Humiliation. It’s a funny game. Yes, it is a game. I don’t mean being called a whore in public, slapped in the face, having to crawl on my knees before strangers, or being made to drink out of a dog bowl. No, the sort of humiliation I adore is a competition. I love being placed in situations that force me to embrace the possibility of public humiliation, where only I know the intention, the risks, the unexpected attention, with no way of backing out.
My date surprised me before dinner with a present. Not just any present. A pair of sky-high Louboutin stilettos. I know they must have been at least $1,000. I had seen them on-line, but never in public. They were called ‘Gypsy’ for their dangling steel rings that surrounded the entire ankle and together with small bells made a tambourine-like sound with every step.
They looked gorgeous, though the height of the stiletto was intimidating. Just a bit higher than I’m used to, and razor thin stiletto heels. Not a shoe for beginners! I tried them on, and with an open toe they fit perfectly. Up in our hotel room, I practiced walking in them. We had soft carpet and while it was a bit wobbly, I could manage, as long as he held me by my arm. A few steps by my self was all I could manage. These were definitely shoes to be seen in and heard, not to be walked in.
A lot of women would die to own a pair of these. I can’t deny that I was absolutely thrilled. Just what came next was more than I had bargained for.
We went downstairs where an S-class Mercedes was already waiting for us. Even in the lobby, I could hear ever step on the tiled stone floor despite the bustling evening traffic. Grateful for his arm, he walked me to the waiting car, opened the door, and helped me get in gracefully.
It was not a long ride before we arrived at the restaurant. Sleek, modern, all white marble flooring. The second I set foot inside, the clicking of my heels were only overshadowed by the tambourine sound echoing from my feet. Heads turned, looks were drawn to my feet, all while I could barely walk without assistance.
Among my many fetishes, I have one for shoes. I love high heels, but I’m more adapt at using them in the bedroom than a public restaurant. Having made an entrance in what can only be described as luxury fetish shoes, I knew that everyone’s eyes were going to be on me for much of the evening. My date had every intention to use the eager looks of others to humiliate me.
Walking to our table behind the impeccably dressed hostess, he let go of my arm, just holding on to my hand. Without slowing down, I did my best trying to keep up with him. Every step screaming out for attention. The dining room was spacious and I could see conversations coming to a halt, eyes wandering down my legs to my feet, and remaining there until we had passed. Everyone was looking at me. And I had a hard time just walking steadily without losing my balance!
This was just the warm-up. Not long after we sat down, he asked me, or should I say instructed me, to get us two Martinis from the bar. Of course, we could have just asked for them, but he insisted that I get up and come back with two drinks – one in each hand.
Just walking to the bar made me incredibly nervous. I was far from secure on my feet, wearing a revealing, though elegant dress with black stockings. The eyes would have been on me even if it had not been for the shoes. With them, I felt like being on a stage with the entire world watching my every step.
At the bar, I had to insist on carrying the drinks back to the table myself, rather than having the waiter bring them. There was really no good explanation for it. The only explanation was that I was going to do as I was told. With grace and elegance, no matter how hard it was to keep my balance.
For anyone who has ever tried to walk with a Martini in one hand, you’ll know that they spill very easily. Just holding a full Martini glass without walking can be a challenge. Maybe the bartender was in on my humiliation, but it did seem that he took extra pleasure in filling each closer to the rim than usual.
All I had left to do was walk back to our table, in towering, attention-grabbing heels; doing the job of a waitress. Any misstep would have resulted in a huge embarrassment. Even taking the chance of spilling the drinks, tripping, or just being seen to struggle was humiliating. I don’t know what the other guests were thinking. Only I knew I was being tested.
Would I stand up to the risk of humiliation, chicken out, fail, or choose the only way he wanted to see me? Pushing back all fear of public humiliation and strutting gracefully like his prized possession, his well-trained slavegirl, back to my Master.