Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Van Peer. Life is for living and as you and I well know none of us have any say in when it might be ended for us. Even adversity can bring fresh insights and new hope. And, in your case, perhaps in death your husband revealed secrets that showed he wasn’t entirely deserving of your wholehearted sorrow.’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly dancing on his grave if that’s what you mean, Inspector. But then again I don’t particularly feel in the mood to be putting flowers on it either.’

  He nods sagely, swirling his cognac in the glass and taking another deep sniff. The eyes stay on mine for once, rather than flitting around the room in search of evidence or taking in my body in search of unashamed thrills.

  ‘So you have reached a level of acceptance whereby you think you are strong enough to move on?’

  ‘I don’t feel emotionally incapable of getting on with my life, no.’

  ‘That is good to hear. And so there is nothing you can think of that I can do for you, Mrs Van Peer?’

  It is a pointed question, bringing a flashing, jolting image to my mind of tangled bare flesh: ours. The way his eyes are on mine I know it was entirely intentional. I like his eyes. I cannot deny this. There is a bit more warmth to them now, enough to have me flicker the slightest smile in return. I like them when they are steely too, when they bore into the truth of everything. He sips and still looks straight at me, like he is mulling over something else to say. I think he is going to ask me outright if I slayed my husband. He thinks my smile will grow broader to silently confirm his suspicions.

  It is his only hope. I have proved too cunning an adversary. I think he has swept for evidence and found none. It is a rare defeat, one that stops him running roughshod over me like he does all his other suspects. He has taken in my body and he yearns for it. He wants to use the threat of being privy to my guilty secret to force me to give myself to him. Or have me force myself upon him, so that I fuck him into submission to stop him from ever airing what he knows to anyone. Whatever, he can’t bear the thought of not having me. It is usually so easy for him, what with the threat of the law at his back. He takes a gulp, nearly finishing his expensive drink in one. I think he has pretensions to stay all night. That is why he came here. How pretentious! If he can’t defeat me he will deign to succumb to me. And he thinks I will have him. One way or another he wants his delicious prick filling my hot, wet hole. He sits forward in his seat, ready for his next move. He is either going to ask to stay or beg to be allowed, right now.

  ‘It is late, Mrs Van Peer, and I ought to leave you in peace. I am glad that you are as well as can be expected under the tragic circumstances.’

  Well, that’s hardly part of the script, the silly fucker! What do I say to make him get back on it without sounding like he has any hold over me?

  ‘It was good of you to think of me, Inspector.’

  ‘It is easy to think of you, Mrs Van Peer,’ he says, eyes on mine for another lingering moment before his head turns and he puts down his empty glass. He has given me the chance to say something back, something to encourage more, but again I don’t know what to say that doesn’t lay me wide open. His innate feelings of superiority just won’t die. I don’t know how I would regain the initiative having put myself on offer.

  ‘I imagine you are satisfied I am getting on just fine?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. I don’t think I will need to make any more follow-up visits.’ He stalls, waiting for me to say something, but still a part of me doesn’t want to capitulate on his terms. ‘Unless you can think of any other reason why you might need the services of a detective?’

  I can’t, other than that the hacked up body of handyman Bertrand might need to be removed by the murder squad if he keeps on using my kitchen surfaces to strip down the lawn mower engine.

  ‘None that I can...’

  ‘Nothing unusual happened recently? I mean, his death has been deemed an accident, but your husband was a powerful man and might have had enemies still seeking revenge...’

  What is he getting at? Is he simply trying to tell me that, to his mind, this case isn’t as clear-cut as the goose had everyone else believe?

  ‘No, I...’

  ‘Any confrontations with people you don’t know? Any threats made?’

  Is he trying to imply he thinks it was murder, and if it wasn’t a business enemy who killed my husband it must have been someone closer to him? I don’t know what he is after, apart from getting us into bed together, and yet he is heading out towards the door, as if I need to produce the magic words to stop him from going. Then suddenly the anonymous texts spring to mind.

  ‘I have had indecent messages left on my phone,’ I say. His interest piques and he turns back to face me.

  ‘What, only since the death of your husband? How many?’

  ‘Yes - four including the one tonight. One each week for the last month.’

  ‘Have you any idea who might be sending them?’

  ‘No,’ I say, although a leering Samson enters my head. ‘A disgusting pervert, I should think.’

  ‘Mrs Van Peer, could you give me some idea of the content of these messages?’

  ‘Certainly not! They are unspeakably explicit.’

  What kind of vulgar fishwife does he think I am, the spunk-bubbling cock-gobbler?

  ‘I mean - are they specific to you or do you think they could be being sent at random?’

  Well, the messenger knows I’ve got a luscious arse for starters so he’s got that bit right.

  ‘They are specific to me, Inspector.’

  ‘Have you still got the message you received tonight, and if so may I see it?’

  I frown. He can’t wait to delve into more filth. It is not something I wish to share with anyone, quite frankly. It seems to make me somehow culpable. His arm is outstretched, though, hand out, waiting for my phone. I go to my handbag and get it, finding the text so that he doesn’t get the chance to scroll through my lists. He looks at the message, his expression remaining almost unchanged except for a little curl of the lip to suggest suppressed anger. He makes a note of the number it was sent from.

  ‘It takes someone truly twisted to do something like this to you at this time, Mrs Van Peer. It may prove difficult to trace but we know the sender has your number, and either a grudge or less savoury intentions, so that gives me something to work on. Please leave this with me, Mrs Van Peer, and have no doubt - I always get my man. Or woman, obviously.’

  What was that last bit for? It wasn’t for the sake of political correctness.

  ‘Inspector, the content of the texts, I assure you, does not suggest it is a woman sending them.’

  ‘Quite. Nonetheless...’

  On that he goes and I am left there, feeling victorious and empty and precarious and dirty all at once, perched on the drawing room settee, my puss still giving out more heat than an oven. The car door closes outside my window, out there in the black. I hear the engine gun and see the glare of twin small round headlights - similar to those I had in my rear view mirror earlier this very night. Then he is going, leaving me here to recall his mild innuendo and find substance to it. The noise of his car hasn’t even subsided and my legs have been flung apart to allow my fingers entry. It is scant compensation but it will have to do. The rudeness is already crowding my head and there is no time even to drag myself upstairs. The images are filthy, nasty, spattering. They are confused and blurred. Only the sense of them can be gleaned, and that is of fabulous torture and glorious hurt. The razor is there, open and glinting but I have no idea if it is my hand holding it or someone else’s; that of Detective Inspector Stark. My fingers go deep and fast. The squelch is incomparably vulgar-sounding. My grunts and groans are feral and loud, like I want him to hear them and come back to find me like this. I can’t help myself. Who the fuck is he to put me in this state and then leave me?r />
  ‘Madam, are you hurt? Madam?’ says a worried Esmerelda, rushing in at the noises I’m making and getting the shock of her life when she sees me bucking and snarling and with fingers jammed and wriggling inside my sopping wet cunt. ‘Oh, Madam!’

  I stop, my breath hard, the vision clearing just a little, the fingers still in me.

  ‘Fuck off, Esmerelda,’ I say, with teeth bared, ‘before I decide you need chopping apart.’

  Oh, and in case you are wondering, I didn’t have to be Daddy’s Horrible Specimen for too long, you’ll be pleased to hear. When I was nine he left us for a woman he had been having an affair with almost from the time he was first married. I kept telling my mother to stop him from going but she didn’t. She simply stayed on her knees outside our front door as he spat insults and loaded his bags into the car. I stood looking down at her as this kind of high-pitched wailing shriek came from her crumpled red face, the snot pouring out of her nose. She was usually so pretty. I have never heard or seen anything as wretched or distressing before or since. The rise of sympathy for her, of love and the need to protect her, mushroomed inside me unstoppably, feeling like a white glare that would explode my head. It almost had me passing out. Then it simply stopped, just like that, and my vision cleared and she was still there, wailing almost inaudibly, doing nothing, pathetic. I didn’t even hug her.

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’ I asked my father, since I wasn’t sure who was going to be fixing my tea that night if my mum couldn’t get off her knees.

  ‘Why the fuck would I want you with me?’ he raged. ‘Where I am going there is a girl already there who is a much better daughter than you. She does what I ask her and she doesn’t have hour-long screaming tantrums and she doesn’t get me into all sorts of shit with the neighbours because she has dismembered her best friend’s Barbie doll with a pair of garden shears!’

  So, my mother lost herself to drink after that and I went to my aunt’s first and then to boarding school. I got expelled twice and only did well at exams because I needed to prove I was amongst the cleverest without particularly trying. I still only got the job I did because I’d my mother’s looks and a low-cut top and decided to sell my soul to the devil and allow the married boss to spunk on my cleavage during the interview, in exchange for a permanent position. Lucky he is dead now or I’d have to do for him too. Fortunately, for all this undeserved adversity, you’ll be pleased to know that I turned out just fine.

  Smart Arse

  No, don’t ask me why I’m here sitting on Madam Destiny’s couch, glaring at that pitiful fuckwhimp husband of hers. I swore I wouldn’t be stupid enough to let her have one over on me again - especially as she promised me a spanking on my return. Drummond is all head-bowed and flustered at my presence. He’s not allowed to look at me but he can’t help shooting glances towards my feet because I am wearing a pair of one the most killer of all my recently purchased killer heels. They are black patent platform ankle boots, and that mouthful doesn’t even cover the utter skin-tingling gorgeousness of them. They are covered in long thin chrome spikes, all over the toe, ankle cuff, and down the back of the metal heels, which are long enough to be used as a tool for measuring Samson’s boasted erection. They make me physically over two inches taller and mentally a foot more than this. They make me want to dominate and fuck everybody.

  ‘It is impossible for me teach you to be the ultimate dominatrix as you ask,’ the ever-condescending Madam Destiny tells me, which didn’t stop her taking my money on the promise of doing just that, ‘since no one actually knows the exact link between the various aspects of BDSM and sexual arousal. It is completely down to the individual. Just as one boyfriend may like having his nipples pinched and the next may hate it, the realms of domination and humiliation are like this, only magnified a thousand-fold. There is no list of golden rules to learn that make you the perfect goddess for each new slave. Individuals have to be learnt individually.’

  Well, a fat lot of good that is!

  ‘But you can be the best?’ I say, with just a hint of threat in my voice.

  ‘You could spend hundreds of hours studying the psychology behind it and still only find out that theories conflict. However, regardless of individual foibles and needs, psychology plays a vital part. The brain is our most sensitive erogenous zone. The true goddess knows how to play the brain, how to build excitement here to the maximum so that this thrill is transmitted all over the body. Instilling anticipation is the key. This can be done through setting, words, actions, costume. In your case, since you are naturally beautiful and with such sexy feminine curves, if you present yourself well, you will create more anticipation in any slave just by stepping into a room than most goddesses could build up in a whole session.’

  Well, it’s always nice to be told you are sexy but I’m not sure it’s worth two hundred an hour, especially since I basically knew this anyway. However, the point on anticipation is being amply demonstrated. I got the buzz the moment I set eyes on her. She sports a dildo at her waist, similar or indeed the very one she used on me that first time. The top she wears is like a collared blouse but in latex, cut in a deep V to give her an inviting, huddled cleavage. It has a flared hem, not long enough to count as anything like a skirt, coming only just below the small of her back. Beneath are black tights, solid enough in colour not to give everything away but essentially see-through. There is no sign of any other underwear. Her camel toe looks plump and oh-so inviting.

  Boots come above her thighs; nothing like as punchy as mine but still effective. In fact, I’m arguably looking as good as her or better. I’ve gone for an intricate buckled corset in leather, which hikes up my bosom good and proper. Since a spanking had been threatened I almost opted for some protective trousers but went at the last minute for a short, tight skirt that clings to my ample behind and is secured there by stretched laces to give a glimpse of exposure, and then narrows further below this. Beneath is a pair of wet-look tights, and only this. I felt powerful parading around in my room. I felt like the goddess I was when the inconsequence that is Drummond bowed and scraped to me at the front door. But then she came along and immediately stole my thunder. The key is the toy at her waist. In this case - specifically regarding me - the outfit lays the foundations but it is the dildo that really hits the spot, because I know and she knows exactly what that did to me the last time around. And those memories, the bliss and the humiliation, are all on my mind. It gives her the edge, this reminder of her superiority over me. That’s psychology right there. That’s instilling anticipation.

  ‘There is something else you may have that sets you above so many others,’ she tells me, trying to look like the Keeper of the Golden Secret.

  ‘Don’t make me guess,’ I say back, the hint of menace more apparent.

  ‘For some, the thrill of being dominated, humiliated and hurt by a woman is everything. The more potent that woman is, the more thrilling she will prove. This is not something you can fake. It is exuded by those women who share the gift. The slave feels it in the manner and the words of his Mistress, in the buzz she gives off, every bit as much as in the weight of the whip strikes.’

  ‘So it isn’t just about strapping on dildos then?’ I interrupt, trying to pretend that she hasn’t got me over a barrel. Her expression doesn’t change.

  ‘The books will tell you that there are various levels of sadism, from general spite right up to wanting to maim and even kill for sexual gratification. It is common to find males who truly get off on harming others. Their psyche is far more geared to the enjoyment of defeating, belittling and causing pain. In females it is much, much rarer. It is very uncommon to find women at this pinnacle. From what you have told me of your reasons for becoming a dominatrix, you don’t sound like you dwell in the lower levels. Women like you and I are very, very difficult to come by. In that sense, and with your looks, you could be amongst the very best.’

  Not am
ongst the best. The best. Funny how she lumps herself in with me in the cruelness stakes - how little she knows.

  ‘So, the nastier you are, the more they adore you?’

  ‘Not every slave is after such levels of pain or indeed any pain at all. However, it is a truism that all subs get off on ceding their will and control to another. The more naturally dominant that other person is, the more genuine and exciting the situation will feel. The anticipation is greater. With women like you and I, it can reach the highest peaks. That is why I refer to it as a gift. We can pick the slaves of our choosing; the ones to bring us the most gratification. We can always move down our levels to suit, but less naturally potent women cannot ascend the scale. I do not know why you have an urge to hurt. You probably don’t either. Sadism sometimes gives pleasure through the simple wielding of power, or the role reversal. Some sadists give pain because they enjoy feeling it vicariously through others. Many sadists are equally masochistic. Whatever your reasons, you can pick the cream of the many slaves out there who will beg for the levels of cruelty you enjoy administering. You will never be short of adoration.’

  I’m not sure, because I might just be homing in on the bits I want to hear, but I think she is telling me that the nastier I am, the more I will be adored, and that some will wish me to be the very nastiest that I can be. Now, there’s a thought. I think I might rather enjoy that. In fact the sooner I get to start enjoying such pleasures, the better.