Anonymous - Miss High-heels:the story of a rich but girlish young gentleman under the control of his pretty step-sister and her aunt

"But the heels are much too high," I said as I teetered on them.

"I like them," said Violet. "They are becoming to your feet and ankles."

"They are only a little more than six inches high," said the shopkeeper calmly. "Stand up, Miss., if you please," and I stood up. "But they suit you beautifully."

"I can't wear them, really, Violet," I cried.

The shop girl looked at me sternly, "I think that young ladies who want to be slovenly and object to the high heels of their dainty boots ought to be punished."

"She will be," said Violet sternly.

"Stand up on your chair, Denise."

"Violet!"

"At once! And hold up your dress to your ankles."

I obeyed.

"I will leave her under your charge in this position," said Violet to the shop girl. "I shall come back in half an hour for her. Will you see that she doesn't move? If she does, you may rap her on her pretty buttocks."

"Certainly," said the shop girl, arranging my feet with the ankles together and the toes turned out. I had to stand on the chair for half an hour in the showroom, while ladies came in and tried on their boots. Each one naturally asked what I was doing perched upon the chair, and the shop girl explained my fault.

Violet came back after what seemed to be an eternity and took me to the flower show. We had tea together at a little table on the grounds.

"Show your smart boots dear," said Violet. "Cross your feet in front of you and let everyone see them. You must be grateful now that I took you to the boot shop."

I blushed and said, "Yes, Violet."

I couldn't help but appreciate the admiration of the men and the envious glances and disparaging remarks of the women. I was having a lovely time. We drove back to Beaumanoir, bringing with us other girls who came in and played tennis until half past six. Then Helen sent for me to come to her boudoir.

"You have had a pleasant day, Denise?" she asked affectionately.

"Oh, Helen, it has been lovely," I exclaimed kissing her.

"I am glad, darling," she said. "Now run away, have your bath and get dressed for dinner. Phoebe is waiting for you. I am going out to dinner myself, but I want to see you looking your very prettiest before I go. Phoebe will bring you to my room."

As Phoebe began to bathe me, I suggested to her that she perhaps give my titties a nice little massage.

"Oh, Miss. Denise, you are as impudent as they say you are," she laughed contemptuously and reached down and took both my nipples between her fingers and gave me an excruciating pinch.

"Phoebe! You're hurting me!" I cried.

"Silence, or I'll hurt you more," she said fiercely.

I bit my lip and tried to keep the cries of mingled joy and pain muffled within. Just when I thought that I could stand it no longer, she released her iron grip.

"Now, stand up, Miss. High Heels," my maid commanded me.

I did as she requested reluctantly, fearing some further torment. I lifted my body out of the soapy water and it was revealed to Phoebe that I was suffering from a rather imposing erection.

"Well well, Miss. Denise, it seems you like that kind of torment."

I was too ashamed to answer. Plus, my prick seemed to be talking for me. I hung my head, looking greedily at my poor bruised nipples.

"Come here!" barked Phoebe, holding out a bath sheet for me.

I stepped out of the tub, and as soon as I did, Phoebe took my engorged prick in her hands and began stroking it furiously. I was shocked because she had never done this sort of thing before but of course I did not object. I moaned despite the self-control I was trying to exert over my emotions. But it was impossible: I was nearly climaxing under the pretty tortures my maid was suffering unto me.

"You like this don't you, Miss. Denise? Don't you? Tell me you like it. Say you love what I am doing to you," she whispered hoarsely. I could see that she had her own hand stuck up her skirt and was rubbing herself fiercely between her legs.

"Oh yes, Phoebe, I do! I do love it. Kiss my titties, they are so sore from your tortures. Put your pretty mouth on my poor nipples," I begged my maid pathetically, enjoying the desperate sound in my own voice.

Phoebe obliged me, stealing vicious kisses and little bites of my flesh. She sucked and licked me, all the while jerking her strong wrist up and down the shaft of my agonized prick.

"Oh, Phoebe! I am coming. Oh, yes, yes!" I cried exuberantly.

Quite suddenly, she stopped.

My eyes flew open in wild disappointment. "Phoebe," I cried, "don't stop. Please!" I begged.

"There," she said heartlessly, as she walked away from me. "This little punishment serves you well for being such a spoiled little tart. Mine is far worse torture than being caned, is it not?" She laughed at me heartlessly.

I sobbed and pleaded and begged for her to finish me off, but of course, she refused.

She led me back into my bedroom. There she dressed me in a lovely pair of new tight white kid gloves. They reached all the way to my shoulders and were buttoned with hundreds of little brilliants, while the seams on the back were embroidered in silver. She put me into the most wonderfully fine underclothing, all threaded with blue satin ribbons. I wore a filmy petticoat, a tight corset of pale blue satin, and a lovely frock of white satin covered with embroidery of silver and diamonds. Over this frock I wore a tunic of blue chiffon through which the silver-embroidered satin rippled like water. The corsage was extremely decollete, the sleeves being mere shoulder straps of paillettes and diamonds, and on the left side of the corsage a bunch of big pink tea roses was fastened.

The tunic reached below my knees, where it was caught with a bouquet of the same roses and finished with a band of blue satin, which held the dress in with a great buckle in front, and was fastened behind with a large bow. The skirt was so tight and clung so closely to my figure that my legs felt as though they were tied in it. From the bottom of the tunic, the white satin skirt, with its shining embroideries, fell to my feet, but cleared the ground all the way round. I wore exquisite transparent white silk stockings through which my flesh showed pink. My slippers were of plain white satin, pointed and deliciously cut without bows but with oval diamond buckles, and heels over six inches high. A blue ribbon of satin filleted my hair. I wore earrings of diamonds and pearls, a rope of pearls around my shoulders, a string of diamonds with a diamond pendant around my throat, and diamond bracelets over my kid-gloved wrists. Phoebe gave me a little fan of ivory and lace.

"Now you are ready," she said, "and I am very proud of you, Miss. Denise, I can tell you. Stand still." She placed one strong arm around my waist, and the other under my knees and lifted me up in the air as though I were a baby.

"What are you doing, Phoebe?" I cried indignantly, while I wriggled in her arms. "I am not a child. Put me down on the ground at once."

Phoebe held me still tighter.

"Keep still, Miss. Denise, and hold your silly tongue or I'll punish you," she said sternly. "I am obeying my orders. Your hands behind your back at once."

I was waving my luxuriously gloved hands in protest, but at the sound of her pre-emptory voice, I obeyed her.

"That's better," she said. "Now press your ankles and feet together! Arch your insteps. Make the most of your beautiful buckled slippers."

Blushing with shame, I obeyed her again. I could see myself in a mirror held in her arms, a grown-up young lady in a lovely evening frock! I could see my lovely feet in their high-heeled satin slippers obediently placed together with the insteps arched, and my legs dangling over her arm. Phoebe carried me along the corridor to Helen's bedroom and kicked at the door. Helen's French maid, Leonce, opened it. Helen was dressed in an exquisite long gown of pale green chiffon over white satin. She turned with a smile and pointed to a spot between her two large mirrors.