Are They Nice

It started innocently enough. We were out shopping, browsing for interesting vegetables that were also on special offer, and had decided to pop up for a quick look upstairs: on the floor with lingerie, underthings, and shoes. I had every intention of behaving myself, until they caught my eye. "Um. Darling?"

My wife turned around. She was a little ahead of me, and hadn't immediately noticed that I had stopped as abruptly as if I had stepped in a bear trap. "Mm?" She glanced at my face, at my eyes, and then followed my gaze to pair of strappy black heels, sitting on the top of a display of shoes. "Oh," she said, slowly growing a knowing smile. "Are they Nice?"

This was a word with a very specific meaning. What she meant was:

Was I staring like a horny teenager with a hard-on for his first sight of 'boobies'?

Was I salivating like Pavlov's other dog, being ordered to fetch the slippers?

Had kinky lust fallen on me, like an enormous yes?

"Yes," was the answer. "Yes. They are Nice Shoes."

She likes to check with me, as her understanding is only partial, but to be fair, so is mine. Science has yet to discover an accurate predictor for Niceness. But fuck me, these shoes had it in spades. They were open-toed, with bands of black leather and silver buckles to wind over and around the feet and ankles, and a long, dramatic zip down the back. The heel short enough to be practical to walk in, but tall enough to be very Nice indeed.

I instantly pictured them on the end of my wife's spectacular legs. I saw how well they would pair with her black lace lingerie, as she answered the door with a glass of wine when I came home from work.

Or with our ankle-cuffs, chained to the bed frame, legs forcibly spread while I buried my face in her cunt.

Or with a perfectly uncontroversial little black dress, out on the town in an outfit no one would find as provocative as I would. No one else would know she was dressed to drive me wild with desire. A whispered seduction in an intimately private language.

Back in reality, my wife casually wrapped her fingers around the incredibly erotic object, and tilted the shoe up to read the little sticker on the the inside sole. "And they're in my size. I should try them on, then."

"Yes," I croaked. "Yes, you should do that."

She parked her perky rear and skintight denim shorts on the bench between the shelves, and lazily slid off her sandals. "Could you help me with the zip?" She looked up at me as she asked, watching my expression, her face a picture of girlish innocence.

"That's not fair," I whimpered. This was foreplay. This was a public sex act. She might have asked me to suck on her nipples on the shop floor, while oblivious customers browsed around us.

This was probably her revenge for that time we went grocery shopping with a remote-controlled vibrator.

But I couldn't say no. I sank down to one knee, set down my shopping basket, and cupped the heel of her foot in one hand, carefully sliding the shoe on with the other- her very own perverted Prince Charming. My legs were slightly spread, so she could watch the effect she had on me, which she did with glee. "Are you-" she started to ask, then caught herself, silently mouthing the question, "Are you hard?"

"Yes," I confessed through gritted teeth. Irresistibly and instantly. My hands were slightly unsteady as I slid the zipper up the back of her foot, encasing it in black leather.

Nevertheless, she felt the urge to check, sliding one bare foot up my inner thigh, the ball of her foot pressing against my erection through my jeans. Her eyebrows shot up, as if she were surprised. "Am I making your cock hard?" I couldn't help but glance up the aisle to see if anyone had overheard her murmur, then closed my eyes as she teased me with her toes. "What are you going to do about it?"

I leaned in closer, so I could growl in her ear. "We're going to the cashier. I'm going to buy these for you," I announced. Not an offer, but a statement of immutable fact. "And then I am going to get you home as fast as humanly possible."

"So I can model them for you?"

"So I can fuck your brains out, bent over the dining table. Then you can model them for me."