Women, Wine and Heels Page 5

  “You know,” Stacey said to the group, “that foot rub will probably come in handy later when we come back, after playing in heels all night.”

  The girls laughed in agreement, and I gulped.

  “What do you say, Gray?” Eva said. “Will you wait for us?”

  “Yes,” I said, perhaps too enthusiastically.

  “You sure? We might not be back until two or three. Wouldn’t want you getting bored and going home.”

  “I doubt I’ll get bored,” I replied. “The TV works.”

  Susan piped in. “Yeah, why wouldn’t he stay? It’s a career opportunity for him.” She looked down her nose as she said it, evoking laughter from the group. “The question is, how do we make sure he remains, you know, ‘enthusiastic’ to help us when we come back?”

  “I have just the thing. This will keep him…well…focused on us,” Stacey said, digging into her Louis Vuitton bag. She handed something to Eva, who smiled broadly.

  “Stand up, Gray. I have something for you.”

  I stood, slightly confused.

  “Now take off your clothes. Do it now.”

  I’d hoped something like this would happen, but needed to at least put on a show of protest, despite the fact my cock was starting to inflate.

  “What are you talking about? I’m not going to – ”

  “Oh don’t be a stick in the mud. Just take your clothes off. I know you want to anyway,” Eva said.

  I began to strip, though it was harder to do than I thought it would be. Four pairs of eyes on you, including three that belonged to virtual strangers, was a hard pill for any guy to swallow. I began with my shoes, then socks, then shirt, then finally my belt and pants. The girls smiled and tittered at my red cotton boxer-briefs, which clearly showed the outline of my growing hardness.

  “Now the shorts,” Terry urged.

  I slowly slid down my underwear, my eyes reflexively going to the ceiling. It was a test of will more than trying to put on any kind of show. Finally, I stood naked, in front of Eva and her posse.

  “Eyes on us, Gray. Look at us,” Eva commanded. I was in no position to argue, and turned my eyes to their lovely faces. No matter how plain a woman might look under ordinary circumstances, they all looked sexy as hell when you’re standing in front of them nude, and seeing lust in their eyes.

  “Do you know what this is?” Eva asked, dangling something metal from her manicured forefinger.

  I did indeed know. She was holding a cock cage, a series of stainless steel rings with a very secure looking helmet on top. “Oh no,” I muttered.

  “Oh, yes,” Eva said. “This will make sure you’re not a bad boy while we’re gone.”

  She came forward with the devious device, but I was already too inflated to have any chance of fitting into it. “Terry, grab the ice bucket please.”

  Momentarily, Eva was holding a handful of ice cubes against my cock and balls, and within seconds I went soft. They all laughed at that, which caused it to tingle once again.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Gray,” she cooed, as her slender fingers maneuvered my manhood into the restrictive instrument. I’d never worn a cock cage before, and the sensation, combined with the embarrassment of losing control of my own penis, was exhilarating, even as it frightened me.

  At that moment, Stacey made a show of crossing her right leg over her left, and my eyes were drawn to them. She began tracing her right finger up and down her luscious nylon-encased thigh. I couldn’t look away. How I wanted to –

  CLICK! Eva snapped the little padlock closed, then tested the device’s security with a couple of short tugs. “Go ahead, Gray, keep looking at Stacey’s legs if that’s what you want. You can test the cage all you want.”

  My embarrassment at being caught made me blush, and where the sight of Stacey’s shimmery legs caused my penis to tingle, the rebuke from Eva caused a full-fledged erection, one that was miserably stanched by the cold steel. I groaned involuntarily.

  Looking over her shoulder, Eva said, “Susan, put Gray’s clothes in the room safe and lock it. Gray, we want to make sure you’re still here when we get back.”

  “You’re going to leave me naked the whole time?” I protested.

  “No, we wouldn’t do that…I think you might be able to squeeze into these.” She tossed me a pair of frilly pink panties, but I had no idea who they belonged to. I slipped them up and the silkiness further aggravated my enclosed cock. “Keep them on until we come back.”

  The other girls stood up, and they began walking toward the door. I watched them, standing in the middle of the living room feeling both ridiculous and incredibly horny. This was indeed more than I’d bargained for.

  Just then, Terry whispered into Eva’s ear. My friend stopped and chuckled.

  “We almost forgot. Stacey, go grab the shoes in the closet. You know the ones.”

  Stacey emerged carrying a pair of red pumps with 5-inch metal heels. They had broad ankle straps dangling from the top.

  “Just some extra insurance that you’ll be here when we come back,” Eva said, keeping a straight face. “Sit.”

  Stacey knelt down and helped me into the stilettos. They were snug, but fit, and at this point I felt like I shouldn’t be surprised.

  “How am I supposed to walk in these??” I asked, panicking.

  “That’s the point. You’re not going anywhere, Gray. You’ll get the hang of it well enough to just totter around the room.”

  The ankle straps were the locking variety, the kind I’d only seen in pictures in porn magazines, and Stacey pulled out two small gold padlocks, just slightly bigger than the one on the cage that ensnared my cock. Gently, while glancing up my face, she fit them through the metal loops poking through the straps and snapped them closed. She looked at my face again, a big smile on her own.

  I was completely trapped. Even if I could somehow guess the code on the safe and retrieve my clothes, these awful ankle strap heels would preclude me from so much as stepping into the hallway. A bead of sweat formed on my forehead, and my cock strained against the stainless steel at my humiliating predicament.

  “We’ll see you in five or six hours,” Eva sang.

  “Unless we get lucky, that is,” Terry added, looking at me derisively. “Then maybe you can be of more service than just a foot rub!”

  “You’re terrible!” Stacey scolded her friend, turning in her white pumps.

  The four ladies I’d long admired on social media drank down the remains of their wine, set the glasses down, and, laughing loudly, walked out of Room 922.

  Nailed

  “Let’s go get you a pedicure!”

  With that, my wife began the fulfillment of a fantasy I’d expressed to her several months before in the throes of lovemaking. I had received male pedicures a number of times, and once or twice had asked the technician to paint my toenails, to their amusement and that of their nearby coworkers. It had been a turn on for me to see their reaction, and I enjoyed the mild embarrassment of padding out of the salon in those disposable sandals they provided while the polish dried.

  But going to an upscale spa and having this done with my wife by my side was something I’d been thinking more about. And it had been in the front of my mind ever since I gave her a gift card for her birthday to a full-service establishment nearby, in a diverse town with expensive homes and many housewives and female professionals who like to spoil themselves in such a place. Since Stephanie’s not one for massages, I figured she’d use it for a haircut and color, or something like that.

  “Uh…what brought this on?” I asked.

  “Well that gift card’s not doing any good sitting in my purse, and I could use to get my roots colored,” she replied. “We’ll go to Reynaldo’s on Saturday. You can get your…well, your toes prettied up while I’m in the hair salon.”

  My stomach knotted at the thought. Saturday was surely their busiest day, so there’d likely be many women, and more than a few men, getting treatments. Which meant I
’d no doubt have an audience. As I pondered this, I began to get hard.

  “Hmmm…looks like you agree with the idea,” Stephanie cooed, her eyes fastened on my groin area.

  Simply spending quality time with Stephanie was enough to get me aroused. In her late 40s – three years my senior – she maintained a lithe, well-toned body. Her cunning smile, piercingly knowing hazel eyes and playful demeanor could make me melt. An unnatural blonde, I’d never seen her real hair color in the eight years we’d been together, and I doubted I ever would.

  In bed, and sometimes out of it, she was adventurous. Understanding of my needs and indulgent of my peccadilloes without being judgmental. This fostered a wonderful relationship in which I could open up to her, and I had many times. I tried to indulge her as well, although her sexual fantasies were far more pedestrian than mine.

  She made the appointments, and when Saturday arrived she offered to drive.

  “Trust me, it will be better this way,” she advised.

  Reynaldo’s was the largest tenant in a popular strip mall, which also featured a deli, a convenience store and a lingerie boutique that probably received some good crossover traffic. Its large glass windows in front offered passersby a grand view of the goings on in the reception area and the front hair salon, but there were myriad rooms further back. I noticed dozens of clients, 90 percent of them women, at the time we arrived, with at least 10 waiting in the front for their appointments, or for their friends or relatives to finish with theirs. I thought it must be peak hours.

  The reception desk was staffed, as usual, by three lovely women in their early 20s to mid-30s. Two of them wore the white pants and tight fitting black tops that were the standard uniform for the service providers. One of them, whose nametag said “Kelly” was an absolute knockout, while the other, “Denise,” had a pleasant smile and wore minimal makeup, seemingly contradicting her work environment. Her hair was in a ponytail. The third woman, in a black pencil skirt, white pin-striped top displaying some cleavage, and black three-inch pumps, appeared senior to the others in age and responsibility. Her nametag said “Heather.”

  It was to one of those rooms further to the rear where my wife escorted me, her hand firmly clasping mine as if I might have second thoughts and run the other way. She needn’t have worried. I was very excited to go through with this.

  When we made it to the large area marked “Nail Services,” Stephanie greeted the technician, Laura, who wore the standard uniform. She was about 33, a buxom woman with short auburn hair, glasses, and an engaging, client-friendly smile. Stephanie introduced me as well.

  “Hi Gray,” Laura said. “Why don’t you have a seat right here.” She indicated a plush chair smack in the middle of the room. There were four other women getting pedicures, two on each side of me. I overheard small talk between the women and their technicians.

  “Laura, Gray is going to get the full service…that is, the full service, not the male pedicure.”

  “Is that so?” Laura asked.

  “Yes, um, I guess so,” I stammered.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Stephanie looked at me, then back at Laura, and answered for me. “Yes, he’s sure.”

  “Well, OK then! Just make yourself comfortable and I’ll start the footbath for you. It will feel good.”

  Stephanie began backing out of the room and this surprised me. “Aren’t you staying?” I asked her, a bit of disappointment coming through in my voice.

  “Oh, no, honey…I’m going to get my hair done.”

  “Oh, uh, OK. How long does that take?”

  “About an hour and a half. Laura, how long will his pedicure take?”

  “Only 45 minutes or so.”

  “Hmmm,” Stephanie said. Then arching an eyebrow and looking straight at me said, “I guess you’ll have to wait up front for me until I’m done, then.”

  This development stunned me. With my freshly painted nails, I’d hoped to make a beeline for the car after. But waiting in the front of the spa, for 45 minutes, with those stupid foam rubber sandals on? That would draw some unwanted attention.

  “I…um…really? Couldn’t I just…”

  “Gray, be a gentleman and wait at the front. I’ll be done in no time.”

  My penis began to stir at the prospect, and at the commanding tone of my wife’s voice. My face no doubt blushed.

  As my wife turned to leave, Laura asked, “Sorry, what color would you like?” She said it loud enough for all in the room to hear, and I noticed a slight giggle from a 30-something woman at the end of the row.

  Stephanie stopped, and again answered for me. “Give him pink. Yes, a hot summery pink.” With that she exited.

  Despite my preparations, I have no doubt I blushed as Laura began applying the enamel to my toenails, the other women in the room looking on curiously. I tried to be cavalier about the whole thing as my pedicurist went about her work.

  “My wife has a bizarre sense of humor,” I said nonchalantly. “And I do like to go out of my comfort zone every once in awhile.”

  “I didn’t ask,” Laura replied with a small chuckle. She did a good job staying professional, but the others in the nail salon felt no obligation, as I heard some tittering and saw two of the girls whispering to each other. Other employees came and went, and one of them, a redhead with long hair and a nice shape, seemed to do a double take as she reached for some tools of the trade.

  There I sat compliantly as she completed one toe after another, trying to maintain some degree of propriety with the front of my pants in clear view of anyone bothering to look. There was some stirring there, for sure, and some swirling going on in my lower stomach, but I managed to keep my jeans from tenting.

  “We’re all done!” she announced, grabbing the foam sandals and carefully slipping them on me. “No socks or shoes for at least 30 minutes.”

  “Um, thank you. I’ll just go and…”

  I left the sentence unfinished as I shuffled out of the nail salon toward the tipping area near the front. After several agonizing minutes trying to find Laura’s name on the cabinet of pigeonholes, feeling every feminine eye in the room looking down at my feet, I deposited a $10 bill in her slot. Then I went out to the front lobby.

  It was as bustling as when we arrived, but I found an empty seat, and pulled my feet as far beneath the couch as possible. Thirty minutes, my ass, I thought defiantly. I’d had my fun, but this was a bit too much. I didn’t need to court the judging expressions of these women and the occasional boyfriend while my wife’s hair was being dyed. Who knew how long that would take?

  Screw it, if they smudge, they smudge. I bent down to reach for my socks.

  “Are you Gray?”

  I looked up to see the girl I’d noticed when we arrived, Kelly. With dark brown hair, high cheekbones and a broad, toothy smile, and made up to perfection, she was exactly what I didn’t need at that moment as I tried to will myself into a more, um, calm state.

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife asked me to come get your shoes and socks, to make sure you don’t put them on too soon and ruin your pedicure.”

  “Uh, that’s alright, I won’t.”

  “Well, she told me to get them.” She stuck her hand out imperiously. “She said…” a pause, as if trying to remember something by rote. “‘If you’re a good boy and hand them over, she’ll take you next door and buy you some pretty panties afterward at Lisa’s Bra Boutique.’”

  She said this in a forced stage whisper, which is to say, purposely loud enough to both make her (or my wife’s point) and for almost everyone in the reception area to hear.

  “Um, I’m not sure…”

  “She also said if you give me a hard time, I quote, ‘we’ll be sure to get your fingernails painted too.’”

  I’d been painted, alright, into an embarrassing corner. Stephanie would follow through on that threat as surely as she’d follow through on the reward. I wasn’t sure which was worse, however.

  I r
eached down and handed my Oxfords to Kelly, the socks stuffed inside.

  “This is best,” Kelly said, with a wink.

  No doubt my cheeks were rosy as the staffer walked away, her perfectly French-manicured nails gripping my only salvation. I tried to pretend that didn’t just happen, that I wasn’t embarrassingly reproached in front of a waiting area full of strangers, yet it did. And, thanks to my damn predilections, I was getting more aroused as a result.

  I tried to put on my game face, to be as nonchalant as possible, the heels of my feet still tucked under the couch as best as possible, but that only lasted two minutes.