“You really loved your mother, didn’t you?” I didn’t wait for his response. “You know, I think you’d have better luck if you didn’t start the conversation with the word ‘fetish.’ I think most women would understand. Besides, a lot of them are into shoes.”
“You are probably right. However, most women’s version of loving shoes isn’t quite the same thing. And that difference does matter. Like you for instance. What’s your take on sexy shoes?”
I thought about the box in the car. I had such an issue with sexy shoes that I couldn’t even wear them in public. I took a deep breath. “Well, I bought a pair of scarlet stilettos to wear tonight and they are still boxed, quite safely, in the back of my Jeep.”
His eyes got bigger. “Really?” He drew out the word. “You have something like that and you wore those?” He pointed to my pedestrian heels. “Emily, I’m ashamed of you.”
I was about to argue, but he silenced me with a gesture. “We have to go get them. And then you have to wear them.” He offered his hand and I reluctantly let him pull me up. I was stuck now. It was as if I had just told a hungry child that I had an ice cream truck parked out back. “Come on, lead the way.”
I had a fleeting doubt about the wisdom of walking with a stranger in the dark to my car, but that passed quickly enough. Sensitive Guy seemed harmless and at the same time capable of at least moral support if we did get mugged.
Since we were already outside, we just crossed the patio, passing a few couples and threesomes who had braved the chill to either smoke or just talk without interrupting the inside activities. I noticed that the Minion was still standing by one of the heaters, a statue covered in poinsettias, not far from where we had been sitting. He had to be freezing. I had a strange sensation that he was looking at me intently. What made him stand there for so long and at odd places? Was he living out some punishment from his Dominatrix?
Joe was lagging behind, politely letting a woman go ahead of him. I waited on the pavement watching the way his eyes followed the woman, or rather the woman’s shoes. I was very conscious of the sound of her heels clicking as she made her way across the concrete of the patio. I flashed back to Pixie’s comment that sometimes people were searching for a fetish separate from romance. Was he looking at her shoes or at her? With Joe, would I always be in competition with Jimmy Choo?
The night air was chilly away from the heater, so I stopped by the front door, showed my red heart hand stamp to the astoundingly large bouncer in Leatherman gear, and was allowed to retrieve my jacket. I hurried back out and Joe sidled up beside me, blowing into his hands. “Chilly. Let’s hurry.”
Luckily my Jeep was close and I swung out the big spare wheel on the back to get access to what passed as a trunk on the Wrangler. I popped the little gate and there sat the offending box, exposed under the glare of the streetlight. Joe grabbed the box. “Do you mind?” He was asking if it was OK to open the lid. Oh my god. “Of course not.” But I did mind a little. It was kind of weird to see the way he looked at the box, the reverent look he bestowed. It gave new meaning to the word Footman. If I’d had any previous doubts about his fetish, I had none now. He was starting to irritate me, so I said, “Actually, I do mind. Let me have the box.”
He instantly obeyed. “Yes, ma’am.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
I held the box with a newfound sense of the drama that the books had described—the scene. I remembered the short typographical scene online. Then I thought of my assigned task on the slip of paper in my jacket pocket. Indulge your partner’s secret desire. I looked at him.
“So if I made you kneel down before I open this box, you’d enjoy that. Right?”
He eyed me a little suspiciously. He answered, “Maybe,” turning the word into a long drawn-out lilting question. I pulled the piece of paper from my pocket and held it so he could read it.
If some contract was required, then perhaps just his nod would serve. He smiled for the briefest moment, in apparent agreement. And then lowered his eyes in submission.
I felt the muse strike and decided to go for it. Why not? “OK. So kneel down. Sensitive Guy, I have just chosen you to be the Chief Footman for my Scarlet Girls this evening.”
It sounded ridiculous coming from my mouth, but Joe instantly knelt, trying to hide the big smile on his face as he looked up at me in anticipation. The smile disappeared with a single glare from me. He dropped his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ick on the ma’am thing. I almost giggled, but suppressed it. “You will call me ‘Mistress Em’ at all times.”
“Yes, Mistress Em.” He kept his head bowed.
So far, so good. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed like what he wanted was to be told what to do and to have it be about my shoes. And I was interested to try out this assertiveness stuff. I thought back to the book. My sub needed some task. “Lift your hands. Palms up.”
He complied, and I placed the box on his uplifted hands. He held it in place, not moving. “Good. Your first task will be inspect the Scarlet Girls carefully and sing their praises. Then you will place them ever so gently upon my feet, exhibiting enthusiastic adoration, or I shall be ever so disappointed in you.”
A whip would have been handy about then. The idea was to increase the level of tension. At least for the moment he had something to do. I sat down on the carpeted back area of the Jeep. My feet dangled above the ground at about the right height for shoe adoration. I was feeling a little freaked out, but this was oh, so tame compared to having him, uh, pay homage to my unmentionables. These were, after all, just nice looking shoes.
I looked at him expectantly. He was still holding the box up, head bowed. I guess he was waiting for the next order. On a whim, I tapped my toe on the box right below his face. “You may begin.”
He let out an audible exhale. “Yes, Mistress Em. I obey your every wish.”
He carefully set down the box, gently caressing the lid and sides. I could hear him mumbling a little, like a monk saying his prayers under his breath.
“Speak up.”
He tensed. “Yes, Mistress Em.”
I suspected this would be an appropriate place to crack that whip. The thought amused me, but a little whip-play also sounded kind of fun. Would I enjoy that? Hmmm.
Anyway, he did speak louder and I could hear him now. “I cherish and adore the Scarlet Girls.” He was repeating it like a mantra. He did this for a moment or two and then carefully lifted the lid.
I was curious to see what he would do. Would I have to choreograph every step, or would he improvise? But he kept going, slowly parting the white wrapping that enshrouded the shoes. One ply at a time, all the while whispering his mantra. He was taking his sweet time. I was getting a little cold, even though the Jeep shielded me from most of the wind. “Faster! The Scarlet Girls are impatient.”
Again he tensed. “Yes, Mistress Em.” He worked a little faster, revealing the first shoe to an audible gasp. “They are so beautiful, Mistress Em.” He kissed the pointed toe of the shoe.
On impulse I slapped his shoulder. “How dare you. I have not given you permission to do this.”
He jumped, surprised, but then dropped his head, holding up the shoe to me. “A thousand pardons, Mistress Em. Please forgive your unworthy servant.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. “You are forgiven. But I will tell you when you may indulge in the Scarlet Girls’ sweetness, and it is not yet time.”
“Yes, Mistress Em.” I wondered how he could keep a straight face, but he was going with this, even with his breath coming out in cold puffs. His knees had to be freezing. Better keep things rolling. A Mistress must tend to the needs of her servants.
“You must now remove the Black Guardians,” (where do I come up with these names?) “and set them inside the Jeep. They have done well and you should briefly acknowledge their effort.” Please make it brief. I was freezing and it was hard to keep my teeth from chattering from nerves and the cold.
He was so intent,
he forgot his “Yes Mistress Em” but I let it pass.
He set the stiletto back it its box. Carefully, he slid one of the black heels from my foot and dug into his pocket to pull out a soft cloth, which he used to buff the shoe. Then, leaning forward, he set it next to me on the seat. He brushed his lips against my thigh as he moved back to his kneeling position. I felt the distinct stubble rub of his short beard on my nylons. It was kind of sexy. He repeated both actions with the second shoe—the shoe and thigh brushing. He added an exhaled huff of warm breath up my skirt before kneeling once again. I suppressed another giggle, but by now I was aware of the titillation factor. OK, I see how this could substitute for foreplay.
Joe deftly lifted the first stiletto out of the box, caressed it with a soft flourish and slipped it, Cinderella style, onto my waiting foot. It fit like a charm. Surprise! He repeated the same ritual for shoe number two.
Once his task had been completed, he resumed his subservient position. I thought that maybe now he should kiss the shoes, but then realized that this was exactly what he wanted and must be denied a little while longer. The tension must be sustained.
“Very good. You may now caress their sweet curves with your cheeks. Once. Later, if you behave, you may kiss them.”
“Yes, Mistress Em. You spoil your servant.” He leaned forward and brushed his beard lovingly on both sides of each shoe; then he sat back. I guess with suede one hopes for servants without oily skin. But I seemed to have scored in this regard.
He waited, eyes cast down, and I wondered, What now? I needed an end to the chapter or at least some signal for intermission.
I stood. The shoes felt as seductive as they had at the house—more so now that they had an official fan. “Stand and accompany me inside.”
Joe stood and smiled as if to say, “Great job.” But of course that would have been inappropriate. I held out my hand and gestured for him to lead me back inside. He complied, glancing down at my feet as they hit the pavement. He seemed mesmerized, and I was fine with not talking. Our little scene had been kind of fun and I wondered suddenly if Frank’s thing—whatever it might be—might be as easy to accommodate as this. But then couldn’t he have told me? No, Frank’s scene probably involved golden showers or worse.
I shook the worst case scenario from my head, concentrating instead on the loud click of my heels as I made my way up to the big red door.
Quit thinking about Frank.
And, in a lavish gesture, I said, “The Scarlet Girls are ready to party.” The nagging question, of course, was whether Emily Royce could even begin to keep pace.
Chapter 28: A Frank Discovery
Joe and I hurried back into the welcome warmth of the studio in a not uncomfortable silence. The Scarlet Girls were a little unruly to walk in, and I struggled to keep my balance. Joe offered me a supporting arm. I felt a little lightheaded from the booze, the cold and the heady excitement of our little scene.
The room with the paintings was now full of people who were all focused on an Asian woman in a flesh colored body suit. She was suspended from the ceiling, entwined in ropes. I recognized her as the woman who had taken our coats. It appeared that everybody that worked here did double duty.
The woman was a contortionist, bending her body in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Muscles bulged from every part of her body, and I guessed that her day job (or legit job) must be as a dancer or gymnast. There probably wasn’t much call for contortionists in corporate America. From the looks on people’s faces, maybe some marketing department should consider it.
I stood among the rest of the gawkers. Her movements were unearthly, both sensual and erotic. I looked around, but my mother and Kenner seemed to have disappeared. To where I didn’t want to imagine. If my mother started dating my boss ... But I let that thought drift off. Why not? They were both nice people. Maybe, if they were busy thinking of each other, they would spend less time thinking about me and what I was up to.
Speaking of which, Frank seemed to have completely and permanently disappeared. I was no longer annoyed, because I was having fun anyway. Joe squeezed me a little tighter as we moved through the crowd. I felt performance anxiety. What shoe activity should I stage next? I wondered where Doms came up with all their material. Were there books you could read? Plotting New Scenes for Your Subs. This gave new meaning to the word subplot.
I was about to suggest that Joe and I seek out our old couch, but just then the red-gowned hostess reappeared on the little stage. The contortionist was receiving a very appreciative round of applause.
The hostess made a sweeping gesture to the contortionist/coat check girl as she slithered down the rope and skipped off behind the curtain. The hostess waited for the crowd’s applause to die out before raising her mic.
“I want our new friend, Sensitive Guy, to come back up on the stage.”
I felt Joe tense beside me, and then laugh. “Oh no. She’s going to do my thing now.”
“Your thing?”
“You know, that paper she put down her cleavage. Normally I wouldn’t leave you to play with another woman unless I had your permission.” He looked at me expectantly.
“Only if it is properly entertaining.” I smiled and stepped away so he could make his way to the stage. He gave me a final smile before turning to join the hostess in the lights.
I wasn’t all that interested in watching the play, if truth be told. I wanted to find Frank. He had to be around somewhere, so I figured it was finally time for me to mingle without an escort. I gave Joe one last look. He was on his knees—a position I already knew was one of his favorites.
I thought about Joe, his ex-wife, and his fetish as I wandered aimlessly through the club.
Apparently you had to resonate with your partner’s fetish, in whatever way it manifested. If you didn’t share it in some complementary way, the relationship just wouldn’t work. Not if both sides were going to be happy. That was clear from Joe’s story about his wife. Not different, really, from his wife’s wanting kids and him not. Relationships like that were doomed from the beginning, no matter how much you loved each other. You had to consider your core needs.
The question then became, “What are my core needs?” and “What are Frank’s?” Was our relationship doomed because of an innate incompatibility, or were we just not self-aware enough to honestly express our needs?
For what felt like the hundredth time, I looked around, trying to figure out where Frank had gone. A quick glance at my watch said that almost two hours had gone by. It was nearly time to head to the doctor’s party. If I still wanted to go. Correct that. I did want to go. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to go solo.
A tap on my shoulder from behind startled me. I swung around to find my mom and Kenner. They both looked very pleased with themselves. Mom regarded Joe and the Hostess on the stage with a raised eyebrow. “Your new friend Joe appears to be having fun.”
Kenner sighed and said, “A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.”
“Hamlet?” It was my typical guess.
He shook his head. “Much Ado About Nothing.”
I had to smile.
“How’s the story going? You aren’t taking notes?” Mom looked a little concerned.
“Trust me, Mom. This place leaves an indelible mark. I’ll be years trying to get the images out of my head.” Which was more or less true; however, the images were born more from what Joe had said rather than anything I had witnessed. The Salon was challenging but not overwhelming. At least so far. “And the story is going fine. I think I almost have enough to proceed. I’m going to stay a bit longer, to see how it all turns out.” I didn’t want to tell her about the party. Some things Mom didn’t need to know.
She nodded. “Well, Lawrence and I are going to head out. It has been interesting. I guess you are never too old to learn a few new tricks.” She gave a sly look to Kenner that I did not wish to explore any further. She saw the expression on my face and laughed. “Tell Joe good
bye for us.” Then she pecked me on the cheek and pulled Kenner in the direction of the exit. I felt a wave of relief. At least they were going.
As they made their way through the crowd, I noticed several guys lugging Minion Guy in his stiff log-like pose. He was now wrapped in a big red ribbon with a giant red bow around his neck. Someone had unpinned all his flowers. Mom and Kenner stopped to watch, and it was only then that I realized that the men were hauling their cargo right toward me.
I looked around to see who or what else might be the recipient of the gift-wrapped statue. Then the men stopped right in front of me and maneuvered Minion Guy into his standing position. With a flourish, they bowed as though offering a present to royalty and disappeared into the crowd. I could feel Mom and Kenner staring me with obvious interest. I was certain that they had guessed at the same time I had exactly who Minion Guy must be.
The commotion had caught the attention of the crowd nearby. They gathered closer, apparently believing that part of the show involved the statue.
“Tu débandes, Emily?” came a quiet voice from just above the red bow.
Frank.
The evening suddenly compressed into a series of events that seemed painfully obvious. It had been Frank all along—sitting, standing, kneeling, posing—all within visual range of me. He had brought me the roses. He had been my chair. Had he also arranged it so that the Hostess picked Joe and me for the first event? Had he finagled the invitation to the after party? Hell, had he set Joe up as my date? Was this Candid Camera? Or America’s Creepiest Home Video?
A part of me was thrilled breathless. A girl wants to be romanced. She wants poetic flowers and flowery poetry. Well, at least I do. But a part of me wasn’t too sure I wanted a red-ribbon-wrapped man in a black body stocking, regardless of the quite apparent front-loaded package. As I regarded him in silence, I saw the envelope pinned just beneath the bow. It read, “Emily,” in a flourishing script unlike Frank’s typical scrawl.
As the locals watched, I unpinned the envelope and slid a finger under the lightly sealed flap. It popped open with the familiar snap and whoosh of fine stationery. I pulled out the card inside. The envelope was blank except for a pair of embossed hearts.
Breakfast in Stilettos Page 16