Trust Ch. 04

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Babes

Chapter 4 – … And getting to like you

It was frustrating to have to endure another week before being able to be with Emma again; but we kept in touch daily by phone, text and email. One thing I especially looked forward to every day was her sending me another erotic photo of herself wearing plimsolls. My special favourite was one of her wearing a pair of white canvas Keds with a tiny white satin and lace g-string which barely covered her womanhood as she sat back against a large cushion with her legs spread apart; one hand resting on her thigh and the other with the fingertips just resting inside the waistline of her g-string; her blond hair tumbling in golden waves around her face and her shoulders; her breasts so beautifully round and warm and soft; a bewitchingly candid and knowing smile animating her face and her eyes.

I sent her some of my photos in return; but hers were far better for the two reasons that she looked infinitely sexier in plimsolls than I did even when I employed my finest talents in dressing as a girl, which was only to be expected, and because many of her photos were taken by her professional photographer friends; unlike mine which were all self-taken. She also told me she hired herself out as a model to art, fashion and photography students.

“Most of them like to experiment with erotica at some point; girls as well as guys,” she explained, “so because I’m happy to do anything they want and I don’t charge them much either, I get plenty of work.”

As well as sending photos to each other, we swapped passwords for our private websites and I spent a couple of very entertaining evenings watching videos of Emma pleasuring herself with plimsolls and ballet shoes and displaying her considerable talent for self-bondage. There were also other videos in which she had been tied up and filmed by person or persons unknown. My favourite was entitled ‘Study in black’ and showed Emma; wearing a black leotard, black tights and black satin ballet shoes with the ribbons tied criss-cross around her ankles; with her hands tied behind her back with black leather cuffs and her arms secured to her sides by black leather straps around her body. Her body was further bound in a black leather harness that included straps around her breasts and over her shoulders and a chastity belt attached to a girdle that encircled her waist. On her head she wore a black rubber bathing cap with a strap fastened tight under her chin, over which she wore a black leather muzzle gag which included a ball gag and a neck collar. A black leather face gag covered the ball gag and a chain ran from the collar to where it was secured firmly to the bedpost by a large padlock. She was blindfolded with a black satin eye mask. To complete her bondage, her legs were tied together by leather straps fixed around her ankles, just below and just above her knees and the tops of her thighs. Another chain attached her ankles to the bottom end of the bed.

For fifteen minutes the camera panned up and down and around her body and lingered at various points of her anatomy as with muffled moans, sighs and squeals and much heavy breathing to the accompaniment of rattling chains she squirmed and writhed on the bed, the neck chain every now and then jerking her head back down onto the pillow. Towards the end of the video a phone on the dressing table in the background of the scene started ringing and carried on for a minute or so while Emma tried to reach it. This could have been a real cliché but it wasn’t because of the very realistic way in which she strained and struggled desperately to make a muffled appeal for help and the way she sank back on the bed, defeated and despairing, when the ringing stopped. I watched, spellbound, as I stroked and stoked the tension in my huge erection before releasing it into one of Emma’s white plimsolls and clenched and curled my toes inside my own plimsolls, as I imagined us creating that kind of scenario together.

After a week-long prelude charged with so much erotic stimulation it was hard not to assume that Saturday night would see some very kinky sexual activity between Emma and myself, although I knew that I couldn’t turn up at her place and act with the assumption that it would happen. Even so, I remained hopeful and looked forward to being prepared for anything.

Saturday evening came at long last. I dressed casually but presentably in a white shirt with a blue v-neck sweater loosely tied by the sleeves around my neck and straight leg blue jeans which just showed a hint of the white ankle socks I was wearing with my brand new pair of classic white Keds Oxford canvas lace-ups I had bought earlier in the day specially for tonight, knowing that she too would be wearing a pair. Since we both lived near stations that had a straightforward route between them I chose to take the tube and overland train to her house.

I changed at London Bridge and as the suburban service train took me further into London’s southward Betturkey spread my sense of adventure and excitement increased. As I tried to concentrate on reading my paperback I kept glancing with pleasure at my feet in my new white plimsolls and imagined Emma wearing hers, waiting for me. Then with an excited jump of my heart I suddenly realised that in all probability Emma was at that very moment naked in her plimsolls as she prepared for my arrival. Maybe she still would be when I arrived! I willed the train to go faster between the stops and fretted over every second it remained standing at each station.

I was out of the train like a cork from a well shaken champagne bottle. I had already bought for Emma a large box of expensive Belgian chocolates while I was shopping for my new plimsolls. To the chocolates I added a large bouquet of red and white roses from the flower stall outside the station and the most expensive bottle of white wine in the off license across the road. I placed them carefully with the contents of my holdall, which included Emma’s plimsolls that I was returning to her having treated myself to them a number of times during the intervening week. With my holdall in one hand and a printed out map of the local streets in the other, I hurried on to find her house, wondering if she was still naked in her plimsolls and hoping longingly that I would find her so.

The area was typical of London’s social patchwork, the affluent and the underprivileged living almost cheek by jowl in geographical terms but a world apart in terms of amenity and environment and the daily experience of life. I turned into her road and as the house numbers counted down towards hers I gradually slowed my pace so that I would arrive at her front door more comfortable and composed and also give myself more chance to take in the surroundings.

Large multi-floored town houses lined up in neat ranks along each side of the road. Some looked a little down at heel; others were smart and well maintained. Some had a column of push buttons by the front door indicating multiple occupancy; others proudly displayed their status as single dwellings. In several places a more modern building interrupting the stretch of older construction testified to the legacy of the Blitz. But as I caught the first sight of Emma’s house I saw straight away that it was very different from the rest.

It was a huge white painted double fronted Edwardian villa style house, in total contrast to the orange brick Victorian terraces on either side, set apart in its own grounds and set much further back from the road. Tall trees and evergreen bushes strategically placed screened the house from its neighbours. On one side a short length of tall brick wall linked the house to a huge garage with large wooden barn doors. Another length of wall spread out from the other side of the house, behind which a sequence of tree tops in disappearing perspective suggested a large garden beyond. Could Emma really be the only person living here, I wondered? My heart started to thump again as I thought of her inside, wearing her white plimsolls, maybe wearing nothing else besides her white plimsolls, waiting for me; how I hoped so.

I entered the large front garden through a full height wrought iron gate within a round arched frame set into the low brick wall that marked the property’s boundary. As I walked up the gravel path between generous expanses of well maintained lawn I noticed that the upper floor windows were open whereas those on the ground floor were all heavily curtained. On arriving at the front door sheltered under a large Greek temple style porch I noticed there were two doorbell buttons. The upper one was marked ‘Curtin’ and was therefore obviously Emma’s. The other, labelled ‘Innes’, presumably belonged to her landlord, who she had mentioned in passing in a previous conversation.

I pressed the button for Emma’s flat and heard a faint ringing sound above me. Two seconds later the intercom crackled and I heard a cheerful “Hi,” — never before had I heard a welcome of such warmth and openness communicated through that one little word — “come right up, I’m right at the top of the main staircase.”

The lock clicked open and I pushed open the door and entered slightly tentatively. The interior of the ground floor gave a very different impression from the wide expansive vista of the exterior, being gloomy and shrouded and lifeless and still. Dust sheets covered everything that stood on the floor. At the top of the stairs was a small landing with a single door set into a partition wall that showed that the upper floor had been converted into a self-contained flat. This was Emma’s home. Feeling more confident I bounded up the steps and knocked smartly on the door with my knuckle. Was she naked?

“Come right in, the door’s open, I’m in the kitchen, just follow the smell,” I heard her call gaily to me. I entered into a large and femininely comfortable Betturkey Giriş sitting room flooded with light from huge French windows opening onto a large balcony, with the kitchen door on the left through which were coming the most delicious cooking smells along with the sound of her humming happily to Mozart’s ‘Marriage of Figaro’ overture. I went into the almost equally large kitchen and my disappointment at finding her not naked was immediately dispelled by seeing what she was wearing.

She wore a tight little pink vest top that generously showcased her décolletage and exposed her beautifully trim midriff that I longed to embrace there and then, a tiny blue denim micro mini skirt that barely covered her bottom and the join of her thighs, black tights with an attractive sheen that wasn’t quite wet look and that displayed her gorgeous legs to perfection and new white Keds plimsolls that gleamed against the dark black of her tights. Her hair was tied back loosely to keep it from interfering with her cooking. In the simple, girlish, completely natural and unselfconscious sexuality of her outfit, with not a trace of make up on her face that was glowing in the light from the large windows, she looked totally beautiful.

She eased into my arms and as we kissed I joked, “You look gorgeous but you really didn’t need to dress up for me.”

“Thank you, but I always make a special effort for guests. At least for their first visit,” she smiled teasingly.

“And I like to make a special effort whenever I visit for the first time,” I smiled back, proffering my presents to her.

“Thank you, they’re lovely,” She beamed. “You certainly know how to get to a woman’s heart.”

“I’ve brought back your plimsolls and socks too. The socks are washed of course,” I added, taking them out of my holdall and carefully handing them to her. “I enjoyed them lots,” I added further with feeling.

“You are sweet to bring them back; but I meant for you to keep them always. Anyway, it’ll be nice to have something that reminds me especially of you.” Her smile as she said it left me in no doubt that she knew exactly how I’d been enjoying them. She placed her plimsolls carefully on a shelf by the kitchen door. “I’ll deal with these later,” she smiled at me, inviting me to guess at what she intended. I knew for certain it would be memorable whatever it was. “But now you’re right on time for dinner, so we can eat and talk first and afterwards I’ll show you around my humble abode and after that – we’ll see where our fancy takes us.” She smiled another of her conspiratorial smiles and I grinned back approvingly. This was beginning well and getting better all the time.

She had cooked delicious sea food paella, followed up with a pear and prune cake the recipe for which had apparently been in the family for generations and which, according to her grandmother, “was guaranteed to keep you regular for life.” I helped her with the final preparations and then we settled down to begin the long-anticipated second half of the conversation begun the previous Sunday.

“So tell me how you became a plimsolls and ankle socks kind of girl,” I smiled as I took a sip of chilled white wine. She smiled, closed her eyes in thought for a moment, and then began.

“The first time I wore plimsolls was when Mum bought me some little black slip-ons to wear at nursery. I still remember thinking how nice they felt on my feet and I loved going into town with Mum because we always went to nice places like the toyshop and the library and the café where I always had milkshake and ice cream. So I’ve always associated wearing plimsolls with nice times and feeling happy. I would pad about the farm on warm days in my black plimsolls and my knickers or often not bother with the knickers. I guess I was starting how I meant to go on at an early age.” she giggled and then continued.

“I wore black slip-ons through nursery and infants’ school. Then I went to junior school and graduated to black lace-ups, the classic Oxford school type, which was very exciting. I wanted to wear them all the time but Mum wouldn’t let me because she said it would be bad for my feet. She still won’t admit I’ve proved her wrong on that one, bless her.

“I thought black lace-ups were the Bee’s Knees and the Best Thing Ever until my last year of junior school. At the start of the Spring Term a new girl joined our class. She was Spanish, her family had only just arrived in Britain because her father had been posted at short notice by his company to their UK office at the business park near to the town, and her name was Lucinda Yolanda Victoria Maria Velazquez-Betancourt, which was the loveliest name I had ever heard.”

“And she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She had beautiful dark skin, lovely long black hair, gorgeous dark eyes, a really pretty face with a lovely gentle and shy smile, and a slender, long-limbed body with lovely small, Betturkey Güncel Giriş neat feet. As soon as I saw her I wanted to be her. Our teacher saw us getting on well so she chose me to be her classroom buddy and we sat together at my group’s table.

“That was great, but things got even better the next day when we were all getting changed to play tennis. My other friends and I changed into our white polo shirts and blue shorts and white socks with our black lace-ups and Lucie, who had arrived from Spain so suddenly that she hadn’t had a chance to get all her school equipment, pulled out from her bag a white tennis dress and spotlessly white lace-up plimsolls. When she’d put them on she looked so pretty with her white tennis kit against her dark skin and her white plimsolls and ankle socks looked so lovely on her feet I wanted to be like her even more and I was converted to white plimsolls at that very moment.”

“So it was a white tennis dress that did it for you too?” I smiled. “Maybe we could both wear one on our anniversary to celebrate the fact.”

“I’ll challenge you to a game of tennis as well,” she giggled before continuing her story. “I asked her what kind of plimsolls they were and she told me they were called Calzados Victoria and that in Spain lots of girls wore them. When I asked her how I could get some she asked me when my birthday was and when I told her it was a few weeks away in May she said she would ask her cousin in Spain to send some for her to give to me as a present. I could hardly believe it I was so happy. I begged Mum to let me have them and I was ecstatic when she said yes.

“Lucie and I became best friends and that summer was just the best. We wore our white plimsolls together all the time and the best times were in the woodland on our farm where we would have adventures and where it was safe enough for us to strip off to our panties or even sometimes go naked wearing just our plimsolls and socks.

“I hoped we would go together to the local comprehensive school in the autumn but her family moved out of their temporary house to their permanent home in the next town and I won a scholarship to go to ballet school. But we still saw each other lots during the holidays and we’ve been good friends ever since. We still get together for Plimsoll Girls’ Days Out, but we keep our clothes on now,” she laughed.

“I loved ballet school. Not least because it was old fashioned in lots of ways and we had to wear white plimsolls for gym lessons and to play tennis and netball. You wouldn’t believe it now but I was very innocent when I went there. I swear that even though I’d grown up on a farm and seen animals doing it and having babies for years, it wasn’t until we had sex education classes that I realised that people did it that way too. Goodness knows what I thought before then. But the idea of it must have switched on something inside me, because while all the other girls were saying ‘Uurgh! No way is a boy doing that to me’ I was thinking to myself ‘Wow, when do I start?’

“Although I soon became highly sexed and could hardly stop thinking about it I was a good girl until I got to 16. In the meantime I began experimenting on myself to see what gave me the most pleasure. I discovered that plimsolls with smooth rubber toe caps are very nice. I love jilling with one plimsoll while I rub my nipples with the sole of the other one. Courgettes are another favourite because I like their shape and ripe ones have just the right amount of firmness. Dad loves courgettes and many times when he’s been about to swallow a forkful I’ve wanted to tell him where it might have been beforehand.

“When I got to 16 I started dating a boy named Paul who was studying at the nearby performing arts school which provided us with partners for our ‘pas’ classes and school productions. I fancied his mate Gary at first because he was half French and was really good looking but although I dangled, he didn’t take the bait so I settled for Paul, which worked out OK because he was very nice and turned out to be really good in bed.

“I wore plimsolls or ballet shoes whenever we made love but the funny thing about Paul was that although he spent lots of time wearing a leotard, tights and ballet slippers he didn’t have any kind of fetish about it. He just loved dancing and expressing himself in dance and to him they were just the uniform and the tools of the job. In fact none of my boyfriends have been into plimsolls in the way that I am, which I got more and more frustrated about and which is why I finally decided to make a serious effort to try and find a guy who does, and which is why I’m so happy and so excited to have found you.”

We shared a long and tender kiss over the table while under it our plimsolls rubbed and nudged together and stroked each other’s ankles until she smiled and looking straight at me whispered enticingly, “Let me finish feeding you up for later.” With me almost floating off the floor with excitement about what was to follow later, we had a short break to clear up after the paella and settle down again with coffee and generous helpings of pear and prune pie with cream, she being as much of a hearty eater as I am. She finished her first spoonful and I asked her, “So how did you get into bondage?”

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