High Heeled Hypocrisy


Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Drunk/Drugged, Magic, Gang Bang, Interracial, Black Male, White Female, Pregnancy, .

Desc: Sex Story: An obsurd story, the theme of which is "You are what you wear." It might be hard to tell whats going on with the dialog, but if you're really trying you can probably figure it out.

Despite all the fun we have writing stories about men and women with huge sexual appetites screwing each other every way 'til Sunday without a condom, they live in a fantasy world where people don't suffer and/or die from venereal disease. Please practice safe sex. All characters in this are completely fictional; the situation is fictional obviously; and is completely a fabrication of wild mind and idle hands--

"Only loose women dress like that," I said. It was one of those things that on the way out you wish you could unsay. Really Maggie didn't look like a slut at all; her outfit was only a little more revealing than most of the others she wore. She had on what would be best described as a very nice power suit, fitting the form of her ample (c-cup, I'm guessing) breasts and a skirt that reached to 3/4ths the way down her thighs. What I was really talking about were her shoes, which were cute and sported a 2 or 2 ? inch heel. The effect this had was to make her ordinarily pant-covered calves (now bare), sinuously curved. Good enough to eat, I would say with only slight lesbian tendencies.

I know my problem wasn't Maggie or her dress for her part. Sure she always dressed more conservatively, without heels, and we took pride in our respectability. Wearing those shoes didn't make her bimbo or slut. Even though I might express that in passing, I don't necessarily think that. The problem was ever since her recent book received the highest acclaim from the publisher, she'd been acting like a haughty bitch to me, her best friend (and far more accomplished writer).


"Oh yeah. You know, bimbos and tramps wear shoes that high. You are so respectable, you should probably wear some lower heels," I continued, forced to pursue the path I had chosen with the last insultingly poorly conceived sentence. I was lucky to survive the night.

Wouldn't you know, the next night, I showed up for Maggie's party and she greeted me at the door, "Hello Anne, you look so lovely!"

To which was granted the usual, "Oh stop, you look so fabulous!" The bitch had definitely changed her shoe choice and it was a big fuck you. Beautiful shoes, I must say, with a 3" heel easy. I swear she must have gotten her skirt hemmed up another inch or three as well. The book definitely went to her head and ate up something, perhaps her modesty.

Needless to say, she got an inordinate amount of attention from various people at the party. I noticed, a lot of them were male. I also noticed our friend Shae was eating up Maggie's new fun sexy look. Shae was of course a lesbian (who I actually had 3 or 4 accidental one-nighters with after becoming entirely too intoxicated). Funny how that works though. I wondered the entire time if she thought all of this attention had anything to do with her no-doubt brilliant analysis of progressive post-Gothic Frankish philosophy. I wonder if she even noticed if the treasure of her person now rest between her legs rather than her ears. It all made me terribly mad and in a way jealous.

I remember looking at myself, very conservatively dressed that night. I had on a power-suit, like Maggie, but it was a full-length skirt, with a knee high slit on either side. My one inch heels did little for my athletically trim calves, which were covered, and my pert breasts were all but unnoticeable behind a baggy blouse and heavy jacket. My breasts were as round or large as Maggie's, but for a woman of 32, they were still very alive and I was a solid B cup. Nothing to complain about. I knew I was aging and I needed to find Mr Right soon cause my figure was already telling me the decay is soon to come.

"You know only loose women dress like that," Maggie said in a snide mocking tone. She seemed bitter and I can't imagine why. It seemed that her party was a complete success. Perhaps she didn't see that she needed me anymore or maybe all these years I made her feel small because I was so notably successful and had never suffered the mediocrity that plagued the first parts of her career.

I looked at myself, "you are talking about the shoes."

"Mostly, but the slit in your dress, it shows your knee. I think you want to leave more to the imagination," she continued, the haughty little bitch. It had been four or five weeks since her book party and it was now time for my latest. My book wasn't nearly the rave, but it met with such accolades as 'Another brilliant contribution by Anne Shandol,' mostly because I was consistent. She was right. I think something in me really wanted a little of that attention Maggie had gotten prior. I was showing her a lovely evening dress I just bought (intentionally to draw some attention to myself) and the shoes were, of course, 2 inch heels. I thought the dress was classy. It showed none of my cleavage (but did make my breasts a nicely wrapped package) but I guess it did have a low back (ending only inches above the cleavage of my buttocks). She must really enjoy herself pointing out little tiny bits of hypocrisy. I wasn't going to let her win this.

Our day on the town was less than as pleasant as we usually were to each other. Usually we would joke and then the occasional 'accidental' brush of the breast or buttocks, but this time we were tense. Some things were brewing underneath both of our skins and occasionally it would come out in tones that soured words.

That really steamed me more and in a fit of rage I went to Victoria's Secret and then to the shoe store. I got myself a nice lacy pair of seamed stockings, a garter belt, and some lacy panties to match. Honestly, I knew there wasn't really any point, no one would see them, but I did it anyway. Then I furiously bought a pair of 4" high heels with ankle straps, determined to out-do my undeservingly high-horsed friend. I would draw their intellectual and sexual energies, keeping the first foremost of importance of course. I am no sex object; hell, I'd only had sex with 2 men (and of course Shae who took advantage of me and with great skill ;-)). The last thing to do was to raise the slit in my dress.

I tried it on the dress again, wearing my whole get-up and marked off the last 1/4 an inch from the lacy tops of my stockings (to keep from being obscene). I was a decent seamstress and the whole thing took me maybe 30 minutes. On second appraisal, it was perfect.

When I opened the door and saw Maggie, I instantly said, ""Hello Mag, you look so lovely!"

To which was granted the usual, "Oh stop, you look so fabulous!" and of course the glare of hate. Maggie was dressed sort of like I was at the first party, though she was allowing enough cleavage to show to make a man's greeting worth his while.

We quickly parted company. We were both livid. She was livid at my appearance and I was livid at her lividity. I strolled into the party of a few older, accomplished men, one of which was my publisher.

"Oh, Anne how wonderful. May I say you are looking nice tonight. I was just telling Johnson here about some very interesting fill a hospital ill you sayin's you discussed in whore book. I've already impressed Dick by discussing the ram it fuck Asians of your recent dicks savory," he said. I stared back blankly. I couldn't tell what they were saying. I glanced at their crotches and I knew they saw me.

"Hehe, yes. How do you like it boys?" I said in a throaty, trying to recover but sounding all the more bad, just bad, bad, bad. What had gotten into me? Had they noticed?

"Oh yes, I found your disrobe tit-shun to be in gene us, me well written and your anal ice is in pecker-ably well rounded," the man Dick said.

"Don't forget about the fine all dis-shirt ate fun, which was master full pee well orgasmized," the man Johnson said.

"Do you like it!" I said, ditzy and dazed, actually thinking they were talking about my butt.

They were a little confused by now, "Oh yes, they did honey. As they said, they found it incest full and commanded great ho-ledge without being naughty."

At that I walked away, I was sure to glance them a smile, though I didn't appreciate their advances and implication that I was some sort of slut. I had to get a drink, in fact I ended up getting two or three.

I ran into Shae, who out and out said, "Oh, I'd like to fuck you like an animal. You're looking de-lic-eous girl!" I'm pretty sure I didn't misinterpret any of that.

Staying away from the dike, not that I wasn't one, but anyway... I bounced back and forth between people saying weird shit.

"You did suck a nice job anal wising such a die fuck-cultist you!" It was making me wet between the legs.

"Oh Anne, I must add whore, more rack you'll miss," and I could feel the wet panties sticking to my vagina.

"Stood fuck on your up cumming pro-sexed," my legs were shaking and I felt unsteady on my tall heels.

"Paps suck a whore us mess," I could feel the juices running down my legs. My stockings became wet.

"You took good slut, ah little cum used." I had to take a seat, I was so aroused. As I looked down and I could see my nipples tenting out my elegant dress and a major error on my part. The slit was cut so I would be decent standing up, and when I sat, it inched higher and now the lacy top of my stockings and a small patch of my creamy white skin was visible. I looked around and saw that most of the people had left; only 8 remained. My publisher, Dick, Shae, Johnson, and four men I'd never met, one who was very large looking and black.

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