What Became of Me

Once again, Petra moved toward her next destination with quick, long strides. Everything about Petra radiated elegance, self-confidence, determination, and authority. I fell back a few steps and gazed at her slender calves and shimmering ankle boots. But the secret lay not in what Petra wore, but in what she embodied.

All I understood was that my place was beneath those ankle boots. That I was meant to kiss the ground Petra walked over. That my place was naked and in chains in her basement, in the faint hope that she might remember my pathetic, worthless existence and play with me a little. Why would Petra want to dress me beautifully if she considers me her submissive plaything?

My place wasn’t by her side. Not as a “girlfriend” going shopping. At best, as an obvious plaything, as a cheap slut with a collar and leash. As a human handbag puppy. But not in a tailor-made jacket. Why did Petra want that for me, of all things? I was getting more confused.

As I absentmindedly followed the striding ankle boots, the floor I wanted to kiss turned from slabs to carpet. The shoe store was brightly lit. “Oh man, that too”, I thought. In the Golden Quarter you could marvel at luxury while strolling. But it certainly wasn’t a place where someone like me went shopping.

The saleswoman looked from me to Petra and then back again. She finally decided on a question that could be addressed to both: “What style are you looking for?”

Of course, Petra answered while she sat down on a half-round red sofa, and I stood there stupidly.

“We are not looking for a style yet. We are looking for a foundation.”

The saleswoman’s gaze moved back and forth between Petra and me with a questioning look before Petra continued.

“She’s one of those poor young things who were told that comfort and convenience were the most important criteria for footwear. Now she must learn that some things require discipline and training.”

The saleswoman nodded at Petra but stared at me. But suddenly her face lit up. I think she now understood the situation and envisaged a brilliant sales opportunity.

“Do you have anything specific in mind?”

Petra held up three fingers.

“Three pairs. First: A pair of training heels. Not a big challenge. Something stable. Something she can wear regularly after some time of getting used to it. Second: Another pair of training shoes, but a little more demanding. A pair that trains balance. And third: A pair of goal shoes.”

The saleswoman smiled. “Something aspirational?”

“Exactly. A shoe that is currently beyond her comfort zone. Not impossible with adequate dedication. Not impractical. But something she looks at and thinks: “I’m being made into the kind of woman who wears this well.””

While “I’m being made” echoed in my head, Petra continued: “What matters most is stability, quality of construction, long-term wearability. Elegance too, but I do not want something that merely imitates elegance. I want something that teaches it.”

The saleswoman kept her arms across her chest. Now it was time to demonstrate her expertise: “In that case, I would look at a leather-lined pump rather than a fashion heel. A good leather sole, properly shaped heel, sufficient room in the toe box. And I would avoid anything overly delicate. A beginner often needs confidence more than a dramatic visual display. But first let’s take the measurements.”

While I shamefully took off my comfortable but obviously inadequate sneakers, the saleswoman fetched two measuring instruments. She took notes but spoke to Petra without paying any further attention to me. They talked about heel placement, arch support, leather stiffness, break-in time, and the difference between a shoe that merely looks elegant on a shelf and one that creates an elegant line when worn. I felt like a monkey in comparison.

Finally, the sales associate walked toward the shelves and brought forward half a dozen pair of shoes. “Would you like to try these?“

Petra answered calmly. “She will try them, of course.”

I tried on the shoes one by one, taking a few steps as best I could with the ones that had earned Petra’s nod.

“I see you have these shoes in other colours too”, Petra said as I tried not to break my ankles wearing a black pair of pumps.

The saleswoman brought the same shoes in light brown, burgundy and navy blue.

“She would have chosen black”, Petra commented. “She doesn’t know yet what suits her.”

I had to smile. Of course, I would have chosen black.

“Black feels safe”, Petra explained. “Safety has been her instinct for a long time. For way too long. She doesn’t need me to choose security. She needs me to learn to boldly walk her own path.” Petra smiled at me as she added: “Wherever this path leads.”

“One day these shoes will feel completely natural”, said the saleswoman sympathetically as I flopped down rather than sat down after a few unsteady steps.

“One day?” I thought as we left the store with a large bag with three pairs of shoes in it. Being submissive seemed so simple: just do what you’re told when you’re told. Sure, this required self-sacrifice. A bit scary, right? But boldly following my own path? A bold path into submission and servitude? That was a new concept for me. And it felt even scarier.

Of course, I would never have chosen the burgundy pumps for myself.