Feminism In High Heels

Ingrid! She is the most beautiful woman in my life, she is my ecstasy and my despair, my love and madness. And never, ever did she become mine. But again and again she almost did: with just three feet of air between her skin and mine. Riddles? Read on!

She is a beautiful blonde woman, with an attractive, somewhat mischievous face, shining blue eyes, soft rosy cheeks with nice dimples in them when she smiles, and an expressive mouth with lovely full lips. She always wears her hair pinned up high, leaving her slender neck free. She has a gorgeous figure, somewhat full and yet slender at the same time: well-developed full breasts, a narrow waist with wide hips underneath (but not too wide), long legs with full, firm thighs, shapely calves and slender ankles. Which she always accentuates by wearing high stiletto heels.

Very soon I was crazy with longing for her. I had made her acquaintance at a dancing school, and I dated her sometimes, or visited her at home. And then usually we danced a little, and I could press her supple body to mine. But it had never gone any further than that: we might dance sensual tangos, a dance that’s sometimes called ‘sex with your clothes on’, but no more than that. Not even a kiss … let alone anything without our clothes on.

I felt the desire not only in my groin, but also in my belly, my chest and my throat: a tingling feeling in my skin that was only temporarily assuaged when I masturbated, yet I would never feel really relieved. Only the touch of her flesh against mine could cure me of that desperate longing that sometimes made me think of a disease.

Yet I didn’t have the nerve to approach her. She wasn’t prudish, I knew she had several lovers to satisfy her sexual desires, but she would not give up her independence for any man. And she wasn’t shy about that at all.

Then why was I so shy with her? I vaguely feared she wouldn’t find me attractive enough … but that might be only the fear of rejection. Besides, with other women I never felt so bowled over if one happened not to want me. I could always find someone else. So there was nothing to fear, was there? … But for some reason it was different with Ingrid.

In short, Love’s lightning had already struck me terribly. And then it struck again, even more terribly. Read, and tremble, oh men!

I had come to visit her, and as always his longing for her almost constricted my throat. She wore blue that night: a blue blouse, a somewhat tight blue skirt that showed her enticing buttocks and thighs well, and blue nylon stockings underneath. Her skirt crept up a little when she sat down, and I saw the skin of her thighs showed delightfully against her stockings . And though she was tall for a woman, she wore blue shoes with high stiletto heels that accentuated the beauty of her gorgeous legs even more. She had her hair up as usual, only a few little curls hung loose cutely beside her fase.

We had been chatting. About sex! And about men’s and women’s roles, and the advantages and disadvantages of casual sexual contacts. With a straight face I had been voicing very women-friendly opinions on that, but I had been as silent as the grave about my own feelings.

For example, we discussed the compatibility of feminism and high heels. Of course, I said: if a woman feels comfortable enough with them, then why not? But I didn’t have the guts to say anything about the crushing effect her high heels had on me. (Oh … how they lenghtened her beautiful long legs even more. Oh, how they made her hips’ buttocks’ thighs’ tempting movements even more voluptuous when she walked. How their ticking on the floor seemed to pierce my heart: it almost hurt me physically!)

However, I was thinking that now I should at last …

The bell rang. Ingrid walked to the front door (‘click, click’, her heels sounded on the stone floor in the corridor) and she greeted the second visitor enthusiastically. It was Willem, another guy from the dancing school whom she also dated occasionally. Willem was a handsome, cheerful fellow with an athletic slender body and a naughty bad-boy smile with dark eyes and black curly hair; an easy, humorous talker with a rapid flux-de-bouche.

Ingrid used to call Willem a ‘true Amsterdammer’ (“een ras-Amsterdammer”), and she clearly meant that as a compliment. I always felt a bit uneasy when I saw Ingrid and Willem together, although I didn’t want to admit that to myself.

Willem sat down and the three of them went on chatting. Still about sex and relationships. Willem sometimes made a witty remark which made Ingrid laugh delightedly. I joined in the laughter, but cursed myself at the same time that I hadn’t thought of a joke like that.

For example: “What were you talking about before I arrived?”

“About feminism and high heels!”, Ingrid said.

“Are you a feminist?”, Willem asked.

“In principle, yes, but today I’m not. For today is High Heels Day!” she said with a coquettish smile.

“Today, you say? I never saw you otherwise than in stiletto heels! But do you mean high heels aren’t feminist?”

“Many feminists say they’re not. Well, Jan is a feminist man, and he has another opinion.”

She smiled ironically, and my heart skipped a beat.

“Well, so do I! High heels are pure female power! They make us men completely powerless! At least, as long as you keep the strings tightly as a woman. I understand Jan completely, you know. Long live women’s stiletto power!”

She laughed, again with that delightful ironic smile:

“So even men can teach me something about feminism. But don’t you guys objectify me, if I wear high heels for your pleasure? Isn’t that called ‘the male gaze’?”

1 Comment

  • Jorgen

    Reply Reply November 15, 2020

    Good and hope to read part 2,3 … soon

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