Penthouse (28 page)

So both of my feet were measured very carefully, and my boyfriend ordered two pairs of shoes, both pairs with ankle straps to help hold the shoe on my foot. I thought the shoes would be mailed to my boyfriend, but no, we had to go back for the final fitting. The shoes fit wonderfully, but after ten minutes, I got a cramp in both calves of my legs, and had to remove both shoes. The man then put a small piece of cork under the ball of each foot, and slipped the shoes back on my feet. The cramp was gone, and did not come back. Amazing as it was, my boyfriend was thrilled as I walked around Pittsburgh for better than an hour. But that night when I got home, my legs, from the ankles up to my hips, throbbed something fierce. Again, I got really used to wearing the six-inch heels and got a special thrill in wearing them—to say nothing of how much my boyfriend enjoyed seeing me walk around in them.

Right after we were married, once again he said how he would love to see me “perched” (that’s the word he used) on even higher heels. I said no way was it possible to wear higher heels, and that’s what I thought. Two weeks later I was wearing shoes with eight-inch heels (but with two-inch platform soles). And a few weeks later, I had shoes with nine-inch heels and three-inch platforms! And believe it or not, I am getting to be quite an expert at wearing them.

Some of my good friends tell me that some people call me the “high-heel freak,” but that doesn’t bother me, as I love my husband, and I know he loves me.

That’s what is important to me. Three months ago my husband came up with an idea that perhaps I could wear a ballet type of shoe. It would have no vamp, my toes would be pointed straight down with a separate leather loop for each toe, and the tips of my toes would rest on heavy cotton padding. Well, I have the shoes now. They are black patent leather, and they lace onto my foot at the instep. They also have heavy ankle straps, and are very light in weight. These shoes have a full ten-inch heel.

I have been wearing them every night in our bed-room for my husband’s pleasure, but it was a week before I could stand in them, and it took a good month of practice before I could actually walk in them. Now every night I walk around our bedroom wearing these shoes for nearly twenty minutes before our marital relations. It drives my husband crazy, and I myself really enjoy wearing these out-of-this-world shoes. It has made our marriage a very, very happy one.

My husband would love to have me wear these shoes in public, and I said I would after I get used to wearing them for about two hours. I must admit, it requires a lot of stamina to wear this type of shoe, but for my husband’s love, I would stop at nothing as long as it makes him happy. I realize how dangerous these shoes can be if I should fall, as I have read of quite a few people falling off their shoes and breaking bones. But I guess I have been very fortunate.

—Name and address withheld

Bridge Club

My friend since high school, Liz, and I and two other girls have been very close for years—we would go on vacations together, play cards, go to the theater and movies, double-date, and so forth. Then Liz got married, while the other three of us stayed single (we range in age from nineteen to twenty-two). But the four of us have still remained close friends, and Liz’s husband, Bob, has sort of become part of the group, too. The fella she married is extremely good-looking, well built, and a very nice guy. And I must say that whatever resentment there was among the remaining three of us when she got married—it was mostly jealousy—soon passed as we go to know him better, and as we found our group was not splitting up. When Liz was not there, the three of us often joked about how well hung he must be (especially after being at the beach with them, or seeing him in short cutoffs) and speculated about their sex life . . . but not in her presence.

But one day Liz and I and one of the other girls were in Liz’s house, looking over some magazines with male nudes and comparing the qualities of the various men pictured. Liz was pretty quiet until she burst out that her husband was better than any of those pictured—even one of the pictures we were drooling over. We kind of put her down when she walked out of the room (we thought she was mad), but she returned with a box of photos. Were we surprised to see that they were all of Bob in some fantastic nude poses— quite a few with a hard-on. Liz was in a few of the pictures herself (the camera had a self-timer, she told us), but she was dressed or partially dressed. For example, she would be standing behind him, holding or stretching his hard-on. We knew that she was an avid photographer from the various trips we’d been on together, and that she had expensive photo equipment, but this really caught us by surprise. Also, we got really turned on by looking at these photos (much more than by the magazines, since he really was better-looking and better built). Since she was being so open with us, we admitted how we often talked and fantasized about Bob.

The next time we had our monthly bridge game at her house (our fourth friend was there this time), Liz had quite a surprise for us. Bob, who usually talked with us for a while and then disappeared, stayed around the whole time, and was extremely friendly and talkative. After about an hour of playing, Liz asked if we’d like to watch a photo session with Bob. Of course, none of us protested, although we weren’t quite sure what she had in mind. We were in the family room in the basement of their home, and she brought out her photo equipment and lights while Bob set up the backdrop and some other props. He left the room and returned in a robe. When Liz was ready, he got in position and threw off his robe. The three of us let out an audible gasp as we saw him completely nude. He’s really quite a man—beautifully pro-portioned, just the right amount of body hair and muscles for my taste, small, tight ass, nice legs, and best of all, a thick penis, which was about four inches, in its soft stage at that point. Liz took several poses before she invited each of us to get in the photos. We all made believe we wanted the others to go first, but I finally started. I stood next to him, behind him, et cetera, but didn’t touch him with my hands. When the next one went, Liz posed her and Bob more precisely and told the girl to touch him on the hips and chest in some rather sexy poses. Finally, when the fourth girl went in, Liz told Bob she wanted a hard-on for this one and then asked Ann if she wanted to help. Without further instructions, Ann grabbed his penis, and he was hard in an instant. We all gasped as his penis grew and grew and grew. (Later we all measured it at about eight inches long and six inches around.) Although we had seen it before in the pictures, it was much more exciting in the flesh. Ann continued posing with Bob, stroking his penis, balls, and ass. She and Bob (and the rest of us) got really worked up. When I got a second chance to pose with him, I knew I wanted to take some of my clothes off and get groped in return, but I didn’t want to turn this into an orgy without Liz’s okay. None of us had ever engaged in any kind of group sex—certainly not within
our
group. Finally, Liz said she wanted a picture of Bob coming. She told me to hold his penis very tight and pull way back on it, from behind, so his penis was stretched real tight—and not to pump it at all. This was unusual for me (I’d jerked boys off before, but never like this, and I didn’t think it was possible for them to come without any motion). I held his penis for about two minutes like this, squeezing harder all the time. I could feel it throbbing and contracting in my hand. He made a few back-and-forth movements, and finally he squirted—at least three feet. Liz got every bit of that in the photograph (which we saw a few days later).

After that, Bob left the room, and Liz cleaned up and—believe it or not—asked us to play some more bridge.

Where all this will lead is anyone’s guess, although let me say for myself, it’s gotten me real horny—to the point where I masturbate at home much more often. In addition, I’ve gotten much bolder and more aggressive with my dates and the fellas I go out with. On several dates I’ve had recently (once even on a first date), I began groping and undressing them before they did anything except kiss me.

—Name and address withheld

What a Show-off!

My husband and I have been married two years, and about a year ago he started bringing home
Penthouse
— rather furtively at first, I must admit, as I suppose he didn’t know what my reaction would be. Anyway, one night I caught him avidly admiring one of your Pets and as it obviously pleased him, I naturally felt a little jealous. We talked it over, and when I realized that the poses of the girls really turned him on, I began to think seriously about it: I certainly wasn’t going to take second place to a photograph, however beautiful the girl (and may I say that your models are lovely).

As it happened, for our holiday this year we went to Copenhagen. We both became a little tiddly one night and ended up at a sex show in one of the less reputable areas of the city. Surprisingly enough, I thoroughly enjoyed it, though it is generally held that women are not excited by visual stimuli as men are. The girls (and men) were all attractive with good physiques, and I think it was their honest enjoyment of sex that led me to overcome inhibition and watch with fascination. We saw strippers, lesbian couples masturbating each other with vibrators, coitus and cunnilingus in many different positions. After a while I noticed that my husband was very aroused, and I teased him about it, saying that I could do better than any of the girls when we got back to our hotel. That night we made love with more enthusiasm than for a long time—and that’s saying something!

As it was our anniversary the next day, I decided to give him something special, and the next morning, under the pretext of going to the hairdresser, I went to a sex shop and bought some rather erotic lingerie—a purple-satin open bra and matching briefs that were crotchless. When I returned my husband was out, so I spent a pleasant half hour trying on my purchases and adopting different poses in front of the bedroom mirror. I remember thinking to myself, “God, if this doesn’t give him the biggest hard-on of his life, nothing will.” It all seemed such a childish game at the time.

That evening after dinner I suggested an early night, and while my husband was getting undressed I went into the bathroom and “dressed to kill,” so to speak. I’ll always remember the look of rapture on his face as I came into the bedroom—I had on the bra and briefs plus a tight white sweater which emphasized my figure, and a wide leather belt. I consider myself not bad-looking for thirty-one and I certainly did full justice to the sweater, which was a size too small anyway. As the liqueurs after dinner had inflamed us both, and I had been feeling not a little randy for some time, inhibition was scarcely a problem. I paraded round for a few minutes wiggling my hips and cupping my breasts in my hands, while all he could do was to stare in pleasurable amazement. Then I proceeded to grind my hips, standing by the bed just out of his reach, and slowly pulled off my sweater. By now I was enjoying it almost as much as he was, and the sight of his erection standing up like a harbor bollard told me I was doing all right. I then knelt on the bed and held out my breasts for his admiration, using a few four-letter words by way of encouragement. When I took off my bra and draped it round his penis, I thought he was going to come there and then. Anyway, to cut a long story short, it led to the longest and most excruciatingly pleasurable lovemaking of my life.

I have never felt so much of a woman as that first night I “gave him a show,” though we have done it many times since. I’m convinced that if more wives would let themselves go in this way, even once in a while, prostitutes would be out of business. I can certainly recommend it to any married couple, and the sensation the wife experiences in arousing her husband like this is a pleasure in itself, not to mention the tumultuous lovemaking it’s bound to provoke. If you print this we’ll both be looking forward to reading other wives’ comments and their suggestions. Need I say where we’re going for our holiday next year?

—Mrs. L. D., Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England

Art and Amputees

Being an amputee myself, I have been intrigued by the recent correspondence advocating one-legged Pets and recounting what great sex objects we are. Actually, it’s a lot less enthralling and more mundane to be without a leg than your correspondents would have us believe, particularly the one who spends her time gliding from one Boston bar to another on her aluminum crutches, picking up men by letting the end of her stump poke out a bit below her skirt. It’s true that some guys are turned on by our dangling modifiers, but they are outnumbered by those who find the whole idea repulsive and would no more be seen with a one-legged girl than with a rosy-cheeked baboon. And given the American fetish for apparent perfection and success, it’s understandable.

Our supposed sexual desirability is more myth than reality. If anything, the loss of a limb creates a barrier, making it harder to meet people in spite of whatever charms and talents we may otherwise possess. Too often, what at first appears to be interest in us proves to be nothing more than a search for novelty and cheap thrills. That is not to say that we are damned by our flaws to a life of celibacy—far from it—but it is an added burden that I would rather do without. It gets tedious being stared at and deferred to, not to mention having to rely on mechanical contrivances that won’t go quite everywhere to get about.

To be perfectly honest, being minus much of my left leg is not exactly the greatest thing that ever happened to me, but after a while one comes to terms with it and learns to get by. It gives my husband something to play with—an ironic dividend. Not that that has much to do with us or why he married me. He would have preferred me complete, but neither of us had much choice in the matter.

—Mrs. S. F., Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Monopede Mania

Several weeks ago my roommate was given a copy of
Penthouse
magazine with readers’ letters entitled Monopede Mania. Since we are both amputees, she called and told me about it. I was able to acquire several back issues and was quite interested in your readers’ comments on this subject. Then I decided to write about my own experiences.