Greg, a 41-year-old investment banker who is sweet, good-looking and filthy rich, has a relatively high fetish. We have been on about five dates, and each one, he has had numerous pairs of shoes couriered over for me to enjoy wearing and he to enjoy drooling 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 shown when we have enjoyed our evenings 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 with dinner or drinks in the best establishments, I 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 hike 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 womankind. 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 don’t know Greg well enough to ask him whether he had a stroke whilst purchasing the offending items.
I have had to use my powers of persuasion and feminine Park Lane and Mayfair escort charm to convince him that we don’t need to go out in these shoes; we need to share them in the comfort of his rented accommodation because these boots certainly weren’t made for walking…in public!
