Sinful Story – “Seven Inches”

I love the look of fuck-me shoes on a woman. Always been my weakness. Have you ever noticed the way a kick-ass pair of heels makes a girl stand just a little taller? I’m not talking about height, or mere inches. They make her stand prouder, force her to absolutely nail her stance with every step, or falter; fall; fail.

Stilettos raise more than her heels. They raise her breasts; her chin; her gaze. They raise her game.

They raise the stakes.

My girl rocks her heels – she’s got dozens. Her tallest pair jack her up a full seven inches; so high that she can nearly stare me straight in the eye. That gives her ideas, though, above her station, which means that I am then obliged to put her back down in her proper place.

When we have enough time, she likes to try all kinds of positions to be put in, until she finds the proper one. Sometimes she asks to go round again.

You can imagine my surprise when I come home one day to find her wearing a new toy –¬† a soft, smooth, silicone cock and balls, hanging ripe from the straps round her hips, barely covered by a pair of my old boxer briefs.

That cock does things for her figure that no shoes could ever have managed. Weird things; maybe they happen to every guy with a cock, but you’d never know it – not unless you have some way to compare. Like I do now.

It sits, nestled, heavy and dormant in the crease of her groin. That’s the key, I think; the weight and the wield of it. The heft. It has presence, subtle but unmistakeable.

It settles, soft between demurely closed thighs, and gently persuades them to part. Nothing to guard any more, it whispers, why not take it easy for a while? It claims its rightful space there, at her core, and so her body does the same. Her knees spread, her elbows too. She inhabits her space as if by divine right, and for the first time it feels like the claim of ownership, not the challenge of invasion.

She meets my gaze as an equal.

As she stands – firm, straight-backed – I see she has grown in other ways than mere height. Not height, but depth. She stands like she’s rooted to the earth through her bare soles. And now she is not proud. She is strong.

The fleshy mass at her hips tugs at her – my – shorts, and I can almost see her thrust her hips up and forward to carry that imperceptible weight. There is no thought of arching her back, presenting her ass to me, or of sticking out her breasts to tempt and tease. Her shoulders are square. Her stomach, taut. All of her bears that thick, pendulous weight.

She glances up at me from under serious brows, and bites down on a hungry smile.

“Hey, Cupcake,” she says.

I start to smile, too, but the grin gets lost somewhere. “You’re looking very . . . um . . .”

“Very what?”

I swallow, and let my gaze drop again to the bulge in her shorts. “Very . . . hot. Very sexy.”

She smiles. “I thought you only got that turned on once somebody was down on their knees?”

This time, I do chuckle; just a little.

“Better get on your knees, then, Cupcake,” she says.

 

This was written specifically for the competition hosted by Exhibit Unadorned, and inspired by the wonderful picture by Ruby & Mrs Goodnight, used with permission.

EDIT РI am very pleased to say that this story came second. Thanks to all who took part, and to Exhibit Unadorned for organising  the contest.