Auntie’s shoes

When I was young, I used to watch my Auntie, through the crack in the door, as she dutifully polished her shoes. She had an amazing collection. She always wore incredibly spiky heels and had what used to be called ‘a nicely turned ankle’. I remember watching her, with her legs crossed, as she drank wine with my parents in the living room in the evening. She’d bob her leg, with one of her beautiful high heels up and down, as if to a silent tune.

My Auntie moved in with our family when I was about twelve. She had divorced her wealthy husband, whom she always referred to as ‘the arse’, and as my Mum was her sister, promptly took up residence in our spare bedroom. My Dad was definitely enamoured with her. I could tell. He never complained about anything she did. My Mum didn’t seem to care and so we all lived together happily for another five year, when she met another rich fellow and married him.

Her shoes became an obsession for me though. When she would go out in the evenings, I would sneak into her room and try them on. I would parade around the room trying to walk like her but, most of all, I wanted my legs to have that beautiful curve and grace that hers did. Looking back, it’s odd as I never fancied dressing up as a woman and never tried on any other female clothes. It was just the shoes. When I eventually finished college, got a job and my own place, I had my own collection for a while. I kept them carefully hidden and would put them on sometimes, look at myself in the mirror in them and try to imagine having those glorious legs. I suppose it’s what you would call a fetish.

I finally met the woman of my dreams and she did have amazing legs. I always encouraged her to wear high heels for me and she obliged, enjoying being sexy. She could walk in them as gracefully as my Auntie and she’d even indulge and wear them for me in bed. Of course, I had to bin my collection of shoes, which broke my heart really, when we moved in together. I thought that part of my life was over. Unfortunately, the thoughts and desire to wear high heels still haunted me and I would, occasionally become frustrated.

I joined an online forum with other men who had similar fetishes, though not were all the same. Quite a lot of them liked to dress as women and wear women’s underwear. Not that I judged them for it, but I had none of that. I just needed to see myself in high heels every so often. Weirdly, it wasn’t even sexual for me. It was more of a compulsion. Something I felt I must do.

One of the fellows on the page mentioned he’d been seeing an escort so that he could act out his fantasies and that, after years of throwing money at therapists, this was the best thing he’d ever done for himself. I private messaged him and asked for some information and he directed me to Cleopatra Escorts. I was consumed with the idea that I might find someone to help me with my deeply personal needs. I certainly couldn’t ask my wife.

Turns out that it was money well spent. Not only did I find a delightful young woman, who went shopping with me for shoes, and then coached me on walking in them and crossing my legs gracefully, just as my Auntie had done, but she loved high heels as much as I did. We had so much fun together that I felt more relaxed after spending time with her than I have after a massage or even good sex. Speaking of good sex, when I went home, my wife asked what had gotten into me and told me I’d turned into a tiger ‘rawr’.

I’m now meeting with my lovely lady from Cleopatra Escorts once a month. She’s keeping my shoes safe for me and she’s promised we’re even going to go to a private members club one night where I can wear my shoes openly, which is something I never dreamed of. Who would have thought that an escort service could change my life in such a positive way? It’s made me happy to the bottom of my sole. Get it?