“Would you mind taking off your shoes, when you sit down?” he said, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked down past breasts, belly, to her feet.
Shining black shoes peeked out below her nakedness; they somehow emphasised it.
“Oh, no, sorry I forgot.”
“If you sit, he said, I’ll slip those off and help
you pose.” He smiled.
Damn don’t smile.
Completely out of her control her body had
responded, her nipples stiffened. She knew they would be so obvious and didn’t
know where to look. She found herself looking right into his eyes.
She sat down.
He knelt at her feet, looking up at her he said
“cross your legs, I’ll slip off the shoe.”
She did, he slipped it off. Without being told to,
she uncrossed and re-crossed the other way around. The image of Sharon Stone
doing just that entered her head. She wondered if he had made that connection.
If he had, he gave no indication of it. She had forgotten they were not alone,
she watched him at her feet as if he were her lover. He slipped off the other
shoe and placed them both neatly alongside each other, on the floor by the side
of the chair. He stood up and gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. She
soaked up his gaze, finding herself warmed by it. She searched his face for any
sign that he liked, or even disliked, what he saw.
“Would you uncross your legs?” he asked, as if it
were the most natural request in the world, “and put your hands palm down just
before your knees.”
It was an instruction and not a request and it caused a
wave of palpable heat to wash through her body, she felt it flush from her toes
to her face.
She did as he instructed.
From 'Model Wife' By Tom Covenent