The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Lindsey! What on earth are you wearing? You can’t do yoga dressed like that!” Sandra, the fit and blonde instructor for Lindsey’s Wednesday night yoga class, was staring at her student in open shock, hands on her hips and eyes wide in amazement.

Lindsey waved her hands in an expression of helplessness. “I’m sorry, Sandy, really. I’m sorry. But . . . the thing is . . . I—I have to dress like this. All the time. Everywhere. I have no choice. It’s maddening, but I can’t stop it.”

She looked down at herself. Lindsey had arrived at an exercise and meditation class dressed for a high-society wine party. Her expensive dress was red with gold shimmers, smoothly form-fitting and extremely short. The lace tops of her smoke-tinged, silk stockings peeked out from below the high hemline. Her feet were encased in shiny black, designer pumps with two-inch-high platforms and six-inch, spike heels. She wore long, glittering earrings that matched her bracelet and necklace, and long red gloves. Her under-stated make-up reflected the extra half hour she had spent freshening up between work and yoga class.

“What are you talking about?” Sandra demanded. “You have been acting weird for weeks. You’re not yourself, anyone can see that. But this! Wait—you said you have to dress like this. Is someone—”

“No! It’s nothing like that, I promise. Well, it is, in a way, but not like you think. It’s actually much stranger.”

“Stranger? How could it be stranger?”

Lindsey drew a deep breath. “I am the thrall of Druantia, Queen of the Druids.”

Sandra took a half-step backward. She said, “You’re not making any sense.”

Her shapely student sighed. “I know. I know how bizarre it sounds. But I swear it’s true. Please let me explain.”

“Class begins in a few minutes.”

“Please, I need you to understand what’s happening to me.” Earnest pleading informed her voice.

Sandra relented. “All right, let me hear it. How you became the thrall of—who was that?”

“Druantia. Please.” She gestured toward a loveseat along one wall. Sandra sat down. Lindsey sat primly beside her. The hem of her short dress gave up covering anything. “It began a little over a month ago,” Lindsey said.

Something about shoes.

The inchoate thought bubbled up in the back of Lindsey’s mind as she made her purposeful way down the street toward the underground. What about shoes? She wasn’t sure. To Lindsey, shoes were more or less like elbows: they were functional and useful, she wouldn’t want to be without them, but otherwise she hardly gave them a thought. And she certainly didn’t care what they looked like. Yet at that moment her mind was telling her something about shoes.

She stopped walking. It was Tuesday, shortly after the close of the workday. A light drizzle was chilling the air. She looked down at her own shoes: brown, oxford-style lace-ups, her standard. Comfortable and sturdy, if a little plain. The shoes were proper enough for the office, casual enough to wear at home. All Lindsey’s shoes were like that.

Yet her mind kept telling her something about shoes. Or rather, it didn’t quite tell her anything, it just kept bringing up the subject. Was she supposed to remember something about shoes? Lindsey’s memory was excellent. Anyway she purchased new shoes exactly once a year, in April, when they were on sale. So what was the deal?

This mental distraction was a mild annoyance. It had been a day of mild annoyances. Her boss, Harold, was mildly annoying at the best of times. Her work, updating spreadsheets, making financial calculations, was annoying almost by definition. And of course there was the girl at the next desk, Rhian, whose name translated from Gaelic as “mildly annoying person”.

“Look what I got today-ay!” Rhian exclaimed, beaming. She rolled her chair back so Lindsey could see past the partition. Her hair was red and inclined to run wild. She held it back with twin barrettes above her ears.

Lindsey said, “I don’t need to guess. I am quite certain you are about to tell me.”

“It’s a brooch of Druantia! Pure silver. I’ve been looking for months! Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Lindsey stopped typing. “I’m sorry. A brooch of who?”

“Druantia. Irish goddess of the forest. She was queen of the druids—and totally awesome. The brooches are supposed to bring Druantia’s blessing to whoever wears them. Or is it whomever? Anyway.”

“Whomever,” said Lindsey. She took the ornament Rhian was holding so reverently. She didn’t care for jewelry particularly, but the brooch was attractive. The sculpture in the middle was shaped like a wide-branched tree. If she looked at it sideways, the tree almost became the profile of a long-haired woman.

“It is quite lovely,” Lindsey conceded. “What are these scratches around the edge?”

“Oh, that’s an inscription of some sort. It’s in Ogham, the runic language of the Druids. I looked it up! See, it’s all straight lines so it’s easy to carve into rocks.”

Lindsey turned the brooch in her hands, following the strange marks. “What does it say?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea. But I’ve been looking for a Druantia brooch forever. Well, ever since I saw Lady Hamiston wear one on her wedding dress.”

Lindsey said: “I will never understand your obsession with these posh glamour-girls. It’s a facade, you know, all that sophistication and snobbery. Underneath the glitz, Miss Upper-Class Hottie in her designer dress is another confused, oversexed bimbo, desperate to find a rich toff who will use her as arm candy or a trophy wife.”

Rhian rolled her eyes. It was a speech she had heard before. In her enthusiasm, Lindsey forgot that she was still holding the brooch of Druantia. Her hand felt hot. She looked down. Was the brooch glowing?

“Lindsey, you take all the fun out of life,” Rhian complained. “There’s nothing wrong with girls wanting to act like girls. And when I marry a barrister, I’m not going to invite you to my wedding.” She took back the brooch.

“Sorry,” Lindsey said. “I get carried away. I think I had best get back to work.” She looked down at her right hand. It was tingling. The palm was marked with the Ogham inscription on the brooch of Druantia.

Later, in the ladies’, Lindsey discovered that the marks on her hand didn’t wash off. They were like a tattoo. The tingle in her fingers seemed to flare up at random. Rubbing her hands together didn’t make it stop. Lindsey added that to the list of mild annoyances that she had compiled over the day.

Oddly, she soon had to add shoes to that list. There was something about shoes that she couldn’t sort. Shoes had distracted her all afternoon, like far away music she couldn’t quite hear. They were still distracting her as she made her way down the busy street, through the drizzle, toward the tube station.

Inevitably, she passed a shoe store. The high street was dense with fashion clothing outlets. She stopped again. None of the high-fashion shoes in the window interested her particularly. They were far too impractical. Still: something about shoes . . . . Her hand tingled. Without really knowing why, Lindsey entered the store.

When she emerged some time later, she was carrying a new bag in one hand. Inside the bag was a cardboard box and inside the box was a pair of shoes: specifically, a new pair of trainers. Lindsey worked out regularly. A good pair of athletic shoes was justified. Less justified was buying a new pair when her old ones were barely a month old.

More surprising, to Lindsey’s mind at least, was that the new shoes were red. She always wore sensible, white sport shoes. She looked for good fit, and arch support. Her new shoes were nothing like that. They were strawberry gumdrops for her feet; bright red uppers over thick white soles. Even the laces were red. These were shoes for showing off.

“Yes, I remember the red shoes,” Sandra said. “They were ridiculous. Like you were wearing light bulbs on your feet. Didn’t seem like you at all. You said something about mixing things up, adding a bit of colour. You didn’t sound like you believed it yourself. Since then you have been behaving more and more strangely, Lindsey.”

“Yes, I know. That’s what I’m trying to explain.”

“Well, you can’t do yoga in that get-up. The other members are getting ready for class.” She made to rise.

Lindsey laid a hand on her arm. “Bear with me. It will only take a few minutes.”

Sandra sighed. “Fine then. What has a pair of valley-girl track shoes got to do with—what did you say—becoming the thrall of Druantia?”

It was Lindsey’s turn to sigh. “Those silly shoes were only the beginning,” she said.

Lindsey had hoped that her sassy red trainers would relieve any fanciful footwear follies for a while. Yet on Friday afternoon, instead of heading straight home, she decided to go shopping. For Lindsey, such behaviour was novel. She generally went clothes shopping a couple of times each year, as necessity demanded. Her job in the financial sector demanded a professional wardrobe, but Lindsey had never felt the need for pretty things.

Her shoes had been bothering her all day. She was wearing the black ones. They matched her black jacket and slacks. They were good shoes: comfortable, classy, classic. Yet they felt wrong.

To make matters worse her hand was itching again. She worked in some lotion, but it didn’t help. It was hard to work efficiently when heel and hand distracted her.

“All right, that’s it,” she declared to the air around her, “I need new shoes.”

“What’s that?” said Rhian, poking her head around the partition.

“Oh nothing, nothing,” Lindsey said, shutting down her computer. “But I must dash. I’ll see you next week.”

“It’s barely 4:30! When did you start leaving the office before five? Or six?”

“Today,” Lindsey said. She slung her purse over her shoulder and strode away.

Less than half an hour later, Lindsey found herself in Bell & Ritchie’s, a vast emporium of women’s shoes in the heart of the fashion district. With the help of a discerning saleswoman, Lindsey tried on shoes she had never glanced at before. She experimented with different looks and styles. She sought out the perfect balance of pretty and practical.

At length, she settled on a new pair of shoes. Rather, she couldn’t settle, so she bought three pairs. She felt overwhelmed, almost dizzy. “I guess . . . I’ll take them all?” she told the saleswoman, as if she were unsure that was possible.

“Of course,” said the assistant, smiling. “What about the sandals?”

Lindsey groaned. “I’ll have them too,” she said quickly.

Later, sitting in the half-empty tube train taking her home, Lindsey condemned her behaviour. What ever had possessed her to buy four pairs of fashion shoes at one go? Such profligate indulgence was right out of character. Yet despite her doubts, she felt oddly satisfied. Something had been put to rights; a profound dislocation had been corrected. There was something about shoes.

She was wearing the least garish pair of shoes she had purchased that afternoon. Her dainty feet were nestled into a pair of black slip-ons with gold trim and block heels. Lindsey liked the new shoes. The 6-cm heels gave her legs a bit of lift without being too flashy. While admittedly a departure from her typical style, they still fell within the realm of the practical. At least, that was what Lindsey told herself. The sensation of walking in heels was new, but interesting.

She brushed back her hair with her right hand. The impression of Druantia’s brooch was still clearly visible on the palm. The lines had faded from black to a dark skin tone, like a very selective tan. Washing her hand had no effect. The tingling had abated. What was she going to do with all these shoes?

Later, back in her flat after dinner, she opened all the shoe boxes and carefully arranged her four pair of heeled shoes in her closet. She looked them over. “Well, that was impulsive,” she decided. “I guess I don’t need to buy shoes for a while.”

She looked again at her new shoes. Unaccountably, her hand began to tingle. “Oh, behave yourself,” she told it. The tingling continued. She rubbed her hand against her thigh. She found herself looking again at the neat rows of shoes. For some reason her hand wasn’t the only place she was tingling.

She ran a hand down her sweatshirt. She could feel her nipples stiffening inside her bra. Lindsey was between boyfriends at that moment. She stood there for a full minute, considering her new shoes. Her hips swayed back and forth. She pressed a hand against her leggings where the tingling was centred.

This would never do. She yanked off her sweatshirt and tossed it aside. Her brassiere followed it to the floor. “Oh, you girls are excited tonight,” she cried, caressing herself with both hands. She tossed her head back, biting her lip, letting her hair fall free. “I think maybe it’s time for some “me” time,” she decided.

She peeled her leggings down her legs, pulling her underthings along with them. When she was nude she lay down on her bed, throwing aside bags and wrapping from her shopping trip. Then she set about exploring those lovely tingles in her sex.

After only a few strokes, she stopped. Something was missing. She lay still for a while, reflecting. She sat up. She skipped over to the closet and retrieved the last of her new shoe purchases.

The shop clerk had called them sandals. Lindsey wasn’t sure. They were red, open at the toe and the heel, but with velvety fabric extending across the top of the foot and up around the ankle. The heels were narrow, at least three inches high, offset by inch-thick platforms.

“Why exactly did I buy these?” she wondered. “Way too fancy for work. Too fancy for anything! I suppose I can wear them to a party, or something? Or . . . .” She slipped a shoe onto her left foot. She snugged the wide strap around her ankle, then buckled it in place. She did the same with the other foot.

The feeling was both unfamiliar and comforting. She could feel the sandals lifting her heel and shifting the weight toward her toes. Yet the soft straps gripped her feet snugly.

She propped up a couple of pillows at the head of the bed, then lay down again where she could see her feet. Watching her nude, shapely body in nothing but frivolous heels was especially sexy. She spread her legs and let her fingers pick up where they had left off.

It felt better by a quantum leap. If the hand-play had been pleasant before, now it was fabulous. Lindsey felt like her fingers were tiny electric vibrators, firing off sparks of sensation everywhere they touched. “Ohhhhh, yes yes yes yes yes Yes!” she mumbled, stroking faster.

She spread her legs wide, admiring her feet in their high-heeled encasements. So feminine. So sexy. So right. That was as far as her thoughts could take her before her first orgasm took over. The second one wasn’t far behind.

The following Monday found Lindsey back at her cubicle, doing what she always did on Mondays, and four other days of the week. She was feeling unaccountably upbeat. She was also a little worried. She was feeling good because she was wearing her new shoes the black slip-ons, not those preposterously sexy red sandals that had amplified her hand-play all weekend. At the same time, she saw no reason why wearing a nice pair of shoes to work, along with a pretty dress and dark hose, should feel so weirdly satisfying. The combination of worry and whimsy was deeply confusing.

“Why are you so cheerful?” Rhian wanted to know. “It’s Monday. It’s raining. Yet you’ve been smiling all morning.” She paused. “You didn’t get lucky on the weekend, did you?”

“Rhian! Of course not. Or rather, I did, but not like that. I went shopping. I bought some new shoes. See?” She stretched a stocking-clad leg to display one gold-heeled shoe.

“Pretty,” Rhian agreed. “Sweet dress, too. You look smashing.”

Lindsey was wearing a long-sleeved black dress with diamond-patterned gold stitching. The dress was very much in style, but both brighter and shorter than what she usually wore. She had bought it on Saturday, to match her new shoes. It clung to her figure. “Do you like it, really?”

“It’s ace,” Rhian replied. “And very sexy. I’m impressed. Although . . . a new dress doesn’t usually make me glow like . . . you know. Maybe you should go shopping more often.”

“I have to get back to work,” Lindsey said. She was more confused than ever.

Lindsey was much less productive than usual that day. She kept stopping to admire her new shoes. That evening she had another rousing session of hand-play after dinner. She wore another new pair of shoes, rose-red peep-toes with wedge heels. She wore them to work on Tuesday. Rhian liked those too.

Lindsey wore another new outfit to work on Tuesday, to go with the shoes. She hadn’t intended to. Getting dressed that morning, she reached for pair of trousers, as usual. She stopped with her hand outstretched. It started to tingle. “Those are so . . . dull,” she said to the world at large. She held up the offending garment. “How long have I been wearing these?”

The same clothes, over and over, day in and day out. Dull. She had become dull. The realization came like a judge’s verdict.

And now the judge was explaining her decision. Dull clothes weren’t merely boring: they were frumpy. They were an offense against good taste. Most damning of all, they were unfeminine. Working in a financial office was no excuse for not looking pretty. What must the men at work think of her? Or the women, come to that?

No, wait, did any of that make sense? She frowned, trying to clear her thoughts. There was nothing wrong with trousers. She wore slacks to work every day, always had. Although, now that she thought about it, trousers were awfully drab. Unflattering. Probably even holding her back professionally. Wait . . . what? Her hand was tingling again.

Then she realized that slacks would hide her kicky new shoes. That settled it. What was the point of wearing shoes that flattered her legs if no one could see her legs? She pulled on a pair of suntan pantyhose and a body-shaping, fuschia dress, along with her new red wedges. The sense of relief was palpable: this was how a proper woman dressed.

She spent a little longer on her hair and make-up that morning too. The sexy outfit demanded it. She slipped on a pair of gold earrings and a matching necklace. She checked herself out in the bedroom mirror. Much better, she decided, a little vainly. The look was more after-work than work-day. Getting pretty had made her a trifle late too.

Lindsey’s arrival at the office did not go unnoticed. The clingy dress was flattering to her comely curves. It was short enough to announce her legs. She drew surprised compliments from her friends, surprised admiration from the men.

Lindsey found the attention pleasant. And perplexing. It was nice to know she was attractive, after all. Yet she hadn’t dressed like this to show off. Had she? Of course not. She only wanted to make the most of her pretty shoes.

She sat at her work station, frowning. She looked down at her feet. I do have great legs, she decided. And the attention of her male co-workers was startlingly warming.

“And just like that, I stopped wearing trousers,” Lindsey explained to Sandra. “I assumed it was a one-day thing, but the decision turned out to be permanent. From that day onward, I’ve worn dresses to work every day, without fail. It would be impossible to return to my old style now.”

The instructor was not convinced. “So you made a traditionalist fashion choice. Good for you, I suppose. But of course you can always go back to trousers if you want to.”

Lindsey shook her head. “No I can’t. Druantia does not permit unfeminine clothing.”

“What?”

“I’m not allowed to wear unflattering pants. They’ve become utterly repellent. For a while I could wear pants at home, for housework, or cooking. Jeans maybe, if they were tight and sexy. Eventually I couldn’t bring myself to wear them at all. And the thought of wearing them outside, in public—yuck.”

“Oh come now, Lindsey—”

“Sandra, could you walk into a crowded market and take all your clothes off?”

A pause. “No, I suppose I really couldn’t. It would shock everyone around me.”

“That’s what wearing pants in public is like for me. Wearing them anywhere. It feels wildly inappropriate, shameful even. Finally I took every pair of jeans and trousers I own and tossed them in a dumpster. I needed the closet space.”

“I see.”

“And of course, at about the same time, I had to change my exercise clothes too.”

“Yes, I remember,” Sandra mused. “That was about the time you started dressing strangely for yoga. Disrupted the whole class.”

Lindsey arrived late for yoga that Wednesday evening. Office work had taken longer than usual. Her mind kept drifting to shoes. She was wearing her third impulsive shoe purchase: tan, peep-toe pumps with graceful heels. Along with white hose and a snug, patterned skirt, the shoes showed off her legs keenly.

Getting dressed for yoga also took longer than expected. She wore new yoga pants: curve-flattering black-and-yellow spandex with gauze panels up the legs. The stretch pants matched the sleeveless top.

The tight-fitting outfit was not Lindsey’s usual style. But it was a matter of necessity. She couldn’t wear sweat pants any more. The sexy spandex number was an emergency replacement.

By the time Lindsey finished getting changed into her new yoga kit, the other women were already gathered in the relaxation room. Salt candles burned all around, casting yellow light across the floor. Eastern music played in the background. “Sorry I’m tardy,” Lindsey apologized, hurrying into the room. She found her mat and began her deep breathing. The other women looked at her.

“Uh, Lindsey,” said the woman next to her, “have you forgotten something?”

“Forgotten? What—Oh.” She looked down. She was still wearing her heels! Somehow she had forgotten to change shoes. The thought flashed through her mind that practicing yoga in high heels was kind of hot.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” she said. Heads turned. Sandra looked exasperated. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” Lindsey said. She hurried back to the changing room to put on her trainers. Though she loved her gaudy red gym shoes, she felt a curious reluctance to take her heels off.

When the session was over Lindsey said good-bye to the other women and headed home. She decided to wear her yoga outfit home. She slipped her heels back on, in place of the platform trainers. She liked the way they looked. She liked the way they got her looks. Her hand began to tingle again.

She popped into a shoe shop and bought another pair of trainers. These ones were mostly blue, with elevating, snow white soles. She could hardly wear the same red shoes every day. She bought a pair of funky gold high-tops too, just for the heck of it.

She was halfway home before she realized what a foolish thing she had done. She didn’t take the shoes back. She had to hurry home and masturbate in them.

“Who are you?” Rhian demanded, early the next week, “and what have you done with my friend Lindsey?”

Lindsey looked up from her monitor. It showed a dense array of financial tables. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said.

“Oh yes you do. Lindsey, you’re all dressed up. Have you got an interview?”

“No! Look, there’s nothing special about wearing a skirt.”

“Before last week I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a skirt. cept maybe once, at the Christmas party.”

“I felt like dressing a little differently. Nothing odd about that.”

“Six days in a row?”

“I’m, uhm, trying out a new look. Sort of test driving it, you know? More of an executive thing.” She scratched the palm of her right hand. A message popped up on the monitor behind her: “More new styles you might like!”

Rhian looked unconvinced. “Not really what I would call executive,” she demurred. “Pretty though.”

Lindsey’s fitted skirt was peach-coloured, with lace along the hem. It ended well above the knee, especially when she was sitting down. The skirt matched her jacket. Her camisole was red. The slope of her breasts was playfully exposed. “You’ll definitely get Harold’s attention,” Rhian predicted.

“I’m not looking for attention,” Lindsey insisted. She adjusted her snug jacket. “And most certainly not Harold’s.” She was wearing big red earrings.

Rhian giggled. “Too late for that, I think.” She pointed discretely across the open-plan office. A tall, bespectacled man in an overly formal suit was gazing in Lindsey’s direction, an interested look on his face.

“Hide me,” Lindsey said.

Lindsey doubted she was being honest with Rhian about not wanting attention. She was growing accustomed to men looking at her as she walked down the street, or about the office. She liked it; their looks made her feel warm and smug. The male gaze felt somehow affirmative: if they were looking her over it meant she was worth looking over. And that meant that she was attractive, and therefore feminine.

Her new shoes helped, of course. The heels worked their magic of shaping her legs, lifting her rump and thrusting out her chest so her figure was best displayed. Lindsey’s shift toward shorter, tighter skirts made sure the magic wasn’t wasted.

In the evenings, the cumulative warmth from all that male attention could only be cooled by nightly sessions of hand-play. Wearing sexy shoes while she diddled guaranteed a smashing orgasm. She wore a different pair of heels each time.

Yet she remained conflicted. Why was she acting this way? What happened to the sensible, pragmatic Lindsey she knew? Did it make sense to kick of her heels at home at the end of the day, only to slip on a different pair to wear around the flat? She had worn her new, neon-blue sport shoes to yoga on Wednesday, instead of the red ones, because the thick rubber soles were sort of like wearing heels. Sandra said something about remembering mindfulness, rolled her eyes and carried on with the class.

From time to time Lindsey tried to get back into her old loafers, or her good white trainers. She did not succeed. Every time she tried the tingling in her hand became maddening. Walking about without showing off her legs had become inexplicably but unarguably wrong.

Lindsey was in the middle of a meeting, early the following week, when her phone buzzed. Harold scowled at her. She snatched it up quickly before it could buzz again. She read the text message. “I have to go out for a while,” she said.

Harold’s scowl deepened. “Is this something important? Is it really important?” he demanded. He peered at her over the top of his glasses. Harold’s habit of repeating himself was one of the mildly annoying things about him. His habit of glaring at people over his glasses was another. He had a bunch of papers spread out on the table in front of him. He gave Lindsey a complicated look, part curiosity, part wariness, as if she were a flighty animal, interesting to watch but not entirely safe.

Part of Harold’s unease must have arisen from the way Lindsey was dressed. She had gone shopping again on the weekend. It was a puzzling decision. She justified it as a wardrobe upgrade, to polish her professional status. Yet she ended up buying only up-scale, high-fashion clothes that showed off her legs. Or her bust. Or her ass. Or all of these elements of her well-curved form at the same time. Rhian’s assessment of more pretty than professional was increasingly accurate. Sexy was winning out over sensible.

Lindsey’s new dress code had not escaped the notice of her colleagues. The male half at least, strongly approved. Appreciative looks lingered as she ambled by. The interns, Jaxon and Luke, followed her around the office like love-struck puppies. Rhian wondered aloud if she had a secret lover. Lindsey herself was wondering what was going on.

The outfit she was wearing that day was an elegant example: a sleeveless red pullover and matching short jacket above a stretch-fit, hound’s-tooth skirt. The skirt hemmed six inches above her knees. It advertised the sway of her rump as she walked. It revealed a fetching length of well-shaped legs in smokey hose and red satin pumps.

Lindsey had never worn a skirt so short to the office before. She was pretty certain she hadn’t worn a skirt this short anywhere since she was a college student. Yet it wasn’t her suddenly glamorous style that troubled Lindsey the most. Nor was it the fact that her weekend purchases included three other outfits at least as foxy as this one. The truly odd part was that all of these wardrobe enhancements proceeded from the ground up.

They started with shoes.

Lindsey’s new red satin pumps were lovely. They had bows on the vamps. They had a full inch more heel than the shoes she bought the week before. They were a style she might, briefly, have considered wearing to a wedding, maybe, if she could sit down a lot. She got them from Bell & Ritchie’s. She had legitimate reason to be in the neighbourhood on Saturday. She impulsively decided to drop in to the shop and take a look around.

That had been a mistake. Something about all those garish shoes went to her head like strong drink. The moment she walked into the store a sensation of confusion and mental sluggishness descended on her mind like a soft pink fog. Her hand tingled with excitement.

Vaguely, she turned to go, scratching her right hand with her left. She had no real reason to be here. She was already wearing heels, and a miniskirt, even though it was Saturday. She had no interest in shoes like those high fashion numbers on display: they were expensive and impractical even if they were also stylish, eye-catching, and sexy, sexy, sexy.

On her way to the door she began picking up random shoes and looking them over. Only to satisfy idle curiosity, of course. She saw no reason at all to sit down in one of the comfortable chairs and maybe see what they had in her size. She wasn’t going to waste time trying any of them on, or flexing her ankle this way and that to enjoy the feel of them, then walking across to the floor-length mirrors to see how she looked.

Certainly there could be no justification for actually buying another pair of shoes. Even less for buying several pair. That would make no sense.

So why, she asked herself as she wobbled down the street in unfamiliar high-heels, was she carrying two bags of riotously impractical shoes in one hand, and a charge-card in her pocket that was practically smoking? She looked down at her feet, perplexed. Her new shoes were tan-coloured sandal things with complicated laces across the front, up to her ankle. They had absurdly thick platform soles and serious heels. They were a faddish, party-girl style that Lindsey had never even looked at before.

Something was definitely wrong here. She could count any number of reasons why these shoes were a bad choice. They were ostentatious and frivolous. The heels were a public safety hazard, especially with the added height of the platforms. They made walking slow and inefficient. Climbing steps would be a challenge. The shoes didn’t at all match the little red skirt and pullover she was wearing with them.

Lindsey rubbed her tingling hand. This last problem, at least, was curable. She wobbled off to find some chic ensembles to match all her new shoes. That venture occupied most of the afternoon. Pleasuring herself with new shoes and a new vibrator occupied the entire evening.

The sartorial demands of her new footwear explained why Lindsey had hip-swayed into the office on the day of the meeting looking like she was ready for a photo-shoot. Every time she crossed her knees she distracted any man within visible range. Harold, however, was still glaring at her, waiting for an explanation why she had to bolt from an important meeting.

She decided to try some feminine appeal. “I’m sorry,” she said, in her best caressing voice. “I made an appointment to see a dermatologist. They had a cancellation so she’ll see me now—if I come right away. Otherwise it’s a four-week wait.”

Harold studied his junior analyst, apparently trying to find any flaw that would suggest a skin problem. Lindsey’s face could have appeared on soap commercials. She gave him doe eyes. “Very well,” he said at last. “Very well. Do try to get back without delay.”

“Of course!” She got to her feet, feeling the delightful upward thrust of her new heels. She gathered her things and walked away—with the gaze of every man at the table fixed on her legs. The higher heels made it impossible to walk quickly, but easier to walk with a dainty, feminine gait. It would take at least five minutes for the men at the table to pull their attention back to business. Lindsey stopped in the ladies’ to freshen up before heading downtown.

Dr. Prisha Madayal, dermatologist and cosmetic surgeon, was a black-haired beauty with a diamond in her nose. She wore a white lab coat over something colourful, with red shoes. Lindsey noticed her shoes immediately.

“So what’s the problem?” the doctor said briskly, when Lindsey was seated in her comfortable surgery. She too seemed skeptical that Lindsey could suffer any dermatological issues.

“This,” Lindsey replied. “This is the problem.” She held out her right hand, palm up. The radial lines of Ogham from Druantia’s brooch were still clearly visible, like an etching in her skin. “It’s been there for a couple of weeks. Itches like crazy.”

“Well what’s this now?” the doctor wondered, examining Lindsey’s hand. She put on a pair of black-rimmed glasses with jewels in the frame. “This is remarkably detailed,” she offered, admiration in her voice. “You can see every line and—who did this for you?”

Lindsey said: “No one. It was an accident. I was holding a piece of jewelry in my hand. A brooch. I may have been gripping it rather tightly. The engraving on the brooch transferred to my hand. It’s been there ever since.”

“Did it hurt?” She was holding the ends of Lindsey’s fingers, studying the pattern on the palm.

“At the time, yes, a little. Since then, no. But the marks won’t go away.”

“You said it itches.”

“Sometimes. It comes and goes. I—” She stopped as a new thought came to her.

The doctor considered for a moment. “What was the brooch made of?”

“Silver.”

“Ah! There it is then. You’re allergic to silver. You suffered a dermal reaction when you touched the brooch, but only where the extruding lines of the embossing made contact. The imprint on your hand is a highly restricted rash. Still, exceptionally detailed.” She was holding Lindsey’s hand in both of hers, studying the imprint more with admiration than concern.

Lindsey protested. “But I can wear silver earrings without any trouble.” Although, now that she thought about it, she didn’t own any silver earrings. She hardly owned any jewelry at all. She really should do something about that. She shook her head. Focus!

Dr. Madayal studied Lindsey’s face. She said: “Are you certain?” She reached over and flicked the hair off Lindsey’s left ear. “Your ears are not pierced. Clip-on earrings wouldn’t necessarily bring the silver in direct contact with your skin.”

“Oh, right. Hadn’t thought of that. What do you recommend, for the rash?”

Dr. Madayal took off her glasses. Her eyes were big and brown. “A topical steroid. The rash should go away on its own after a while, but we can speed things up.” She rose to search through a glass-fronted cabinet behind her desk. Lindsey studied her red shoes. They were pretty. Not enough heel.

The doctor returned with a small tube of ointment. “This is a freebie from the drug company, but there should be enough there to treat your hand. Prolonged contact in a thin layer is most effective. The best way to do that is with one of these.”

She reached into a drawer and withdrew a long foam rod in a sterile bag. “It’s called a gripper. If you go to bed holding the rod, it infuses the medicine into your hand a little at a time while you sleep. There are instructions in the bag. Try that for a week or so. I expect that rash will clear right up.”

“Thanks, doctor,” Lindsey said, getting to her feet. She tugged down her tight miniskirt.

Dr. Madayal said: “Do you mind if I take a few pictures of your hand? I have never seen anything quite like that.”

“Uhm, well, certainly. Why not.”

She expected the doctor to use some sort of medical camera, but instead she brought a mobile phone out of her purse. She took at least a couple dozen pictures of Lindsey’s hand from different angles. When she was finally satisfied, Lindsey thanked her again and left. As she walked out the door, Dr. Madayal was sitting at her desk, thoughtfully flipping through the pictures on her mobile. Her free hand flitted across the throat of her blouse.

Lindsey was distracted in a different way as she walked back to the street. The passing men admiring her legs hardly registered. A minor epiphany had come to her in Dr. Madayal’s office: the tingles in her hand were not random.

She looked down. She admired how her red satin pumps lifted her weight onto the balls of her feet, lengthening and shaping her nyloned legs. There were so many styles, so many possibilities. She felt warm. The urge to rush to a shoe store and turn all her idle dreams into high-heeled reality was unexpectedly powerful. She felt something else, too. Incredibly, she was moistening. The prospect of blowing her paycheque on flashy footwear was turning her on.

Her hand tingled like crazy.

Lindsey tried out the gripper that evening. She squeezed some of the medicine into the port at one end of the gripper, following the instructions, then strapped the device in place inside her hand. It was long and tapered. She could feel the medicine oozing through the foam onto her palm. “Well,” she decided, turning her hand to and fro, “that’s going to be proper tricky to sleep with.”

She studied her hand. Quite a bit of the foam tube protruded below her palm. A mischievous idea occurred to her.

She had already stroked herself to a couple of nifty climaxes while she reviewed her day of strutting about. She had worn a pair of black pumps for the first round, and spike-heeled ankle boots for the second. But the gripper, neatly strapped to her hand and pre-lubricated with medicine, suggested a new possibility.

She was wearing a night gown. She searched through her growing collection of come-fuck-me footwear until she found a pair of spike-heeled pumps decorated with heart-shaped cutouts. She slipped them on, then carefully tightened the wide ankle-straps.

Suddenly she was standing on tip-toe, even though she was lying down. Light from the bedside lamp glinted off the metallic spike heels. She hardly even remembered buying these shoes. Her hand tingled pleasantly.

She lay on top of the blankets so she could admire her fab shoes. She propped up her head on some pillows. She spread her legs, then gently lowered the gripper toward her shamelessly needy sex. It slipped in with a little wiggling. The foam compressed from the press of her pussy, exuding cream. Drawing it in and out, in and out, felt tickly, but pleasant.

She stroked faster. Still admiring her outrageous high-heels, she eased herself without hurry to the most intense orgasm of the night. Only much later did she awaken long enough to take her heels off.

“OK, that’s a little too much information,” Sandra interjected, back at her yoga class. She blew out her breath. “I’m not sure I need to hear about your hand-play in heels.” She brushed back a strand of hair. Her face was flushed. “Did the medicine do anything? Besides providing a kinky sex toy, I mean.”

Lindsey held up her hand where Sandra could see the palm. “What do you think?”

Sandra studied the imprint on Lindsey’s hand. It was clear as newsprint. “I see. And you’re telling me that because of that mark, you felt compelled to wear heels? What kind of nonsense is that?“

Lindsey said, “I swear it’s true. Compulsion is exactly the right word. Wearing heels became like breathing. I started wearing them at home. I bought sexy slides and open-toed clogs to replace my old slippers.

“For a while I could still wear trainers to work out or run on the treadmill, if they were funky and gaudy. Form always trumped function. But as soon as I finished, the heels went back on. I couldn’t stop myself. Anything else felt utterly repulsive.

“I bought a pair of vinyl platform sandals, with high heels—stripper sandals, they call them—so I could wear them in the shower. Of course, the first time I showered in them I had to finger myself, to break the sandals in properly.” She didn’t mention the four other pair of sandals she had purchased—and broken in—since then.

“Don’t your feet hurt from wearing heels all the time?”

“Yes, but less than you would expect. Certainly less than I expected. After a while I hardly noticed. It was like my feet were adapting to them.”

Sandra looked out the door. Women were milling about, waiting for class to begin. “I should be going,” she said. She made to rise.

Once again Lindsey stopped her with a hand on her arm. “I haven’t quite finished,” she said. “I think you want to hear the rest.”

Sandra sat down again.

Lindsey said, “Naturally, my new infatuation created problems. Eventually, I couldn’t bear to be out of heels—even for your yoga class.”

Lindsey was late, again, for the next Wednesday evening class. She had underestimated how much longer it took to walk from the tube when she was wearing high heels. “Sorry everyone!” she said as she wiggled into the room.

Her fellow yoga-practitioners reacted in surprise. “Seriously, Lindsey?” asked one.

“That’s a little much,” said another.

They were probably responding to Lindsey’s new exercise kit. She had ditched her barely used black tights for a new pair. These pants coated her curves in a shiny red skin, capped with bands of glittering gold, from somewhere south of her navel to just below her knees. The bra-top was also red, with a sparkling gold band below her breasts. It was the kind of skin-baring, garish outfit a super-fit hottie would wear to show off at the gym. And that was before even considering her new shoes.

Lindsey was wearing the new gold trainers she had impulsively purchased a few days earlier. They could hardly be called trainers at all: more a wild hybrid between a high-topped running shoe and an ankle boot, designed by an exhibitionist valley girl who was high on something. They had super-thick soles and gold mesh uppers, with tall wedge heels built in to the back. They were the closest she could come to trainers while still wearing heels.

“Uhm, my regular outfit . . . is in the laundry?” she suggested.

From the front of the room, Sandra glared at her. “Let’s just get started,” she said.

Holding yoga poses while wearing heels was more than a little bit tricky, but Lindsey did her best. She gathered a lot of looks from the other women in the room. Strangely, after their initial shock her mat-mates didn’t seem to be offended. Lindsey even detected a sliver of admiration, as if they were impressed by her moxie.

Lindsey’s new kit was barely legal on the street. Yet she wore it home. By the time she arrived at her flat she was so worked up that another exercise session, on her back with her legs spread wide, was urgently needed.

“Oh god, that outfit!” Sandra exclaimed. “For yoga! It distracted everybody. Like you were a neon sign announcing SEX in big letters. What were you thinking?”

Lindsey shrugged, embarrassed. “Don’t you see? It wasn’t my choice. Druantia wanted me in heels all the time. All the time. I’ve tried to resist, to push back, to force myself into (eew!) ordinary shoes but . . . in the end, she always gets her way.”

“But what about your workplace? Didn’t anyone notice? What about your friend, Rhian?”

Lindsey nodded. “Rhian was the first to recognize that I had a serious problem.”

“Lindsey, you have a serious problem,” Rhian said one day. The two women were sitting in the staff room, lingering over lunch.

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re acting weird. Or at least, your dressing weird. Well, you’re dressing weird for the office. And for you.”

“Was any of that supposed to make sense?”

“Why are you all dolled up like that? You used to be the poster girl for boring and practical. Now you’re dressed like you’re ready for . . . I don’t know. This is no way to dress for the office! Everyone is talking about you.”

Lindsey was dressed that day in what had become her standard: a sleeveless, body-con minidress, this one blue, with striking, patterned hose and royal blue pumps. The shoes had ankle straps, platform soles at least an inch thick and impressively high heels. They transformed her formerly brisk stride into a series of slow, deliberate mini-steps. The short dress and glossy hose advertised the flex and flow of her legs.

Co-workers forgot what they were doing every time she passed by. Men in the lunch room walked into tables. She was pretty sure the interns were wanking off thinking about her. She secretly hoped they were.

Lindsey squirmed. “I’m . . . uhm . . . I, you know, got tired of being drab. I’m trying—a new style?” She didn’t sound convincing, or convinced.

Rhian wasn’t having it. “A new style you always hated. You used to say that a modern woman should never have to show off her body to be attractive. You said that dressing sexy was meretricious, demeaning, and shallow. Those were your exact words. So what gives?”

Lindsey raised both hands. “I don’t know. Of course I remember what I said. But somehow I’ve developed this weird obsession with sexy clothes. Party dresses. Flashy hose. And high heels. Especially high heels. It’s getting so I hardly wear anything else.”

Rhian considered that. She said: “Do you remember a minute ago, when you said something about not making any sense?”

“Look, I know it sounds loopy, but I think it has something to do with Druantia.”

Rhian was taken aback. “The Queen of the Druids?”

Lindsey held up her hand, palm forward. “Her. I wonder if maybe I insulted her. Do you remember when you showed me your brooch of Druantia? You were so excited about some posh girl’s wedding and I was ranting about sexism and heels as instruments of objectification and so on . . . you know how I get wound up.”

“I know.”

“I was holding your brooch while we were talking and that’s when the Ogham got imprinted on my hand. A little after that I started developing my new obsession with vamping up all the time.

“Now, suppose Druantia is real. Suppose she is still around. Suppose she was offended by some modern feminist protesting her traditions and she decided to punish me by making me become the kind of woman that I look down on.”

Another pause. Eventually, Rhian said, “You do realize how preposterous that sounds, right?”

“Only once I said it out loud.”

“Do you mind if I offer an alternative explanation?”

“What’s that?”

“Ok, look, don’t take this the wrong way, but how long ago did you break up with Rupert? Sometime last year, right? So, maybe you’re feeling in need of, you know, male attention, and the high heels business is simply your subconscious signalling that you’re available.”

“Rhian, are you saying that I need to get laid?”

“Uhm, I didn’t want to phrase it so crudely. But when I have a major date and I want to let the fellow know there’s potential, first thing I do is buy a new pair of shoes.”

Lindsey looked down at the outrageous shoes on her feet. She thought about the growing collection of high heels spilling out of her closet at home. “If your theory is right,” she said to Rhian, “I must be one horny bitch.”

Still, Rhian’s theory of shoes as sexual signal was re-assuring. It made a kind of sense. It suggested a course of action. With a bit of effort on the social side, Lindsey’s problem might take care of itself.

She was already aware of the magnetism of a well-dressed woman. In her astonishing shoes and short-short skirts she drew attention everywhere she went. No one expected to see a pretty woman in a baby-doll dress and five-inch heels shopping for groceries; or picking up take-away pizza; or popping into Starbucks for a latte. Lindsey had displayed her new wardrobe in all those places, and more. Her arrival tended to draw the delighted response of a surprise visit by a celebrity. And of course no one in a conservative investment office expected a co-worker from the cover of Vogue.

So finding suitable men to test Rhian’s theory was not difficult. In fact it was effortless. She made her first connection in the coffee shop nearest her office. As usual these days, the baristas began fighting to serve her the moment she strutted through the door.

Lindsey had barely settled at a side table with a steaming cup of tea when a fellow from the nearby table struck up a conversation. Lindsey encouraged him. He was a software developer, he said.

They went back to her flat. She surprised him with her eagerness to find the bedroom. She surprised him again by leaving her hose and heels on while they made love. He found that style very stimulating. By the time he stumbled out the door, hours later, her new friend was dazed, smiling and exhausted. The next day Lindsey visited a different coffee shop and did it again.

Inevitably, Lindsey’s newfound licence spilled over into the workday. It started, of course, with the interns. Jaxon and Luke were intense, diffident young men taking a work term before finishing the last year of their business degrees. They looked perpetually uncomfortable in their unfamiliar suits. As Lindsey’s heels and hemlines soared upward, the boys gradually abandoned everyone else in favour of following Lindsey around to see if she needed anything.

Once, after sending Jaxon off on some trivial errand, she found herself explaining some business on her computer while Luke leaned over her shoulder, studying the monitor. At least, he occasionally glanced at the monitor. He was much more interested in the view down Lindsey’s loose silk top, or the sight of her hose-dressed legs, exposed above mid-thigh by her tiny skirt. She sat in her work chair with her knees crossed casually. She dangled one shoe.

“So, here we see the exchange rates set by EU banks, which may not always match the rates from other countries. So you have to watch . . . uhm, watch . . . watch them carefully.” She was distracted. Luke was standing very close. The bulge in his trousers was impossible to miss. On a whim, Lindsey reached up and stroked it.

Luke’s eyes went wide. He stiffened, but didn’t move away. Lindsey continued to stroke while she talked. She pointed to something on the screen with her free hand. Her nails were pearly and smooth. The day before she had impulsively decided on a manicure. She skipped out of work early. Rhian had been shocked. Somehow Lindsey convinced her to come along too.

Luke was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Lindsey squeezed a little more firmly, testing the maleness beneath his suit trousers. Luke made a little sound. In the next cubicle, Rhian looked up from her work. Her fingernails were pink.

Lindsey gave Luke an innocent look. “I don’t think you’re really getting this,” she said, still stroking. “Wait for me in meeting room three. We’ll go over it nice and slowly.” She mentioned the least used of the three meeting rooms.

“Y-yes Lindsey,” Luke managed. He grabbed a binder to cover his erection and hurried away. Lindsey took a moment to inspect her hair and make-up. She got to her high-heeled feet and smoothed down her tight skirt. “Be back in a sec,” she told Rhian.

Luke was waiting in the room when Lindsey arrived. The window blinds were down. Lindsey locked the door.

“I—I’m s-sorry, Lindsey,” Luke sputtered, “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Shush darling,” Lindsey said, strolling toward him. She was wearing open-toed red slings. Her towering heels slowed her walk to tiny, tottering steps. She stepped up close to the trembling intern. “You are obviously distracted. I don’t think you can learn anything or be an effective employee in this condition. So we’ll do something about it. Put your hands on my shoulders.”

Hesitantly, he did so. “Now don’t move. A positive weekly report depends on it.” She leaned forward and kissed him, long and slow. One hand circled his neck, the other dropped down to his crotch.

Luke jerked like he had been stung. “Keep you hands on my shoulders,” Lindsey scolded. She used both hands to unbuckle his belt. His zipper yielded. Trousers and underwear slid down. Seconds later Lindsey held her prize in her hand, stiff and twitching. “Now then, darling,” she cooed, “let’s get rid of all that distraction.”

Lindsey’s fingers worked magic. Luke couldn’t hold out long. Less than two minutes later he released a guttural groan and a gushing load of cum. It landed in white ropes on the beige carpet.

“Better clean that up,” Lindsey said when he finished. She wiped her fingers on a tissue. “Then could you pop out and get me a latte? You’re a darling.” He was still standing with his pants down, breathing hard, as Lindsey wiggled out of the room.

The next day Lindsey discovered Jaxon jerking off in the men’s toilet. She had been teasing him all morning. She ordered him to stand on the toilet seat so she could blow him without bending over.

Afterward, he made no objection when she sent him out with instructions on the size and brand of stockings he was to buy for her. She had a run in one of hers. Druantia would not approve. Financial affairs could wait.

“All right, all right, stop, just stop,” Sandra cried, breathless. She was breathing hard. “I—I think that is enough of your sexual adventures for right now. For god’s sake, Lindsey, right in your office! How did you get away with all this? Didn’t your boss notice?”

Lindsey looked guilty. “Of course he did. I seduced him too.”

“WHAT?”

“What else could I do? I was dressing like this, every day, I was fucking half the office, mesmerizing the other half, and hardly doing any work. He would have sacked me for certain if I hadn’t, you know, reasoned with him.”

Lindsey reasoned that Harold might be more reasonable if she gave him reasons to accept her new behaviour. She tapped on the door of his office one Thursday afternoon with an orange-gloved hand. “Harold, may I speak with you for a minute?” She kept her voice respectful, with a touch of shyness.

Harold looked up from the three computer monitors on his desk as his (formerly) efficient financial analyst stepped into the room. She was wearing high heels, of course, shiny metallic ones attached to over-knee stretch boots of tan suede. Her legs looked fine indeed below a wide, orange-yellow microskirt and a thin white blouse. A pair of decorative orange braces stretched up from the belt-line of her skirt, covering just enough of the swell of her breasts to draw more attention to them. Lindsey loved the boots. The first time she wore them they got her so hot she had to masturbate for an hour.

Harold was noticing the sexy boots too. He was noticing everything else about the delicious package of sex appeal that Lindsey presented. But the scowl on his face did not diminish. “Lindsey,” he said, getting to his feet. “I suppose you have come to tell me that you have caught up on your exchange calculations? That they are all up to date?”

“Uhm, not exactly.” Lindsey was working a tad more slowly these days. When she worked at all.

Harold approached her. “Or you have come to apologize for the out-of-date figures in your last update? And to tell me that is all fixed?”

“I’m, uhm, working on that.” She touched the high hem of her skirt with one gloved finger. For an instant Harold’s glance flicked downward, to the view of smooth, stocking-coated thigh between the bottom of her skirt and the top of her boots. The glance lasted only a second, but Lindsey knew what it meant. Harold was a man.

He looked at her over his glasses. “Then perhaps you have come with an explanation for this preposterous outfit you are wearing to my office?”

Lindsey laced her fingers. “Harold, it’s about that. I think you do deserve an explanation.” She stepped toward him as she spoke. She set one foot carefully in front of the other so her hips swayed. “I know this is a wee bit outre for work, but I have to—well, I think instead of explaining it I should just show you.” She was close to him now. Without warning she took his face in her gloved hands, leaned forward and kissed him, on the lips, deep and slow. Harold jumped. He flailed his arms about, but didn’t push her away.

“Lindsey, what are you—" he managed, before Lindsey’s red-glossed lips silenced him again.

“Shhhh,” she shushed him, many seconds later. “I haven’t finished showing you.” She grabbed his glasses and tossed them away. Somewhere in the next dozen kisses her tongue joined her lips and her hands found their way to his crotch.

A few minutes later Harold was leaning against his desk, legs spread wide, trousers and underthings around his knees. Tiny drops of perspiration glinted on his brow. His face was pure astonishment. Lindsey was on her knees, shiny spike heels horizontal, sucking on his cock with gusto and delight. She had worn her new boots in anticipation of spending some time with her knees on the carpet. She made slurping and grunting sounds as she sucked his wang. Her newly permed hair flounced as her head bobbed up and down.

Unexpectedly, Harold’s phone rang. He reached into his jacket pocket. Lindsey briefly slid her lips off his manhood. “Don’t worry, boss, I’ve got this,” she whispered, She picked up his mobile from the carpet in front of her. She had nicked it while her boss was occupied. She husked “He’s busy!” into the phone and tossed it into the rubbish bin. She could hear a female voice calling out from the phone. Harold’s protest died in his throat as Lindsey’s mouth returned to work.

“Oh god this is too much!” Sandra exclaimed. She was squirming in her seat. She stopped one hand that seemed to want to squeeze a breast. She didn’t manage to stop the other one. “You—you kept your job by having sex with your boss?”

“Oh, I did more than have sex with him,” the vision beside her replied. “I captivated him. I captured him. I plucked all the good reasons for sacking me out of his brain and replaced them with constant thoughts of sexual pleasure. Then I did it again every day. He can deny me nothing now. I wear what I want to the office. Or rather, I wear what Druantia wants, I can’t fight it. I take off early to go shopping. I come in late if I’ve been man-pleasing the night before. I sweet-talk my colleagues into covering my work for me.”

“But, but, what about—”

A woman in a pink leotard poked her head into the room. “Sandra are we ever going to get started?” she demanded.

“In a minute!” the instructor snapped. The woman retreated, taken aback. “Please,” Sandra said to Lindsey, “f-finish your story. How did Rhian react to all this?”

Lindsey said, “Rhian is . . . coming around.”

“I don’t how you wear shoes like this all day,” Rhian said, as she wobbled back to her desk. “I can barely walk.”

Rhian was wearing a pair of Lindsey’s heels. These ones were fawn-coloured T-straps with peek-a-boo toes. They looked good with Rhian’s new miniskirt and dark hose. Lindsey didn’t want them any more, the heels were only four inches. Several other women in the office were also trying out Lindsey’s discarded shoes.

“Neither could I, at first,” Lindsey said. “It’s a matter of getting used to them. You have to walk slower, more carefully, with attention to your balance.”

“Of course, I’ve worn heels before. But these are hardly practical. Especially for work!” She sat down with some relief. She tugged down the hem of her skirt.

Lindsey said, “Practicality is not the point. I used to be confused about that too. Femininity is the point. Being a woman is the point. And that means balancing your priorities instead of automatically falling for the boring and practical.

“Yes, heels slow you down. They take the emphasis away from rushing everywhere in a hurry and replace it with looking good getting there. They encourage you to take your time, to enjoy the physical sensation of your stride, the natural rhythm of your body, wherever you are, whatever you are doing. They remind you with every hip-swinging step that you are a vibrant, vital female and not some sexless automaton.

“They invite others to look at you differently: to see you as a sexy woman as well as an office co-worker, and to decide for themselves which side they like best. High heels make you feel better about yourself by putting your best self on display, and then reminding everyone around you that your feminine side matters, that it won’t be suppressed, and it definitely will not be hurried. The higher your heels, the more practicality capitulates to sex appeal and the happier you feel.

“Men love heels too, of course. They love the way they raise your rump and outline the curve of your thighs, the way they magically change the shape of your legs and exaggerate the sway of your walk. They understand the message that heels send: that you enjoy being a girl, that you see looking hot at all times as more important than dreary notions of efficiency. And your slower stride in heels gives the men a little longer to memorize your curves as you walk away.”

Rhian was enlightened. “Gosh, I never thought of it that way before.”

Oddly, Lindsey hadn’t thought of it that way either. She wasn’t even sure where this conviction was coming from. It was true that she loved the attention her foxy wardrobe was drawing. That in itself surprised her.

At the same time, she dressed this way only because she couldn’t stop herself. Every attempt to slip on something more comfortable was met with a wave of revulsion. One Saturday morning, in a fit of defiance, she simply refused to put on any footwear at all until she could force herself to wear something sensible. She spent the morning barefoot. She gave up when she realized she was mincing about on her tip-toes anyway.

Now Lindsey wore heels everywhere. She wore heels and cocktail dresses around her flat; heels and miniskirts while running errands; heels and a bodycon spandex confection while repainting her bedroom. She had taken to ordering shoes from specialty web sites because Bell & Ritchie’s didn’t carry enough of the super-high heels she favoured.

To Lindsey’s great embarrassment, she had attended the funeral of her great-uncle Neville in a little black dress, sparkling fishnet tights and patent black booties with five-inch spike heels. She wore a black hat with a veil and black lace gloves. Though she tried to sit demurely—mostly to avoid flashing her silky black knickers—she distracted everyone at the ceremony, including the priest. She also accepted two dates and gave a handjob to a second-cousin behind some trees in the cemetery.

Lindsey shook her head, remembering. What was wrong with her? How had she let this happen? She stopped for a minute to inspect herself.

Today her stretchy minidress was lime green. It had a high collar and long sleeves, but most of the front panel had been replaced by a set of cris-crossing straps that bared her torso to well below her navel. Her braless cleavage was displayed almost to the nipples. The dress outlined the shape of her hips and ass, and then stopped about two inches lower. Expensive, silvery pantyhose inset with spiralling white lines set off her legs. She wore chunky, platform ankle boots, also lime green, with half a dozen straps across the front and six-inch heels in the back.

Curvaceous figure and great legs perched atop heels like stilts: Lindsey looked like an aspiring movie star on her way to a party at somebody’s mansion. She stopped traffic on the street, stopped conversations in the office. Yet every time she stopped to take a real look at herself, she ended up checking her hair and make-up.

Her phone buzzed on her desk. Lindsey picked it up. “Hello?” she said. She wasn’t expecting any calls.

“Lindsey?” said an alto, female voice, “this is Prisha Madayal.”

Lindsey was surprised. She hadn’t expected to hear from the specialist after her visit several weeks earlier. And why was the doctor calling herself, instead of having her receptionist do it? Lindsey said, “Dr. Madayal. A pleasant surprise. Did I . . . Did I miss an appointment?”

“Oh no, no, nothing like that. I’m just . . . following up, on your trouble with your hand. It’s an absolutely unique case, that impression. I’ve been looking at it a lot . . . I mean, I’ve been looking over the pictures I took and, uhm . . . was the medication effective?”

Lindsey remembered her lusty sessions using the gripper as a sex toy, lubricated with skin lotion. She had pleasured herself with it until it wore out. She wore different shoes every time.

She looked at the neat circle of Ogham on the palm of her right hand. It was as clear and detailed as ever. “Uhm, I’d have to say no,” she said into the phone. “The marks are still there.”

“Oh. That’s . . . disappointing. Lindsey, if you don’t mind, I, I want to see you—I mean, I think we should schedule a follow-up appointment. To see if we can do anything about that rash. It’s such an unusual case.”

“Well, all right, if you think that’s useful. Of course I know you’re very busy . . .”

“I was thinking perhaps this week. Wednesday? Thursday? Whatever suits your schedule.”

“But . . . but . . . aren’t you booked up like a month in advance? I can wait until—”

“I’ll clear my schedule!” the voice on the phone blurted. “I mean, I can find time between appointments. Let me know when.”

“Dr. Madayal, this is very kind of you.”

“Please, call me Prisha. And it’s nothing. We need to see your rash . . . cleared up. Wednesday morning, 10 a.m.?”

“That would be splendid.” Skipping out of work would not be an issue.

“I’ll be waiting!” Prisha cried.

Lindsey rang off, puzzled. What was that all about? She thought about the cute doctor in her red shoes. Maybe she should bring the doctor some higher heels too.

She studied the imprint on the palm of her hand. Dr. Madayal had called it an allergic reaction. But even she had been impressed by the fine detail of the imprint. It didn’t seem natural.

“Rhian,” Lindsey said, “where did you get that brooch of Druantia you showed me?”

Her colleague stopped fussing with her hem momentarily. “Oh, from a little shop in Cork, of all places. Fable & Folklore or something like that. They sell all sorts of arcana connected with Irish folk history. Way cool web site.”

“And they never said anything about what the Ogham inscription means?”

“Not that I remember. The brooch is a reproduction based on some old museum specimens.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“Excuse me?”

“What if the brooch is a real brooch of Druantia. What if she can exercise her influence through it. That would explain the marks—”

“Lindsey, are you still running with that preposterous theory that a mythical druid queen is controlling you?”

“I know it’s loony, but it’s all I’ve got.” Her long earrings flashed.

“Fine, let’s suppose it is true. I ordered the brooch. I wear it sometimes. Why hasn’t Druantia influenced me?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well then, why don’t you find someone who can translate the Ogham for you? Maybe that would give you a clue.”

“Who can read Ogham?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea. But the internet knows everything.”

It took a while. Lindsey spent several frustrating hours on her computer before she found what she needed. Fortunately, one of her male colleagues covered for her in exchange for a blowjob. More precisely, he agreed, panting, to cover for her, and to pretty much anything else Lindsey wanted, while she was giving him a blowjob. In the end though, Rhian was right. Everybody is on the internet.

Two days later, Lindsey found herself walking carefully down a sub-floor corridor in a very old building, part of an equally ancient university. Here, she was assured, she might find Dr. Horace Archer. He was nearly as ancient as the building he worked in. Nevertheless, he was a world authority on prehistoric Ireland.

Lindsey’s skyscraper heels echoed on the stone floor. She was wearing a pair of white pumps with two-inch platforms and six-inch heels to match her clingy white micro-dress. Smooth hose shimmered on her fully exposed legs.

She had proved a major sensation on the three-hour train ride from her city to this one. A porter insisted on showing her to her seat. Drinks on the train were free. The cab driver who took her to the university refused to take a fare. “All my pleasure, miss,” he assured her. As she sat on the low seat in the back of the taxicab, Lindsey’s knees had slipped apart just a little—entirely by accident, of course—often enough to keep the cabbie fascinated for the entire ride.

Eventually she came to an old, peaked door with “H. Archer, Professor Emeritus” inscribed on a brass plate. She knocked once, and stepped into the room. It wasn’t what she expected. Instead of a musty little office, the room was as large as a small-town library, and every bit as occupied with books. The professor’s desk stood in the middle.

Though the office was in the basement, a series of ground-level windows bathed the desk in natural light, while keeping the ancient-looking books in protective shadow. The windows would also, Lindsey observed, provide a tempting view up the skirts of female students walking up the pavement outside. She wondered briefly if Prof. Archer ever took advantage of that.

The professor himself was a thin man with wispy grey hair and glasses. He was bent over a very old book, studying the page with a magnifying glass. He looked up as Lindsey knocked. “Professor Archer?” Lindsey said. “I’m Lindsey. I sent you an e-mail earlier this week?”

The professor leapt to his feet. “Yes, yes, of course, Ms Lindsey, do come in. Here, have a seat. Oh, let me clear these.” He removed a stack of heavy books to reveal a leather armchair beneath. “Please, do sit down.”

Lindsey sat. He dress slipped up to the edge of her rump. Prof. Archer was looking her over with frank amazement. His eyes lingered for long seconds on her perfect legs. Evidently the old man wasn’t dead yet. Finally he said, “Now what exactly can I do for you, young lady?”

Lindsey leaned forward so he could see the marks on the palm of her right hand. “Can you tell me what this means?” she asked.

The professor studied her hand. He drew in his breath. “A mark of Druantia! Where did you get this?”

Briefly, Lindsey explained the episode with Rhian’s brooch. “Ever since that time I’ve been feeling more and more compelled to, well, act like a sex bomb. As you have probably noticed.” Today her gloves and purse were white, to match her dress.

“This is exceptional!” Archer exclaimed. He was still looking Lindsey up and down. He looked like he had seen an angel. Definitely not dead, Lindsey decided.

“Can you tell me what the inscription means?”

He considered it. “Let me see,” he said. He picked up his magnifying glass and studied her hand carefully. He slowly transcribed the marks onto a writing pad. Then he stared at them, without moving or speaking, for a long, long time. Finally he picked up his pen again and began writing under the Ogham. “Let me see. This is in ancient Irish Gaelic, of course. The closest might be, As her will, so mine’ “.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, my dear girl, that if the old stories are accurate, you have become Druantia’s bondmaid.”

Lindsey spread her hands. “That’s when I finally understood. The engraving on my hand marked me as the thrall of Druantia.”

Sandra was puzzled. “Seriously? All that to punish you for speaking out of turn?”

“Oh no. I was wrong about that. Druantia wasn’t punishing me. She was recruiting me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Goddess of the Forest has been forgotten for generations, but she never went away. She has chosen me to help her found a new cult of devotees who will spread her message of love and beauty and pleasure. She has given me her strength. Did you wonder why I could attract men so easily? So did I. Druantia has enhanced my sexual aura. She has given me a strange power of speech that compels others to listen. She has made me sexually irresistible.”

Sandra was wide-eyed. “All so you can seduce and manipulate men?”

Lindsey laughed. “No, darling. Not men. Women. Men are our natural masters and they’re great for fucking, but the true followers of Druantia are women. I have been entrusted with bringing women into the embrace of the Goddess.

“Do you remember Rhian? Once I had her appropriately redirected toward dressing as a real woman, I seduced her one afternoon after work. I have developed an artful tongue. After her third or fourth orgasm, cute little Rhian was in that placid and mellow state where she was ready to receive the words of the Goddess. I’ll have most of the girls in the office enlightened soon. The men are already too horny and satisfied to provide any resistance.

“Dr. Madayal—Prisha—was my second recruit. She wears the most delightful little outfits under her lab coats now. How useful for the Goddess, who embodies and enables all feminine beauty, to have a cosmetic surgeon among her followers. I think the good doctor will be doing a lot of breast implants from now. With the help of the Goddess she’ll convince every girl that comes to have a mole removed that she wants to go up three cup sizes.

“Finally, my dear and lovely Sandra, there’s you.”

“M-me?”

“Of course, darling. Who better than a fit, sexy yoga instructor to fulfill the will of the Forest Goddess?” Lindsey took Sandra’s right hand in her left hand. She used her right hand to stroke lightly up Sandra’s arm. The imprint of Druantia’s brooch feathered up and down the other woman’s arm.

Sandra didn’t move away. She was staring into Lindsey’s blue eyes. “But, but, I don’t want—" she demurred.

“Oh, but of course you do,” Lindsey assured her. “You simply haven’t realized it yet. Why do you think you let me stay in your class, even when I’m dressed like this? Why are you still sitting and listening to me when you should be teaching your class? My sexual aura compels you. Druantia wants you. You can be her follower, her messenger, her envoy. And what the Goddess wants, she always gets. Always.”

She was leaning forward as she spoke, closer and closer to her captivated teacher. Sandra opened her mouth to say something. Lindsey’s lips closed over hers. Sandra made little sounds deep in her throat as Lindsey’s glossed lips slipped over hers. The kiss was deep and tender and very long. When it was over, the yoga instructor was gasping for breath.

“Think about it,” Lindsey whispered, still stroking her arm. She drew the other woman closer. “You have a whole yoga class at your beck and call. Women already devoted to their womanly form. Women primed and ready to hear the call of Druantia. We’ll bring them all into the fold. We’ll teach them the joy of looking hot everywhere, all the time, of teasing and pleasing men, and show them how to re-arrange their lives to make sex appeal the first priority. We’ll create a phalanx of sweet, sexy seductresses in six-inch heels to further the will of the Goddess. And you will be the most popular yoga instructor there ever was.”

Sandra was swaying, open-mouthed. She gazed back at Lindsey through heavy-lidded eyes full of heat and confusion. “My—my pussy is tingling,” she blurted.

Lindsey smiled. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll take care of that.”

The women waiting impatiently in the adjoining room heard the first message of the Goddess of the Forest as the happy screams of Sandra’s orgasms.