Date Night, with Shoes

W and I went on a date the other night.  No, that that kind of date, the real kind, where you go to a restaurant and have dinner and drinks and listen to music and sigh about how lovely the night is and make small talk and flirty eyes at one another.
(But yes, all you pervy people, I will talk about that other date here soon!)
I love walking with both my Guys. In fact, it’s one of my favorite ways to spend time with them, and we do it as often as possible.  With Ad, who doesn’t care if I am wearing comfortable shoes, hanging out in flats is not an issue.  With W, well, it just feels wrong to be sitting in public with him in flats of any sort, even if we did have to walk to get there!  And running shoes? Never! But what’s a girl to do? As W says, “Don’t want to ruin the feet,” so I gotta walk in sensible shoes.


What W also said, this time, was, “Carry your heels in your purse and change into them when we get there.”

Now, I’ve been told to go to the restroom and take my panties off in a restaurant before, I’ve been told to insert a buttplug in a public restroom, I’ve been told to go fuck myself in the bathroom and return to the table with my fingers unwashed.  All freakin’ wet-making and hot.  But this had a special, “W only” nuance. No one had ever told me to change my running shoes for fuck-me heels right at the table.  And I am willing to bet no one else ever will. That is his special kink, and I made the most of it, making sure to leave my tennis shoes out by the table…

…to stand up and cross the restaurant in my heels at least once, and ended up leaving the restaurant in them instead of changing back to my runners.
Of course I had to change back after about a block…


…but not before getting to pose under a streetlamp, showing off my shoes…

And the pretty pink bow on my panties.

W

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