Glass Slipper Seduction

The first day I laid eyes on my husband’s boss; I knew I would have my first affair.

“Damon, this is Cheryl, my wife,” John, my husband, introduced us.

Damon was thick set, with an easy smile. He reached out a hand. It was a thick hand, all his fingers were the same length and as big as sausages. His grip was firm, and involuntarily I leaned forward, and my god did he smell good!

Let my confession be clear. I never cheated before. And I am very happy with my man. Ok that’s not true. I was very happy, but now I’m not so sure. I have had lovers, especially in college but since I grew up, and got stable, however, have you ever met someone and thought, “What the Hell!”?

As he ushered us into the house, I glanced around. His house was not the greatest area, there were other areas that were prime, I knew from my real estate days. But here hidden in a little known suburb was this Edwardian gothic mansion. Tinged with a hint of grey the flat faced facade loomed over the green garden. Beautiful pillars guided us through the door into a marbled floor entrance hall. A bronze balustrade curved to the right leading to the bedrooms I guessed. In the center of the stunning entrance hall, a thick round wooden table with luxurious bonsai hiding the walnut table’s surface.

Damon stood with the balustrade to his back and grinned, waiting for us to see something. I glanced around the entrance and then I saw it. A fifty foot wall on our left covered in little ornament cases. Little boxes with glass covers, each box of different sizes. Each box contained a pair of ladies shoes. Oh boy and what shoes!

“Are those genuine Christian Louboutin!” I gasped looking at the black pumps displayed at eye level. I genuinely shivered at the beautiful black, high heeled shoes, one of them stood proudly and the other on her side exposing the signature red sole to me!

He laughed and came to stand next to me.

“Those are a pair too,” he said pointing at an impossible high heeled red slip on with an ankle strap, which were housed a lot higher up on the chic wall.

“Manolo Blahnik!” I squealed, pointing to a pair of green monsters with butterflies on the heel.

“Jimmy Choo,” I whispered.

“And there, and there, and there too,” he said, pointing out several more beautiful glass framed boxes.

“Louis Vuitton,” he replied to my speechless question.

“Valentino,” he whispered too and answered my irreligious finger pointing, “All are a size three!”

“Why?” I demanded.

“You’re a six, right?”

“Five!” I lied into his knowing smirk.

“Bottega Veneta,” and that one he said drifting from one with a gold heel to a square toed sandal.

“Gianvito Rossi,” he whispered as my eye settled on a naked shoe with just a thin ankle strap and toe strap.

“That one,” he pointed to one gleaming in the sunlight, “Is an actual glass slipper! Made in Venice from specially toughened glass.”

I was aghast.

“The boots are Hermès, Aquazzura, and a couple of Celine too!” he drifted away comfortably assured of my adoration, hubby in tow.

“Join us when you can move again!” he said and laughed and nudged my arm playfully.

“Why do you have them, I mean on the wall?” John asked.

“They are works of art,” Damon said, “But unlike works of art, these often get a major reaction, don’t you think?”

They laughed as Damon rolled his eyes at me but I suspected my Jonny did not get the jib.

I finally found my way to the outside and the BBQ. All the women talked about his wall of shoes. A wall of porn. There were about eight folks there, husband and wife teams and all from the office.

“They are all size three!” someone said, rolling her obvious size nine feet with disappointment.

A long table spread nearly the length of the back balcony. Damon was loading it with the help of the other men with bread rolls, salads, and tons of meat. He had instructed the women to be treated.

“In Argentina we eat meat!” he warned us while slicing brisket.

“Where’s his misses?” I whispered conspiratorially to one of the ladies.

“There is none. Can you believe it!? All this and…” her hand waved towards the mansion and the acre of grounds.

Dear Reader, I promise an honest account as I need a hero. A hero to rescue me; but you can only do that if I’m completely honest. So here goes, it was me that made the first move.

During the meal a chair next to him became vacant so I relocated on the pretense of wanting to be close to the pasta salad. But I made a show of tucking my right foot under me. My denim shorts, riding a little high. He noticed me. I saw his eye. I laughed encouragingly at all his jokes. He was an uneducated man, who, as a teenager sailed around the world, solo. That experience filled him with such skill he now employed engineers and accountants to manage his international businesses.

He turned away from me to regale his team on an adventure he had, and in the position, half away from me, he reached under the table and touched my knee. His thick hand rested just there. I did not move. I did not pull away. As his story grew to a punchline he dragged his trick fingers down my leg towards my pussy.

He touched me.

Those rough fingers crushed me, rolling against my pussy. I deliberately raised a glass to my lips to hide my guilt and complicity. His story, however, reached it’s point and folks laughed. He stood up and left his seat. For the rest of the day he never acknowledged me!

Days dragged by. I took an inordinate interest in hubby’s work. Of course my questions slanted over to Damon. I asked almost anything I could think of except the one I really wanted to ask; ‘Why has he not called!’

That night I let hubby fall on top of me but his pointless pokeings could not eradicate those hands, his smell, his rough, tanned smile.

So I called. Hubby was at work of course. The bitch at reception recognised my voice.

“No. No,” I protested, “I just wanted to thank Damon for the party!”

She put me through, grudgingly.

“I wanted to says thanks…” I said meekly.

“Right,” he said and an awkward silence followed.

“I’m Cheryl…” I added miserably.

“Right,” more silence.

“You remember me,” I was getting frustrated.

“Right,” he delivered more silence.

“You touched my pussy!” I went on frustratedly.

“Cunt!”

“What?” I asked, shocked.

“Cunt!” he repeated, “Rubbed your wet cunt!”

“What!” I was mildly shocked.

“And I loved it. So wet. So hungry. Don’t you feed it?”

“My…” I couldn’t say, “I do, okay! We do okay. My. My. Pussy.”

“You win,” he laughed, “I’ll call her a Pussy too. But when I fuck her, I’m calling her A Cunt!”

I was shocked into an embarrassed giggle.

“No,” he continued, “I’m going to call her My Cunt!”

He gave me his cell number with the instruction that I should set it up. And just like that, he was gone.

I threw myself on the bed and masturbated to the brisk, harshness that was Damon. Cunt indeed!

“Hubby’s away on business Thursday,” was my opening gambit.

“I know,” he replied, “I sent him.”

“I can come to you…” I said, unsure of how this all worked.

“I will send a car for you,” he said.

I overprepared. Nails, hair, the day before. Careful makeup on the day. At eight in the morning a demand at the door. Delivery. Anonymous, but addressed to me. I tore it open and in the large box. Square toed white sandals with red weave straps. White matching bra and panties with red stitching! Very sexy. And a soft white wrap around dress. So, Damon liked to play games!

I tried them on immediately and checked myself in the mirror repeatedly. I added a red belt and red earrings. That should do it.

I looked fucking hot!

Yeah. I could be A Cunt for a day. Why not?

Then I had to wait for ten. My god.

The car was late.

“You’re late!” I chastised the man who did not take the bait.

There was the house. Imposing. Exciting. Frightening. Damon bound out, collected me in his arms and kissed me driving my head back and deep into his arms. I was overwhelmed by all of it.

“Get up into my bed, woman!” he demanded, “Let me tip this guy!”

I was halfway up the stairs when he closed the door behind us. I remember his thick laugh as he followed me up.

“Where am I going?” I know I was too shrill, too loud.

Still he laughed. I went to the last door on the top floor and threw it open. It was the main bedroom. Just as impressive as the rest of the house. High ceilings and a massive room made the four-poster king size bed look diminutive. Two leather wingback chairs looked out the window of the room over the garden. Glass doors opened to a private balcony. There was a walk-in wardrobe as well as a bathroom off to one side with a high stylish tub and shower with a massive head.

I barely had time to take it all in when he was behind me. He lifted me off my feet with ease.

“You really want this?” he asked in a whisper.

“0h. Yes,” I whispered in return, “I want you!”

We were naked in a heart beat and he fell onto me. He kissed me urgently. His tongue in my mouth, his cock looking to get inside me. And with the gentlest lunge for a man that big, he was inside me. His thrusts were tender but insistent. He cradled my head pulling me to his neck. He sucked on my nipples and bit them when he wanted. He made me squeal with pleasure and pain. And looking back I never knew which I wanted more. One trick he did was to pull into me as deep as he could, and then not move. He held me without moving. He did this often and one time he whispered in my ear.

“Cum now!” he whispered.

To my surprise my eyes opened looking at him, I came hard. I had lost control over my body.

“Don’t stop you beautiful Bitch,” he ordered, “Don’t stop!”

He was ordering my pussy to do his bidding. I have never been with a man like that before. I was swamped with feelings of ecstasy and joy. Orgasms overtook my need to let this man explore my body to wanting to simply do his bidding. I surrendered.

This long, long missionary fucking gave me no hint of what was to follow. The weight of this man controlled me and as he shivered and spasmed, still inside me, I resigned to him. But he withdrew and came over my sweat drenched belly.

After a blissful pause he lifted me off the bed as though I were as light as a feather, and headed to the bathroom. I clung to him, mostly because I did not trust my legs. The shuddering from the orgasms had travelled down my legs and I’m not sure they worked yet. His damn hands were all over my body. My back, my butt, legs, breasts, and this urgency just started my motor up again. As I slipped off his thick wet body I found the tiled ledge in the shower and sat there. This brought me at cock height with him. I caressed the little guy with my face. It was a sense of pure luxury and control. As his cock got hard I sucked on him hard.

“Open your eyes,” he demanded.

Our eyes locked.

I tried to control his pace and demand but soon he took my hair and drew me with violence onto his cock. He pounded my face and I had to break free to breathe, but he was too strong and drove me back to his cock. Again, and again.

I did not mind giving him this pleasure as he had given me so much more. The water bounced off him and that vision would haunt my dreams. He snatched me up and pushed me against the glass and fucked me from behind. I was happy to have him inside me again. As much as I pushed against him he took from me.

I don’t remember how we got to the bed and there he finished with me. He fell into dreamland and I curled into him, exhausted and exhilarated.

We lunched, wined, and he dressed, jeans and a tee shirt. But he kept me naked. I say “kept” he just asked, and I agreed. In fact, I loved it. Loved him touching me, smacking my butt as we passed each other. He pulled me on his lap and we chatted. He wanted to talk mostly about sex. What did I like, how did I like it? When was my first time, when was he best? Such was his confidence, not, was he good, but when was he good. This man of international reputation wound himself around my pussy and my desires.

I think he fucked me a couple of times more before he let me go. That night the memory of him caused me to masturbate before I dropped into sleep.