The Painters Daughters

                         Copyright 1995
                     by mule@tpe.com (Mule)
                               and
                 farnorth@alaska.net (Farnorth)

                            Chapter 1

"If you have any problems, Tom, you know how to get hold of me,"
my wife said as she kissed me good-bye in the airport departure
lounge.

"Just get on the airplane, Margo," I chided, I'm a big boy. I'll
manage."

I waved to her as she bustled down the ramp. It was Saturday, and
she was off to help her sister, Pat, with her newborn, and would
be gone for up to two weeks.

There were three good things about her departure. First, I
planned to lock myself up in my den and work on that program I
wanted to get done. Second, the painter we contracted, the
husband of my wife's best friend at work, would paint the rest of
the house while both of us were out of the way. Third, I could
get my special magazine collection organized.

My wife and I have always had a healthy sex life, and I was horny
before I watched her plane pull out. I stopped by the newsstand
on my way out and bought a copy of Penthouse. Margo knows I read
this kind of magazine, but she chooses not to acknowledge it. She
doesn't want to see them, and she doesn't want to talk about
them. So, like many men, I have my stash hidden, and I have to be
discrete about when I read them.

Now I'd have two whole weeks to read at my leisure. I thumbed
through the magazine in the parking lot. I noticed that this
particular month's issue had a couple of letters about two of my
favorite topics: cross-dressing and female domination.

Even though I'd never thought of trying it personally, the
thought of men dressing in women's clothes was something that
held a hint of mystery for me. I didn't play with Margo's clothes
because I was afraid she'd catch me. Her shoes were something
else. They were sort of scattered around the closet floor. It
wasn't very probable that she'd notice if they were moved.
Besides, it was less likely that I'd have an "accident" in one of
her shoes.

There was nothing mysterious about female domination. I was
addicted. I couldn't pass up a magazine that had stories about
the subject in it. I spilled gallons of semen into the toilet
while reading them. If I only had the courage to talk to Margo
about it!

That was the hard part. I know Margo liked me for my
self-confidence and manly actions and appearance. I didn't know
what she'd think if I told her I wanted to be dominated. "Shit,"
I said to myself defensively, "Half those letters are made up,
and the other half are exaggerated way out of proportion. Nothing
like that ever happens to real people."

I thumbed further through the magazine. There were some great
pictures in there! I could spend hours on the centerfold alone!
My cock rose to the occasion. How I'd like to put it in something
like what was shown in the picture. I'd never cheat on Margo, but
a man could have his fantasies, right? I loved her, but Margo
just didn't excite me like these models did.

I knew that it would be weeks before I could have sex with Margo
again! Oh well, there's always "Rosy Palm and her five sisters,"
I thought. At least Margo didn't pack all her shoes. As far as
she knew, I encouraged her to buy those pumps with the high heels
because they looked good on her. She didn't know that my
appreciation of her shoes went much deeper than that.

I had a hard-on from the time I got in the car until I got off my
bed an hour and a half later.

                              -=o=-

The painter arrived as scheduled on Monday and started setting up
the scaffolding, drop cloths, and other paraphernalia for the
job. I invited him to make use of sodas and iced tea I had in the
refrigerator, and went off to the solitude of my den.

It was mid-afternoon when the painter came into my den and
explained to me, "I'm sorry Mr. Greer, I'm just not feeling well.
I don't want to do it, but I have to knock off for the day. I've
got one hell of a headache, and I think I'm going to lose my
lunch."

Not on my rug he wasn't! So I sent him home. Oh well, so much for
getting the painting done on time.

                              -=o=-

I was awakened by the doorbell at precisely 8 a.m. the following
day. I put on my robe, rubbed my eyes and made my way to the
front door. I opened it to see a girl standing there. She
appeared to be about 18 years old. Her face had a wholesome look
to it with green eyes and a sprinkling of girlish freckles across
her cheeks. She had her red hair tucked under a baseball cap, and
was dressed in an pull-over sleeveless blouse, pink shorts and
tennis shoes. The pull-over revealed an inviting figure, and the
pink shorts outlined a generous and, to my mind, appealing set of
hips and buttocks.

I looked at her with a blank expression.

She finally broke the silence. "Hi, I'm Linda, Bob's daughter."

"Who the fuck is Bob?" my sleepy mind was asking me.

She obviously read my mind. "Bob -- the painter -- the man who
went home sick yesterday? He's got a really bad case of the flu."

"Oh, sure!" I said, suddenly comprehending. "What can I do for
you?"

"It's the other way around. It's what I can do for you that's
important. I'm here to finish the job my father started."

"You?" I asked, "You're just a girl!"

That was the wrong thing to say, and I knew it as soon as the
last breath left my mouth. She flushed with anger. "Don't 'girl'
me," she said firmly, "I've been helping my dad in the business
since I was thirteen. I know what I'm doing, and I assure you, I
can handle a paint brush. This contract is important to us, we
need the money, and I'm going to finish this job!"

"But I hired your father," I complained.

"Wrong!" she shot back, "You hired the corporation. Read the fine
print. Both my father and I are employees of the corporation. Now
am I going to stand out here all morning, or are you going to let
me in to work?"

She didn't wait for an answer and just pushed past me. She was
pushy all right, but there was something about her assertiveness
that attracted me.

She took a quick, self-conducted tour of the house assessing what
needed to be done, and then went out to her car and got a couple
more items. She went into the spare bathroom, and came out
wearing an oversized shirt, and work boots. Both were
paint-speckled, but she still wore those pink shorts.

I was in no mood to argue with her. So, I let her work. I found
it difficult, however, to concentrate on my breakfast. Seeing her
stretching and swaying on the scaffold was getting me aroused.
There was a certain grace to her motions that was seductive. I
looked eagerly for the glances she gave me of her bottom when her
shirt pulled away as she stretched or bent over. More than once,
she caught me staring at her. I was fascinated with that gorgeous
tush of hers. Finally, she turned to me and said, "What!"

I was snapped rudely from my dream and was embarrassed.
"Nothing," I said.

"It better be nothing," she responded. I went back to my den to
get her out of my sight, and out of my mind. Well, half of it
worked anyway. She was out of my sight.

At noon, I went out to the kitchen to get lunch. I saw her eating
a sandwich out on my covered patio. She smiled and waved at me,
but we didn't exchange words. At 5 P.M. I heard her voice come
down the hall. "I'm leaving for the day, Mr. Greer." I didn't
even hear her car pull away.

I took out the trash after dinner. Coming back into the house
through the laundry room, I noticed the light on in the spare
bathroom. I went in to turn it off, and saw that Linda had left
her clothes in the bathroom. She apparently hadn't changed out of
her work clothes when she'd left.

The pullover was hanging on the hook on the back of the door,
along with a bra, and a pair of panties. Her sneakers were
sitting on the floor under the sink. The bra was a cotton
athletic type, and the panties were plain white cotton. My wife
had much fancier stuff in her dresser drawers. These items of
Linda's apparel didn't have much appeal to me.

The sneakers, however, were strangely attractive. My wife had a
pair of Reeboks she wore to aerobics class, but except for the
pink trim, they looked exactly like mine. Linda's Keds, on the
other hand were uniquely feminine. Men don't wear that kind of
sneaker. For some strange reason they drew me towards them. I
picked them up, held them to my chest, and fondled them.

The picture of Linda at the front door came to mind. I was
recalling her small, but well-formed breasts, and those nicely
framed buns in her cute pink shorts. My thoughts continued down
her body, and came to rest on these very sneakers. I thought of
her petite feet and how they occupied the shoes. Almost without
thinking, I slowly brought one of the sneakers to my face and
sniffed gently at the opening.

There was a sweaty, yet sweet smell. I put my face and mouth into
the opening, and inhaled deeply. The odor was pungent and sharp,
yet something in my mind said that "feminine" was the proper
adjective for the scent assaulting my senses.

I hadn't had sex since before my wife left. That was half a week
earlier. It was time, and my body knew it. My cock sprang to
attention. I put the sneakers on the vanity, dropped my pants,
pulled up the toilet seat, knelt in front of it, picked up one of
the sneakers, held it to my face and started to masturbate. I was
lost in the sensation that was the smell of her feet. When I
came, I shot my load over the seat and splashed copious amounts
of semen all over the bowl.

I knelt there in a warm post-ejaculate glow. I'd never done this
particular scene before. I had masturbated while kissing my
wife's high-heeled, patent-leather pumps, but I never considered
that a lowly sneaker could have sex appeal. I never considered
that the smell of a woman's foot could be such a turn-on. What
made it even better for me was that this shoe was worn on the
foot of a strange girl. Somehow that added a little naughtiness
to it.

I put the sneakers back under the sink and cleaned up my mess.