Greg, a 41 year old investment banker who is sweet, good looking and filthy rich has a rather huge foot fetish. We have been on about 5 dates and each one he has had numerous pairs of shoes couriered over for me to enjoy wearing and he to enjoy salivating over. Up until now he has got it spot on. He hasn’t even sent his PA out to Gucci or Prada to shop up a storm, he has picked out the strappy sandals himself and my gratefulness has certainly shown when we have enjoyed our evenings in at the Knightsbridge hotel he practically keeps residence at.
Greg and I have found different ways to flirt with each other in each of our meetings. Starting off with dinner or drinks in the best establishments, I obviously have dressed to suit my fabulous peep toe Chloe wedges and used my newly pedicured feet to full advantage to work him into a frenzy of despair at not being able to move for quite a while as I saunter my pretty feet out of there and wait for him to follow.
Unfortunately, and I know I haven’t done anything wrong, as I ripped open the familiar packaging and pulled the leather gems from their shoe bags, I could see straight away that the crepe platform satin sandals with the distinct red heels and the biker glitter platforms of Hubert that these were just the most hideous footwear known to woman kind. What would my feet think they had done wrong to be slipped into such monstrosities? My poor French polished tootsies would believe I was punishing them in some way. And I really don’t know Greg well enough to ask him whether he had a stroke whilst purchasing the offending items.
I have really had to use my powers of persuasion and feminine Park Lane and Mayfair escorts charm to convince him that we don’t need to go out in these shoes, we just need to share them together in the comfort of his rented accommodation coz these boots certainly weren’t made for walking…in public!
