Keep The Shoes On

After a long day of teaching, all I want to do is collapse on our bed and take a nap. Yawning, I unlock the door to the house. I'm too tired to put anything where it belongs-my keys, purse, shoes, and bag full of the night's grading land in a drunken pile at the bottom of the stairs.

I stumble up to the bedroom and stop short.

Laid out in a silent order are a black lacy bra and panties, a white men's dress shirt, and a pair of black stilettos I'd never seen before. On my bedside table is a tube of a lipstick far redder than anything I'd ever consider buying, and a note.

Put it on and send me pictures.

I contemplate taking a nap before following your command. I can always obey in an hour or two. I often stay late at the high school to grade, so it's not like you'd know I'd been a bad girl. Your side of the bed is uncluttered. I shed my work clothes and stretch out on top of the white and green duvet.

I can't fall asleep.

The gnawing guilt over ignoring an order from you is not unlike the sound of the Tell-Tale Heart from the Edgar Allen Poe story I dissected with my sixth period class a few hours before. I look at them and wonder if it's possible for inanimate objects to glare back. My nap is never going to happen if I don't put the damn things on and do what I've been told.

Grumpily, I dress, leaving the shoes for last. I'd worn flats all day, and my feet are already sore. Stilettos are a one-way-ticket to limping for the rest of the night. But I know better than to think they're optional.

"Let's get this the fuck over with," I mutter and put on the clothes, leaving off the shoes for now.

I carry the instruments of torture, the lipstick, and my cellphone into our bathroom. I paint my lips, and am surprised by how much I like the color. I hold up my cell and snap a photo and immediately delete it-you won't accept the sullen look on my face, that the shirt is hiding the bra and panties, or the lack of shoes. I undo all the buttons of the shirt, and admit that my reflection looks sexier. I take down my hair, and shake it out-better.

Time to step into the shoes. Despite all my whining, I have to admit that they change the entire look. The stilettos take me from girl next door cute to sultry siren. I lift my phone, and my expression is one of deep satisfaction. I send it to you and walk back to the bed. No, I don't walk-I strut.

My phone beep with an incoming text.

You can do better than a bathroom selfie, Sarah.

You're right, I can.

I'm not tired anymore. When I lay down on the bed, I have no thoughts of sleep. I sprawl on the bed and try to take a selfie, but I can only get sections of my body. I lay on my stomach and hold the phone over my back, hoping to get the black lace of the panties peeking out from the bottom of the shirt, and my crossed legs. It's not a success, either.

I decide to channel my inner forties pin-up girl. I lay on my back and scoot toward the head of the bed until my butt is almost against our headboard and my feet are up in the air, resting against the wall. I arrange my shirt artfully, and set up the photo. I'm confident you'll like this one.

Despite my original intentions, all I want to do on this bed now is you. You have a case in the city today, so I'll have to wait hours for your touch. Looking up at the fuck-me heels, I decide to pass the time in the most pleasurable way possible, and reach into my panties.

"That's my girl."

Startled, I turn my head. You were in the house the entire time.

You're wearing a black mesh gown that leaves nothing to the imagination, and a pair of stilettos identical to mine, except in silver. My mouth waters in anticipation.

"I knew you'd be too tired to fuck me when you got home. But I also knew that once you put on those heels, it would be all you'd want to do," you smirk.

"Come here," I say, before adding "and keep the shoes on."