Lost Bet

Lost Bet 04 Meals on Heels

Four weeks to go.

Complicit.

That was what she had been, and very deliberately so. She couldn't quite get her head around her sexual proclivity progression, going, as it were, from reluctant nerves for her very first naughty escapade, to eager excitement now at the mere thought of what was expected in the next. Sat with her man at the time of making it, very heady with the effects of too much alcohol and an abundance of over confidence, she remembered being more than instrumental in her encouragement and recklessness.

It was with almost delicious pleasure that he had lost the bet, knowing that it was her own responsibility to complete the expectation of his wager. As much as she spent some considerable time lamenting their misfortune at losing the bet, she was actually relishing the sequence of events that had transpired, and very much looking forward to what was to come.

Practice, practice, practice.

That's all it had been since that day, the given date of completion a month since. The proviso was to have time for preparation, and everyone was more than happy considering the winnings.

Her nipples were getting very used to their manipulations now, so regularly had they been abused. She was positive that they had actually gotten a little more elongated, and extremely sensitive. More sensitive than ever before. Like a connecting lightning bolt from them to her pussy to her very soul.

Even now, the briefest of glances was enough to turn her on and cause a certain amount of dampness between her legs.

She had adapted an old wooden tray easily enough. An old leather belt connected to the back edge with some hot glue. This hadn't, she admitted to herself, been part of the original deal, but she was eager to give a good experience, and the thought of the erotic image she would epitomise, was an extremely powerful one.

The snap connector made it easy to strap the belt around her waist with minimal fuss, and even easier to disconnect. Her improvised DIY pleased her and excited her more than she would ever admit.

The second connections created more emotions; cords from two nipple clamps again stuck to the opposite edge of the tray.

It had taken some trial and improvement to get the cords the correct length, so as she stood up with the tray attached to her, it remained perpendicular to her body and therefore remaining effective as a means to carry anything that needed to be transported. The repeated connection to her nipples and the strength of grip required had taken some work. Gritting her teeth to the initial pain had paid dividends, getting used to them being clipped on as a journey of eroticism over comfort.

Unclipping them! Well that was even worse. As the blood raced back into her nipples, it felt like her head was about to explode with a need for a connection with her clit. The only way she could do it without screaming was with a simultaneous brisk rub between her legs, and she was positive that she had had a couple of minor climactic tremors from the attention paid purely to her breasts.

But still, she found she was able to attach and detach the tray with practiced ease in a very short time. Walking around her home for practice with the tray resting against her belly without any need to hold it with her hands was a highly erotic experience, even on her own, without observers.

Three weeks to go.

Gradual added weight to the tray increased the pressure on her nipples, and lengthened the impression of her breasts in the mirror as she stood looking at herself. Contemplating the look, she tried to see her body from the male perspective.

Her emphasized shape while wearing the tray oozed with sex appeal; her legs looking longer somehow with the emphasised split between top half and bottom and her breasts facilitating this highly seductive visage in a very unique fashion.

She felt very slutty too, the turn on proving too much on occasion, using various toys on herself whilst watching in the mirror keeping herself upright and as stationary as possible during climax, as practice for the last step to come.

Walking in heels wearing the tray with an exaggerated sashay was the next stage of practice. Slowing her movement to the point of calm serenity was an initially tough ask, but the more time she spent practicing, the more sensual the sway of her hips.

Alone in the house to just the amazement of the cats, she slowed her passage to one she hoped was of allure. Trying to make this as natural as possible was the goal, on occasion taking her own evening meal to the table in this fashion.

Several times she thanked goodness that her kitchen was not overlooked by any neighbours, her emotions varying widely between, 'what the fuck am I doing?' to 'fuck, I want to cum so hard'. The repeated practice when naked especially made her feel extremely horny, a marked difference between when being fully attired, a loose t-shirt allowing access to her nipples and when wearing only stockings, suspenders and thigh length stiletto heeled boots.

Carrying the food was only half the prerequisite. The second half of the experience was a lot more personal, and even intrusive, for the service she was offering.

Two weeks to go.

She had to be used as a table top too.

This would require the belt unbuckled, the clips removed from her sensitive, hard and now quite elongated nipples, and the tray then placed on her back or bottom whilst she was completely motionless on her hands and knees.

This would require her to remain at the foot of the chair now, arms and knees planted and wide as a type of trestle table.

An awkward position at the best of times, but even more considering what she was going to be used for.

Far enough back that the recipient of her attentions wouldn't need to sit too far forward on their chair, but only as far as the physical length of her lower leg length in the space would allow. Wider knees was preferable, though there was always going to be a payoff between height and level of comfort for the person using her as a table. The greater the width though, the wider her ass cheeks. The wider her ass cheeks, the more exposed her slit was feeling.

The more exposed and open her slit felt, the more debauched and slutty she was being. Experimenting in her own lounge, she could tell that minute flexings of her body caused a marked difference at her rear. She could tell that both her bottom and her pussy gaped considerably when she tried to create a deeper arching of her back. Was it better putting her head to the floor? It was almost like her belly sat on her knees. It did mean the arch was quite pronounced.

Folding her arms under her face worked for a while, then she felt that they should just sit angled at the sides. Fixing her arms rigidly out and really wide? Would that hold her position without slipping? She doubted the time she could maintain that position.

Experimentation showed her that having her shoulders lower than her ass had the most extreme effect on her slit, sensing as she did so the separation in her hips. With a cushion between head and floor, she reckoned she could maintain this particular pose for much longer than with outstretched arms and her mind half on an old shoulder injury. The decision made, it was just practice now.

Maybe she should fold her arms up under her? Could she ask for permission to play with herself whilst he ate? Should she take the initiative and just do so?

She felt extremely naughty doing this, confident as she was that that was exactly what would turn him on to an incalculable degree. Watching her slipping her fingers in and out of her most private place, displayed so decadently whilst he ate, with a view to making herself orgasm, would be a memory that would stay with him and impact every sexual encounter for the rest of his life.

There was no touching for him of her allowed for his experience. Of that he had been made very clear. A slight disappointment, it had to be said, as he was a good looking man, but this fact just prompted her to be even more naughty. She trusted the fact that he would honour the terms of the bet and wondered about the eventual outcome of the encounter.

Would he make any requests? Should she be amenable to them? It wasn't written that she should or necessarily shouldn't comply. Two fingers inside. Open your pussy wider. Massage your clit! Put your finger into your...

Would it drive him to extricating his cock from his trousers for a wank? Perhaps this was her goal? Could just the look of what she was doing create his ejaculation? Men were led by their dicks and dicks were excited by beauty and horny images. Some horny images were quite taboo and deeply debauched and degenerate in nature. A winking butthole and open pussy in such a degraded fashion could be the ultimate horny image, let alone her hanging breasts and smirking smile. She was going to be wearing the stockings and suspenders and thigh high boots which were a stalwart and faithful dress allure, especially for men of a certain age. Her long blonde hair and slutty makeup, the very cherries on top of the very erotic cake.

One week to go.

So, on several evenings, boots on each time just for practice with the stiletto heels, she knelt on the rug in front of the sofa, confirming which way was most comfortable and offered the most longevity, paying off against which was offering the most visual lewdness for a person sat behind her.

A couple of times she felt wracked by uncertainty, embarrassed as to what she was doing and almost reaching the point of phoning her Dom to call it off. Waking to a new day and with a new sense of clarity always reset her. Why not? This was something she had never done before, perhaps rarely ever again. Invariably, it turned her on to the point that she spent a lot of the time with her head on the rug, ass in the air and both her hands down between her breasts and pushing into her pussy for her own relief, beholden to no-one with no need to ask for permission on that occasion.

On balance, her body could cope with the subjugation and her head was totally turned on by the extreme humiliation. She just had to stop complaining to herself and get on with it. Second guessing was not a healthy activity.

So, it was just practice, practice and more practice of the itinerary in the meantime. A ready meal warmed in the microwave and placed onto the tray around her waist. A slow sashay into the lounge with a smile of expectation and pleasure over her face. An unhurried unclip of the tray to place it on the sofa (ready for him to put on her ass) and an erotic as possible sinking to her knees and shuffle into place on the rug, ready for an allotted half an hour, red letter, Meals on Heels Experience.

Practice time was up.

Tomorrow night was the big occasion.

Fuck.

Today.

Her heart felt like it was in her mouth from the moment she woke up. Staying in scruffs all morning, her plan was to start her readying procedure about midday. She didn't feel much like eating anyway, which she thought might help the evening events, but a scrupulous depilation and attention to those parts of her that she didn't usually see much of without the involvement of a mirror was in order.

Hair dried and teased into place. The longer it got, the more style she could add to it.

Full makeup tonight. Mascara around the eyes, blusher on the cheeks and the brightest red lipstick she owned to match her fingernails. She wouldn't be doing any kissing so it should be good for several hours.

Stockings now smoothed up her legs, the clips of the suspenders feeling highly erotic, and freshly shined boots zipped up into place.

A check on the tray. All the glue still holding well, it was placed by the door ready to take. No sense forgetting that.

And just a coat. With no need for anything more and just the risk of leaving something somewhere, it was better to just not take it.

One last run through of what was expected of her, a deep breath and to check she had turned everything off before picking up the tray and walking out to the car. It was a five minute journey and she had ten to get there.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the car side window and wondered about signage for the vehicle.

Meals on Heels.

Would anyone notice? Would they expect it was a typo rather than a delicious pun for those in the know? Could it be an expandable business model?

Suddenly, she found she had gone from feeling slutty and naughty whilst completing the terms of a lost bet, to actually creating revenue from it. She smiled to herself. Maybe that should remain just a fantasy.

Deep breaths, she expected more nerves, but found she actually couldn't wait.

It was her man after all she was performing for, but the fantasy it was going to be a faceless other person had been a massive turn on for the last month.