Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  ‘Fuck off then, Samson,’ I say coldly, now feeling like a true dominatrix, ready to go in for the kill. ‘Would you like to kiss my boots, Lionel?’

  He shrugs a bit and then nods avidly.

  ‘Oui, Madame,’ he says. ‘Sure.’

  And with that off I go with the Swiss big cheese trailing behind me. I have no plan and this is utterly spontaneous and so I have to think on my feet. My bladder is pressing, which is why I wanted to make an exit, and that’s not going to go away just because I have a gagging foreigner in tow. I can’t aim for the main bathrooms if I want to avoid being disturbed. Fortunately, I know this house like my own and thus where the guest suites are - often made up by our faultless host in case anyone gets too inebriated to even make it out to their car at party’s end. I aim for those. I choose a room I have stayed in a couple of times myself. Closing the door behind us silences the noise of the crowd. Leading him through to the en suite and locking that door assures us of privacy. I have isolated us. It is just him and me now: his will versus mine; his desire versus my resolve. I act before he can lunge.

  ‘Turn and face the door,’ I tell him. ‘Do not move until I tell you.’

  He does it, no questions asked. My smile is almost a snarl of gritted teeth triumph, although my mind is a little jumbled. Why won’t the thoughts come clearly? Think anticipation; make his head whir for me. I slowly drag the skirt up. He will recognise the sound. I ease down my knickers, down my thighs, over the boots to drop to my ankles. It’s a good visual, this little scrap of purple, dampened lace above the sharpness of my heels and against the shining black latex. Soft against hard; impenetrable versus already yielded. He’ll see that. It feels good simply to be this exposed in the presence of a man, knowing he can only glimpse you if you tell him so. He could simply turn but he won’t, since patience and obedience could net him so much more.

  I try to avoid other people’s toilets whenever possible, but this is Pippa’s house, so it will be cleaner than new. I raise the lid. It is another unmistakeable sound. The softness of the boots at my knees means I can sit down without having to adopt too awkward a position. I have my ankles close and my knees wide. My hand is already down there, seemingly of its own accord. The power feels like electricity inside of me now; the joy of languidly stroking myself while this man yearns for my command to let him turn and see me.

  ‘My cunt is bare, Lionel.’ My voice sounds sultry. I don’t know where it came from but I’m glad it did. ‘I am touching it. The juices are like warm silk and my lips are all swollen and desperate to be kissed by someone who adores them. Could you give my pussy the adoration she needs, Lionel?’

  His hands go out for support and his forehead rests flat to the door. I hear his shallow breaths. I think I have him.

  ‘Mine is a very soft cunt, Lionel, and very hot too. I think she might scald any cock or fingers she took inside her.’

  He shifts again. He wants to turn but he hangs on. His blood is up and his prick will be filling. The thought of his erection almost has me hurrying but I fight it and control myself. The next bit is something I didn’t even do in front of my husband, but men are dirty-minded and crudeness in girls slays them.

  ‘I’m holding myself open, Lionel,’ I say, and I am. ‘Listen.’

  For one fleeting moment I think bashfulness might seize control of my muscles but happily I’m feeling way too nasty for this. I let go my stream. It’s another unmistakable sound and I see his fingers almost clawing at the door. It goes on. His cock will be fully hard now. I know he wants to plunge it into me right now, even before I’m finished. The last drops come. I even feel sexy wiping myself, doing this so-private act with him this close and yet unable to see. I think about pulling my dress back down but I’ve already gone too far for that. Instead I stay with my knees apart and place my left hand over my puss, feeling the emanating heat. This is all the cover I will give myself.

  ‘I am going to tell you to turn around in a moment, Lionel,’ I say, ‘but first you must realise that if you don’t do exactly as I tell you then I will end this immediately. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, almost before my last word is out.

  ‘Do you like my boots, Lionel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Show me. Take out your cock so that I can see just how much you like them.’

  Without a moment’s pause his hands slide off the door so that they can see to his zip. I can tell by the way his arse sticks out towards me that he is pulling out a fully grown erection.

  ‘Stroke it for me, Lionel. Imagine being allowed to kiss all the way up my boots, right up my soft, bare thighs and to my open, naked cunt. Imagine sinking your tongue right up inside me and feeling my cream flowing out into your mouth. Slow down, Lionel - your spunk belongs to me, remember, not to that door.’

  He does temper his pace slightly but lust is clearly taking over and I’m already thinking that he might not have the kind of self-discipline I need.

  ‘Turn around for me now, Lionel. Let me see.’

  He obeys, his stare immediately on the hand between my legs. His eyes widen. I half expect to be met with a flurry of wanking and a premature burst but instead he proudly grips his swollen pole, presenting it to me, the skin drawn back from the glistening head. It is quite fat, but not particularly long. The sight still has me salivating, but for some reason there is a twinge of anger in there too.

  ‘You want me to suck that cock, don’t you, Lionel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First you have to get on your knees and kiss my boots.’

  It is difficult to fathom why this part is pleasurable. He certainly looks less appealing drooling at my feet, with tongue and lips all over the latex and down the heel. I don’t think he genuinely likes the boots as much as Samson seems too - it’s more the thought of me in them that gets him. I think he might even be playing an act with his slavish slavering and depraved sniffing at my knickers, but, whatever, he is obeying me despite his urges - a man who probably doesn’t take any instructions from anyone else; a man whose reputed bonus last year was in the region of two million. And that’s the turn-on: having this much sway over a man who thinks he is king. He moves upwards, up the calves, picking my right leg to concentrate on, lips and tongue still all go, up towards the knee, eyes fixed on the hand that covers my crotch. He has pure lust in that stare and might lose control now he is so close to the prize. Time, I think, to rein him in again.

  ‘Lie on your back,’ I command. He looks momentarily put out, ready to disobey, but I raise my eyebrows questioningly and he does as instructed. I have him drag down his trousers and underwear so the whole lot is exposed, and pull up his shirt so that his erection can lie upon bare midriff. I press the flat of my right sole upon the underside of his cock and then start to rub it gently from side to side. He breathes hard. The stimulation is working even if it is not the more welcome grip of my closed fist.

  ‘Do you really think I should touch this with my bare hands?’ I ask. ‘Does it deserve to go in my pretty mouth? I think you need to show me you can do exactly as I say first.’

  I doubt anyone other than a real foot fetishist could get true pleasure from this improvised wanking but it’s all part of the tease. Indeed, “shoejob” must be one of the least sexy-sounding of all sexual practices but I have studied many videos online in order to gain tips on technique. It is about slight pressure and friction. The movement of sole on shaft draws out the seed and stimulates the exposed glans as it dances on the belly. Every now and then I place the spiked heel of my boot either to shaft or ball sack, pressing gently, just to give him that extra sensation and hit of panic. At one point as I press down the red cloud starts to form in my mind but I fight it. I doubt I can bring him off this way, but it is something he will surely remember me for. Anyway, I don’t want him finished before I get what I want. He does well not to g
rab himself and take matters into his own hands, so I should reward him.

  ‘Stand up,’ I command. The prick bobs a foot in front of my face. I reach forward and clasp it, feeling that gorgeous heat and rigidity. I must wear gloves next time. It will rob me of the feel, plus my painted nails do look good on him, but nowhere near as sexy as black latex would. I am aware that he only has pre-come for lubrication so I lean forward to deliver a blob of spit to the head of it. He gasps at my whore vulgarity. I work it in slowly, gliding the foreskin back and forth. I have to press harder at my crotch, so insistent is my puss becoming. I must be patient too.

  ‘Keep your hands behind your back,’ I tell him. I stroke up and down, gaining a rhythm, feeling the pulse of blood through him. Then it is too much for me and I am on him, that meat filling my mouth, my lips sliding greedily in my own spit up and down his length. He gasps an oath in French, his hands momentarily coming to his sides before he checks himself and clasps them behind him again. It takes all my willpower to resist frigging myself silly. I come off him but my blood is raging. My hand pumps and I look up to see his eyes screwed shut. This hot solid meat is going in me. I should ride him to control the thrusts. I want him deep inside but the feel in my hands and in my mouth is just so good. Then, as quickly as that, I’ve lost it.

  He starts to wriggle as I pump him and I realise he has been overtaken by need. I stop but his hand is already there to replace mine. He’s gone.

  ‘Suck it!’ he is gasping. ‘Let me come in your mouth!’

  He can’t stop. His knees are going and he’s emitting a long, low moan.

  ‘Let me come in your mouth!’ he says again, more frantic this time. His hand goes to my head, trying to force me back down upon him. I slap it away, the fire burning inside me.

  ‘Get your filthy hands off me!’ I snap, pushing him backwards two steps. Still he claps his cock but the pumping fist has stopped. His face is one of surprise, anger and desperate need. I should kick him in the goolies for this but I am not quite finished with this man yet, even if this battle has been lost. I might still have him on my terms. I turn. I don’t know from where I summon the hussy instinct but I do it. My hand stays on my crotch to prevent him driving into me but I present my bare rump to him, all stuck out and inviting.

  ‘Come on my arse!’ I order him.

  His gasp is like a little yelp at the sight of me. Immediately I feel the sticky end of his cock pressed at me and the smack of his fist again and again at my buttocks. His tip is pressed right at my little prone opening, enough so that it might have to yield if any forward thrust comes. But then the heat of his spurts is there instead: three, four, five of them, right on my rude arsehole and dripping down my crack onto my fingers. It is only then that I realise he will see the line laid down earlier by the cane, and he will know I can be made a slave of. My head is all fuzzy with raging shame and lust, and it only begins to clear when his grunts have subsided. I straighten and turn, pulling my skirt back down quickly to hide the red line upon my skin, still careful not to let him see my puss, although this feels like a shallow victory. I kick off my underwear and lift one boot to take them off the toe. I go to him and push the damp scrap of lace into his still-open mouth. I hate him for not showing discipline and myself for displaying such visual evidence of weakness. My cheeks are flushed and I am smarting, but it’s not over yet. I have lost here and I need to win this war. I already know how to do so.

  ‘If you ever think you are man enough to do exactly as I say,’ I tell him as I unlock the door, ‘then you go ahead and give me a call.’

  Then I’m out of there, out of the guest suite and heading towards the front door. Samson gets there before I do.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he says, an expression of annoyance on his face, like I owe him any of my time.

  ‘I was doing something that didn’t need your assistance,’ I tell him, and push past.

  ‘You’re a fucking tease, Anoushka. I’ll teach you one day soon!’

  I’m almost out of the door, desire and humiliation still bubbling my blood, a flashing image of that big cock of his teaching me exactly what a naughty tease I am, and then I stop and face him.

  ‘That cabin you said we could go to one afternoon,’ I say, looking him right in the eye. ‘Maybe I would like to see it.’

  He practically comes in his pants - in fact he might actually be doing precisely that, I’m just not sticking around to see it. Off I go into the night, squirming in the Maserati’s seat with the vindictive itch in my cunt and the smart in my backside. I hate just about everything and I need to come. I am swearing at my bleeping phone before I’ve even read the new message. My profanity becomes a flurry, escalating to a scream of fury and unsated need when I look at my phone screen and see the words there. They say: You are going to take every last inch of my cock in your mouth.

  It is a struggle to make it home without crashing but somehow I manage it. The house is dark because it’s only me now - unless you count Bertrand, who lives in the grounds in the one-bed lodge next to the old stable block. But he never seems to be here after dark anyway, presumably always creeping around streets elsewhere, doing whatever dirty things he does in his own time. I feel manic with need. My hand is pressing fruitlessly at my crotch before the door has even swung shut. I must look drunk, stumbling half out of my mind with this urgency to make myself come, practically bouncing off the walls in my preoccupation. I flick switches to flood the space with light as I make my way upstairs. Darkness is usually my friend but for some reason I don’t want to hide in it now. I put on all the lights in the bedroom. I need to see myself. My dress is pulled off with no care taken to avoid ripping it. I can’t think of such things now. I am left naked but for the boots and the black choker at my neck.

  And there I am, in the mirror, cheeks flushed, knees bent and hips thrust forward, fingers already rubbing in circles. It’s like it’s not even me, this wanton bitch in reflection, snarling with desire and wanking so nastily. The fingers plunge in to make my knees buckle. The juice pours out of me. I pinch my nipples hard with my free hand, pulling mercilessly at the flesh until it makes me squeal. I need a toy inside me but I can neither face stopping nor leaving the dirty sight of myself in the mirror. I should have had elbow-length gloves on - think how they would have looked! I feel utterly feral, like the stray street cat in the sink estate I once was and swore I’d never be again. I never should have let that Swiss bastard off so lightly. I must use ties next time. Think of that cock in me. Think of Samson’s too, even bigger. Think of them both at once!

  I’m going to collapse when this one hits. The red mist is already there, bringing that collage of nasty images. I can feel the cocks in me, the sting of the palm and the cane. I’m nearly there when a security light goes on outside, flooding the lawn, lighting up the hole Bertrand has been excavating for my pond. It makes me jump. With the lights on and the room reflected in the floor-to-ceiling front window it is hard to see outside, but I caught the shadow ducking behind the digger left there overnight. It wasn’t a fox or a cat. It was a man. There is someone in my garden who has been creeping around watching me do this to myself. And I haven’t stopped. My fingers just won’t cease. The rapture is building and will not let go, even if that horrible pervert Bertrand is out there seeing me like this, no doubt with horrible cock in hand.

  I’m not just rubbing frantically. I am walking too, away from the mirror and towards the full glass wall that looks out onto my lawns, catching my reflection there instead. I am taking the filthy, wanton sight of me right to that disgusting pervert. It’s like I am possessed. I’m there in all my wanking glory, practically pressed to the glass, giving that creepy peeping Tom the best eyeful I possibly can, two fingers of one hand slapping in and out whilst the other hand sees to my desperate clit. Lord knows how often he spies on me but I simply don’t care. He will be a slave to the sight of me. I want to displ
ay, to show him my all. I want him to see just how fucking dirty I can be. So I turn, to give him the same sight that finished the last man I was with. The release finally hits me and I come, shrieking, with my round arse squashed against the window, all stuck out, just as it was for that cheating Swiss - and doubtless Bertrand is tugging his spunking cock just as feverishly. Consequences can go fuck themselves. I don’t care what I’m doing or how I look because I am a goddess with the power to rip all these bastard men to shreds if I so choose - and that is exactly what I am going to do.

  Spot the Indifference

  I have passion; don’t ever think otherwise. Sometimes it almost devours me, gathering rapidly and mushrooming inside, clouding my thoughts and threatening to wrest away all self-control. Other times I simply do not give even the slightest shit, not about anything. This has been the case since I was young but now it is growing stronger almost by the day. It is the essential trait that will allow me to blossom. Your grandmamma has died? I’m afraid I really couldn’t care less. You might potentially lose a leg to cancer? So? You’ve got another one! Your son has just had his spleen removed following some dreadful accident that saw him impaled upon railings? Yawn. Got any pictures? My coldness doesn’t even bother me. It means I am stronger and better protected against this life. I have passion where it matters and the rest is nothing to me.

  And so there is no shame when I next see Bertrand, shovelling around in the very spot he had been when he spied upon me. My indifference surprises me but I am glad of it. I am becoming ever more bullet-proof. He wears that insolent hint of a sneer that he so favours, since he is one of those horrible urchins who unfathomably believes he is above everyone. However, he only has power over me if I am ashamed at what he saw, and I am not. I don’t give a toss. I know he wants more of the same, and will do what I tell him if he thinks it will come. And I see now that he is unsettled because I’m not all stammering and red-faced and apologetic in his presence. There is even grudging respect to replace that sneer, realising that I am become this shameless hussy now that his master has gone.