Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  I can. I’m breathing harder and clenching to defend against any contact but the sweep over my surface is undeniable. It’s like my better part shrinks from the thought of such things but my senses refuse to listen. My eyes stay rigidly closed. All my hairs are standing on end. I expect her to act upon me any second.

  ‘There are two supreme powers we can have over other human beings,’ she goes on. ‘One is the power to take their life. The other is the power to use them without consent. Do you know how easy it would be for me to gag you now so that you couldn’t say no to anything? You came to me and asked for this. There could be no blame on my part, no repercussions.’

  I should be calling her a bitch and demanding my release, but all I’m doing is breathing hard and picturing those torture weapons being taken off the wall. I sense her to my front, very close. I can smell her fragrance. The lightest of touches skims over my back and makes the flesh there jump. It was made by something hard, an edge, cool enough to be leather or plastic. I remember the flat, long handled paddles in black used for spanking. Then there is breath at my ear and she is speaking in low, slow tones right into it, giving me another little shiver.

  ‘Have you ever feasted upon another woman’s cunt?’ she asks. I have enough resolve not to speak but she isn’t looking for answers anyway; she is simply looking to create in my head those filthy images of her saturated pussy squashed to my face and me gasping as I slurp on it and hungrily push my tongue as deep into her as I can. These images are not going to be turned into reality, not yet at least. The hard edge is skimming down my back and her fragrance leaves my nose. She is behind me again, at the danger end. Still my eyes stay shut, apparently incapable of disobeying her order, no matter what my trepidation.

  ‘Do you know how easy it would be for me to bare your tits for you now Anoushka? To put clamps on your nipples that bite into your swollen, yearning flesh? What about that round arse of yours? It is hard to imagine an arse more perfect for punishment. On bare skin it stings so much more. Can you feel the skin there tightening? Can you feel your arse cringing yet begging for me to do my worst to it?’

  And with that her hands are on the outside of my thighs and moving upwards. I hear the sweep of my skirt coming up over my stockings and the cool on the exposed skin. I hear her let out a sigh of satisfaction, as if she has been given something marvellous to work with.

  ‘I think it is time, don’t you Anoushka? I know that under those panties of yours your prim bottom is crying out to be spanked pink. Now, I know you think you want to be just like me but I’m not sure you have it in you. I need to know that you have the strength to become my protégé, so I will give you one more chance. A true dominatrix would know she could do nothing about her position but she would have closed off mentally, to retain some control. A dirty bitch who wanted to be used and punished would have been picturing it all, secretly begging for it to happen and getting all wet for it. So, Anoushka, if your cunt is wet I suppose you are nothing but a dirty bitch in need of some punishment - don’t you agree?’

  She still isn’t after any answers. Down comes my underwear with tantalising slowness. I can almost feel every square centimetre of my prone posterior coming unto her feasting eyes. My fingers waggle at my sides in a vain attempt at defence but I am totally at her mercy. She gives another one of her sighs of satisfaction. In an act of pure treason, my pussy lets go another mini gush of warm juice, just so that she can be in no doubt. I know I am going to get my first taste of corporal punishment. I picture the faces of the bent-over girls on those websites; the pain and mortification and rapture etched into their expressions. I am shaking. I don’t want to but I can’t stop. Worse, it’s as much from anticipation as fear.

  Her fingernails are on the tautened skin of my completely bare rump. My hairs there are already raised and she will see the tell-tale goose bumps that cannot disguise my enjoyment at her touch. They cover the whole expanse and travel down to the backs of my thighs.

  ‘Let us see, shall we?’ she says, although I am in no doubt she can see already. One fingernail scratches lightly at my lips, pushing gently to ease between them. Then I am breached. I gasp as she enters me and I know some of the juice that will condemn me has trickled onto her palm. She pushes her finger all the way in and moves it inside me in slow circles.

  ‘Oh dear, Anoushka. You have turned out to be such a disappointment. I don’t think I have ever felt a wetter cunt on any slave - and yours is like an oven too!’

  Her finger slips out before I want it to. I almost beg her to put it back in but my mind is invaded by thoughts of paddles and whips and canes.

  ‘So, what do you think your big bottom wants me to use on it, my pretty?’

  Your palm, I’m thinking, worried about firmer, thinner objects. I almost plead for it but I want her decision to rule. I want to be in her hands, whatever it brings. She is giving my bottom little pinches all over, like she is tenderising it, and easing my cheeks apart to see between them, to expose my rudeness in full because I can do nothing to stop her.

  ‘Yes, that fat quim of yours is so wet this dildo at my waist would just slip straight up it. Perhaps I should use the Queen of Pleasure? But does your cunt deserve such a delight? Perhaps it might be better going in your bottom, although by the looks of the tightness of it I would be surprised if anything has ever been up there. Are you too prim and proper for that, too superior for such dirty things? Can you possibly imagine the searing slide of my beautiful big dildo all the way up that tight hole of yours, more scintillating a painful pleasure than you have ever dreamt?’

  Her thumb is pressing at my little hole. I am tense, fretting and desperate. She has broken me and I’m all but ready to shout out and let her know this, to beg her to do whatever she wants to me however wretched I am left, whatever the agony or defilement. And then suddenly it is in me, the dildo at her waist thrust right inside my slippery, dripping puss. I can’t help but shriek like the hussy slave she has made of me. She grips my hips and thrusts fast, giving me no quarter, no chance to stop the pleasure hurtling. There is none of the pain she promised me, none of the dirtiness. There is just her thrusting and reaching round to squeeze my throbbing clit.

  I am shocked, almost affronted that she can give me such pleasure just from a narrow prick - and not even a real one at that. But within seconds I am beaten. I am squealing and burbling and begging her not to stop, sounding nothing like a Goddess of Power and everything like a nympho slut who hasn’t been touched down there in years.

  ‘You bitch! You fucking bitch!’ I hear myself wailing, chastising her for robbing me of the things she promised me, trying to gain back some vestiges of strength and sound like anything other than a pathetic slave. She just keeps pumping away with consummate expertise and I am practically crying because I came here to learn her strength and all I know is that she has taken me apart so easily. She is sending the stars behind my eyes and I’m about to be left in a pitiful fucked heap and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

  I don’t know how long afterwards she leaves me whimpering and with the shiver refusing to leave my body. Still trembling, I am uncuffed and unclipped but I push the hand away that is trying to cover me and make me decent again. My face is flushed crimson. I am panting, trying to get some kind of composure. Still I cannot believe I came so hard from this, that I have to face her now she has done this to me. I am meant to be the strongest of all. I force myself up because I have to pretend it wasn’t one of the most exhilarating fucks of my life and that I took only from it what I wanted. The noises I made are proof of something different. Again I wave away her helping hand. I don’t want her peeling me off the table like some kind of giant wet lettuce. I hate her for doing this to me, for shattering my dreams of strength. She is taking me towards the stairs and I am glad to be going.

  ‘So the lesson today,’ she is telling me, in a more normal, more matter-of-fact voice now, ‘was
how to dominate with words and imagery alone, how to make a trembling, desperate wretch of anyone before you have even touched them.’

  This is just more humiliation, because no one has ever made such a mess of me so easily. It is certainly a lesson learned but I came here to deal them, not to be on the end of them. I am almost out the door and glad to take my shame and anger away. If that weak fuck Drummond shows his face now I will rip it clean off for him. I am about to go, still trying to make out that I’m not fazed by any of it.

  ‘Your next lesson will see me using my palm on your bare bottom,’ she says, matter-of-factly, just as I step through the threshold. ‘Don’t be late.’

  I drag out once last piece of defiance and raise my eyebrows, trying for a who says there will be a next time and what the hell makes you think that I would ever allow you to spank me? kind-of expression - one all aspiring Goddesses of Domination no doubt have in their armoury. I head for the Evoque, my puss still glowing and furnace-hot. Fine, so I learned a lot today and there is certainly something compelling about this woman, but I don’t think being humiliated by her is going to make me the iron-willed, luscious expert torturer of mind and body that I aim to be. The burning need when placed at her mercy is only going to confuse matters. No, I don’t think Madam Pauline Destiny, or her silly husband, will ever have the privilege of seeing me again.

  I sit in the driver’s seat with head clouded, idly studying my mobile, vaguely seeing that a message awaits me, sent by persons unknown. Normally I would delete any unsolicited texts without even looking at them. Right now I’m still too befuddled to think straight so I look at it and nearly drop my phone from the jolt it puts through my belly. The cause of all this is one simple sentence, the like of which I have never received in my life, sent anonymously from a number my phone does not recognise. The message reads simply:

  I am going to spunk in your luscious arse.

  Houses of the Unholy

  There is flesh here; a pink kaleidoscope of heaving temptation that has the juices gathering in my mouth. The heat is in me and musters behind my eyes like a crimson cloud of desire that almost sees me swooning. I could have any or all of it and I have to concentrate to stop the greed taking me over. They are putting it on show and I want it. I want to gorge on that which I have only ever known in fantasy before: soft tits and velvet, dripping pussies. The flirting is as obvious as the dresses are tight and revealing, with alcohol only fuelling the fire. I want my nails in these lusty bitches. Imagine those curves at your disposal. Imagine how I looked to Madam Destiny, bent over her table with my full bare arse at her mercy. Think of all she could have done to me, and that I could do to any one of these here. How did she ever restrain from sinking her teeth right in?

  The theme is Pippa’s favourite: Pirates and Harbour Whores. Frills, cutlasses, heaving bosoms and swashes in need of buckling abound. It is intrinsically sexy. This is the first party I have been to as a free entity in twenty years. It is the first non-miserable social gathering I have been to since my husband’s demise, unless you count his wake. The males here remind me too much of the not-so dearly departed and that has me seething. They are rich and proud and full of themselves. Almost to a man they have come as Cap’n Jack Sparrow, because who else would they be but the star? As they are loaded they can spare no expense at getting every detail right - except for the gorgeous face, sadly. Their swagger is too hateful to be attractive. I should pick one of them off and demonstrate exactly what I do to arrogant bastards like them, but to my ire I do not feel confident enough. I envisage demeaning flirtation and pretence at attraction to get them where I want them, and I only want them coming to me on their knees. Men with this much money, they don’t see why they shouldn’t have everything on a plate. They don’t think anyone deserves even a second of consideration above them. I need to know how to defeat this.

  Waiters dressed as footmen serve fuckingly extravagant La Grande Dame champagne, but most unconventionally in pewter tankards atop silver trays. I am on my third. I stand alone because Pippa is busy hosting and Heidi has been taken off elsewhere. I am generally avoided because it would mean awkward conversations and pretend sadness when frivolity is all that is on everyone’s mind. Being alone is something I will come to know a lot of and I look forward to it. I can stand off in silent observation, weighing up my potential prey like a huntress. There are two types of solitary people: ones alone because they are considered too miserable or pathetic to be with, and ones who need no one else; who everyone wishes they could be with but don’t feel brave, clever, witty or attractive enough to do so. With my recent bereavement I could potentially fall into the first category, but I’m damned if I will ever let this happen. With what I’m wearing this is hardly likely.

  In the past weeks I have spent more than the average man would spend on a brand new car simply upon my attire, all from specialist suppliers and designers. Most of it went on footwear. Make one thing your focus, Madam Destiny told me, so I have. In truth I never scrimped in this area anyway. If I went more than a week without a new pair I would have died of Choo Deprivation Syndrome. However, these new acquisitions have a much darker feel to them. They are for a Goddess of Discipline. Tonight, because of the theme, I have had to go with one of the tamer examples: black patent leather thigh boots with a turn-down top cuff. There is one concession to a BDSM feel in a solid metal stiletto heel so high it puts my toes almost at right angles to the perpendicular and pitches my ample cleavage towards anyone who dares come near me, which isn’t many as yet.

  A few less close acquaintances offer strained condolences but I don’t know many people to talk to, so I don’t have to waste much time putting on a visage of mourning. Anyway, my outfit is hardly screaming “widow in crisis”. I have a suitably wench-like frilly skirt in black, cut away at the front not a great deal below where the action starts so that my boots are clearly visible. This also gives a glimpse of the sheer black tights set off with a rambling thorn design worn beneath, which anyone tripping in a heap at my feet and looking up would discover are crotchless. I won’t be doing the Can-Can tonight.

  My pièce de résistance outfit-wise is the bodice, made from embossed tan leather to look like an ancient map charting islands amongst the high seas. It is a truly fabulous item, with frayed edges to the various panels, which are secured by rows of antiqued brass studs. It is half-cupped to make it look like my bosom could spill out at any second. On one cup, in dark brown script, it has the word “treasure”, whilst the other bears the word “chest”. I should say so. It came with a matching eye-patch, or should that be aye-aye patch? Completing my ensemble is a fluffy and feathery tricorn hat and two lace sleeves, held by itching elastic. I have put curls in my hair and gone a bit noisy with the make-up, since I am meant to be a whore, though obviously not as convincing a one as some of those here.

  I stand against one of the brick columns in the huge front room, aside the vast open hearth, so that I am half-hidden from most. As calculated this allows an approach, although it is only Heidi’s husband, familiar enough with me not to need any sneakiness. He wears a naughty grin, as if we share some secret, which we don’t.

  ‘I hear you have suffered great loss recently,’ he says. He knows I have. He was at the funeral. He has seen me a few times since. ‘Permit me to say “ahh”.’

  The last word starts out sounding like the noise you would make for a dentist but goes on, transforming into rolling and accented r’s to mimic a pirate. He gives me another grin to show me that we have shared enough over the years to allow for this gallows humour. Actually, I did think it quite funny but I merely raise my eyebrows to show that I am neither offended nor particularly amused.

  ‘Good evening, Samson,’ I say to him, studying the badly-applied eyeliner. ‘You look like a punch-up between a highwayman and a transvestite.’

  He blinks a bit, like I have given him a little knee to the cobblers, since he was probably after
some gushing flattery. However, the lecherous grin soon returns and he presses on, moving closer so that no one can overhear.

  ‘Now those boots are seriously sexy,’ he says wolfishly, through gritted teeth and with a wrinkled nose, as if his desire has suddenly risen and got the better of him. ‘And I love the fact that you have given me somewhere to park my bicycle.’

  I follow his gaze down to my cleavage and then look up to give him another nonchalant stare. He often flirts mildly with me but this is perhaps as bold as he has ever been. He has certainly never dared to be this close to me before, so that his mouth is not much more than an erect cock-length from my ear.

  ‘Sadly for you, Samson, as you well know, this parking isn’t free,’ I reply. That was quite clever. Free as in “gratis” and free as in “available”. It was a better answer than I had meant it to be. I decide to make this a good parting shot and leave him there, his lust still up, and move out into the glass room housing the swimming pool. The air is warm and damp here and the smell of chlorine never the most enticing. Nonetheless, this room is a magnet for so many. In the centre of the pool floats a fabulous miniature galleon about the size of a rowing boat and rather costly, as Pippa keeps reminding me. It is crewed primarily by cooked lobsters, sat on oblong silver platters and with the shells already split down the tail so that the meat can be prised out with little silver forks.

  The intricately crafted gun ports are open and the cannons sit forward and ready, a little plastic straw protruding from each barrel. On the deck sits a gold pot like a sweetie jar, but containing treasure very much for adults only. The idea is that you remove the lid and place a spoonful of the white powdered contents upon the gun ports and chop it up there with the card provided. Then simply remove the straw from the gun barrel and ingest via the nostrils. Pippa frowns terribly on all of this but her loving husband doesn’t give the slightest shit about her views because some of his circle like to work hard, and that means playing hard too when the chances arise.