Over her shoulder she watched Helliwell’s face, with a strange expression: half anxiety, half eagerness. He laughed, then stuck out his tongue and waggled it lasciviously in the air. It might have been a warning of punishment, or a promised reward.
He made a gesture of dismissal. She straightened up and adjusted her skirt; in a matter of moments it was perfectly smooth, and she was climbing the stairs with all her usual dignity.
Nobody in the office had been watching this, except for me. All the other guys had kept their heads bent over their jobs. One or two had flicked furtive glances upwards, but many of them had seemed to make a positive effort to ignore what was going on. But I sat watching; and when Helliwell turned from the glass, he met me full in the eye.
He grinned, and gave me a wink.
I felt sick.
Nearly every night somebody would get lumbered with business that kept him behind an hour or two after everyone else had gone home; and that evening, I was ‘it’. I’d been too distracted to dodge or protest. But it was a relief to be alone.
I didn’t feel I had a right to be jealous of Helliwell. After all, I’d never spoken to the girl, I didn’t even know her name. I’d made no effort to go after her; if Helliwell had, and had got her, why shouldn’t he? I thought of the humiliating nature of their encounter, and the obvious thrill she’d found in submitting to his commands. If that was the kind of treatment she preferred, I wasn’t the man to deal it out. If you’re a nice guy, you should expect to finish last sometimes.
That was how I looked at it. It didn’t make me feel any better.
I stopped trying to work, and sat looking despondently into the wall of glass. After dark the glass became a mirror, almost; reflecting in its surface every detail of the deserted office.
And then I heard the hollow clump of stacked, booted heels, descending from above.
For a moment I hoped I might be wrong, that it was someone else. But the boots came down into sight, front-zipped, beautifully polished, unique; then shapely knees, slender thighs, the violet hem of her mini-dress.
She was carrying the same box file, or one that looked like it. She glanced into the lighted office, as if to check who was still there. For the first time, I met her eyes. Under her straight black brows, they were a deep blue, and firm, but not unkind.
Suddenly she toppled forward, and gave a sharp cry.
‘Ohhh!’
She’d stumbled, lost her balance, and nearly fallen down the stairs.
The box file hit the floor and burst open; as I came running out of the office, I trampled on loose papers. Up above, my heroine was clinging to the stair rail, standing perched on her left foot. She lowered her right boot to the step, only to wince and lift it again.
‘Could you give me a hand down, please?’ she called.
Her weight was light on my arm, but her hold on my shoulder was firm. Side by side, we got into the office, and I lowered her into the nearest chair.
‘Thanks. Lucky for me you were there,’ she said.
‘I’m to blame,’ I said. ‘If I hadn’t been in here, you would have been looking where you were going.’
She shook her head.
‘I come down every night, and always check who’s working late. It’s the first time I’ve found you here. What’s your name?’
I told her. ‘I don’t know yours.’
‘Louise Peters,’ she said. ‘I should know you, because I know all the other guys in this office. As a matter of fact, I’ve actually been out with everyone else, at one time or another.
‘You’re the last one I’ve talked to.’
The way she said it, being the last one might have been a distinction. But if anything could have made me feel worse, it was that piece of information. However, it came as a complete surprise.
‘Really?’ I said in astonishment. ‘No one here ever talks about you! I mean, I’d never even heard your name till this minute - and, well, you know how guys talk - ‘
‘Yes, I do,’ Louise Peters said. ‘But I prefer not to be talked about.’
‘Of course, I saw you were pretty intimate with Mr Helliwell.’
I couldn’t prevent myself from saying it. She gave a shrug.
‘Him? I’ve seen him two or three times. It’s nothing like an exclusive relationship. He’s very masterful, and can be crude. Sometimes I enjoy that in a man,’ she admitted. ‘But not always. At other times I like a man who’s more sensitive. Who wishes to treat a woman well.’
She smiled at me; then raised her right foot, encased in its boot.
‘I don’t know what I’ve done to my ankle,’ she said. ‘Would you..?’
Would I? For weeks past I’d dreamed of this, of being invited to kneel at my heroine’s feet, to be of service to her: of touching her beautiful boots. Even better, hope had come to me, in my despair. I was still in with a chance with her; despite everything, it wasn’t too late for me to make a move.
My heart beat fast as I took hold of the lifted boot. It was as exquisite to the hand as to the eye; the leather was soft and warm and felt thick around the leg, as if well padded within. The front zip was sturdy, its teeth reluctant to part; I had to pull hard, and used my other hand to steady the boot, taking it by the stacked heel. Slowly, cautiously, I eased the zip down; then I opened the boot’s wings, to reveal a shapely foot, and a lining of creamy kid leather that made socks or stockings unnecessary.
‘I can’t see anything badly wrong,’ I said, examining her ankle. ‘Try moving it.’
Up and down, to right and left, she flexed her bare foot, a few inches from my face. ‘Ah...! Wait - it’s getting easier now. I think you’re right.’
‘Just a bad twist,’ I said reassuringly. ‘You’ll be able to walk on it presently.’
‘Maybe you could help make it better,’ she said.
I looked up.
‘Gladly, if I can,’ I said; ‘but how?’
‘By giving it a massage,’ she said. ‘A gentle rubbing and working with your hands. I’m sure that would help.’
How could I refuse?
As I stroked and rubbed, her ankle came to move freely under my fingers. From above, I heard first sighs of relief; then of satisfaction. ‘Mmm... mmm... that feels miles better... that feels good! You really know something about womens’ feet, don’t you?’
‘I’m glad I please you,’ I said.
‘Oh, you do that. You do that too well,’ she sighed. ‘Please, please, could you do my foot itself? I’ve got to see how you are on soles and insteps.’
I massaged her right foot with all the skill at my command, palpating it in rhythmic patterns with my fingers and thumbs, then sliding and digging the edges of my nails into the smooth surface of her skin. Her sighs became gasps and groans, noises of pure pleasure. Her buttocks began to shift from side to side, causing her office chair to swivel back and forth on its stand. Her head dropped back from her shoulders; her arm swept across the desk at which she sat, scattering the contents of the desktop.
‘Oh! Oh! Oh...! Do you know,’ she panted, her eyes directed at the ceiling, ‘a man who can play with my feet the way you’re doing can do anything he likes with me? And I mean, anything? If you wanted, you could pick me up out of this chair, fling me across this desk, and have me, here and now. And afterwards - oh! OH! - afterwards, I’ll be your slave. I’ll obey you forever. Your word will be my bond,’ she groaned. ‘All I ask - I beg - of you, is that you take off my other boot, and treat my left foot the way you have my right. Please!’
‘I’ll do that with pleasure,’ I said shyly, ‘but actually, I really love to see you in your boots.’
My words brought about an abrupt and startling change in Louise’s demeanour.
She straightened up in the chair, lifted her head, and looked down at me with stern eyes,
regaining control of her body; with a gesture of her bangle-laden hand, she commanded me to pause in the massage.
‘I know you adore my boots,’ she said. ‘Every single day, you watch out for them. You won’t deny it.’
My head shook in silent confession.
‘I don’t mind you looking. I know you respect women,’ she said. ‘I offer you a choice.
‘My bare feet make me vulnerable to men. I can’t disobey a man who excites me through them. So at all times, I wear boots. Boots excite men - but render them obedient to me.
‘It has to be so, one way or the other. You can strip me of my boots, and become a Master to me. Alternatively, you can replace that boot on my right foot - but once you do, you will become my permanent boot-slave.
‘Which is it to be?’
I couldn’t answer her in words. My heart was pounding, my breath constricted. I picked up her empty right boot. She smiled gently as I eased the boot back on to her foot, and drew shut the stiff, sturdy front zip, striving to control the violent trembling of my hands.
‘Well done. You were anxious for my comfort,’ she said. ‘Now, kiss your new Mistress’ boots.’
With a passion, I flung myself down at full length on the office floor and kissed her boots, first one, then the other, again and again; my lips rose in stages from her rounded toe-caps to her forward-sloping boot-tops, till they’d smitten every square inch of the soft leather.
‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Get up. On to your knees.
‘I take it you’ve sometimes masturbated to think about me?’
‘Every night,’ I confessed.
She laughed, but with sympathy.
‘Open your pants. Show me your cock.’
I hastened to obey. Uncovered, coloured shiny purple, swollen and weighty, my penis swung upwards. Louise slid her left foot under my crotch, cupping it at the base in the ankle of her boot. Then she laid her right boot on top of it, crossing her ankles; trapping my cock between her boots. She began to work the boots up and down, rubbing me, leather seam above, metal zip below.
‘I’m honoured,’ she said softly. ‘To think of all that spunk, spurted out on my account.’
All the while, her booted ankles were working me, up and down, travelling rapidly sideways back and forth along the few inches’ length of my cock; and I couldn’t hold back my climax for long. It shot forth, a little geyser of white, with such force that happily, it flew well clear of Louise’s boots; and she lifted her feet away from my detumescing cock so adroitly as to avoid the rich black leather being defiled by any lingering drips.
I rested on my knees; I was weary, but blissful.
‘Give me your elbow.’
She was holding in her hand a thick-tipped marker pen, evidently found on the desktop, and as she spoke she’d taken hold of my right arm and was unfastening my sleeve. Surprised, but perfectly willing, I looked on. On my bare arm, just above the crook of my elbow, she inscribed a big black letter: ‘S’.
‘The last one,’ she said again.
This morning I heard the hollow clump of boot-heels, heralding the approach of my Mistress, my heroine, my Louise.
I straightened up at my desk, and turned towards the wall of glass.
Louise rose into view, stunning as always. I watched her ascend the stairs, left and right front-zipped boots climbing the steps in brisk harmony. The liquid gleam of sunlight against the leather filled me with pleasure, and pride: I polish her boots for her, every day, never spending less than an hour on the task. Of all my slave’s duties, it’s the one I relish most.
Halfway up, she stopped a moment, and turned towards the glass. Her eyes sought me out; her flattened hand rose to her lips, and she blew me a kiss.
The ‘S’ on my arm is permanent now. Louise took me to visit a tattooist.
‘Another one, Miss Peters?’ he said, as if surprised.
‘The last one,’ she replied. ‘And my favourite.’
I knew what she meant.
With my Louise standing before me, I had no eyes for anything else. But I was aware that around me, nine or ten heads were bent hard over work, unable to lift. And as many right arms were covered to the wrist, in carefully buttoned sleeves.
They all bore her brand. One by one she’d seduced the entire office. In turn she’d subdued each man, taught him respect for women, and cast him off. None of them were capable of serving her with love: offered the choice between dominance and submission, they’d taken it for a game, and fallen into a trap.
With one exception.
When Louise’s boots had at last ascended out of view, I turned, and found Helliwell watching me, with a grin that was ironic, but not unfriendly. He’s not looking for an emotional involvement, not even with the most beautiful girl in the world.
‘You lucky boy, you,’ he said. ‘Ah, well. Time I was back on the job.’
He unfastened his cuffs, and rolled his shirt-sleeves up almost to the shoulders, as if he’d been about to resume digging up the pavement. His bare arms were a deep pink, with powerful muscles but smooth skin. Above his right elbow he bore a tattoo, a single letter:
‘M.’
I guess he must know a thing or two about womens’ feet.
Tortrulla
Queen Bitch, Juliet Barker thought. I am Queen Bitch of the firm of Harding, Delarue and Partners.
How many times had the title been given to her behind her back, or in overheard whispers and gossip passed on by concerned friends - and doesn’t one always have concerned friends, when there’s something nasty to tell? But anybody who hoped to see Juliet upset or annoyed by such talk would be doomed to disappointment. Her reaction was always cool and calm. ‘To some people, a woman who knows what she wants is always a bitch,’ she’d say. ‘I’m just getting my job done.’
That was in public. Privately, Juliet knew she was a bitch. In the battles of corporate life, she bit hard, clawed deep, and buried her stiletto heels in her enemies’ softest parts. She had a jealous, ruthless eye on the competition; the younger men and women who were always coming up behind her. More than once, she’d taken out a potential rival on sight. No offence had been given her, perhaps not even a word of conversation had ever been exchanged; but she wouldn’t hesitate to end a career and crush another human being. It was her way of doing business. And when she was alone, with quiet and stillness all around, she laughed to recall the hurts she’d dealt out. It was how she liked to deal with people. Do it to them before they do it to you, and if they weren’t about to do it to you, do it to them anyway! Mercy is for wimps.
She was by herself in the office that night, working after hours. She liked the place when everyone was gone. With no eyes on her, she could let her guard down a little. She could sprawl back in her chair, kick off her shoes, unbutton her blouse down to the navel and have a whisky and Coke ready to hand while she worked.
The last sip trickled from the glass on to her tongue. When she poured the drink there had been two cubes of ice floating on top, but they were long gone. The night was suffocatingly hot. Perspiration oozed from every pore of Juliet’s skin; it damped her hair, her brow, the insides of her blouse, bra, panties and stockings. A heatwave had lasted ten days, and there was no forecast of when it would break. Outside her window, the whole city seemed to slumber in a haze; the sky was cloudless but not clear and above the tallest buildings the Moon shone a dim sickly yellow.
What the fuck’s wrong with this place? It shouldn’t be like this in here, she thought. Sweating and stinking are for the poor people. I need comfort.
She picked up the phone and would have snapped out, ‘Night security? There’s something the matter with the air conditioning up here.’ But there was no one to speak to, only a dialling tone.
With a grunt of exasperation she got up and left her office. It was possible that the
air conditioning had only been turned off on that floor. There might be some automatic system in operation. Or it could be that somebody had put it off, forgetting or not knowing that she was there. That bloody idiot of a night security man, perhaps, prowling about the place instead of staying by his phone! Juliet didn’t even know the man’s first name, but right then she would have seen him sacked.
She walked down a long corridor with creamy panelled walls and soft lights overhead, and shed some of her tiredness. Her back straightened, her head lifted, her step became steady. She was tall; her feet were bare except for silk, but a casual observer might have thought she was in her heels. She buttoned her blouse and brushed some stray hair from her eyes. At any minute she might meet somebody.
Then she stopped dead.
Now she was fully awake and her senses were sharp. She smelt smoke not far away.
It wasn’t a smell of ‘something burning’, a warning of fire. It was the scent of a cigarette. Easy enough to tell the difference, in a place where putting one on was never allowed, and the lunchtime smokers were a regular sight outside, standing in a disconsolate line on the pavement. Another breath and she was able to track it to its source. It was coming from a doorway a few yards down the corridor. The brown wood door was almost closed, but for a crack of light.
Juliet’s heart was pumping. She did not think that behind that door was danger. It was some kind of a storeroom. Elsewhere in the building were computers and other equipment, much of it easily portable, with a value that ran to tens of thousands of pounds so it was unlikely that burglars would make for the fax paper and floppy diskettes. Nonetheless, it took some nerve for her to approach. Soundless in her stockinged feet, she stepped up close; then, instead of walking into the storeroom, she flung the door wide open before her.
She met two pairs of eyes.
One pair belonged to a woman. In some ways the woman resembled Juliet. She was about the same height and looked roughly the same age, and like her had long, probably dyed blonde hair. However, the stranger’s hair was fixed securely back in a ponytail, and emerged from the rear of a tight helmet of dark blue rubber, with a chin-strapped, broad-brimmed plastic hat on top. From crown to crotch, she was encased in multiple layers of rubber and PVC. The helmet, a leotard with long sleeves and gloved hands, a fiercely restrictive corset for the waist, all were laced against her body and glistened in blue, black and red. Her legs were bare, except for silk stockings of a dark flesh tone. On her feet she wore bizarre shoes made of red and yellow patent leather; heels like needles, nine or ten inches in height, were supported by platforms five inches thick. She sat casually on a small table. Her companion lay on the floor beneath her, naked and only too plainly male. His skin was coloured olive, his eyes were black and slightly slanted; and from his temples there projected two nubs, like horns.
Strange Desires Page 18