by Ashley Hind
Title Page
THE LURE OF THE KILLER HEELS
by
Ashley Hind
Publisher Information
The Lure of the Killer Heels
published in 2014 by House of Erotica
an imprint of Andrews UK Limited
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Ashley Hind 2014
The right of Ashley Hind has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
An End and a Beginning
My husband once broke wind in the kitchen with such a protractedly loud, rippling intro and stomach-turning flumping finale, that from afar I thought he must have prised open our large, well-suctioned fridge and tipped a massive casserole out onto the marble floor. In my startled disgust I remember thinking: he needs to die. No, really.
‘Better out than in!’ he snidely declared, more mitigation than excuse, but it was just another lie. To see that same naked, butter-wouldn’t-melt backside now you wouldn’t believe it capable of such horror. Studied reflected in the large mirror designed for such things it is undeniably a nice rear; a smooth rear. It is all grab-able soft innocence one second and then driving taut muscle the next. It is waxed and tended and toned. It is a very rich arse, used to sinking daily within the leather sumptuousness of a Maserati’s interior, and the ergonomically designed, swivelling, high-backed comfort that only the very successful financiers at his company are given. The dimples give it a perpetually youthful cheekiness. Surely this backside could do no wrong? And yet here it is now: pump, pump, pumping away, sodden-slap hammering into me even more humiliating, inside-ripping dismay than that wind-breaking incident aroused. He thinks I just have to take it but boy, is he wrong.
So, anyway, the other day a frozen goose hit the house. I kid you not. I actually saw it land. I was lying in bed, idly playing around, staring up at the ceiling because that’s what you do if you have a bed positioned specifically for looking up through the snazzy pyramid-shaped skylight above. Then a bulk flashed through my vision and landed with a thump. I simply had to go up for a look, even though I don’t normally do ladders. Not in high heels anyway. But I couldn’t risk falling through the roof and finding myself too broken to crawl to my shoe cupboard to swap safer jogging pumps for my signature stilettos before the emergency services arrived to scrape me off the floor. Got to look one’s best, especially in such moments. I even put a puff of Love in Black behind each ear in case I died up there and wasn’t found until I’d started to turn a little gamey.
The goose wasn’t looking quite so spattered and sorry for itself as it would have done if not frozen. It was reasonably in one piece. I’m no scientist but I’m shrewd enough for a fair deduction and it was this: it was flying along happily until it hit a cold front or got swept upwards in a therm or something, causing it to freeze and plummet. I don’t think it was shot out of the back of a poulterer’s refrigerated truck. Most worrying was its final position in relation to the skylight. I think it might have glanced off the adjacent domed vent, which could easily have deflected it straight through the glass rather than safely across it. A fall one microsecond earlier or a breeze just a fraction stronger could have sent it straight through and down onto me below, wiping me out before I had finished playing with myself. Not good. Wankus interuptus plus certain death, courtesy of plunging stiffened meat. What a thought!
And it would have gone through too. The skylight might be made of hugely expensive, thick, heat-reflecting, UV-shielding reactive glass, but touch it in the right place and it just goes. I know this because having spent half a day carefully installing it, one of the clumsier glaziers gave it an accidental tap with the handle of his hammer and it blew, falling in foot-long shards that shattered to smithereens on landing. It meant a new everything: skylight; floor; bedding; mattress. It took them days to clear it all up and made me wonder at the wisdom of moving our bed right underneath it. So, Mr Frozen Goose, landing just half a foot short might have spelled curtains for Yours Truly.
‘You beaky bastard,’ I snarled at the stiff, very dead form, giving it a dig with my spiked heel. ‘You could have fucking killed me!’
It just gave me that same bleary-eyed stare through half-closed icy eyelids. I didn’t know what to do with it. I suppose I could have got handyman Bertrand to remove the carcass - and it probably wouldn’t have been the first lifeless bird that slimy bastard had put in a bin bag. But I couldn’t stop those visions of hurtling wildfowl and falling shards of deadly glass, and so I decided to put it in the freezer, you know, just in case...
He thrusts in hard again and I see in reflection the clench of his buttocks. This time he holds himself tight there, slowly gyrating and grinding. He smiles down - well, more of a confident sneer really. A new tune comes on and he reaches for the remote control to turn it up, singing along in a cringe-worthy accent as Jay-Z informs us that, as regards to his almost three-figure problems, the bitch ain’t a contributing factor. Yeah, well, that’s what he thinks. He likes to play such music loud. He is going to fuck to it, using it to drive his rhythm. He thinks it helps show that at age 42 he is still a player and a super-cool young dude. It is a reminder of how quickly he ascended the ladder in comparison to his peers and how much wealth he has accrued in such short time. However, he carefully reminds no one that so much of it is down to his father’s influence and nepotistic generosity. His boastful misplaced self-adoration can make the rage flash white behind my eyes.
Despite my revulsion his rump is still a mesmerising sight: all tanned and nicely rounded and the dimples prevalent now he holds himself in tight. Delicate, painted-nail fingers should be on it, stroking it, clasping the flesh and digging in, but her hands are tied. He has never done this with me. He has used my silk stockings to bind her wrists to the chrome-barred headboard but he has never thought to put me in such a position. Maybe he thinks me too strong. I always was more than his equal which is why he married me. I am the real show of all he is. He wants people to see his power and class and so he could never do trophy bimbo or dumb blonde. I am sleekly raven, curvy and smouldering. Think passionate vampiress, with the most porcelain of skin. I follow no one, obviously, but think Morticia Addams if you must, or early-era Nigella. Picture formidable intelligence and cheekbones, plus the darkest brown eyes enhanced with cloudy shadow. Think bright red lippy and a preference for black attire. Think sultry and deadly, and never, ever think ordinary.
The big question, indeed the eternal question when it comes to cheating men, is why her when he has me? It sends my head spinning with incredulous ire and mortification. It is the hugest blow, dealt with apparent indifference and frivolity. I’m reasonably sure I could seduce a vast swathe of the male population at the drop of a hat but I choose not to because of promises made and vows taken. So imagine my anger when I saw the stray text. I don’t usually examine my husband’s phone but the arrogant fuck-monger had left it lying around and there it was buzzing away like an insistent sex toy demanding attention. I declined the incoming call, since I don’t care for anything that isn’t for me, but there I saw the message, arrived sometime that morning and so carelessly not deleted.
It was a
lunch date. The text gave the time and the place so obviously I went along to spy. I wanted to see in the flesh the person who affectionately signed off as “Your Little Miss Supple”. She was young; a whole late teenager’s worth younger than me. You’d think this would give him some excuse but I wasn’t seeing it that way. She was pretty, unquestionably, and essentially my opposite: blonde, tanned, and basically a stick - devoid of the T and A he always claimed crucial in a woman. I had seen her before, of that there was no doubt. She was the girlfriend of one of the team of hand-picked, fresh from top university graduates they put under the tutelage of my know-it-all hubby, there at the shindig to mark the end of their induction. That was the same day my husband won the gold bowling ball trophy he remains so ridiculously proud of. He was a golfer for recreation so this was a real victory. Having thrashed the graduates over eighteen holes they challenged him to some ten-pin bowling, something he claimed he hadn’t even played before. He thrashed them at that too, winning the ludicrously heavy, full-sized trophy he’d had made, proving what a master he was at anything he put his hand to. He put the ghastly thing on a special shelf in our bedroom he was that proud of it. He hasn’t yet noticed it is missing.
‘Not my type,’ he had lied that night, in reply to my assertion that she was very pretty. He’d even given my backside a secret squeeze to reinforce the point. Well, she was my type. I fantasised about her three days in a row after seeing her that first time, which is how I knew for sure it was this same girl. Now my husband, as is his wont, has taken it upon himself to go one better.
She is bound effectively rather than intricately. The stockings are wound around her wrists and tied at the middle of the headboard rail, not at each corner. This will allow her to be turned. Such insightful observations are now almost instinctive for me. I have been lost for hours on some occasions, becoming almost feverish, poring over mainly black and white photos on certain Tumblr sites whilst my husband is absent with other business to attend to. These voyeuristic snapshots of the world of bondage seize my attention. They are magical frozen glimpses of power wielded and power felt. If you absorb them and let your imagination free you can grasp the excitement of possibility that grips all those who do these things for real. I can feel inside me the rushing fire of those captured moments, tender and nasty, often enough to make me gasp. Fortunately, when I saw her in reflection I managed to keep in all sound, although my legs weakened beneath me and the heel of my hand instinctively found itself pressing hard at my crotch.
At first I thought her legs to be bound with vinyl straps, but I saw the roll still on the bed and knew that it was bondage tape. This is for those who want to get trussed in a hurry: wide and strong like gaffer tape, but shining like latex. It is adhesive only to itself, to keep tender flesh undamaged. I almost ordered some online once, just to see if it worked as claimed. How ironic that my husband beat me to it. She has some wrapped around each bent leg, wound around mid thigh and shin, to keep the calves pressed tight to the backs of the thighs. It would hurt anyone with creaky knees, but she is Little Miss Supple after all.
Perhaps it was the fact that she was tethered that kept me glued there, the shock subduing the rage already within and turning it to belly-burning anticipation. I knew they would be there and naked, but not like this. The mere sight of the shiny black tape had the juices running. It masked the disappointment of missing the run-up to her trussing, and the fact that it was such a toe-tip dip into the boundless promise of the world of restraint. At least this suggested no expertise through practice. It was a barely thought through, merely amateurish dabbling into a kinky sphere he didn’t particularly understand. I would have done a much better job on her. In my fantasies I most certainly did.
I was there in time to see his entry. I saw him ready to do as he wished to her, his body all tanned and waxed, his muscles toned from the company gym. He stood naked, proudly posing, gripping his prick which looked fit to burst - as rigid as I had ever seen it - the head of it already shining, a thin thread of clear pre-come already stringing from the tip in his desire. He examined her lecherously but patiently because she was all trussed up with nowhere to go. For some wronged wives this might have been the moment when they overcame their inertia to bowl in spitting fire, or stumble before him wailing in shock and hurt. For me the pulse raced, the blood fizzed, but I stayed as frozen as that stupid twat of a dead goose, compelled to watch. What I was witnessing was the moment of pure glory, the instance where one’s will is about to be exacted over the other, where those with the power can do anything they wish, and those robbed of their freedom just have to close their eyes, open their souls, and take it. I couldn’t believe the sneaky bastard was going to know this supreme moment before me: the one who truly hankers for it.
It was wide open for him - I’d seen to that. After witnessing his secret rendezvous the thoughts had come in a wonderful rush of clarity. He was just too relaxed with her for it to be something he hadn’t done before. And not just with her either. He was just too slick in falsely denouncing her for it not to be second nature. He had cheated on me before, that was obvious. Perhaps many times, maybe as long as we had been married, because he thought he deserved such things. Well, I knew what I thought he deserved, so when the fortuitous goose came a-visiting, the plan to beat all fail-safe plans seamlessly sprang to mind.
Last night I put my plan into action, having covered the preparation and gone over it countless times in my head. I told him I had arranged an impromptu spa day with Pippa - not at the one just down the road but at the more salubrious, way more expensive one in the next county, meaning I would be well out of the way for the day. Once he cobbled some hasty tale together about not going into the office this morning, having instead to attend a last-minute golf day with a client, I knew he had taken the bait.
Be aware that there is no way I’m swinging for this fucker - or any man for that matter. The average vengeful bitch would have just hidden at home and sunk a spade into his head, but you’ve got to be shrewder than that. One must always assume you will get a real-life Detective Colombo turn up to investigate, rather than some bumpkin local bobby who, even if he found your victim nailed to his front door and you there with your gun barrels merrily smoking, would still have no mind to record it as anything other than Death by Misadventure. You have to run through the deed as the clever detective would, looking for signs that might give you away, looking for a way to eradicate all mistakes. It’s no good rushing ahead to the good bit and overlooking the glaring gaff that’s going to see you spend the next thirty years behind bars. If there is one thing my cheating husband does not deserve, it is to earn me even a single second of incarceration.
I chose that particular spa for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it does valet parking, so that your car is secure in a gated enclosure and brought out only when you hand over the little ticket they give you. So, what good is all that? Well, you get seen by the uniformed lackey and can thus be identified as the unforgettable MILF who handed over the keys early in the day and didn’t get them back until much later, during which a certain heinous crime was committed. Secondly, the spa is conveniently situated right next to a rural railway station which connects to a town some fifteen minutes drive from my home. I no longer do public transport, but for the sake of the perfect plan I am willing to make an exception.
So, drive up there early and alone and present one’s car. Hand over your keys and smile at the valet, even giving him a saucy compliment despite the fact that he has a face like a pug’s rump, just so that he remembers you. Book in at reception, telling them you don’t need a tour because you are well familiar with their facilities. Get the keys to one’s private changing room. Leave your phone in there - I’m thinking GPS traces here, and I hope you are taking notes. Then slip straight back out the entrance again, without being seen. No one will know that you haven’t been there all the time. Suffer the walk to the station, tottering on high heels for five minutes. Wearin
g very large sunglasses, board the iron horse, buying the ticket with cash. Sit where people don’t see you - at this time of the day, going in this direction, seats should be plentiful. Alight at your destination.
Now the tricky bit: getting back home unseen. Remember that the Range Rover Evoque - the one usually used for running about in and squashing the lowly - is locked up miles away in a spa car park. Fortunately, you also have a nippy if seldom used SLK for those sunny day jaunts, which can be parked in the road next to the station the previous day, before getting a taxi nearly all the way home, but walking the last few minutes, just so the taxi driver doesn’t know your address. Once off the train on the morning of the deed, pick up the waiting SLK and drive it home, parking in the road behind your house and going in through the back, where there is no CCTV on your gated entry and where hubby won’t spot your car. It means a bit more walking and scrabbling, and someone will have to pay for this.
Ensure you are in the house before they arrive. No one other than the desperate housewives/milkmen combination choose to fuck much before lunchtime unless they have woken up together. He will doubtless want to squeeze in at least nine holes before he meets up with her. Change into the tight leather skirt and bodice that you bought for that Halloween party you never went to because he was “busy at work” - although in retrospect was probably shagging some tart in the office - the same outfit that he has never once since requested you wear in the bedroom for saucy action, and has thus stayed on its hanger behind those sliding mirrored doors he loves to look at himself in; a hidden if constant sign that his attention has not been on you for some time. Well, I’m wearing it now, and the pleasure is going to be all mine.
Next, pull on the elbow-length gloves bought at the same time, to ensure fingerprints aren’t left in places a lady like me would never go - up ladders, for instance. Finally, zip on your sexiest boots, the ones with heels long and sharp enough to impale a fuck like my husband upon if ever it took my fancy. The boots aren’t just for empowerment and increasing one’s sexual fervour before the deed. They are practical too, for once. Broken glass equals fragments which could get onto soles of shoes, and remain as evidence. Thus the less actual shoe there is touching the floor, the better. I am clearly a genius at this - I think I’ve missed my calling!