office that Wednesday morning when Martin was away, I therefore had no expectations that I would get anything other than a terse remark, if anything, regarding my shoes. That would be it, and we'd move on. This was fine as far as I was concerned. The primary reason why I had arranged to see Robert that day was because I knew I could dress fairly outrageously for the meeting and I'd get little reaction. Matt, however, didn't know this, and I had left him at my home with the impression that Robert was going to get off on what he would be looking at. It was Matt I wanted to tease that day, not Robert.
I shook Robert's hand and he guided me into his office, which is actually one of the large rooms of his central London apartment. Every time I go there I find myself wishing that Martin and I had bought such a place several years ago when we'd toyed with the idea. In the end we decided that we just wouldn't use the place enough and it would be little more than an expensive indulgence. Now however, such a private and centrally located venue would be perfect for my ambitions and I can imagine myself spending more and more of my days there as I entertain 'friends'. But with house prices in the capital now heading into the stratosphere, it seems like a bad time to buy. Patience, Maria.
As Robert left to get me a coffee, I removed my jacket and put it on the back of my chair and then I eased my leather gloves from my arms. Normally I would always want to do this in front of the client, but in this case I had no expectations of any reaction so there didn't seem much point.
I was unpacking my case as Robert came into the room and I didn't look at him as he put the coffee cup down beside me. I just said: "Thanks." He then went and stood by one of the tall windows as I finished my preparations, and I assumed he was looking out into the street below. When I finally raised my head and faced him my heart stopped. He had the light behind him and his face was partially in shadow, but I could still see his eyes. He hadn't been looking out of the window at all - he was looking at me. Or to be more specific, he was looking at my feet.
I have seen that look a thousand times before. I know what it means, and when a man gives it to me he crosses into my domain. Against all expectations, against all precedent, Robert had let the barriers down and had stepped into Maria's kingdom.
"Sensational," he said.
Just one word, but this time there was no changing of the subject, no diversion. He allowed the comment to hang there, waiting for a response. His eyes were still riveted to the same spot.
"Really?" I answered. I didn't need to say any more.
"Oh yeah, really. Absolutely sensational."
My legs were crossed, and I remember slowly moving my free foot up and down involuntarily, dangling temptation in front of him.
"I didn't know whether you'd think they looked too, er... trashy."
"Oh no, no," he said with unguarded enthusiasm, "you've got the streetwalker-businesswoman look off to perfection. Everything - the shoes, the fishnet stockings, the suspenders... just perfect."
Had I not seen that look in his eyes I'd have been squirming with shock at his openness, but Robert's capacity to surprise me was diminishing. I actually found what he said thrilling.
"Thanks," I laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."
He smiled, and sat down on the window ledge with his ankles crossed and arms folded. He looked very relaxed.
"Why?" he asked.
I remember thinking as I formulated my response to this how satisfying it was to be so openly interrogated in such a manner, with my questioner clearly aroused by his subject. I felt no defensiveness whatsoever.
"Because it turns me on wearing clothes like this," I shrugged. "And I like turning men on too."
He registered no surprise.
"And what does Martin think?"
I shrugged again. "He's not always happy, but then again he gets off on it at the same time."
Once more he showed little reaction, save for putting his hand up to his chin and rubbing it.
"So what do you do if you're misinterpreted?"
"I mean, what do you do if someone takes your look to mean that you're offering... more?"
"Well, I don't normally look quite as upfront as this," I said. "I laid it on today because I don't get the reaction from you that I do from others."
"You haven't answered the question," he said with a smile.
God, this is fun, I thought. It was like mind-sex.
"There's nothing to misinterpret," I said candidly, looking him straight in the eye. "If someone wants more then they can have more."
He took a deep breath when I said that, something you never see when he's at the negotiating table. There was a pause, and I maybe should have waited for his next words, but I was loving the sparring. He was playing Mr Ice Cool but he had let me see that look in his eyes. I wasn't going to allow this to be a one-way exchange.
"So," I said, "you're obviously into high heels. Does your wife wear them for you?"
I wondered how he would react to such a direct question, but after witnessing my own candour, anything other than a straight response would have lessened him. I got no indignation, just a sigh of regret.
"No, unfortunately. Not like yours, anyway."
"How about boots?" I continued. "I mean really high spike-heeled boots? Do they do anything for you?"
"Yes, they can," he said.
"...but not like shoes," I guessed.
"No," he admitted. "not like the ones that you're wearing now." He looked longingly at the shoes, completely fixated on them. "They're just... sensational."
If this had been back in February I think at this point I would have made a move on Robert. He may even have been expecting it. But I had learned a great deal from my liaison with Simon. Whatever happened that day, Robert was someone who weighed up the odds and took the path of least risk. He had too much to lose from any close relationship with me. I could so easily imagine getting a phone call from him a few weeks hence, telling me that he'd decided to terminate my firm's services and that he'd rather I didn't contact him in future. I didn't want to go through all that self-doubt again.
"Well, look, we'd better get on with some business," I said, "otherwise we'll end up chatting like this all day."
I sensed he was reluctant to cut the exchange short, but for once it was me who had left him with nowhere to go. "Yeah, sure," he said, "let's do that."
After that it was no different from any other meeting I'd had with him in the past, apart from when I was just about to leave. I picked up my leather gloves and started to put them on.
"I didn't realise you were wearing those when you came," Robert commented. "They're quite something too."
I didn't look at him. I was too busy concentrating on working the leather up my arms.
"I've got a thing about black leather," I said quite casually. "The underwear I'm wearing today is black leather too. Well, my suspender belt and briefs are - my bra is actually rubber."
I deliberately didn't look at him for a reaction. Instead I just put my jacket on, picked up my case, and walked to the flat's main door, with Robert following me.
We shook hands, but there was a definite air. Not embarrassment, nor regret, just the feeling that something had been left unsaid.
"Well, it's been a memorable meeting, I can say that," Robert laughed. His face turned more serious then, almost intense. "I really enjoyed it."
"So did I," I returned, "very much so. I wish all my meetings were like that."
As I drove home I tried to picture Matt in my mind, with his big prick waiting for me. I certainly needed one after that meeting. It was hard to believe that such a short exchange could be so erotic. If only there were more men who would converse with me in such a way.
The problem was that I couldn't picture Matt when I was on that journey. His face kept being swept aside by fantasies of being with Robert in his office, images of what we might have done together if things had gone further. It was worse knowing that I had the skills to unleash Robert's longings; to allow him to enjoy fully what I now knew was a genuine fetish. At one point I almost stopped the car in a lay-by so I could get some release, but I consciously fought against such an urge. Let Matt see you all turned on from being with Robert. Make him wonder what happened.
The lust must have been written all over my face when Matt opened the door as I walked from my car.
"If I don't come in a minute I'm going to scream," I gasped as soon as I got inside, and I pulled my boyfriend roughly to me, forcing his hand up my skirt as I kissed him uncontrollably. "Wank me," I pleaded. "Wank my pussy."
"My, my, we are a turned-on little bitch, aren't we?" said Matt, clearly not responding with the same frenzied arousal. "What's the matter, couldn't you get Robert to do it to you?"
"He wanted to," I goaded. "I was that close to letting him."
"So what stopped you?"
"I don't know. All the way back I've been asking myself that. I wish I'd got him to finger-fuck me. Please baby, finger-fuck me like he would have done. Please..."
He pushed me away from him then, and I was taken by surprise by the aggression with which he did it. He looked at me with contempt.
"You really are a fucking whore, aren't you? The absolute slut of sluts. You'd do anything, fuck anything, for just one more orgasm."
I was stunned, and suddenly felt like a complete idiot. "Matt, I'm sorry, I didn't..."
"Come here," he said, and he grabbed me roughly by the wrist and dragged me towards the kitchen.
"Matt, no, please..."
He wasn't listening and he just kept pulling me. I couldn't believe how strong he was. As I pretty much fell into the kitchen I began to panic, not because of any rough treatment but because in those few seconds I thought I'd blown my relationship with him. You stupid cow, you pushed him too far!
It was then that I saw the various bondage items that were lying on the breakfast bar and in an instant my heart leaped out to him. Matt hadn't flipped - this was all premeditated. Oh, Matt, you're beautiful. A wave of guilt swept over me as I remembered how images of Robert had preoccupied me all the way home.
"Get over the table, bitch," he barked. It was an amazingly convincing act that he put on. I suspect that he was channelling some genuine frustration into this drama, but by now I was in no doubt that I was playing a part in some pre-planned fantasy that he had dreamed up for me.
I did exactly as I was told and he pulled my jacket off me. I'm surprised he didn't rip the material he was so forceful. Then he came round to face me and I saw that he had picked up the restraints from the bar. He pulled my gloved arms in front of me and started to fasten the cuffs to my wrists.
"Did you get round to wanking him with your oh-so-precious gloves? Or did you just shove them up your skirt like you seem to do every five minutes when you're at home?"
"No, I didn't do either," I said.
"But you wanted to, didn't you?"
I said nothing.
"I asked you a question, bitch!"
"Yes, I wanted to," I blurted. Oh, please make this last forever.
"Yeah, two gloved hands on his shaft and the head in your mouth? Is that what you wanted?"
"Oh yes, I wanted that. I still want that."
He fastened two chains to the restraints when he'd finished putting them on and left them dangling over the side of the table. Then he went behind me for a moment and I felt him unbuttoning my skirt.
"Let's get this cheap crap off you," he said. "Do you know how ridiculous you looked today when you went out with your suspenders showing like that? You think you've got class - "oh hi, I'm Maria, and I'm Miss Sophisticated" - but honestly, you look like some cheap hooker who's desperate to pull a trick. You live in this imaginary world where men offer you a thousand quid just for a fuck. Well, I suggest you stop deluding yourself and look in the mirror sweetheart, because you'd be lucky to find a punter who'd pay a tenner to stick it up you when you're dressed like that."
He pulled the skirt down and made me step out of it.
"You're just a cheap slut. What are you, Maria?"
"I'm just a cheap slut," I confirmed.
"Yeah, damn right,"
I felt him start buckling some ankle restraints to me, and all the time he kept the dialogue going:
"You thought you'd get a kick out of me today, didn't you? Yeah? Let's play Matt like I play Martin. Let's get him all wound up and jealous. Is that what you were doing?"
I didn't answer.
"Maria, in a minute you're going to get a thrashing with my belt, okay? Not a half-hearted pseudo-slapping like I normally give you, but a full-blown thrashing like you had on Monday. Now, how long that lasts is up to you, but I suggest you start giving me some honest answers. So, let's try again shall we? Were you playing me today?"
"Yes, I was playing you."
"Okay, that's better. So, what's the plan? Am I your new Martin?"
"No way," I said with conviction. "I wanted to see how you'd react if you thought I was messing around with someone else. I worry that you won't be able to handle it. I don't want you to be like Martin."
"But you started getting a kick out of it didn't you? When you were dressing? A cuckolding kick like you get with Martin?"
"Yes," I admitted. "I can't help it, Matt. I get such a thrill from it. It's... instinctive."
By now he'd finished fastening the ankle cuffs and I guessed he was down on his knees pulling the chains that were connected to the wrist cuffs. A few moments later he'd fastened these chains tightly to the ankle cuffs, leaving me stretched over the table, immobilised.
"Yeah, well, instinctive or not, you're going to pay a price for it," he said as he got back up. "The same goes for any other time you try any games like that. And when you mess around with other men, kiddo - and I know you're going to 'cos you're such a slut you can't stop yourself - then you're going to be punished, okay? You're going to tell me what you've done and you'll be punished."
At this point I thought I'd gone to heaven. I couldn't imagine anything more perfect. Have sex with another man, come home and taunt Martin, then go to see Matt and confess.
"Okay," I said. "I understand. Thank you."
"You won't be thanking me in a minute," he warned.
He walked round to face me then and I saw he was holding a penis gag in his hand. He wasted no time in forcing the rubber dong into my mouth and buckling it at the rear. I have to say that I love these things, but probably too much, because once I put one in I like to wear it for hours, constantly sucking on the rubber cock. I always end up with a painful sore throat the following day.
"You're enjoying this aren't you," he said. "Your cunt is soaking and you think that in a moment I'm going to start pushing rubber dicks into it, and into your arse. Well, you're wrong. You're getting nothing. Nothing but the belt, Maria - only the belt."
He was true to his word, but believe me, I still nearly came in those next five minutes. He was right when he said I'd be getting a thrashing, but it wasn't anything like the extraordinary pain I'd endured on the Monday - a belt isn't like a whip, as long as you don't use the buckle. All the same, he kept striking me for a long time. I thought he'd stop at ten, but he was past thirty before he was satisfied. It wasn't the pain I got off on though, but the pure poetry of what he was doing. It was the perfect way to treat me; it was what I deserved. I knew as I took that beating that in future I could get absolution for my sins through confession and punishment. Matt was going to be my Inquisitor.
I wish he'd filmed it, but I understood why he didn't. Afterwards he sat down and put his legs up on the table, with me still stretched across it with the gag in my mouth. My tears had caused my supposedly waterproof mascara to run down my face and I must have looked a pitiful sight.
"Don't feel quite so clever now do you?" he taunted. "Even so, if three or four guys knocked on the door now you'd want them all up you, wouldn't you? You're that much of a whore. The consummate slut."
He left me like that for another fifteen minutes before he finally stood up and took the gag out of my mouth. There wasn't any doubt in my mind what I wanted to say to him first:
"I love you, Matt. I love you so much."
On the Friday night as we drove over to Grace's house, the memory of Wednesday's events came back to me. I hadn't planned on having a discussion with Matt over the things that had been bothering me, but in the quiet of that evening with just the sound of the car engine and the tyres on the road, it seemed as good a time as any.
"Matt, what you did when I got back from seeing Robert on Wednesday - that and so many other things you've done this week - it's made it so I just can't imagine a life without you in it. You mean so much to me - more than I can put in words. What I said about seeing how you would handle it if you thought I was with someone else is true. I'm just terrified of losing you.
"The thing is though, ever since I cuckolded Martin, the urge to have sex with other men has just grown and grown in me. I've become obsessed with sex, and I can't help it. I wake up playing with myself, I go to sleep playing with myself, and in between I'm constantly thinking about sex. I could fight it, and for a while I could probably handle it, but I just know I'd become frustrated and unhappy. When you said I was the consummate slut you were right. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get enough. The trouble is I want the best of both worlds - I want you, and I want sex with numerous other men too."
"You don't have to spell it out," he said calmly. "Do you think after all this time I don't know what you're like, what makes you tick? I'm not saying I'm ever going to be happy with it, but I'll just have to learn to live with it."
"Yes, but will you be able to?" I countered. "What I dread more than anything is walking up to your house one day and when you open the door you can't look at me. You can't look at me because the reality that other men have been inside me has finally hit you and in your eyes I'm no longer clean. Recently I thought about making you the promise that no man other than you is going to be inside me, but I'm not sure I'd be able to keep it."
"You won't be able to do that," he said. "I know you like doing all these different things - and believe me, they're amazing - but at the end of the day most men will want to fuck you. If you're not going to let men screw you then you're going to be limited in what you can do. Severely limited."
"I don't agree," I said. "I like to dominate men, to manipulate them. Even if I act submissively to a man it can be a form of domination, because it's me who's still in control, calling the shots. I don't need to fuck men to get my sexual kicks. Just making them kneel before me and spray over my boots can be enough. But initially at least, I know that I'll have to let a man screw me so I can reel him in."
"Exactly," he agreed, "so there's no point in making a promise you can't keep."
"I know," I conceded. "But I want you to know that it won't be love, Matt. It'll just be sex. If it's ever love then I'll tell you."
"Okay, but you be careful, kiddo," he warned. "It might be just sex as far as you're concerned, but you need to remember how obsessive a man could get about someone like you. Look at Martin - and me. You understand how guys think and you give them their dreams, and then some. Even more powerful is the fact that you get off on men's kinks. You're right when you said you missed your vocation - you should have been a call girl. You'd be one of the best. Just promise me that if someone starts becoming a problem you won't keep it to yourself. Promise me you'll let me know."
"I will, I promise," I said. "I do look for signs of that, but thanks. That's another reason I need both you and Martin. Together you make me feel safe."
We were both silent for a moment then and he maybe thought that was the end of it, but now that this whole issue had been brought up I wanted my intentions to be totally understood.
"What you said on Wednesday about punishing me if I mess with another man - I don't know whether that was just part of the fun, but I want it to be like that with us. You need to punish me for the things I do because it will help you deal with it, okay?"
"I don't think I really need..."
"Yes you do!" I said firmly. "Matt, on some days it will feel to you like it does with Martin. It will hurt. When you're at the office you'll know that I'm somewhere else with a man's prick in my pussy or mouth, and that will gnaw at you. On another day you'll know that I'm bent over a desk with a cock in my arse and..."
"Okay! I get it! There's no need to say it."
"Oh yes there is," I persisted, "because if you can't handle it in words, how are you going to be able to handle the reality, which will be ten times worse? So let's say it again shall we? On some days I am going to be bent over a table and a man will be giving me a thorough ass-fucking. And I'll be loving it, Matt... I'll be begging for more cock. On other days someone will be sucking my tits while his hand's up my skirt. And some days I'll arrive at your house with spunk splashes on my boots that Martin has missed. Punishing me will help you handle it."
Silence again. I thought I'd gone too far, but on the other hand I was right. The reality was going to be worse, much worse.
I waited for him. A minute must have passed before he finally spoke:
"You know, the last six months have been something else for me, something I'd never have imagined possible. After a shitty marriage and a shitty divorce I'd just about given up hope of ever meeting someone I could feel safe with. And then you came along. You're beautiful, you're sexy - absurdly sexy - and despite the cold bitch front you like to put on sometimes, you're actually a fun, kind, and caring person. These days nothing really matters to me other than when you come to my house. I never know what you'll be wearing or what you'll want to do. When I hold you and kiss you and feel my hands over those incredible clothes you wear, I'm just... I don't know... lost, is the best way to describe it. I guess that's what love is. I'm lost in love.
"You say you can't imagine life without me, but I can't imagine life without you either. If you didn't want sex with other guys you wouldn't be you anymore, and I want the Maria that's sitting next to me right now."
I had to take my hand off the steering wheel to wipe a tear from my cheek.
"And in any case..." he continued, but he faltered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him wringing his hands as if there were some conflict in him.
"...in any case I think I understand a little more now how it is with Martin. Don't take this the wrong way, but the other day when you were with Robert I had to jerk off when I began to think about you and what you might be doing with him. I was jealous, but I got a kick too. I don't know for sure, but I suspect that the same thing's going to happen when you mess around with other men. I'd never have thought it possible."
I felt deeply guilty then, guilty that I had allowed a man into my life who felt so much for me yet would never be my husband. I said as much to Matt.
"I don't know how it's possible to love two men so much at the same time," I said, "but that's something else you need to be clear on. I don't want you ever hoping that I'll leave Martin. I know you've seen the videos of him and wonder how I can respect him but..."
"Actually," he interrupted, "even that I feel differently about now. I can understand why a man would want that from you. No-one else, but if it's you..."
"Would you like that then? Would you like to be dominated?"
"I couldn't handle most of what he does. Nothing like. And please, don't ever tell me that another man is better than me, okay? I couldn't take that. But I have to admit that when I see Martin on a lead being pulled around on all fours with you in your boots whipping him then... well, yeah, I sometimes wish it were me. But then again, I love to put you across my knee and spank you. I wouldn't ever want to stop doing that."
I didn't say any more. I left that one hanging.
"There's one other thing I need to say..." I started.
Matt laughed. "Please! No more! I want to get out!"
I laughed too. "No, seriously, I want to clear the air on something. It's about Martin. I know you're very uneasy about being with me when he's around, but I need it to happen, Matt. Very slowly maybe, but I really don't see why we can't start moving to a situation where you stay at my house when Martin's there. It would mean so much to me."
"Yeah, I know," he sighed. "It's just... embarrassing. Martin seems like a nice guy, and to rub his nose in it like that..."
"That's what he wants, can't you see?" I pleaded. "Think what he's done already. Three times now he's spoken to you on the phone, telling you how small his cock is and asking you to do things to me. How much more humiliation can he get?"
"I guess," he said. "I just know I'll be uncomfortable."
"Then let me work towards making things easier. Small steps at a time, but starting when he gets back."
"Okay," he agreed. "But slowly, alright? Give it time."
Despite Matt's words that night, it's always going to be a worry that one day he will look away from me just as Simon did. If that happens then I dread to think how I will begin to cope with such a rejection. But at least after that discussion I felt as if I had a green light of sorts to do the things I wanted. Matt had said enough for me to appreciate that if I handled things properly then I could allow him to 'enjoy' my sexual encounters with other men in much the same way that Martin would enjoy them.
Patience, Maria. You must have patience.
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