Image “Kinky Boots” courtesy of the beautiful Sub-Bee.

I was in a hurry when I saw the boots, already five minutes late for a meeting with a client. I should have kept on walking. I should have been professional.

Instead, I stopped and gazed at them through the window, my heart thundering with a mixture of excitement and panic.

Rochelle would love them.

I would wear them with the red satin thong she bought for my last birthday. The matching suspender belt. Fishnet stockings.

And nothing else.

The soft leather would stretch to my thighs, hugging the curve of my legs. The black ties would criss-cross my ankles, over my calves, begging to be undone, to be slipped off, to be lovingly enjoyed. The heels would make me five inches taller, would tighten my ass, lift my buttocks, make me irresistible.

But she would resist. I would make her resist.

I decided I would blindfold her first, before I dressed, and cuff her to a chair, ankles and wrists. She would feign discomfort and it would make me wet. The thought alone was making me wet.

I shifted from one foot to the other, glanced around me to make sure nobody was staring.

God, I would torture her. Rochelle would be kept waiting while I slowly showered, singing softly so that she could only just hear my voice. I would towel myself gently, make noises that would set her on edge, desperate but unable to touch herself. I would dress without any urgency, pour myself a glass of wine and another to feed to her, mouth to mouth, spilling from our lips, down her chin, down her cleavage, over her belly while our tongues danced.

And then I would remove the blindfold and let her see me, let her watch while I pinched my nipples, while I slipped a hand inside my panties, bleating and gasping as my fingers danced over my burning sex.

I had to bite my lip as I imagined it, had to close my eyes to keep myself from orgasming right there in a crowd of shoppers.

I was already five minutes late, I told myself. My client had paid good money for my time. I should go.

Instead, I took out my phone, found her number, hit dial.

“Karen? It’s Wendy…yes, I am, I’m so sorry I’m running a little late…yes, the traffic is terrible. Order yourself a coffee and I’ll be there in ten. Yes, a cake too, you’ve earned it.” I laughed conspiratorially. “On me, of course.”

As I hung up, I stepped inside the shop, a little thrill running up my spine. Six hours before Rochelle would get home from the office.

I could hardly wait.

Written for Masturbation Monday Week 185. Head over there for more erotica, kinky blogs and sexy photography.