From Heels Fetish to Cock-Sucking

It is with a sense of disbelief that I take my clothes off.

It's like I'm watching someone else do it through my own eyes. I don't want to, not any more, but I'm here and he's left me alone in the room and I don't see what else I can do.

I'm taking it a step at a time.

Yes, I can put on the clothes I've brought with me in the rucksack. I've come a long way - 150 miles on a cold Thursday night - to just walk out of this man's house without doing at least some of what I came for. Just take off your clothes - t-shirt, jeans - and put on the stuff in your rucksack. Black PVC basque with stockings still attached to the suspender straps from the last time you wore it, masturbating in the comfort and safety of your own flat.

One step at a time. Slide the basque up over your feet, then slip your feet into the stockings and pull them up in tandem with the basque. Suddenly the basque is in place, straps taut on your shoulders, suspender straps taut on your thighs, and you're smoothing the stockings in place and straightening the seam. I look at myself in the mirror. Jesus, you're basically dressed already. It's easier to go on then; it all follows automatically in sequence. PVC thong barely covering my cock. Long blonde wig, then lipstick. It has to follow because it's all part of the process; it wouldn't be complete without one of the elements.

Once the tricky stuff's done it's on with the elbow-length PVC gloves; a splash of red in the kinky montage.

One element remains.

The most important. The element that came first, that started all this other stuff - stockings, underwear, even lipstick for God's sake.

On the floor are a pair of women's shoes. High heels in the classic profile; black patent, pointed toes, classic tapered five-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels. They're mine, ordered online in my size (UK nine, bigger than most women's feet) but still unmistakably women's shoes. The epitome of femininity.

I've always had what I now know to be a huge fetish for stiletto-heeled shoes. It's a very precise one; platforms and rounded toes ruin the effect (although sandals are fine) and the heel has to be at least four inches (ideally five, depending on foot size) and in proportion - shoes with six or seven-inch heels are grotesque parodies. I guess it comes from being very young in the early 80s when such shoes were in common fashion.

My fascination goes back as long as I can remember. I spent much of my youth sneaking into my mum's wardrobe and trying on her shoes. The first time I ever came, I must have been 11 or 12; I was walking up and down the hard surface in our kitchen in nothing but a pair of red leather sandals with ankle straps and four-inch stiletto heels. My nudity (I had always previously worn her shoes with my regular clothes), the clicking sound and the extra height gained from not sinking into the carpet all combined to tip me over the edge into shuddering orgasm. That was a wonderful summer when I had the house to myself for several hours a day, just me and those lovely illicit heels.

A terrible period followed the day when the last pair of stilettos was thrown out in the early 90s and it was five or six years before I had my own car and was able to get out and about buying my own shoes. A couple of years after that I got my own flat and the internet was at my mercy; several pairs of slutty red or black stiletto-heeled shoes were ordered from online retailers purely for my sexual fulfilment.

The sense of vulnerability, helplessness and humiliation has always been a big part of the attraction of wearing heels for me, and this gradually started to creep up my body. Stockings would enhance the effect, turn the whole of the bottom half of my body into an oasis of illicit femininity; and just imagine the alien feeling of being encased in stockings held in place by tight suspender straps framing my exposed cock. Oh, and if those suspender straps were attached to a tight black PVC basque and my male body was all packaged up as a gleaming, shiny fetish object.... the fact that the outfit was impossible to quickly throw off like a pair shoes added to the sense of helplessness, and the wig and lipstick were the exclamation marks at the end of a humiliating transformation. Me, a guy in my 20s, dressed as a female fetish doll.

While I was still living with my parents, the sense of humiliation and the thrill of the risk of discovery had manifested itself in late-night outings in my car, dressed only in a long women's coat and heels, to a remote cul-de-sac near some old people's apartments where I would totter and strut along the paved pathways on a circular route which took in part of a main road. My excitement would reach its apex as I reached the point halfway down this most public section of my little route, when I was the furthest possible distance from my car before it became quicker to complete the walk than to go back. Sometimes a car would speed past and I wondered if the driver's eyes had alighted on my heels; did they have time to see I'm a guy?

Naturally, my appetite for a thrill expanded and I realised how sexy it would be to be seen, properly, by another person while all dressed up. I sought out a couple of unsatisfactory meetings with an unenthusiastic transvestite mistress who chained me up in various unstimulating ways; she went through the motions but never really seemed to want to take control, which is what I really wanted - being dressed up made me extremely submissive. I'd gone for a transvestite because it seemed the kinkiest option - lots of fetish gear and heels and the cross-dressing taboo - before my thoughts started to turn, distantly, to the ultimate taboo - dressing for the pleasure of another guy, a normal guy.

The homosexual nature of such an encounter, not softened by the trappings of femininity one gets with a transvestite, made this prospect seem even more illicit and thrilling. I'm not gay, I don't find men attractive and I don't yearn to suck cock - but being dominated and made to suck cock while dressed. That would be the ultimate act of submission to my humiliating feminised status, wouldn't it?

I joined an online shoe fetish site to post pictures of myself dressed (face obscured or cropped out, obviously) for yet another thrill. Of course, Windows Messenger friend requests soon followed and I got chatting with various people - mostly men - about our shared fetish. I had split with my girlfriend of two years early in the year and the new-found freedom had seen me ordering shoes and lingerie online with abandon; this was the time I bought my first wigs. I patricularly enjoyed my chats with one guy of about my age; one evening Dave coyly asked whether I'd ever fantasised about meeting up with a man. My heart pounded and my hands shook as I typed my confession into Messenger: I had a common fantasy that I was discovered dressed by a man who proceeded to dominate me, using handcuffs and spanking, making me his plaything. It soon became apparent that this worked for him and we started to outline our fantasies; he spoke of keeping me captive in my female gear, making me parade around in nothing but an imaginary black leather miniskirt and stilettos, which was a thought so kinky that I nearly came on the spot.

Our chats went on for about 18 months, with the comfortingly vague yet wank-worthily exciting promise that one day we might meet up, until one night after I had moved to the other end of the country - much closer to where Dave lived - I found myself on Messenger after my social plans for the evening had fallen through. He told me his wife was away from the night and casually asked me to come over. I checked the distance to his town online. About 60 miles. I could be there in an hour or so. In one life-changing moment, I was seized by a single urge - do it. Just get in your car and go. Go to his house and live out your fantasies. The erotic thrill at the thought of actually doing this stuff was overwhelming. I told him I just need to get my clothes and shoes together and I would be on my way. Clothes and shoes of the female variety! This was real. I shaved my face; having any traces of masculinity would ruin the whole effect for me. And then, checking all my stuff was present and correct in the naughty rucksack that lived at the bottom of my wardrobe, I set off.

I spent the drive in a strange trance. He sent me a couple of text messages making promises like "you're going to suck me and serve me". It sounded like the stuff of fantasy Messenger conversations, hard to reconcile with the reality of me being in my car on my way to his house. Eventually I found a parking space in his narrow terraced street, some way from his house. I paced around for a while, trying to summon the courage to do something. I sent him a text message confirming his house number; the last thing I wanted to do was turn up at a random person's house on the promise of cross-dressing sexual shenanigans. My indecision was ended when a door opened and a face appeared a few yards away. I was drawn towards it in my trance, my sense of unreality heightening. Awkward, formless introductions followed. He was a normal looking bloke, the sort of guy I might have a pint with, and again I found his physical reality difficult to reconcile with my purpose for being in his house.

I dimly remember him emptying out my rucksack on his kitchen table, inspecting my shoes and bits of PVC and leeringly asking if I was going to be his little slut; I muttered some kind of assent. I couldn't get into the sexual stuff until I was dressed. He told me he had a room ready upstairs and showed me up; a spare room, cross-dressing porn playing on a loop on a computer monitor. He promised me he'd be back in 10 minutes.

So here I am. On the floor are a pair of women's shoes. High heels in the classic profile; black patent, pointed toes, classic tapered five-and-a-half-inch stiletto heels. The last piece in my kinky jigsaw. Taking it one step at a time, I haven't really taken in the overwhelming nature of my transformation until I slip into the shoes and examine myself properly in the mirror. My God. This is it.

His timing is impeccable. I am completing this self-assessment - my left foot still wiggling as I snuggle it into its patent stiletto-heeled shoe - as he arrives in the doorway. I automatically turn my transformed body to meet his gaze, although I can't look him in the eyes. I have a phrase in my head, from the half-formed notion that we might scale things back from our initial arrangement: "Maybe you could just wank." I'd thought I could walk around in my PVC fetish gear and five-inch heels while he pleasured himself.

I'm not sure how close those words were to my lips, but I never get them out. After a period (it could have been two seconds or two years) of surveying me - and what a transformation it must have been - he says simply: "On your knees."

Only later will I know how these words, this command, turned me on. At the time I obey, at least the second time he says it; after an initial stunned silence. I sink unquestioningly to my knees and he pulls up an office chair and sinks into it in front of me. "Undo me." Again, he has to repeat the command as I stare at the button-up crotch of his jeans. Slowly, hesitantly, I reach out and start to fumble at the buttons. My PVC gloves, thick around my fingertips, make this a difficult task and he helps me, eventually releasing his cock and balls into my line of sight. Again I stare with a mixture of disgust, disbelief and... fascination. I've never seen another cock, in the flesh, in a sexual situation before. Still relatively flaccid, I can see it's bigger than mine. A real man's cock.

"Stroke me." I reach out again and start to run my fingertips along his penis. Somewhere at the back of my mind I'm telling myself that my gloves are keeping me at a distance from it. Somewhere else back there I'm wondering what this feels like, to be stroked by a hand in a PVC glove; it's something I've fantasised about a woman doing to me.

Seeing that the world hasn't ended, growing bolder, I take hold of his penis, my fingers underneath and my thumb on top, and start a gentle pulling motion, staring all the time in fascination. I'm not sure how long this goes on for, but I gradually become aware that he's semi-erect and that he will be expecting something more. Staring at the cock, I start to wonder what it would feel like in my mouth. What's the worst that could happen? It's just flesh. It'll be like sucking my own finger.

Seized by the same sudden resolve that made me agree to come to his house in the first place, I reposition myself on my hands and knees with my head lowering towards his crotch. He halts me with two more words. "Ask me." I look into his eyes, momentarily confused. "Ask me," he says again, more insistently. Now I understand. I don't mind asking because now I've got this far, on some level I really want to see what this is like.

The kinkiness of the words I say next, and the fact of being made to say them, will not fully strike me until much later: "Please may I suck your cock sir?"

He nods his assent.

I thrust my head forward until it's level with the side of his cock and start to kiss it rapidly, up and down the length. I stick my tongue out and trace it along the shaft, suddenly aware of my pink lipstick marks on his flesh. Then I pull back and, opening wide, close my mouth around the head.

It's in my mouth, warm and full. I nod my head up and down, taking more, trying to think about technique. Some bizarre sense of pride means I don't want to give a bad blowjob (my God, I'm giving a blowjob!). I try to think about my tongue, how best to use it, getting his cock wet with my spit. I'm dimly aware of being praised ("You suck so good") but I'm lost in the moment.

I ask if I can watch myself in the mirror and he stands and repositions himself. I look sideways at myself, on my haunches, and take in the gleaming black stiletto heels which I can feel digging into the carpet, keeping my feet precariously balanced; I am stunned to see myself, the face I know the best, in the porn-star pose I have seen on a thousand women - my mouth locked around a hard male member. I realise I'm stroking the backs of his thighs with my gloved hands, which suddenly seems inappropriately close to normal sexual contact.

I'm not sure how long I suck him for. Realising it's all OK and that I have other fantasies I want to live out, at some point I ask him shyly: "Would you tie my hands behind my back sir?"

"You like having your hands tied behind your back?" he smiles quietly. I nod, ashamed at the admission - like the status quo is perfectly normal. Yes, I want to be restrained and helpless while I pleasure you with my mouth.

We come to the realisation that my handcuffs - black faux-leather cuffs, secured with padlocks and connected by a length of chain - have been left downstairs following his earlier inventory. We break off and head down to get them. I am aware of my heels clicking on his hard wooden floors downstairs, then acutely aware that he's getting off on watching my near-naked arse (my thong string sandwiched between the buttocks), stocking-clad legs and slender stiletto heels as I wobble back upstairs ahead of him. I feel very exposed and vulnerable, and I think I like it. I like being looked at as a sex object.

We resume our positions and he secures my wrists behind my back; I get back to work, sucking with more porn-star aplomb than ever, enjoying the sensation of struggling against the cuffs and imagining I'm a helpless prisoner. After a disappointingly short time he decides he wants a change and asks me to start tossing him off again. I gesture to indicate that I'm restrained and he undoes the cuffs. While I stroke his cock he pushes my thong aside and starts to wank my own penis, semi-hard yet ultra-sensitive in my heightened, confused state. I start to gasp.

"Ask me." Another instruction. But I fear it may be too late.

"Please may I come sir?" I manage to blurt out.

"Not yet." But it is too late.

"I'm coming sir, I'm sorry!" Seeing my body starting to spasm, he grabs my left pump from my foot and holds it next to my spurting cock. Even now a part of me is disappointed that I'm no longer wearing two high-heeled shoes.

Dazed, I am aware of my shoe, covered in my own cum, being rubbed on my face and I half-heartedly stick a tongue out to lick some of it off. It's more that I feel it's what I should do than something I want; the sense of post-cum shame and guilt is already starting to kick in. Indeed, my passion for proceedings is starting to wane as he leans back and demands I toss him off into the shoe. I'm not sure how he comes; I think he finishes himself off. At some point he lurches forward to lick my face but I pull away; in my current state it just seems perverse. Maybe if I was still aroused, further exploration of homosexual activity might seem interesting, especially if under duress (I've since wanked many times at imagining being forced to kiss him, ordered to put my tongue in his mouth, lick his toes, his arse, even lick the piss from his toilet seat) but for now it's not on the agenda.

So that's it. It's late, and we're both sated and, I suspect, a bit embarrassed. I put my old clothes and life back on. A glass of water. I try to stroke his cat but my hand shakes and it hisses. A few blokey words, belying our recent intimacy, and I'm on my way home.

That was four years ago.

Part of the reason I've written all this down is that I'm thinking of doing it again. With a different guy. Older, more obviously dominant - he owns cuffs and whips and loves to spank cross-dressers. So it'd be different; perhaps closer to my fantasies.

I'm going to read back over what I've just read. Then decide.