Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  ‘I have need of you inside, Bertrand,’ I tell him. ‘Come to my bedroom in precisely fifteen minutes.’

  That’s a quarter of an hour for him to think on it, to have his mind racing, to feel the swell of blood down below and have the excitement seeping. I’m not going to be doing anything for those minutes. I just want him to sweat for a while and ponder my words. I chose them carefully to stoke his fire. The scumbag will hurry away to prepare with his mind whirring, and then he will come to me bang on time, expectant but meek. He will do as I say. Actually, it isn’t going to be quite the excitement he thinks it will be but that’s all part of the fun.

  ‘I want you to fix a hook from the ceiling,’ I tell him when he comes, ‘to hang this.’

  There are a couple of thick oak beams running the entire width of my ceiling, standing proud, helping support the weight where it opens up higher to the central skylight. They could have been made for hanging heavy things from. The “this” in question is an intricate black leather harness with multiple straps to either recline in, to aid a range of unusual sexual positions, or to have one’s slave restrained in, to take advantage of. Bertrand might not be getting exactly what he thought was coming but he is going to be no less avid about completing his task. Even if he never gets to put me in this sling himself, he knows he will have the benefit of seeing whatever it is used for when darkness comes. It is the first of many pieces of new equipment I intend to deck this room with. I have in mind a dungeon - but one of light, no less, of glass and exposure, where secrets are kept only when no one is lurking outside to see them.

  There is no mistaking my intent with this piece of sex furniture, but I stand there brazenly whilst Bertrand studies where best to mount the hooks. It turns me on knowing I am this free with my wantonness in front of a nasty bastard like him. I don’t care what he thinks because I don’t care what anyone thinks. This is me now. Fuck you if you don’t like it. Indifference is my strength, which is why I feel nothing for Heidi knowing that I am going to meet her husband for an afternoon of very adult fun. In fact I feel a sense of triumph. She makes me frig myself over thoughts of her yet patently wouldn’t ever allow it to happen in real life, so she deserves to be paid back for the torment she gives me.

  I have thought long and hard about the items I need to pack. Every good dominatrix should put this much effort in, to picture how it will go and what will be needed to make it run as planned. No detail should be missed. Lie there with one’s eyes closed, one’s hands idly down between parted naked thighs, and play out the scene in real time so that no intricacies are overlooked. Give the brain time to expand its fantasy and bring forth new ideas. That’s how you do it. Test the newly-arrived apparatus to ensure it works as envisaged. Try not to get lost in thoughts of that big cock sinking into you - think only of what’s on the end of it. I already have one notion of how to bring the arrogant mane-tossing Samson down a big fat peg. It’s a hell of a thing to do to him but I’m all about being unforgettable now, so I pack the item of equipment necessary to bring it about.

  I have attained his work number because I am clever like that. I don’t want to be leaving traces of me on his mobile. A pseudo-posh receptionist answers.

  ‘He’s busy,’ she replies tersely, the cheeky bitch. He probably fucks her all around the office and she thinks that gives her status by association.

  ‘Un-busy him then, you ridiculous tart,’ I hiss. ‘Tell him it is the girl about the cabin. I will hold for two minutes. After that his chance will have gone. Tell him.’

  He is less than one minute. He is all schmoozing charm, apologies and graciousness. He wants me and that is my advantage to use. I cut straight to the chase and get him to divulge the exact location of where we are to meet, along with directions, since I wish to go there under my own steam. It sounds nice and isolated. I set the time. He tries to change it for something more convenient for him. I reiterate what time I am prepared to come. He takes it. My puss enjoys a tingle. All he asks is that I wear some of my sexy boots. I think I can do that.

  ‘Oh, and Samson,’ I say, ‘you understand that I am only doing this under the express understanding that I have complete control over what goes on? In case it hasn’t become patently obvious to you, since being on my own I have delighted in becoming a kinky sex goddess who likes nothing more than to instil the best kind of discipline in her conquests.’

  I can’t believe how easy those words came - so much easier over the phone than face to face. But now that they have I feel unstoppable. The force of them bubbles through me. They must have hit him like a sledgehammer. I can picture the wide eyes and open mouth on that usually so composed face. This is what I can do to him. I can hear the breaths coming heavier down the phone. His pulse will be racing, the mind spinning with rude images. It is like backing beaten prey into the corner and there is nothing to stop me pressing on.

  ‘Have you ever been spanked, Samson?’ I intone, slowly and clearly, with stern self-assurance in my voice. ‘Have you ever had a beauty like me sting your bare arse with her palm, just before she sucks your cock rigid?’

  There is a brief pause. He is waiting for more. The dirty words from someone as supposedly proper as me are slaying him. He might be sinking to his knees. I can already sense that the monster in his boxers is stirring.

  ‘I have not had that pleasure,’ he manages, his voice husky with instant desire.

  ‘And has that gorgeous shaft ever been stroked by a goddess wearing a strap-on toy that could reach the very heart of you? Has she ever softly run a gloved middle finger around your rim to work in the grease, pressed to breach you and make you ready, slid it all the way in, all the while gripping you and stroking you and feeling the blood pumping in that delicious hard cock of yours? Have you ever been truly fucked by a goddess as beautiful as me, Samson?’

  He sounds like that cock of his might be out already, getting jerked as the visions pour through his mind. But his clumsy fist will merely be a mocking substitute for the delicate grip of my fingers that he is now undoubtedly longing for. He is hooked. I just have to keep on reeling. The breaths coming down the line are faltering and heavy with longing.

  ‘I have not,’ he says again, the lust cracking his voice.

  ‘Then today might be your lucky day, if you act correctly. I want absolute obedience, Samson. I want signs of worship from the moment I walk through the door. You are to do everything I say without question. You are to give yourself over to me entirely. If you do so, I will have you begging for me. And do not think these are idle words, mere vocal foreplay. You might have consigned all those past floosies and all those fucks to memory - nothing more than quick, effortless fun to pass the time - but for me you will need effort, and then you will find out how truly unforgettable I am. I will give you the most mind-blowing, scintillating, wrenchingly pleasurable time of your life. It will make a nonsense of all the things you thought were gratifying before. After me, you will not be able to think of anyone else, of any other pleasure. I mean it. These are no empty promises. But you will need to play your part. You need to come to me intent on doing as I say. If I get one hint that this is not the case it will be over, instantly. To have me or any part of me, ever, you have to be willing to come to me as my slave. Do you understand?’

  There is another brief pause at his end. I can picture him eyes closed, cock in hand, thinking that this is just getting better and better.

  ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ he breathes.

  ‘That is correct. You won’t. Any failure for you to do this will end it absolutely. Bear that in mind and I will see you at two.’

  I ring off before he has a chance to answer. I wonder if I’ve already forced him past the point of no return and he is now feverishly bringing himself off, justifying it as a means to affording better staying power later, for my benefit. He won’t want to disappoint me like Lionel did. Too late I realise it was
a chance to use my power gone a-begging. I should have ordered him not to touch his cock until I told him otherwise. Still, I can’t beat myself up over this. Finally, finally, I feel like I have truly found my strength. I am in control and raging to hammer this home. I know this control, this unassailable strength, will stay with me now. I can simply let my imagination and desire take me where it will.

  He has three hours for my words to sink in, three hours to grasp that there is sex coming to him different to any he has had in his pleasure-filled life. In his dreams he probably has me bent over in nothing more than my spiked heels. He probably grips me by the hair, spanks my jiggling arse, forces himself within and comes inside it, all with me weeping with adoration and gratitude. Now he has to contemplate being on the end of such rough stuff. Three hours is more than enough time to ponder the excitement of my attire, to try and guess at the thrill of being spanked, to bask in the excitement of knowing that he might unexpectedly get to come inside a woman he has fantasised over. I can dimly remember that exhilarating inner glow when you realise that you are most definitely going to have sex with someone new. I have it now. All of him inside me and I won’t have to suffer any of his bragging conceit. I can view him with complete detachment, just someone I wish to use.

  I go there without hesitancy, without scruple. I loved a man for twenty years and never saw his mind and body as separate things; he was always one complete entity. I am going to Samson for his body only. Men have been going this way to women forever. I don’t want that brash, conceited mind of his. I want his broad chest, his muscular arms, his huge cock. He is handsome but people who are, and who haughtily know it, are ugly because of this. Thus I don’t particularly want his face, or anything that comes out of that big mouth other than a silent, obedient tongue.

  This attitude does not demean me. The fact that I do not particularly like Samson doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take what parts of him I can like and use them for my pleasure. He will never have me. I will have him. For all the people he has trampled on and used down the years, I will be the one alone to reverse the trend. I will be the one he will not forget. His mind will scuttle to some secret thrilling place whenever he thinks of me, which will be often. He will cherish the memory yet hold it as a dark secret that could unpick him in a second if any got to hear of it. I will hold this over him always. He might even hate himself for yielding to me but that is good, because he is hateable. He will love me for it, of that I am certain. I feel stronger than ever, ruder. Twenty years I waited for what was given to me, accepted it when things were withheld. Now I will do the taking, and I won’t hold back on anything.

  I go with thigh-high boots, since they bowl him over so effectively. The heel is four inches but there is no platform to the sole. There are in soft black leather, not patent this time; more a classy, classical look. The design is sleek and hugging, following the lines of the calf and thigh, and with laces all the way up the back. They almost had me playing with myself in front of that big bedroom window again. It is the kind of boot I picture worn by a gorgeous French aristocrat of the revolutionary age as she gallops away from the chasing peasants - assuming that high heels were compatible with riding, which in truth I’ve never found to be the case. Still, don’t spoil the image.

  After much consideration I go without tights or stockings. The skin on my thighs is such a pale and inviting contrast. I am smooth and softly opulent there, that’s my way of thinking. This is no time for self-consciousness. Overrule it. He is a creature of greedy lust and naked flesh will snag him instantly. I go with a skater dress in matching soft leather. The shortness and flare gives a greater view of bare thigh, and would indeed give a good glimpse of my zipped-front rubber panties if I performed a sudden triple Salchow, which seems hardly likely. The front strap fastening reveals some belly and a fair amount of cleavage but one must be bold. It’s a look that will have his knees weakening. I am partially exposed but I feel completely invulnerable. It buoys my strength and confidence even further. Turn the doubts into weapons to use on him. Elbow gloves are an essential not to be forgotten this time but I retouch my painted nails anyway, since the Black Widow is all about perfection. Last but not least I choose the Evoque, since I want my journey there to be low-key, and that’s one thing Maseratis are not.

  I smile at the shallowness of my quest. I smile at how easily he will fall. He thinks it is all about his release, about him getting what he lusts after. No doubt he harbours sly thoughts of getting one over my husband, even if he is too dead to know about it. Arrogant, cheating Samson has no idea how little it is about him, how I wouldn’t entertain a second of his company for sexual purposes if not for his cock. I want him because of his size, nothing more. He might think this is something to feel triumphant about but he is wrong. The last cock I took was uncomfortably large but I rode it with glee, almost like I was punishing myself for accepting only what my husband had to offer all those years. I yearn for more of that same punishment. I want to tame all wild, vast cocks. I want to milk the last drops of pride from their owners, leave them broken and desperate for me. The triumph is going to be all mine.

  The wooden cabin is sited down a long private track, one of a run dotted up the bank of a fishing lake, each one hidden from the other by trees. It is wonderfully isolated and unquestionably a romantic setting. I like lakes. They are places of quiet, dark mystery.

  ‘Welcome to my bolt-hole,’ beams Samson, killing the romance stone dead. Bolt hole equals sex den. This is where his wife will be so regularly betrayed, with such indifference. It probably stopped registering to him years back. It is certainly not troubling him now, not if his expression of ogling greedy lust is anything to go by. His eyes feast on me shamelessly, as if I am on this earth for his pleasure alone. Madam Destiny has the right idea making her slaves cast their eyes to the floor. He gushes compliments about my attire and in particular my boots, but I shall spare you the saccharine nausea of them. There is nothing said about my gorgeous eyes or the porcelain nature of my skin. He is in an open-necked pure white shirt and narrow suit trousers. I like the glimpse of his chest. I know he spends as much time in the gym as my husband used to. The shoulders aren’t as wide as Patrick’s but not by much. What’s down below will compensate. The brown brogues are good. You can’t buy class, they say, but those shoes are classy, and he bought them.

  He smells clean, so maybe he has showered since speeding from his office to get here. The cologne is inviting, not too strong. I mustn’t smell of it when I leave. His mane looks to have been recently addressed. He must spend more time grooming it per day than his wife does on hers. He thinks the lustre and copiousness of it signals his great wealth, his vivacity, virility and success. Should I tell him now that his hair fucking annoys me? Not just the way it bells out from the centre of his forehead, hanging carefully coiffed past the ears, but the way he flicks and tosses his head all the time to keep it off his face. He thinks this to be attractive. It isn’t.

  The cabin is no more than the entrance hall, a small kitchenette, a compact toilet with shower, plus a larger main room with floor to ceiling glass looking out over the lake. We wealthy people like our views. They let us oversee domains like royalty. In the similar cabins along this stretch I have no doubt the main room is used as a lounge. Samson has it as a bedroom. On the wide double bed are satin sheets and a single red rose. That is not the only weak effort he has made to show the worship I asked for. There is champagne - not one bottle but four, all lounging ready in their own ice bucket at points around the bed, in case we are too lazy to shuffle far to refill our glasses. Still, four bottles seems excessive even with me around.

  It brings to mind the third anonymous text I received, in which the author delighted in telling me he wished to fill me with bubbly before fucking me. Enough, I can’t help thinking, has been provided today to spare for this. Such a specifically tailored message had me sure the filthy perv sender must be someone who knows me well and k
nows champagne is as close to my heart as it so often is to my liver. Samson knows this well. I can see from the foil and the portrait badge on the necks that all are Veuve Cliquot, so he got that bit right. This has been my favourite brand for years, way before I became a veuve myself; a widow. The foil also tells me that two are pink and two white. Maybe I should whip him if he cannot tell which one I would prefer today.

  ‘Can I pour the beautiful lady a drink?’ he smiles, still schmoozing, still not unabashed.

  ‘This is not about you seducing me, Samson, I thought I made that clear earlier. I am here to enjoy your cock. If you want this to happen then you stay quiet and do exactly as I say. I have a bag in the boot of my car. Fetch it in for me and do not look inside.’

  He raises his eyebrows and gives me a little smirk before doing as he is told. Drummond would have been bowing and scraping to obey my command, crawling past me on all fours. Slaves must be made. I point to where I want the bag placed. He still has that knowing smirk on his face and by rights I should kick him in the nuts, but my pussy is itching and expectant. It is becoming increasingly impatient at leaving such situations frustrated. It is not prepared to take any more. It needs to be served and in that sense I am just as much the slave here.

  ‘I came here, Samson, to give you your ultimate sexual experience. In this bag are things that will help me do this. You have two choices. You can either bitch about this, in which case we can go our separate ways now. Or you can keep your mouth shut and secretly thrill at every new item I bring out. If you want the latter, I suggest you show your intent by removing your shirt and trousers. You have about a minute to decide, and I’m only giving you this long because you are wearing cufflinks and these can be fiddly.’