Women, Wine and Heels

by Gray Fisher

  Wine, Women and Heels

  And Other Tales of

  Fetishism and Erotic Humiliation

  Even More Stories of Teasing and Seduction from the Acclaimed Contributor to Leg Show Magazine

  By Gray Fisher

  Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Gray Fisher Publications

  First Edition

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2020

  The right of Gray Fisher to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with section 77 of the copyright, designs, and patents act of 1988. This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Table of Contents

  Women, Wine and Heels

  Overwhelmed

  The Car Wash Cuckold

  Room 922

  Nailed

  At What Cost

  Women, Wine and Heels

  Mark Collins was quick to volunteer when he saw the Save the Date card. The charity organization he sometimes donated his time to, whose stated goal was to eradicate a disease that claimed an aunt several years before, needed help for an upcoming event. And Mark felt like he was just the guy.

  It was the annual Women, Wine and Heels fundraiser, one of their biggest of the year, pairing two things all women love with a great cause. It was an opportunity for women of some means to sample vino and try on and purchase designer shoes at greatly discounted prices, purveyed by the so-called “Shoe Gal” whose specialty was such charitable events. From what he’d heard, the atmosphere and the flowing cabernet and merlot helped the women loosen their wallets…as well as their inhibitions a bit.

  It would be fun to be in the room, Mark thought. Not only would he get a chance to flirt with some high-class females, he had a rather intense fetish for women’s feet, legs, and high heels, which he’d no doubt get to indulge. Of course, he’d also be helping to fund a cure.

  On the appointed day, Mark arrived at the upscale hotel, wearing khakis, a button down black shirt, and black loafers. Immediately, he was pressed into service.

  “Mark, glad you could make it! How have you been?”

  “I’m good, Crystal. You?”

  “Great. My boyfriend and I just came back from Bermuda, loved it. The water was so blue you wouldn’t believe.”

  His mind leapt to an image of Crystal in a bikini. He’d met the young event coordinator three years ago and saw her regularly at organization functions. He admired her tanned legs and nicely pedicured feet at outdoor events, like golf outings, and noticed her penchant for spiked pastel heels when the activity turned to cocktails and such. Pert, dark-haired and highly motivated like many Millennials, she always seemed to be running in 10 different directions, and he enjoyed the view of her shapely rear when she went running off to put out some fire or other.

  “Nice. I’m saving up for a trip to Belize myself.”

  “Cool. Listen, can you go into the Veranda room? The Shoe Gal is overwhelmed and could use an assistant.”

  “Sure thing, Crystal.” He marveled at his good luck. Assisting the Shoe Gal sounded right up his alley. He walked to the Veranda room, businesslike. He noticed the male volunteers were very few and far between, and there were even fewer male guests. Most men, he surmised, had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon during football season than accompany their wives or significant others to an event with “women” in the name, no matter what the cause. Most guys that weren’t him, of course.

  Amid the passed hors d’oeuvres, he spied the only person who could’ve been the Shoe Gal: a 40-something woman in a short leopard skirt, shiny white long-sleeved blouse and matched leopard print stilettos. Lots of jingly bracelets. Her hair, peroxide blond, was big, as were her breasts. Her bare legs were well-toned, made more so by the four-inch heels. She pranced from one guest to another, exhibiting her wares as they consumed copious amounts of wine. She kept up a friendly banter with the guests, and had an easy, winning laugh.

  “You’re my helper?” she asked, assaying his form from head to toe. “Great. We’re getting busy.”

  “I’m Mark. What should I do?” he asked, eyeing her up and down as well.

  “It’s easy, I’ll hand you the shoes, you bring them to where the ladies are sitting and offer to help them on with them. Then stand by in case they need more help, or another size or something.”

  Sounded good to him.

  “But listen, this isn’t a store, it’s a fun charity event. A portion of the profits are going to the cause. These are women who don’t want to be sold to…they want to enjoy the experience, the wine…” She scanned his form again. “…And the company.”

  “Got it.” His good luck continued.

  “In that vein, don’t just drop the shoes at their feet. You have to say ‘“This is a lovely choice, miss. May I help you put them on your lovely feet?’ The Shoe Gal is a highly cultivated brand.”

  He sucked in a breath. “I can do that.” It was the understatement of the year.

  The next 45 minutes were a delightful blur, as he assisted at least 21 very refined women, practically all in dresses and skirts, on and off with pumps, sandals, mules, even ballet flats. Mark enjoyed fitting the espadrilles the most. Something about lacing the ribbon-like straps up the calf then tying a bow got him going.

  A few of the ladies declined his help and put the shoes on themselves. Others regaled in his attention, and even seemed to enjoy his hands on their lower limbs. All the while, Mark remained the picture of professionalism, despite the smorgasbord his eyes were enjoying. Helping too was the fact he was frequently crouched or on one knee, so any disturbance in the line of his khakis would not have been noticed.

  It was a challenge though. These women were already acting a bit giddy. Not all were necessarily pretty, yet they had an air about them that he could only describe as confident. And confidence was sexy. As were the odors he took in. Some very perfumy, some earthy, a couple downright sweaty and musky. Every woman had a distinct smell, every doffed shoe its own personality. He breathed slowly and steadily to absorb them all, thinking all the while this was one of the best days of his life.

  “Ladies, your attention please.” The voice was Crystal’s, carried through the microphone. “It’s time for one of the highlights of Women, Wine and Heels, the MHD Fifty-Fifty Fundraiser!”

  Shoe commerce paused, as the women gasped and chuckled. Clearly, this was something they’d been waiting for, but Mark was simply disappointed his service to their feet was ending, at least for the time being.

  “Some of you have participated before, but for the rest of you, it works like this: for a donation of $250, you’ll have the chance to use your skills to win half the pot, with the rest going to the association,” Crystal explained, rather vaguely. “Of course, we’ll need a volunteer, or should I say, victim.”

  More laughter ensued. Mark was utterly confused. What the hell was MHD? Skills? Victim…for what?

  “And if our volunteer prevails, HE will take home the pot.”

  Now Mark was intrigued. He? There were hardly any guys in the room.

  “I volunteer Mark!” yelled the Shoe Gal.

  “I second it!” shouted one of the women, who earlier had flashed him a sexy smile while trying on a pair of 3-inch sequined heels.

  “Mark, you have a cheering section. You up for this? Half the pot if you win.”

>   “Um, I don’t know. What…what’s involved?”

  Crystal looked straight at him from the stage, smiling. “MHD stands for ‘Make Him Drool.’ It goes like this. The volunteer simply sits in that chair there. Our five participants each get five minutes using their feminine wiles to get him to, um, dribble. The lady who succeeds wins the money. Or you do. Sound good?”

  Mark thought this over, deciding it might be fun. From a practical standpoint, at $250 a pop, it could be a sizeable winner’s share. Besides, he had enough self-control not to drool for heaven’s sake. Not like he was a rabid dog, or a 90-year-old in a nursing home.

  “What do you say, Mark? The money will help fund that trip to Belize. You, a daiquiri, all those senoritas in string bikinis…” This evoked laughter from the guests.

  Mark blushed, then gamely replied, “Sure, why not.” There was a smattering of applause.

  During the next 10 minutes money was collected, and the contestants took up their positions to the side of the stage. Mark felt a hand on his back. “Let’s get you ready.” He turned to see a lovely young woman who’d been assisting during the event, a sandy blond haired girl with slight upturned nose and piercing blue eyes. Mark figured her for an intern, or another volunteer. “This way, to the conference room.”

  “Ready? What do you mean?”

  “You have to change out of those pants,” the blond said. “Here, you’ll put these on.” She dangled a pair of thin, nylon underwear on her forefinger. They weren’t panties, exactly, more like some woman’s idea of what a man’s boxer brief should look like. They were white, and quite nearly sheer. They didn’t leave much to the imagination.

  Mark gulped. “Why?”

  “How else will we be able to tell if you start to drool, silly?” came the response.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa – ”

  “You agreed. We need you, Mark. And it’s for a good cause.”

  “I’m not so sure about this…”

  “You’ll do it. It’ll be fun!” Then, with those blue eyes turned up toward him, “You’ll do it…for me.”

  Mark felt his will being broken. What had he gotten himself into? He was horrified at the thought of being on a stage in front of a female crowd, wearing those briefs while – what? Some rich MILFs worked “their feminine wiles”? What the hell did that even mean? This was sure to be embarrassing, but he couldn’t think of a graceful way out.

  The intern tugged his elbow, and his legs began to move. No one noticed them until he was up on the stage, and she gently guided him to the padded folding chair just off center. “There you go,” she cooed. “It’s all fine.”

  He noticed the contestants. He was at the feet of a couple of them earlier, helping them with shoes. They were dressed tastefully. All had on skirts, and four had pantyhose or stockings in various shades. They wore a colorful variety of heels, none of which were lower than 3 inches. They were impeccably made up, and all wore necklaces and bangles on their wrists. They appeared to range from mid-20s to early 50s.

  “Glad you could join us, Mark!” said Crystal, eliciting chuckles from the audience. Then turning to the five contestants, “Ladies, here are the rules. You’ve all drawn numbers for your order. You must remain seated, at least two feet from our volunteer at all times. You may not touch him. You can, however, touch yourselves any way you like.”

  There was more laughter. “No, be nice now. Not that kind of touching! You ladies are terrible. This is a public place!”

  The comment struck Mark as odd, given the fact he was sitting here almost naked, his penis already beginning to bulge through nearly see-through fabric. His ears began to ring, but he was able to make out Crystal’s next words.

  “No nudity, and your shoes must remain at least partially on at all times. And you can’t talk to our volunteer, but you may communicate with him in other ways if you like.”

  Mark swallowed hard, wondering just what he was in for. Shoes must remain partially on? Why did Crystal say that? There’s no way she could know about my foot fetish, he thought. He began to second guess all of his interactions with her. No, he thought, he was always discreet. Or was he?

  With an audience of about 120 women, and at least a dozen men mixed in, he felt very self conscious, particularly since the shorts he was provided nearly violated that “no nudity” rule. He thought about the good that was coming from this, how he was helping the cause. Yet that didn’t do much to allay his embarrassment. Could this get any worse?

  “One more thing…let’s get that camera in position. Jeff, could you take care of that, please?”

  A videographer with several days’ stubble on his face came over and positioned a small video camera on a tripod next to Mark’s chair, aiming the lens right at his crotch. Momentarily, Crystal tapped a few buttons on a laptop, and the image sprang up on two 55-inch flat TVs flanking the room. Mark was aghast at the sight of his barely concealed groin area on display, but felt it was way too late to back out.

  “Great,” she said with a smile. “Now we’ll all be able to play judge and see the results of our little game. There’s a lot at stake after all.” Turning toward Mark,

  “Are you all set?”

  “Um, not really,” his voice cracked, causing a new round of chuckling from the room.

  “Sure you are, Mark!” she said in a sing-song voice. “Just think about that beach scenery in Belize, and how your winnings can help get you there.”

  Sheesh, she was the devil. That’s exactly the opposite of what he wanted to think about right now. Not only would that do nothing to help him keep from “drooling” in the contest, it would immediately cause a rise for everyone to see on the TV screens. He turned his focus to his upcoming dentist appointment, a routine checkup and cleaning, before remembering how cute that hygienist was. What was her name? Denise? Pretty green eyes, glossy lips, and a lovely figure.

  Shit! His cock stirred at the thought. He instantly turned his attention to last night’s hockey game, a good one that went to overtime. He forced himself to remember the scores of the out-of-town games too, and where those teams were in the standings.

  Just at that moment, Crystal introduced Rebecca to the crowd. A slender black woman of about 35, she crossed the stage on four-inch strappy black sandals, wearing a bright red skirt and white blouse. She took the seat of honor opposite Mark – a plush armchair – and flashed a big smile and raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment. Her black hair was shoulder-length. Her legs, bare, glistened in the overhead lights. They were muscular. Mark smiled back. He felt funny doing so in the circumstances, but it seemed to be the polite thing to do.

  “Five minutes, Rebecca, beginning…now.”

  For a few seconds, Rebecca did nothing…except stare right into Mark’s eyes. She paid him her undivided attention, and Mark felt more self-conscious, as though she was inspecting the features of his face. Momentarily, her tongue poked out and licked her lips, and simultaneously she lifted her right leg and brought it down over her left in a sweeping motion.

  Mark couldn’t help but break eye contact and glance down. Her shoes were so pretty, very strappy, with a very slender heel. They were open-toed, and her toenails, perfectly manicured, wore a bright red shade. As her right foot completed its journey, it arched inside the shoe, and he noticed wrinkles form on her instep. Despite himself, and the hockey scores, his penis moved.

  Rebecca glanced down toward his crotch, and her eyes widened as her smile broadened. She looked back at Mark’s face, and blew him an air kiss. The gesture aroused him more. He assessed his situation. Regardless of where he turned his attention – her lovely face, that strappy shoe and that wrinkled arch, the audience of women looking on to his right – he couldn’t find quarter.

  “Oh my god,” came a voice from the crowd. In his peripheral vision he saw a finger pointing at the monitor, but couldn’t bear to look. He heard gasps, then a new round of giggles.

  For the next four minutes, Mark could only lick his lips and try to endure the
tease in front of him. Rebecca made circles with her foot, licked her own lips several more times, and resumed staring at his face, silently compelling him to lock eyes. At one point she blatantly raised her right leg in the air and slid her hands, tastefully manicured in the same color as her toes, from ankle strap to her upper thigh. He felt his cock continue to inflate, but didn’t dare look down at it. His hands gripped the seat of the chair. His lower stomach knotted, a not unpleasant sensation known well to anyone caught in the crosshairs of embarrassment. And Rebecca was just the first!

  “Time!” Crystal announced. Rebecca winked at Mark as she got up without a word.

  He caught his breath, but only for a moment, as Janice was introduced. About 50, she had short blond hair and went a bit heavy on the makeup, particularly her silvery eye shadow. She wore a knee-length black dress with a red flower pattern above the waist, and lace half-sleeves. She had some freckles on her upper chest, and wore several bracelets, a stylish gold wide-link necklace, and a large diamond wedding ring.