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  1. When I started on a new set of "3 Sisters" stories last fall, I had only a handful of stories in mind. I was eventually shocked to find that I ended up with 150 pages (MS Word, single space) of heely fiction, which I have now posted here. The hit count indicates that approximately 70 of you have been faithfully visiting the forum and reading these over the last 5 months or so. I am flattered that you made the time to read the stories. I have not written any other stories yet, although I do have a pretty good idea of what happens later to these three couples. The biggest problem is finding the time to write the stories. Assuming I do write anything else, I might have to write only a few stories at a time and then post them, rather than write everything in advance. I will have to see how things work. I do have one favor to ask: I would be interested in knowing if you had a favorite character, couple or story, or if there was anything else about the series that stood out for you. (Or, if you thought any character, couple or story was particularly bad and did not work for you, I would like to know that, too.) You can either post your thoughts on this forum, or you can PM me, whichever you prefer. As you probably know, I have been trying to vary the themes (work, relationships, travel adventures, ethnic attitudes, heely fetishes), and am curious if anything stands out in your mind. Lastly, I would like to thank Raincat for your recent posting of support as well as some of the additional thoughts in your PMs. Writing with feedback is always easier than writing in a vacuum. Again...I hope you found the stories to be worthwhile, and thanks for your interest!
  2. The six of us gorged ourselves on an incredible French meal that I will not soon forget. We sat and talked about the times ahead of us. Maria was planning to take a leave of absence from her job following the birth of the baby, but she would have to return to work after a few months, and at least she was in a position where she could wear high heels and nice outfits at her job. It was less clear how such things would work at home. Would Maria push a baby carriage around our neighborhood in stiletto heels? Even in heel-crazy El Salvador, women stopped wearing high heels for the most part after they gave birth. “Don’t worry, Steve,” Ana said to me as she stroked my hand playfully. “I’ll come by twice a week to visit you two, and I promise never to come in anything lower than 5-inch heels. I’ll make sure you don’t go through high heel withdrawal.” As we finished a rich dessert of chocolate mousse, a jazz trio set up its instruments and began playing on the other side of a small dance floor not far from our table. I sipped on my coffee and looked at Maria. “Just say the word. How are your feet?” “They are fine,” she said. She sipped at her coffee, took a deep breath, and said, “Let’s go.” I helped Maria up and locked arms with her as we walked over to the dance floor. Ana, Bob, Sharon and Jack followed us. This was the climax of our trip: Maria and I would dance in public while she wore 7-inch heels. Because of the press of our work schedules, we had only tried dancing several times at home. Ideally, we would not have wanted to try this in public without several additional weeks of practice, but that was a luxury of time that we no longer had. Anyway, we were not going to try any fancy dance moves. All we wanted to do was to move our feet in tandem with Maria holding on to me. The eyes of everyone were back upon us as we made our way to the dance floor and began to dance. I rested my right hand on Maria’s gorgeous waist and held her hand in my left hand. I noticed two men sitting unusually close to each other at a nearby table who were transfixed by Maria’s feet. Even homosexuals were not immune to her charms! A heterosexual couple walked past us on the dance floor, and I saw the woman point to Maria’s shoes, turn to her partner and say, “Now she is GOOD!” I looked over at the jazz trio, and noticed the bass player’s eyes darting back and forth between Sharon, Ana and Maria. Even jazz musicians did not see the likes of those three every day. I pulled Maria close to me and said, “You are a hit, even in San Francisco.” She kissed me on the lips. I asked her if she was getting tired, and she replied that she was fine and wanted to keep dancing. I could tell from Maria’s mood that she was no longer paying attention to others, but was withdrawing inside herself. It was her way of enjoying the music and her closeness to me without being distracted by the other people on the dance floor. I held her tightly against me, and whispered into her ear how much I loved her and how great a mother she was going to be. She pushed my head to the side, wiggled her tongue in my ear for a few seconds, and then told me that the day I walked into her little Salvadoran boutique several years earlier was the greatest day of her life. I whispered back, “At least until the day our baby is born.” Maria’s tongue in my ear had given me a nice, firm erection. As one of the jazz musicians began a slow, extended saxophone solo, Maria leaned into me as hard as she could, letting the 7-inch heels push herself forward. Having never danced with Maria in 7-inch heels, I was delighted to feel my erection rubbing against a particularly sensitive spot of hers. This had never happened when she had danced previously with me in 5- and 5-1/2 inch heels, so the extra heel height and the way it repositioned her torso was making quite a difference. I placed my lips against hers, we opened our mouths and I began linking my tongue with hers. She hummed softly with delight, and we timed our movements slowly and deliberately with the soft beat of the music. It was relatively dark on the dance floor and I closed my eyes and felt there was nothing in the entire universe except Maria, me and the soft jazz music. The saxophone solo continued, and I heard Maria moan softly with pleasure. I wiggled my hips once quickly and she moaned again. I held her tightly against me and she tightened her grip on me, and began breathing rapidly. She dug her nails into the back of my neck so deeply that I thought she might draw blood. She began moaning rapidly and reached as deeply into herself as she could to prevent herself from screaming, and all the while she was twitching violently while holding on to me as tightly as she could. A wave of perspiration washed down from her forehead. We stopped moving and I just held her tight for a few seconds until her little convulsions had passed, although she continued to breathe rapidly. I whispered, “Maria, did you just have….” “I think so. I mean, yes, I did. Of course I did. I can’t believe it.” I looked up and saw that Sharon, Jack, Ana and Bob had stopped dancing and were standing next to us. “Are you all right, Maria?” Ana asked. “Wow. Um, yeah,” Maria said, obviously at a loss for words. “I think I know what happened, but in the interest of privacy, I’ll keep my medical opinion to myself,” Jack said. “Maybe the two of you should sit down.” “Good idea,” I said. Several couples who had been dancing around us were staring at us, so our efforts to hide what had been happening had not been entirely successful. But it did not really matter. Her face still glistening from perspiration, Maria broke into a glowing smile as we slowly and carefully made our way back to our table. We reached our seats, and Maria gulped down a glass of water. She was still breathing somewhat rapidly. “How did we do that?” I asked her. “How is not important. It is simply important that it happened,” Maria said. “Now we have done everything. We married, you put me through college, we both have good careers, I can wear 7-inch heels. The fact that I had an …um, you know, in public, it just means….Hell, I don’t know what it means. Maybe it means we have accomplished everything we can with high heels at this stage in our lives, and now it is time to go home and have our baby.” “Maybe so,” I said. “But this can’t be the end. I want to have the greatest baby in the world, but we have to find a way to balance being parents with this, this other part of our lives.” Maria picked up my water glass, took a sip and smiled. “Absolutely,” she said. The End....at least for now
  3. Stu

    The Queen of Heels

    If more operagoers and opera singers dressed like you, Gina, they would sure sell a lot more tickets! Those killer heels are worth a good song all by themselves.
  4. Yes, quite an adventure, you lived to tell (and presumably laugh) about it, and you gave those mechanics something nice to think about. One question, Adeana: I may well be missing something, because this reads like the second half of a story. Did I miss the first half somewhere? How did you get locked into these heels, and what kind of heel height are we talking about?
  5. Seven weeks later, Maria and I were relaxing in our hotel room in San Francisco, enjoying a great picture-window view of the hilly city and the surrounding bay. Our trip was the result of an unexpected – but not unwelcome – development stemming from Maria’s 7-inch heel walk around Sharon’s and Jack’s swimming pool. In the weeks following that day, Maria spent time each day at home practicing to walk in her 7-inch heels. I was impressed by the depth of her enthusiasm. She had come 180 degrees from the time when she viewed extreme heels as a perversion of her family’s view of femininity. She now believed that extreme heels were an affirmation of everything her family had valued about feminine expression. Intelligence, hard work and a devotion to femininity through the wearing of high heels had been the key to her grandmother’s escape from Third World poverty, and they had enabled Maria to move up to the American middle class. She devoted herself to the goal of being able to walk in 7-inch heels as smoothly as she could in 5- and 6-inch heels. While she realized that such a goal might be unattainable, she saw merit in getting as close to it as she could, as if the striving for perfection by itself would make her better prepared to deal with whatever future challenges she would face. For the first time since her introduction to high heels as an adolescent, Maria needed outside help to improve her walking skills. We rejected the use of artificial aids such as the foot straighteners that we had seen on the Internet. Instead, Jack taught her some stretching exercises to perform every day in order to increase the already impressive flexibility of her feet and ankles. He also volunteered to examine her feet regularly to make sure she was not overstressing them. Between the exercises and the practice in the shoes themselves, Maria made quick progress, and within a month she was able to walk smoothly in 7-inch heels for a minute or two at about half her normal walking speed. And then, 5 weeks after our afternoon at Sharon’s and Jack’s swimming pool, we confirmed that Maria was pregnant. The most likely time of conception was indeed that eventful weekend when we had made passionate love in our friends’ guest bedroom. I was struck by the fact that our child would owe his or her existence to the sexual energy triggered by Maria’s experimentation with extreme heels. That seemed to underline the pointlessness of segregating our offbeat interest in high heels with the conventional aspects of our marriage. Everything was rolled together in a single package. Maria and I were excited about the prospect of becoming parents. We regretted the fact that Maria would soon have to give up high heels entirely for the duration of her pregnancy. We also realized that the all-consuming job of guiding our son or daughter through infancy and early childhood would divert our attention away from such things as Maria’s sexy clothes and shoes. Nevertheless, it seemed like a small price to pay for the privilege of bringing a new life into the world, and we resolved to become the best mom and dad that we could. There was, however, one piece of unfinished business in our old lives that had to be addressed. Maria and I decided that the triumph of her feminine expression – both on the job and in her personal life – had to be commemorated in one final night of dinner and dancing in 7-inch heels. This was something of a left turn, even for us, as we originally had no inclination for her to ever wear the most extreme of all heels in public. But her rapidly improving ability to walk smoothly in them in the privacy of our home, and the sobering connection between the 7-inch heels and the new life growing in her belly, convinced us that she needed to take this one final step before her transition to motherhood. San Francisco seemed to be the logical choice for such an endeavor, because of the city’s tolerant reputation as well as the anonymity that we would enjoy. And, of course, we would never think of attempting such a feat without the companionship and support of Ana, Bob, Sharon and Jack, who made the trip with us. I was sitting in the bed in our hotel room, admiring the view of the city, when Maria emerged from the bedroom. “What do you think?” she asked me. Her dress tonight was a return to her roots: a jet-black Salvadoran-style dress that was loose above the waist before wrapping itself tightly around her waist, hips and thighs. The dress then went loose around her knees before ending at her shins. The dress, along her black seamed stockings, were the perfect complement to her brown skin and jet-black hair. There was, as yet, no bulge in the belly to indicate her pregnancy, only the divine curvature of her hips and thighs that still beckoned to every man lucky enough to be able to see them. “I am happy about becoming a dad. But boy, am I going to miss this,” I said, reaching for my camera. “Hold it!” Maria said. She was still barefoot, and she slid into a pair of 5-inch stilettos. “Now take your pictures.” I eagerly snapped away, not knowing how long it would be before she would ever look like this again. There was a knock on the door, which I opened it to let our four friends inside. “How is mom doing?” Sharon asked. Bob whistled, and said, “Mothers never looked like that where I came from.” “You folks aren’t looking so shabby yourselves,” I replied. Sharon was wearing a long, gold-colored dress that pushed her breasts up to show an eye-popping amount of cleavage. I thought back to Sharon’s statement to me several months earlier that she had undergone her breast enhancement strictly for her job. She had either been kidding herself at the time, or Jack and she had since realized that it would be a waste to only use such a beautiful pair of assets for only 40 hours a week. In any event, the pair of gold, 6-inch stiletto sandals on Sharon’s feet made it quite clear that she was not abandoning her commitment to high heels. Ana was quite stunning as well, attired in a sheer white blouse and a tight, black leather skirt that ended just above the knees, complimented with black fishnet hose, and black, 6-inch stiletto pumps. A true legs-and-heels man would probably have considered her the most attractive of our three ladies on that night. Ana pointed to Maria’s feet and said, “Surely, we didn’t come all the way here so you could go out to dinner in those dowdy shoes?” “Of course not,” Maria laughed. She took the black, 7-inch stiletto pumps out of their box and set them down on the floor, and then she slid out of her 5-inch shoes. Even though Maria was capable of stepping into the shoes by herself, I extended my hand like a gentlemen, and she graciously held my hand as she slid each of her feet into the shoes. She then let go of my hand, and stood there, modeling herself for the rest of us. “Oh, Toto, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore!” Jack said with a laugh. “On to dinner!” Maria said. She wrapped her arm around mine, and we stepped slowly to the door, which Bob opened for us. We kept a slow, careful pace (one…..two…..one……two…..) that nevertheless seemed like the speed of light for a woman in such outrageous heels. We walked out the door and down the corridor to the elevator. I was just as impressed with the way Sharon and Ana were managing in their 6-inch heels – a normal pace, legs totally straight, walking as effortlessly as if they were in 4-inch heels. What a sight we must have been. We reached the elevator and got inside when it arrived. We traveled up to the penthouse restaurant on the top floor of the hotel, which offered an even more stunning view of the city than from our room. Jack and Sharon confirmed our reservations with the host, and we were told it would be a few minutes. I helped Maria sit down, and she let out a sigh of relief. “The first leg of our journey is over,” I said. “Wow. Just look at those. Stunning,” I heard someone say. I turned to the side and noticed a couple of women who had come in behind us and were standing in the aisle. One was an attractive, black-haired woman and the other was a somewhat awkward looking brunette, although both wore nice dresses and were wearing 5-inch heels. “Sorry,” the black-haired woman said to us. “I didn’t mean to be impolite. You don’t see shoes like yours every day. You are quite daring for wearing them out to dinner. I would love to be able to do something like that.” “Thank you for the compliment. Practice makes perfect. You may be able to do it some day,” Maria said. “Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said. She turned to her friend and said, “What do you think? Maybe you could try working up to shoes like that.” Her friend giggled in a sort of a low-pitched voice. It then became clear to me that the awkward-looking woman was actually a man! I was not used to seeing such things in our suburban town. Of course, we had come to San Francisco precisely because the shocking was commonplace there. Maria looked up at the man and said, “You should be very proud of yourself. It is not easy to walk in 5-inch heels, and you handle yourself like a pro. I am really impressed. Seriously.” “Thank you,” the man said. The host called Jack’s name, and we got up and said goodbye to the couple. I wrapped arms with Maria again, and the six of us made our way past rows of diners to our table. It seemed as if half the diners stopped what they were doing to stare at Maria’s feet. The rest of the patrons were gawking at Ana and Sharon, and I was grateful that they had done their best to ensure that not all eyes in the restaurant would be on Maria. “That’s what we should do,” Maria whispered to me. “We should teach you how to walk in 5-inch heels. Wouldn’t it be fun for you and I to put on a pair of sexy dresses and stiletto heels and go out to lunch in the mall? We could get you a wig and experiment with all kinds of lipstick and eye shadow. Makes me tingle just to think about it.” “With the baby coming, it is unfortunate that we won’t have time to do anything like that for quite a while,” I said sarcastically. We got to our table, and I helped Maria sit down. “The second leg of our journey is now over,” I whispered. To be continued
  6. We continued our slow-motion odyssey. Maria took each step slowly and deliberately, almost as if she were a tightrope walker. She took some steps entirely on her own, but on her other steps she leaned on me for support. We were about halfway around the pool when we heard Ana mutter a Spanish expletive behind us. “I have done as much as I can!” Ana said. Bob and she were about 15 feet behind us. I turned around in time to see Ana step out of the heels. “That is torture!” Perhaps it was, but Bob rightfully praised Ana for her ability to walk as far as she had. “A truly inspired feat, whether you spell it f-e-a-t or f-e-e-t,” Bob told her. Maria was now the sole survivor of the three, and she continued to take her steps. As we started to round the backside of the pool, I was beginning to think that she might actually complete one circuit around it. But she started to wither quickly. “Shit!” Maria whispered to me. “My feet feel like they’re falling apart. My toes, arches, ankles are all hurting. I think I feel some cramps coming on.” “Don’t overdo it,” I counseled her. “You have gone beyond what anyone could have expected of you. More practice will build up your endurance.” “Just a few more steps,” Maria said. But it finally became too much for her. She put her arm around my shoulder and leaned on me as she took off the shoes. “Oh, God,” she sighed in relief. Maria received a round of applause from the five of us. Sharon had gotten out of the pool while we had been walking, and she was helping Jack pour glasses of champagne for the six of us. We congratulated ourselves by downing some champagne and munching on some snack food. The celebration then turned amorous. Jack sat down in one of the reclining poolside chairs, and Sharon reclined on top of him. Sharon’s skimpy bikini top barely contained her full-size breasts, and her nipples were practically popping through the wet material. Jack and Sharon were soon in a horizontal position and locked in a passionate embrace. Meanwhile, Ana and Bob sat down in another chair and became pretty romantic themselves, with Bob’s hand rubbing Ana’s bare butt and probing for her tiny thong strap. Within a few minutes, Ana and Bob headed inside to one of the guest bedrooms that Jack and Sharon maintained as lovemaking rooms for us. Jack and Sharon also got up and went in the house to their own bedroom, leaving Maria and I alone by the pool. I poured a second glass of champagne for Maria and myself. “The 7-inch heels and the thong bikinis appear to have had the desired aphrodisiac effect on our friends. But not us,” I said. Maria replied, “Sharon and Jack are still focused on working her new boobs into her overall expression. And I think Ana and Bob got sidetracked by the thong bikini. But I am focused on the heels. I am going to rest my feet for a while longer, and then I am going to do another circuit around the pool. The entire pool.” “If you think your feet will allow it,” I said. I knew what was driving part of Maria’s determination to walk in 7-inch heels. Her boss Cathy had confided to her several weeks earlier that she owned a pair of 7-inch heels and occasionally liked to use them for a walk around the house. Cathy had told Maria that, for a committed high-heel wearer, 7-inch heels were the ultimate experience. Once a woman had mastered 7-inch heels, she had accomplished everything, Cathy had said. And ultra-competitive Maria wanted to make sure that she was every bit as capable as her boss at walking in extreme heels, even if Maria was brand new at it. I still had not met Cathy at that point, but I figured the only thing preventing her from joining our intimate little heely group was the fact that she was still Maria’s boss. Maria took one sip of champagne and said she did not want any more, or it could impact her second go-around in the extreme heels. Instead, she wanted to go inside the house to get a glass of water. We went inside and passed the guest bedroom, where we could hear Bob and Ana making love. Maria got a glass of water from the kitchen and was sipping it when a thought occurred to me. A couple of weeks earlier, during one of her occasional foul moods, Maria had complained that she was the driver in our marriage when it came to her high heels and sexy expression. She complained that she was making all the decisions about shoes and clothes, and that I never pushed her or even offered suggestions in that area. She said I was too timid and that I needed to be more assertive in telling her what I would like her to wear. She reminded me that this aspect of our marriage, like most of our relationship, was a partnership, and that any success or failure relating to shoes and clothes was ours to share. Mindful of that conversation, I picked up the package with Maria’s name on it that contained the thong bikini. I held it up to her and said, “Before you begin your encore performance, I think you should change into this.” “I am not much into bathing suits, especially thongs. I would rather not,” Maria replied. “That does not matter. You are not wearing it in public. Sharon bought it for you as a gift, and you should have accepted it.” “Sharon would not want me to do anything that makes me uncomfortable. She was not at all hurt that I decided to wear my bathing suit.” “True, but that is besides the point. Sharon and Ana went along with the thongs, but you did not. You distanced yourself from them. You do that a lot. Even in your closest friendships, you only get so close to people and then you pull away. You should not have pulled away. Why don’t you just wear it? No one besides the five of us is going to see you in it.” Maria looked at me and smiled. “I think I know what this is about. It is that conversation we had the other week, isn’t it? You are trying to be assertive. It is only a bathing suit, but if it is what you want…” “Not what I want, Maria, but what is right for both of us. And a sign of our friendship with our other two couples.” Maria took the package and stepped into the bathroom. She stepped out a couple of minutes later in the thong bikini. I whistled in a complimentary manner. “Oh, come now,” Maria said. “It is not like you have never seen me naked.” Rubbing her belly, she said, “Two-piece bathing suits reveal the fact that I like to eat. If I were going to make a habit of wearing this, I would have to follow Sharon’s lead and get a little liposuction…” “Don’t you dare. You are perfect as you are. Whenever you’re ready for your walk, Senora Heels.” We walked back out to the pool. Maria held my hand as she stepped into the 7-inch heels. She let go of my hand and stood in them on her own. “It feels better the second time around,” she said. I stepped back and admired my wife. The thong bikini made a difference, revealing her lovely brown skin from head to toe. Her feet were at an impossibly vertical angle, but she managed to keep her legs straight, causing her bare butt to protrude at an outrageous angle and her chest (impressive without the need for surgery) jutting forward in the most obvious way. “I want to try this without having to lean on you, but stay close to me anyway,” she said. She took one step and followed with one after another, while I walked along next to her without touching or supporting her. “You’re doing it, Maria!” I shouted. “Yes, I know, but please don’t shout. I need to concentrate,” she said. Step after step, she made her way around the pool. A very slow one-two, one-two. Her legs were amazingly straight, and there was even a fluidity to her steps. Her movements were not sexy in the normal sense, as the heels were too extreme and the movements too distorted and awkward to appeal to conventional sexual tastes. What was sexy was the simple fact that she was walking at all, staying in control of herself while in shoes that would overtake and imprison practically any other person, woman or man. When we were about two-thirds of the way around the pool, we heard the patio door open and then heard Ana shout an encouraging, “Eso, Maria, Eso!” We then heard Bob shout, “My God, Maria is doing it!” Maria rounded the final turn of the pool, and I felt as if I was witnessing the finals of an Olympic track and field competition. She was strutting down the final straight-a-way, confidently taking bigger steps, moving a little faster than before, and I banished any thoughts from my head that she might fall at the very end and ruin this magnificent accomplishment. I was pleased that Jack and Sharon emerged from the house in time to see Maria take her last triumphant steps. She returned to the point where we had started, carefully raised her arms in the air to signal victory, and I hugged her as tight as I could. Ana, Bob, Sharon and Jack came around and we all engaged in a spontaneous group hug. Maria carefully stepped out of her heels and began breathlessly telling the others that her feet felt fine, and that her little walk was not as difficult as she had expected. I could not help but notice that Sharon was wearing a bathrobe and Ana had changed back into her sun dress, which ironically left Maria as the only one clad in a thong bikini. In her moment of triumph, it somehow seemed very appropriate. We all downed another glass of champagne, and I accompanied Maria inside the house. She carried the 7-inch heels inside with her, like an excited child unwilling to part with her new toy. We entered the second guest bedroom and closed the door behind us. Since we had last been in there, Sharon and Jack had put up several mirrors on the walls, enhancing the room’s usability for lovemaking. Maria took off the two parts of her thong bikini, and then slid into the 7-inch heels while I took off my clothes. She stood there, totally naked except for the heels, looking at herself in the mirror. She now got to see the impact that these wild shoes had on her own body. “Absolutely crazy,” she said. “Such impossible shoes, and yet I can wear them and walk in them. It is like I was designed to wear high heels. It is in my blood, and in my genes.” This was the climax of the incredible journey her grandmother had begun decades before as a young woman in the slums of El Salvador. Her grandmother had used her feminine charms and ability to wear high heels to pull herself up out of third-world poverty and climb up to the Salvadoran middle class. Maria had now taken the next step, and was standing in 7-inch heels in a luxurious North American mansion, with a college degree and a bright future ahead of her. High heels alone did not bring her to this lofty place, but the journey would not have been possible without them. It was now clear to me why she wanted to master the extreme heels so badly. “Steve,” she said, “aren’t there times when you wish you had married a normal woman? A woman who could not conceive of walking more than two blocks in a pair of 3-inch heels?” “You forget, Maria, I was married to a normal woman before I met you. It sucked.” I walked up to her and began caressing her naked hips. “Maybe so,” she replied. “But doesn’t it bother you that perhaps half the women I encounter every day secretly hope that I will fall down and humiliate myself because I insist on wearing such high heels?” “If I want to know what a real woman thinks of you, I’ll ask Ana or Sharon. Otherwise, I don’t care.” I pulled her close to me and kissed her on the lips, and then worked my way down her neck to her breasts. “OK,” she said. “But don’t you hate the fact that I deal with men every day who would absolutely love to fuck me? I could take you to my office and point out man after man who would jump into bed with me in a minute, if I ever gave any of them the word.” “Doesn’t bother me a bit. Fucking you is their fantasy. But it’s my reality.” I picked up Maria and placed her down on the bed. She made no effort to take off the 7-inch heels; after all, they are intended primarily to be worn in bed. I got on top of Maria, and we engaged in some of our most intense lovemaking ever. Seven-inch heels, a thong bikini, and a woman capable of wearing both of them at the same time are a pretty powerful combination. To be continued.
  7. Hi, Raincat. I'm glad you liked the supernatural element to this heely saga. Perhaps it inspired Sharon and the others to take the final step to places they had never been before, as described in this next story.... The Next Step Written in the first person by Steve On a sunny Sunday afternoon, Maria and I made our way over to Jack’s and Sharon’s house. We were strangely silent in the car, considering that this was intended to be a day of raucous, uninhibited fun. Sharon and Jack (as usual) had proposed the get-together in order to take “the next step” in our unusual interest with high heels and sexy expression. They argued that we needed to build upon the impressive accomplishments of the past two years – the good career fortunes of our three ladies, the fact that their high-heel habits had appeared to help their careers rather than hinder them, the expansion of their fashion wardrobes and their mastery of 6-inch heels. As Sharon saw it, we could either rest on our laurels or advance, and we all agreed that advancement was the way to go. And that meant that the three ladies were ready for the ultimate challenge: 7-inch heels. Maria was looking forward to testing herself in 7-inch heels, which was a refreshing contrast to her initial reluctance to experiment with 6-inch heels two years earlier. While she had always been confident in her own abilities, she was now comfortable with the idea that her feet and, more generally, her body, were hers to enjoy as she pleased. She was no longer concerned with trying to draw a line between fashion and fetish. The success she was having in her new job – her change into 5-1/2 inch heels in the middle of her marketing report had become legend at her department store chain – had convinced her that her ability to wear high heels was a gift. And anyone with a gift has a responsibility to develop that special talent to the fullest. Furthermore, Maria reasoned that if she had a gift, then Ana and Sharon did, too, in light of their recent successes. It was easy to accept Sharon’s argument that the three of them – and the six of us – had somehow been destined to meet and develop our high-heel lifestyle together. Several weeks earlier, Ana, Sharon and Maria had perused a number of Web sites before ordering their 7-inch heels. Each of the women had received their pair in the previous week, and somehow Maria had resisted the temptation to try hers on in light of Sharon’s suggestion that each of them wait until they got together on this Sunday afternoon. The unopened shoe box with the extreme heels was in the car with us. Bob and Ana had arrived at the house just before we did. Our three ladies were all wearing casual sun dresses with 5-inch sandals, which was nothing exceptional for them. Sharon passed out sparking apple cider in champagne glasses (there was to be no alcohol prior to the 7-inch heel tryouts!), and we toasted our good fortune. She then pointed to three gift-wrapped packages on the kitchen table, labeled with Ana’s, Maria’s and Sharon’s names. “These gifts are from Jack and me,” Sharon said. “We wanted to make sure the day was memorable. If we are going to go extreme, let’s go extreme all the way.” Each of the ladies opened their packages to find a thong bikini inside. “If either of you are uncomfortable with this, you don’t have to wear them. And that goes for any discomfort on the part of your husbands, too,” Sharon assured us. “It is a grand American tradition for attractive women to wear skimpy bathing suits, so we thought this would be a good occasion for it. I’ll demonstrate first.” Sharon went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later wearing only the thong bikini and her 5-inch stiletto sandals. I thought I had become accustomed to Sharon’s dramatic new figure, but it was like I was seeing her for the first time. Her hourglass figure was there for all to see, covered only by the barest of a bikini top and an even skimpier bottom. Her bright blonde hair, generous bust, small waist, curvy hips, long legs and feet toughened by several years in high heels were goddess-like in their perfection. Jack started clapping, and the other four of us joined in. If only some of her elderly friends could see her now! “Ana, how about you?” Sharon asked. Ana replied, “Absolutely,” and went into the bathroom to change. I was impressed by Ana’s growing self-confidence and sense of adventure over the last several years. For quite a while after meeting Maria, she had been the more passive of the two, and she often waited for Maria to agree to try something new before she would attempt it. But that had all changed. Her promotion at work and the circumstances surrounding it, as well as her friendship with George and Patricia, had made her eager to push the boundaries of her expression. She emerged from the bathroom in her thong and 5-inch sandals and soaked up the applause from the rest of us. She wiggled her way into the living room to look at herself in a full-length mirror, and giggled like a nervous schoolgirl. She walked back toward us and turned her back toward us. All those years I had admired Ana’s beautiful rear end through her numerous tight pants and sexy dresses, and now I was seeing it in all its natural splendor, with the thong itself barely visible. “OK, Maria,” Sharon said. Maria looked a little embarrassed and told Sharon she did not think she could wear the thong. Instead, Maria pulled a bathing suit out of the shopping bag she brought with us, and walked into the bathroom to change. Even with all her success and her ability to feel comfortable in public in outrageous clothes, Maria was still amazingly squeamish about her near-naked body, even in the presence of only her most intimate friends. She emerged from the bathroom in a suit that was daring by her standards: A red one-piece suit that was cut extremely high around her hips and extremely low around her bust. All of those beautiful hips of hers were on display, and she was showing as much cleavage as I had ever seen outside of the bedroom. It was hard to feel disappointed with her selection, and she received generous applause from us as well. We then walked out to the large swimming pool in the backyard. Prior to toasting ourselves with the apple cider earlier, Jack had managed to sneak out to the pool long enough to set up the three pairs of black, 7-inch pumps on the patio surrounding the pool. Depending on one’s point of view, they were both an awesome and an intimidating sight. The outrageous heel and vertical arch of the shoe made them incredibly erotic – to see. To actually have to wear them was another matter, and the women understandably were somewhat nervous. The initial objective was just for the women to see if they could stand in the heels and, if so, to take a few steps with or without assistance. Jack put a chair down behind each of the pairs of heels. He then said, with a false sense of drama, “Ladies, whenever you are ready, please take your seats. Gentlemen, upon their word, please help them into their shoes.” The three ladies took off their 5-inch heels and sat down in their chairs. I walked up to Maria, got down on one knee, and picked up one of the 7-inch heels. “Ready?” I asked. When Maria said yes, I carefully slid the heel onto her foot, which amazingly contorted itself into a vertical position to accept the shoe. I then slid on the other shoe. “How does it feel?” I asked. “Very nice. Very sexy. As long as I am sitting,” Maria said. “What a difference from the 6-inch heels. Just that one silly little inch.” Bob had eased Ana into her heels, and Jack had done the same with Sharon. I helped Maria up out of the chair, and I was impressed that she was able to balance herself and stand without any help. Ana and Sharon were able to do the same, and all three were able to stand tall and straight, without bending their knees. The distortion of their bodies was pretty incredible. They almost looked like the drawings of women from an underground erotic cartoon. Sharon and Ana were laughing nervously, with Sharon pleading, “Jack, don’t go too far! You have to catch me if I fall!” Maria stayed quiet and was intently concentrating on what she would do next. “OK,” Maria said. “Hold me gently on the arm.” I put my right hand under her left forearm, primarily to help her balance if she needed it. Maria took a baby step forward with her right foot, and then with her left. She repeated the baby steps a couple of more times, then started to fall forward until I pulled her upright. “Damn it!” she said. “Who was the demented person who thought 7-inch heels would be sexy?” “You are in the world of extremes right now,” Jack replied in his professorial manner. “The concept of ‘sexy’ that you have from the conventional world does not apply here. You will never be able to have a sexy walk in the conventional sense in 7-inch heels. The erotic power of these shoes lies in the simple fact that they are outrageously, ridiculously extreme. The fact that these shoes exist – and that your feet are in them -- makes them sexy. Don’t think that you will master these like you have 6-inch heels.” While Jack was talking, Ana took a few tentative baby steps in the heels. Sharon tried hers a few moments later when Jack returned to giving her his full concentration. I took my hand off of Maria and let her take the next few steps totally on her own, although I was ready to catch her if the need arose. “Let’s go around the pool,” Maria said. She took some longer steps, and while she needed to bend her knees a bit to remain balanced, she straightened her legs at the end of each step. In back of us, I heard Ana say, “Follow Maria!” Bob and she followed several steps behind us in this slow-motion walkathon. I turned around to look when Maria stopped a few steps later to rest. Ana was walking a little more tentatively than Maria – her steps were slower and her knees were bent a little more – but she was still doing impressively well. Sharon, meanwhile, was struggling. She was taking one baby step at a time with her knees bent and was relying on Jack’s support to stay balanced. She had every reason to feel proud – how many women could even stand in 7-inch heels, let alone take baby steps? But the high-heel skills she had gained as an adult, as considerable as they were, still were no match for those of Maria and Ana, who had been high-heel wearers from the time they were teenagers. It seemed like these two women could do practically anything. Maria and I had rounded the far side of the pool when we heard Sharon say, “That’s it! My feet are killing me! We’ll try this another day.” We stopped to look. With Jack holding her, Sharon stepped out of her heels. It was one of the few times in recent memory that she looked liberated in her flat, barefoot feet. “Time for a dip in the pool!” she said, and she promptly dove into the water. She surfaced near us and said, “Go as far as you can, girls, but don’t hurt yourselves!” To be continued.
  8. “Yes,” Sharon said. “Felicia was so totally devoted to her style that a part of her remains in each shoe she wore. A small part, perhaps. But people like you, who knew her, can feel her.” The next song came on, opening with a sensuously slow saxophone solo. Billie Holiday then came on and sang the blues lines, “I’ve been down so long, down don’t worry me, I just sit and wonder, where can my good man be?” Ben said, “That was one of Felicia’s favorites. “Stormy Blues” by Billie Holiday. It came out while we were dating, and she just fell in love with the song. She really identified with it.” Tears began to well up in Ben’s eyes. He looked at Sharon and said, “Oh, Felicia. Why did you leave me? I could have saved you if only you had let me. Life could have been good, Felicia. You just had to believe in me, Felicia. Your good man was with you the entire time, but you never believed.” “It’s all right, Ben. It’s all right,” Sharon said as she affectionately stroked Ben’s hair and neck. “Felicia hears you. I think she understands now.” The song finished, and they went to sit down. The four spent several hours talking about Felicia, with Helen and Ben swapping stories that neither had ever heard. Many of them were good stories, and a few were sad. By the end, Sharon and Jack felt they knew Felicia so well that they half expected her to come walking in the front door. When they finally got up to leave, Ben said to them, “I never really said good-bye to Felicia when she broke up with me, because I wanted to believe so bad that she would come back. And, of course, I never said goodbye to Felicia before she died. Tonight, I have the chance to say goodbye the right way.” He turned to Sharon and said, “Felicia, I loved you, and I always will love you. Rest in peace, my love.” He hugged Sharon tightly, and he hugged Helen as well. And Sharon felt a sensation of peace, the first time she had felt anything like that since her visit to Helen’s house several days earlier. The hour was late, and Jack and Sharon dropped Helen off at her house and then went straight home with Sharon still in Felicia’s dress and shoes. Sharon folded the dress up neatly before going to bed, and gently hand-washed it the following morning. Rather than place the delicate garment in the dryer, she hung it up to dry in the laundry room. She then placed Felicia’s red stiletto pumps under the dress, and stood there looking at them. Jack walked by and said, “This has been quite a few days for you.” “I was heavy into New Age spiritualism for some time, but I never thought I could bring a dead person’s spirit back to life, even for a few moments,” Sharon said. “But Felicia and I have a connection. Maybe I am inserting my own bias into this, but perhaps there is an eternal bond among high-heel wearers of different generations. Our belief in our form of expression conquers time, and perhaps even our own mortality.” “Perhaps so,” Jack said. “You can say that about any passion. A baseball player today can feel the same bond to Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio or Mickey Mantle. Passion is what truly makes us human.” “There is so much more that we can do,” Sharon said. “Helen has a large closet packed with Felicia’s dresses and shoes. There are so many combinations to try, so many places to go. I am sure that Helen…” “No,” Jack said, interrupting Sharon. “Felicia’s time was the 1950s. She lived her life, as tragically short as it was. This is your time, Sharon. You have to live your life, not Felicia’s.” Jack was rarely so direct and authoritative in disagreeing with Sharon. But as he said it, Sharon knew he was right. With her new job, and with all the ideas brimming in her head for Ana, Maria and herself, there was plenty for her to do. One life – her own life – was plenty. She got dressed in what, for her, was very casual wear: a tee-shirt, a short denim skirt, and 4-inch wedge heels. She told Jack she wanted to go buy a CD, and they went out to the local music store. When they returned home, Sharon popped the new CD – a collection of Billie Holiday songs – into the player. The song “Stormy Blues” came on, and Sharon embraced Jack as they began to dance to the slow blues. “I’ve been down so long, down don’t worry me…” “This song is for Felicia,” Sharon said. “OK, this song is for Felicia,” Jack said. He gave Sharon a long, passionate kiss. Next: Ana, Maria and Sharon take “the next step”.
  9. They drove through an older part of town that neither Jack nor Sharon knew very well. Helen, who was sitting in the back seat, guided Jack, who was driving. They finally pulled up in front of an older building that had seen better days. Jack got out of the car first and helped Helen out, while Sharon got out and looked around. As excited as she was about the evening, Sharon felt a little out of place. She was wearing a red dress that had belonged to Felicia, which meant the dress was over 40 years old. On her feet were a pair of Felicia’s red pumps, with a 5-inch stiletto heel. It was one thing for her to wear Felicia’s dresses and shoes in the privacy of Helen’s home, but another for her to go out in public in such old clothes. How ironic, she said to herself: She thought nothing of going to work in 5-inch heels and tight-fitting miniskirts, but she somehow felt awkward about wandering out in elegant old clothes. The world was not a logical place. “This is the place,” Helen said, pointing to the small bar and restaurant in front of where they had parked. “This was one of the real ‘in’ places in the 50s, one of Felicia’s favorites. It has seen better days, I am afraid.” Jack said, “The important thing is that it is still here. If it had been renovated and modernized over the years, it would not be recognizable to you. It does have that kind of genuine, musty mid-1950s feel to it.” They walked inside, and Sharon felt as if they had indeed stepped into a time warp. Her heels clicked loudly on the aging, cracked tile floor. The wood paneling on the walls and the bar itself was fading. The people inside were all white, and most of them were over 60. They were working-class types, neither friendly nor hostile. They evoked the blue-collar, unionized working class of the mid-20th century, when people were able to live a middle-class lifestyle with the income from their factory jobs. As the three of them walked to their table, most of the patrons in the place had their eye on Sharon. As a curvy blonde in 1950s garb, she was bound to get attention. They sat down at a table and ordered drinks. An old Frank Sinatra song played in the background, which seemed to energize Helen. “I loved Sinatra, but Felicia never cared much for him. The same with singers like Perry Como and Bing Crosby. She was more adventurous. She went for the likes of Charlie Parker and other black musicians. She even liked Muddy Waters when whites had barely heard of him. She later enjoyed Elvis and early rock ‘n roll. But she loved Billie Holiday. Something about Billie Holiday just really appealed to Felicia.” “That is not surprising,” Jack said. “Billie Holliday was passionate, but she also struggled with her own demons. I am sure Felicia felt a big kinship with her.” Jack added, “Speaking of Felicia, how are you feeling, Sharon? Is this experiment working as you expected?” “Yes,” Sharon said. “Felicia is with us. I feel her. She knows this place. She is giving me a very warm feeling. The same with you, Helen?” “Yes,” Helen said. “If anyone is feeling a little cold about this place, it’s me. It looks a lot like it did in the 50s, except back then it didn’t look quite so old.” Jack said, “Well, I don’t feel a thing. I guess you either had to know Felicia, or you have to be wearing her shoes.” Sharon was feeling a little thirsty, and she got up to ask the bartender for a glass of water. A man who appeared to be about 70 years old was sitting at the bar and talking to the bartender when Sharon approached them and asked for some water. The elderly man was staring at Sharon and, in particular, her dress. The bartender gave Sharon a glass of water when the older man apologized. “Sorry, ma’am, I did not mean to stare at you. I was just intrigued by your dress. It seems to be right out of a 50s movie, and it reminds me of someone I knew long ago.” “Was that someone a woman named Felicia, by any chance?” Sharon asked. The man gasped. “My God! Yes, I was thinking of Felicia. How could you have possibly known that? Did you know her? No, you are too young.” “The woman sitting with me is Felicia’s sister,” Sharon said cooly. “I am wearing Felicia’s dress and shoes. We came here because we thought we might run into an old-timer who knew her.” “My name is Ben,” the man said. “And I ..” Sharon interrupted him to invite him back to her table. She introduced Ben to Jack and Felicia, and then encouraged Ben to tell his story. “I dated Felicia for about a year, around 1954 or so. She was, oh, maybe 23 years old at that point. I was 26. Most gorgeous woman you could ever lay eyes on. Mesmerizing. And she wore this dress a lot,” he said, as he pointed to the red dress. “I danced with her when she was in that dress. I took her for long rides. I made out with her when she was wearing that dress and, well, you know…” “Were you in love with her?” Helen asked. “Hell, yes. I proposed to her several times. She turned me down and finally dumped me. One of the worst days of my life. I recovered and I eventually married twice, and now I’ve been divorced twice. I was in love with each of my wives, but it was not the same as it had been with Felicia. “I happened to be in a restaurant with my first wife and our two kids when an old friend saw me and told me Felicia had died. I had never told my wife about Felicia. I kept myself composed until we got home. I told my wife I had to go for a walk, and I went outside and bawled my eyes out. I always wanted to think she would have been happy with me, that she would have welcomed the chance to settle down, and we would grow old together. But Felicia wasn’t that type.” “No, she wasn’t,” Helen said. Turning to Sharon, Ben said, “If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, why did you come here tonight, and why are you wearing Felicia’s dress?” “That’s a fair question,” Sharon said. “I felt that coming here to her old hangout, and wearing her clothes, would enable me to get to know her better.” She hesitated for a moment and added, “There is a bit of Felicia’s spirit in the shoes I am wearing. Coming here is our way of honoring her, and helping her to rest peacefully.” “I see,” Ben said. “I must say, the resemblance between Felicia and you are uncanny. Not too many women in any era have her figure. All you need to do is dye your hair brown, and you would be a real ringer for her.” Ben turned to the bartender and yelled, “Hey, Chuck! You have that Billie Holiday record I ask you to play every once in a while? Can you put it on?” The bartender opened a drawer, pulled out a CD and put it on the restaurant’s music system. The soft jazz and blues music of Billie Holiday filled the aging building. Several couples from other tables got up to dance on the bar’s small dance floor. Sharon turned to Ben and asked him if he would like to dance. Ben said yes. They got up and began to slow dance. “I know that Felicia is long gone, but who would have thought I would ever be able to again touch her dress? This is crazy,” Ben said as they danced. “Don’t question miracles. Accept them and enjoy,” Sharon said. “I don’t know if you can feel Felicia, but a part of her is with us tonight.” “What is she feeling?” “She is purring like a cat. She is in this familiar place, and dancing again with you. We cannot see her, and I doubt she can see us. But we can sense her, and I am certain she can sense us.” “I would like to believe that,” Ben said, although by his tone of voice, he clearly did not. “Come closer to me,” Sharon said, pulling Ben tightly against her. “You knew Felicia. Open your mind and your senses, and I think you will be able to feel her.” They danced to another Billie Holiday song. Ben was rubbing one of Sharon’s shoulders – or, more accurately, he was rubbing Felicia’s dress—when he said, “Jesus, I think I know what you mean. Felicia really is here. I am feeling her now. That was what you meant, wasn’t it?” To be continued
  10. They walked into a bedroom that appeared to be maintained for guests. Helen opened a closet door, revealing a row of 1950s-era dresses and a floor packed with all kinds of high-heel shoes. “Oh my!” Sharon exclaimed. “These are stunning, and I am sure some of them are worth a lot of money today. Not that you would sell them.” Helen said, “When Felicia died, I cleaned out her apartment. I donated all her late-60s, early-70s clothes to charity, as they had little value. But she kept all these 1950s clothes and shoes in her closet as though she was wearing them every week, even though most of them were 15 to 20 years old even then. I carefully packed everything away in boxes and put them in my attic. After my husband died a few years ago, I decided to unpack Felicia’s articles and put them here, so I could remember her. Sort of a shrine, you might say.” “These dresses and shoes are too beautiful to be packed away in boxes. Can I look at them?” Sharon asked. She picked up each dress, admiring its distinctive features, and then studied the shoes. “What an era for this kind of fashion,” she said. “You can try on any of the dresses and shoes. Go ahead,” Helen said. “Oh no! I could never do anything like that.” “Sharon, you may think I am a silly old fool. But I think Felicia’s spirit was too powerful to die. I have always felt that a little bit of her soul has been preserved with these dresses and shoes. As long as they exist, a little bit of her will exist, too. I think the right woman who wears these dresses and shoes can liberate that spirit of hers so that we can feel her presence. I tried to do it 25 years ago, but I failed, because I was the wrong size and I could not even balance in those high heels. But I am convinced you can do it, Sharon. You are about the same size as Felicia was, and you have the ability to wear those heels as they were intended.” The thought of wearing a dead woman’s 45-year-old dresses and shoes struck Sharon as macabre. But she noticed that the shoes were indeed her size, and the dresses seemed pretty close to her size as well. She had seen photos of these kinds of clothes and shoes in old magazines, but she had never thought she would actually handle them herself, much less wear them. Despite her own spiritual tendencies, she did not think much of Helen’s belief that Felicia’s soul could still be present in her clothing. But the thought of being able to try on such rare and exciting dresses was so tempting that she told Helen she would do it. “I’ll try this one,” Sharon said, taking a black dress from the closet. “And these, too,” she said, picking up a pair of high stiletto heels. Sharon kicked off her own 5-inch mules, removed her yellow blouse, and shimmied out of her tight white miniskirt. She then gently put on the black dress, which featured a V-shaped neckline and shoulder pads. She eased herself into the stiletto heels, which she estimated were about 5-1/4 inches high. Helen zipped up the dress from behind. Everything certainly felt right. Sharon turned around to look at a full-length mirror and gasped. The dress was a perfect fit, showing off her hourglass figure impressively and, in particular, flattering her chest and waist. The shoes fit as if Sharon had been wearing them for years, and were quite comfortable. “Unbelievable!” Sharon said. “I have had dresses specially made for me that don’t fit as well as this one. This is very spooky.” “It all makes sense,” Helen said. “You are the one, the one woman in a million who has the ability to communicate with Felicia. The first time I saw you at the senior center, I knew you were the right one.” Sharon was wondering if perhaps Helen was right. She left the bedroom and walked back to the dining room. She wished she could walk out the front door and be magically transported back to 1953, so she could experience the full flavor of the era. Even so, this was turning into a much more memorable afternoon-tea visit than she had been anticipating. Helen followed Sharon back to the living room. Sharon picked up her unfinished cup of tea and took a sip, while taking extraordinary care not to spill any tea on the vintage dress. She put the tea down, and looked around the room. She sensed something was there that had not been there before. She could not quite describe it, but she had a feeling that a third person had joined them inside the house. A person, or perhaps an entity? The house was absolutely silent, but the feeling grew stronger. Sharon looked at Helen, and Helen looked back at Sharon with a very knowing expression, as if she was having the same experience as Sharon. “Do you feel that?” Helen asked. “You do feel it, don’t you?” “I feel something very intense,” Sharon said. “Not a feeling from inside me, but something intense coming into me from outside. Maybe I am getting to this vintage clothes thing a little too much.” “It’s Felicia. Or at least, a vestige of her spirit,” Helen said. “What you and I are feeling now is the way I always felt when she walked in the room. She was an intense person. You can imagine what she was like in her prime.” Sharon walked over and stood in front of the living room mirror. The intense sensation abated a bit, replaced in part by a feeling of serenity and joy. Sharon looked at herself in the mirror, then turned to the side so that she –and anything else in the room – could view her in profile. “If this is Felicia, I hope she can see what is in the mirror,” Sharon said. “Since our figures are – or were? – so similar, I hope this can be something of a reminder for her.” Helen stood in front of the mirror with Sharon. “And Felicia may not see me, but if she can, she will see that I got old.” After a couple of minutes in front of the mirror, Sharon walked back into the bedroom, making a point of wiggling in a slow, sensuous manner. She had been so busy lately that she often forgot how much she enjoyed the rocking of her hips and the arching of her back when she walked in high heels. If Felicia’s spirit really was with them – and Sharon was beginning to believe it was – then Sharon thought the spirit might be able to enjoy the little movements and feelings produced by walking in very high heels. And, sure enough, the feeling of serenity grew with each step she took. With Helen following her, Sharon returned to the bedroom. She bent down and picked up one of the many interesting pairs of high heels in the closet, examined them, and then put them down on the floor. She took off the shoes she was wearing with the intent of changing into the pair of other shoes. But as soon as both shoes were off her feet, the feeling of Felicia’s spirit – or whatever it was – vanished, as if a light had been turned off. “Put on the shoes! Put on the shoes! Quick!” Helen cried. Even though neither Sharon nor Helen had said a word, they both sensed the disappearance of the spirit. Resisting the impulse to put her feet back into the shoes she had been wearing, Sharon put on the second pair of shoes. And Felicia’s spirit immediately came back, intense at first, but then calming. “So that’s it,” Helen said. “The dresses may be nice, but the shoes are the key. Sharon, you have to wear Felicia’s shoes in order for her spirit to emerge.” “Not only me, but an expert high heel wearer who happens to share our shoe size,” Sharon said. “Admittedly, there probably are not a lot of women who can do this.” Sharon spent the rest of the afternoon at Helen’s house, and got comfortable with the thought that she did indeed have the ability to bring out Felicia’s spirit by wearing her high heels. It was only with the greatest of reluctance that she changed back into her own clothes and shoe, and said goodbye to Helen. But both women agreed on what they would do next. To be continued
  11. Sharon’s High-Heel Connection Written in the third person by Steve, based on interviews with the principal individuals in the story. Sharon threw herself with relish into her new job as activities director at her city’s senior citizens center. With good reason, she thought of it as two jobs. There was the “conventional” job, which consisted of managing budgets, planning activities for the seniors, working with volunteers to make sure the activities went as intended, and interacting with seniors to make them feel welcome. This required a lot of patience, enthusiasm and long hours, but Sharon did not mind, as she felt a passion for her work that had been missing for a long time. And then there was the “unconventional” job, in which Sharon tested her offbeat theory that her sex appeal could be used to nurture and brighten the daily outlook of the elderly. Day after day, she came to work in 5-inch heels and an ever-greater variety of blouse-miniskirt combinations, form-fitting dresses and snug pants suits. Normally, a person in that job would not be able to afford the expensive heels and designer clothes that were rapidly accumulating in Sharon’s closet. But Sharon had the luxury of not having to worry about supporting herself on her job’s modest salary, as she drew upon her husband’s considerable wealth to finance her costly work attire. For Sharon, the job was not about money, but instead was, quite literally, a labor of love. Sharon’s popularity with the seniors was strong evidence in support of her theory. There were a few seniors who were offended by Sharon’s style and severed their ties with the center, but they seemed to be outnumbered by other seniors who liked Sharon and felt she had livened things at their little community. Attendance at senior activities increased during Sharon’s first months on the job, and more than a few seniors admitted that they looked forward to coming to the center to see Sharon’s outfit for that day. Some seniors took to affectionately calling her “our little fashion model”, while others more bluntly referred to her as “the sexpot”. One of the regulars at the center became particularly close to Sharon. Helen was 72 years old and had been widowed for several years. She became more active at the center after Sharon started there, and was always complimentary of Sharon’s taste in clothes and shoes. One day, she invited Sharon over to her house for afternoon tea, and they agreed to get together the following week. When Sharon arrived at Helen’s house, her impression was that it had the typical look of a home occupied by an elderly person. The place was overfurnished with chairs, tables and other furnishings accumulated over a lifetime. A multitude of aging photos lined the walls, revealing the many people who had been important to Helen throughout her life. The living room table was all prepared for tea, and when Sharon went to sit down, she was greeted by the unusual sight of a pair of vintage stiletto-heeled shoes on the chair next to hers. “What gorgeous shoes, Helen!” Sharon said. “I did not know you were a high-heel wearer. You should really bring these in to the center to show the others. These look like they are from the 1950s.” “The late 50s, I believe. The original generation of stiletto shoes,” Helen said. “But they were not mine. I could never wear shoes like that. They belonged to my late sister, Felicia.” “Absolutely splendid,” Sharon said, picking up one of the shoes. “You don’t see style like this any more. Your sister was quite the high-heel wearer.” “Yes, she was. Actually, Sharon, she was a lot like you in some ways. Felicia was a brunette, not a blonde. But like you, she had an ample bosom, a small waist, long legs and she just lived in heels like those. Always had a trail of men after her. She was quite the rebel.” “Sounds like my kind of woman. I am sorry you don’t have her any more.” They sat down and began sipping their tea and nibbling on cookies. Helen explained that Felicia died in 1971 at the age of 40. She opened the photo album that was sitting on the table. The pictures were all of Felicia, most of them from the 1950s. It was apparent from the photos that Felicia was a striking woman, with long, flowing brown hair and the kind of hourglass figure that was worshipped during that era. To Sharon, she bore a reasonable resemblance to the actress Jane Russell. Felicia also was a fashion plate, as in each photo she was wearing striking 1950s dresses and, of course, very high heels. “Even as a teenager, Felicia was out most of the night with the fellows,” Helen said. “I was the straight and narrow type, while Felicia was putting gray hairs on my parents’ heads. Even though I was born five years before her, I was the one who looked up to Felicia as an older sister. I knew I could never be like her, but there was a part of me that really envied her." “I can see why you envied her. These photos are just wonderful. She really was a natural model,” Sharon said, turning pages of the album. “The intensity in those dark, brown eyes of hers comes through in every photo.” “The 1950s were her time, no doubt about it. She was in her 20s, at the height of her beauty. Men worshipped her. But she could never settle down. She went from boyfriend to boyfriend, and from job to job. She never had trouble finding either a man or a job, but she couldn’t stay with either one for very long. A few months, maybe a year, and she would be on to someone and something else. I always thought the term, ‘Rebel Without A Cause’ fit her better than it did James Dean.” “It sounds like her lifestyle caught up with her.” “If the 1950s had lasted forever, she would still be here. Nothing was more important to her than style. The clothes and shoes of the era were just tailor-made for her. Men and jobs were disposable for her, but that stylish femininity was her life. By 1964 or so, the country had moved on, but Felicia never could. She could not adapt to the 1960s.” Helen poured Sharon another cup of tea. “That is ironic,” Sharon said. “Felicia seemed like such a free spirit. You would think she would have thrived in the 60s.” “The sexual revolution posed no problem for her. But she just could not accept other aspects of 60s culture, particularly the fashions. The informal 60s fashions -- tee-shirts, short skirts, low heels, flowery and psychedelic designs – were just anathema to her. By that time, she was in her mid-30s with no husband, no career, and a youth-dominated culture that was undergoing revolutionary change. As a result, she did embrace one unfortunate element of the 60s: She got hooked on drugs. She wasn’t looking for enlightenment, just an escape. By the beginning of the 70s, that was it for her. She died of a heart attack, alone in her low-rent apartment.” The last pages of the photo album contained some 1960s-era photos of her. Consistent with what Helen had said, the sparkle in her 1950s eyes had been replaced by a dull, tired look. She looked out of place in the fading colors of those 1960s prints. “Isn’t that the way it is with revolutionaries? They flame out when they are still young,” Sharon said. “I don’t talk a lot about Felicia. I don’t think most people would understand her. Ever since she died, I have looked unsuccessfully for women who are somewhat like her. I was beginning to think Felicia was the only woman of her kind who ever lived. But when I saw you for the first time at the center, Sharon, I realized that you were the one I was seeking for almost 30 years. You have Felicia’s style, with the way you wear stiletto heels and those stylish dresses every day. You have more in common with her than anyone I have ever known. If Felicia could come back today, I even think she would approve of your miniskirts. ” “You are too kind, Helen. I don’t think I could hold a candle to your sister.” Helen got up from the table. “Come here, Sharon. I would like to show you something.” To be continued.
  12. “You are the sexiest woman I have ever seen,” I said. “I could not keep my eyes off you all the time I was at the senior center. I don’t think anybody could.” “I am not sexier than Maria or Ana, even now,” Sharon countered. “But now I think I am at least in the same ballpark. And that is so important. Until recently, I was holding the six of us back.” “Holding the six of us back from what?” Sharon looked at me thoughtfully and did not respond right away. She finally said, “Let me start from the beginning. I don’t think it is an accident that the six of us were brought together. I am not a big believer in organized religion, but I do believe there are spiritual powers greater than ourselves, and I think those powers intended for us to be together.” “What was their intent?” “Presumably, for Ana, Maria and I to express our femininity and sexuality by wearing high heels and sexy clothing, and to share our expression with the world, with the support of Jack, Bob and you. Steve, each person is connected to every other person on our planet. One person’s actions affect everyone, like the pebble dropped in a pond that creates ripples that travel to the far side of the pond. Ana, Maria and I wear high heels and engage in sexy expression, and we may not know exactly how we affect people. But there are certainly women who see us and resolve to lose weight and dress better, and men who see us and redouble their efforts to find good girlfriends. And each one of their actions affects others. But the chain reaction starts with us.” “That sounds reasonable. But I still don’t understand why you think you were holding the rest of us back.” “Well, Maria and Ana have been high-heel wearers since their teens. They have drawn their share of admirers, and their careers have been doing well, in part because of their sexy reputations. In contrast, my nursing career was going nowhere, and I was stuck in flats and bland nursing uniforms during my working hours. I had to change my career, and I did. I had to complete the personal transformation of myself that Maria and Ana had started, and I did. Now, I believe I am their equal, and the six of us can proceed to the next step.” “The next step? What is that?” “I haven’t the slightest idea. But if it is our destiny to be highly visible high-heel wearers, and your destiny as our husbands to support us, then we cannot rest on our laurels when we achieve a certain level. We have to constantly work on improving ourselves, and take our expressions to the next level. That is how we achieve a higher state of being. As long as I was not measuring up to Ana and Maria, the six of us could not advance. But now we can. Even if none of the six of us knows what that means.” I did not know what to say. I did not want to offend Sharon by belittling her perception of some kind of spiritual purpose in our heely activities. But neither could I simply nod in agreement with what she was saying. Fortunately, Sharon let me off the hook. She slid over to me, put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me toward her until our noses were practically touching. “I know what you are thinking, Steve,” she said. “There goes Sharon again with her kooky New Age mysticism. Now she has bigger boobs and wears stiletto heels every day, but she still spouts the same spiritual nonsense she was spewing out years ago.” “Sharon, we may not always see eye to eye on spiritual matters. But I cannot imagine not having you in my life right now. And I know Maria feels the same way.” I kissed Sharon affectionately on the lips. I told her I would love to stay and talk more, but that it was getting late. Sharon kissed me, and we got up off the sofa and walked toward the front door. “Before you leave, I want to give you a hug,” Sharon said. She wrapped her arms around me, and I held her close. Her 5-inch heels were indeed helping to push her D-cup breasts into my chest, and I could see what she had said earlier about having people feel her big, heavy breasts when she hugged them. “You know, you’re right,” I said as our hug ended. “There is something nurturing about that.” “Yes, there is,” she replied. “I may have left nursing, but I am still a nurse, and I am going to make it a point to hug people from now on.” I opened the front door and looked back at her. I suppose I will always be able to question whether the surgery was really necessary, but there was no question that, for this moment at least, Sharon was absolute perfection: her bright blonde hair, hourglass figure, her flawless abs exposed for me (and the rest of the world) to see, cute butt, long legs that were as graceful as ever, and all of them anchored on top of a pair of 5-inch stilettos that somehow improved upon what was already perfect. And topping it all off was a big, beautiful smile that made me wonder if I really wanted to leave. Sharon said, “One last thing, Steve. You don’t have to believe anything I said about the six of us having a destiny and being ready to take things to a higher level. But, somewhere in the back of your mind, hold open the possibility that, for once, I may just be right.” “Actually, I don’t think it matters what I think. If you believe we have a destiny to take our heely activities to a higher level, you are going to take the rest of us there, whether we want to go or not. I think you are going to make our lives very interesting.” Sharon winked at me and said, “We can agree on that!” Next: Sharon’s high-heel connection
  13. Walking into the senior center, I was able to look at Sharon with the benefit of having heard her analyses about her new look and her new job. And I began to see that Sharon and Jack had known what they were doing. She had been a remarkably attractive woman before, but now, walking into the senior center, she just exuded sex. The 5-inch stiletto heels, as they had been before, were the foundation, pushing her feet into the air, lengthening her legs and projecting her always-shapely butt outwards. But her shrunken waistline added to the effect, and her surgically enhanced chest added an entirely new dimension (quite literally) to her sexuality. She had not been kidding when she talked about the way her breasts projected when she was wearing 5-inch heels, and it was hard to not think about nurturing, suckling and similar thoughts in her presence. Even her bright blonde hair and styled hairdo would fill the mind with prurient thoughts. I wondered if it was all a little bit much, and whether she might repel some people who felt their senses were being overloaded. But if she was the one connection that these seniors might have with prime-of-life sexuality, she was probably right to have gone all out. Sharon introduced me to some of the volunteers who were already working to set up the luncheon, and then she became all business, as she directed the volunteers, checked on details, thanked them, and made sure the luncheon area was just the way she wanted it. Sharon shared the view of Maria, Ana and most other sexy, intelligent women that any physical attractiveness a woman could bring to the job stood for little if she could not do the job properly. A person of any age would be setting themselves up for trouble if they ever wrote off Sharon as a bimbo. A woman entered the room who seemed vaguely familiar, and she introduced herself to me as Mindy, Sharon’s boss. I had only seen her briefly some months before, but even then, I could see that she had lost at least 25 pounds. She was wearing a sharp pants suit and a pair of 3-inch heels that would have seemed out of place if she had been as heavy as she had been before. “You hired a special woman,” I said to Mindy after I introduced myself to her. “And you have a special friend,” Mindy said. “She has a lot of energy, and a lot of good ideas. I think a lot of people may see the heels and the short dresses and not realize how much she really has going inside her head. But once they get to know her, they will see what she truly has.” Pushed a little by curiosity, I said, “And you are comfortable, I assume, with the sexy image that Sharon likes to convey? As a friend of hers, I love it, but as you said, people initially can get the wrong ideas.” “My answer to that,” Mindy said, “is that we have a lot of problems in this country with the way we care for our seniors, and with the way we run social services in general. The last thing we need to worry about is an activities director who wants to portray a warm, sexy image for the seniors she is serving. We can use all the bold, new ideas we can get.” She added, “And someday, I will figure out how she manages to walk around all day, every day, in those heels.” I volunteered the fact that my wife and her friend had taught Sharon how to walk in heels. That amused Mindy, who said Sharon was returning the favor by giving her some tips on heel wearing, as well as suggesting the diet that had been helping her lose weight. “Maybe high heels are contagious,” she joked. Seniors were now beginning to enter the lunch room, which was now mostly set up. Sharon focused most of her energy on greeting the seniors that arrived. She was not a short woman, even standing barefoot, and in her 5-inch heels she was towering over many of the seniors. Even so, she warmly hugged many of the people as she greeted them, while leaning over quite a ways to avoid pressing her new D-cup breasts into the faces of many of these people. I suspected that Sharon was quite right in asserting that many of the seniors would find this to be an enriching experience. Sharon called me over and introduced me to the new seniors. Among other things, I learned that some of the senior women had started a new high-heel group in which they would bring vintage high heels to the center to show them to other seniors and swap stories about them. Of course, that had been Sharon’s idea, and she planned to personally attend as many of the meetings as she could. Almost 100 people sat down for a catered lunch that was better than one would have expected at a senior citizens center. Mindy opened the lunch with a short address in which she introduced Sharon for those seniors who might not have met her yet, and the applause Sharon received indicated that she indeed had been accepted quickly by most of the people there. After lunch, there was entertainment, including a folk-dance troupe, a small jazz band and – Sharon’s fingerprints were all over this – a fashion show that featured clothing-design students from the local community college. Lastly, Sharon presided over an awards ceremony in which she gave awards to some of the seniors who had volunteered the most time during the previous year. All in all, it was a successful, well-organized luncheon. Sharon said goodbye to many of the seniors as they departed, and then supervised the cleanup activities. I did my part by helping to put away chairs and fold up tables. When the cleanup was finished, Sharon warmly thanked everyone who had remained to help, and she and I then departed in her Porsche. On the way back to her house, Sharon shared with me many of the ideas she had for future senior activities and programs. She had a real passion for this job, and it was clear that Mindy would have been impressed with her even if she had conducted Sharon’s job interview while blindfolded. We arrived back at Sharon’s house. She went to the kitchen, poured me a beer, suggested I relax on the living room sofa, and then went upstairs to change. While sitting on the sofa, I picked up a photo album that was sitting on the coffee table, and began flipping through it. There were childhood photos of Sharon, and also a high-school graduation photograph that I had remembered from years ago. Other photos depicted her in nursing school, playing tennis, doing ballet and teaching a meditation class. There were photos of a wholesome-looking Sharon with various young men and women whom I could not identify. And then the photos began to change. There was one photo of Sharon standing awkwardly in 3-inch block heels, with Maria standing by her side in 4-1/2 stilettos. A few pages later, I saw the photo of Sharon in that yellow dress and the 5-1/2 inch stilettos she wore when she won the popularity contest at the night club we visited when we met Jack for the first time. There were photos of Sharon, Maria and Ana dressed elegantly in 6-inch heels on the day of our champagne brunch a couple of years earlier, and also of the three of them in 6-inch heels on the day of our adventure in Lake Tahoe, and our impromptu football game on their back patio. Yet another photo depicted the three of them with the Latin singer Luis Rojo. There were also a number of pages with photos – presumably taken by Jack – of Sharon in all kinds of sexy poses and outfits that I had never seen. There were no photos of Sharon since her surgery, but plenty of blank pages at the end of the album that could accommodate those photos when they were taken. I tried to imagine myself as a person looking through the photo album who did not know Sharon. What would I think of the intriguing left turn this woman had taken suddenly with her life, veering away from the ordinary American existence just a few short years earlier? Indeed, it was similar to the left turn I had taken with my own life, and I had photo albums at home brimming with pictures of Maria that told a similar story. But Sharon, more than any of us, was willing to push the envelope, and with her surgically enhanced body, she was starting on yet another adventure. One could only guess at the stories that she would someday be able to tell. Sharon entered the room. She had changed into a low-cut white halter top, a tight white miniskirt, and a pair of white, 5-inch stiletto sandals. “This will give you a better idea of the effect of the liposuction,” she said, rubbing her flat, tight belly. And, arching her back slightly, she added, “And it will give you a better feel for my new boobs, too.” She poured herself a Diet Coke. She apologized for not joining me with a beer, but she said she was paranoid about losing the flat belly and wanted to be sure she had it for a while. “OK,” she said, sitting down next to me on the couch. “Now you have been with me for several hours. Now I want to know what you think about the ‘new me.’” To be continued
  14. Stu

    The Queen of Heels

    Oh, Gina, you are the ultimate California girl!
  15. Sharon’s New Look Written in the first person by Steve I went through a busy stretch at work, and my boss rewarded me by giving me a day off on a Friday. I thought I would just spend a quiet day alone working around the house, but Maria had another idea. Sharon had recently quit nursing and had taken a new job as activities director at our city’s senior citizens center. She had organized a big luncheon for the seniors on that Friday. Jack normally would have accompanied Sharon to such an event, but he was out of town at a medical convention. Maria thought it would be nice if I went to the luncheon with Sharon. Apparently, Sharon had agreed. “It’s probably about time you caught up with Sharon,” Maria said as she was putting on her business suit and her 5-inch heels that morning. “She has been going through a lot of changes lately.” “A lunch at a senior citizens center is not normally my idea of a fun way to spend a day off,” I said. “But I am sure Sharon will make it interesting.” Driving over to Sharon’s house later that morning, I realized that I had not really seen her since Maria’s college graduation several months earlier. I had been aware that Sharon had quit her nursing job and had gone to Los Angeles to have some minor surgery prior to starting her new job. But my attention was so focused on my own job and also Maria’s internship and subsequent job offer, so I had really did not know what Sharon had been doing. I parked in the driveway of Sharon’s and Jack’s semi-mansion and rang the front door. Using the front door intercom, Sharon verified that I had rung the doorbell and buzzed the front door to unlock. I entered the house and walked into the living room. “Hello, Steve,” Sharon said as she entered the room behind me. I turned around, looked at her, and took a deep breath. It was indeed Sharon…but a different Sharon. She was wearing a tight blue mini-dress and blue 5-inch stiletto pumps, which was very much her style. However, her hair, which had always been a dark-blonde color, was now a much lighter, brighter shade of blonde, and it clearly had been professionally styled. She was different in other ways, but I could not quite figure out exactly what had changed. “You probably noticed the hair is different,” Sharon said. “Let me step you through everything else, from top to bottom.” She pointed to her nose. “I used to have a little bump here on the bridge of my nose. I never liked that bump, so now it is gone. I have a daintier, more feminine nose.” She then pointed to her chest. “Breast enlargement, from my natural size C-cup to a D-cup.” Putting her hands on her hips, she then said, “And I had an inch of baby fat removed from my waist area via liposuction. I tried for years and years to get rid of that fat on my own, but nothing worked.” “Sharon, you’re incredible,” I stammered out. “No compliments until after we get back from lunch,” Sharon said authoritatively. “You need some time with the ‘new me’ before you can have an informed opinion. There is a lot to do at the senior center, so we need to leave now. I’ll drive.” She picked up her purse from the living room table, and we walked toward the garage. “Oh, and thanks for coming. It means a lot to me,” she said in a softer, more feminine voice. We got into a new Porsche sports car that was sitting in the garage, and I thought how nice it would be to be fucking rich like Jack. Sharon pulled out of the driveway, and we headed down the road. Her dress was so short and riding so high up on her legs that it pulled my thoughts away from money and on to something else. “OK, I am not offering an opinion,” I said. “But I hope I can ask you: Why?” “Of course,” Sharon said. “The change in my appearance is connected to my career change. They are all rolled up into one.” She told me how she had become burnt out after years of nursing, which was pretty common in that profession. At the same time, she felt she had been living a double life, and that frustrated her. She said, “There was Old Sharon, the nurse and nurturer, going to work every day in a plain white uniform and flat shoes. And there was New Sharon, the high heel-wearing extrovert who your wife and Ana helped create. I hated going back and forth between these two women. Ana wears heels every day on her job and she was promoted, and Maria wore heels to class and as an intern, and now she has a great job. I wanted that lifestyle, too. So it was time to fuse Old Sharon and New Sharon to create True Sharon, a woman who uses her sexuality to nurture and sustain people. That is truly who I am.” Sharon said she had called up Mindy, the ex-nurse whose 4-year-old son we had encountered the previous year during our heely nature walk at Lake Tahoe. Mindy ran the senior citizens center and happened to be looking for a new activities director. Sharon’s nursing background made her a strong candidate for the position, and Mindy liked the bold, unorthodox style that Sharon wanted to bring to her job. Sharon was hired. “I told Mindy that I wanted to be a flamboyant activities director who would wear 5-inch heels and short dresses on the job, and she was OK with that,” Sharon explained while she drove. “Most people who work in senior services are earthy, even dowdy people, and I respect that. They are dedicated professionals who want the best for seniors. But being earthy and dowdy reinforces the stereotype of old age as being boring, a period when people basically wait around to die. That is so unfair. If everyone who wants to work with you dresses boring and dowdy, you are going to feel boring and dowdy. So I am doing it differently. I am being very sexy because I want my seniors to feel sexy. Seniors were sexy when they were our age, and most healthy seniors are still sexy. My style will inevitably shock some people, but I view it as an expression of love, respect and life. People never feel more alive than when they are being sexual. That is the way I want to nurture people.” “I have never thought about that, but it makes sense to me,” I said. “But how does the makeover relate to this? You were already sexy.” “Jack and I did a lot of talking the last several months. We concluded that my initial transformation – the one where Maria and Ana turned me into a high-heel wearer – took me about 80 percent of where I needed to be. But there was still unfinished business. The body I was in did not fully reflect the woman I had become. Fortunately, Jack is a good friend of one of the best cosmetic surgeons in Los Angeles, and he took care of the rest. He does great work.” “He does indeed,” I replied. “But what did the surgery get you? What do you have now that you did not have before, besides the obvious physical changes?” “There are three people – or groups of people – who I truly care about in this world. The first is Jack. The ultimate expression of femininity in Jack’s opinion is the blonde with an hourglass figure. It probably reflects the fact that he came of age in the late 50s and early 60s, the Marilyn Monroe and Jayne Mansfield era. So in part this is an expression of my love for Jack. “The second group of people I truly care about are Ana, Bob, Maria and you. You all have given me a life better than anything I could have ever imagined. But I never felt quite on par with Maria and Ana. They are both Latin bombshells, truly gorgeous women, and whenever the three of us were together, I felt like the ugly stepsister…” “Not true!” I protested. “You were every bit their equal in terms of femininity, style, sexuality…” “OK,” Sharon interjected. “Maybe the term ‘ugly stepsister’ is too self-critical. With Maria’s and Ana’s help, I became a very attractive woman. But I still did not feel I was at their level. I felt that becoming a blonde bombshell would make us a complete trio. Or, more accurately, it would truly round out the six of us. Don’t you like the idea of me being the curvy blonde counterweight to the two voluptuous Latinas? Let’s not be timid – if we say we are dedicated to physical expression, then we should not be afraid to think in very physical terms.” “All right,” I said. “And the third group of people you care about are…” “The third group is my seniors,” Sharon said. “Sexy expression keeps them feeling alive, healthy and sexual. I figure that most of the seniors I am dealing with came of age in the decade following World War II, in the heyday of the blonde bombshell and the stiletto heel, so they should be able to identify very well with my expression. And, while you did not ask, the breast augmentation was done primarily for my seniors. I plan to do a lot of hugging, and I want them to feel large, heavy breasts when I give them a hug. I also want them to see a nice, busty woman when they come to the senior center. All that symbolic stuff about rebirth, nurturing, and rejuvenation that we associate with the female breast plays well on the subconscious.” “No one can accuse you of being shallow, Sharon. You have really thought this through.” “Oh, I can be shallow, too, Steve. I like the way my enlarged breasts project when I wear 5-inch heels. I got together with Maria last week, and she seemed kind of jealous about that.” “Oh, please, don’t give her any ideas,” I said as I nervously squirmed in my seat. Sharon laughed. We pulled into the driveway of the senior center and parked. To be continued

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