Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  I slide off him, immediately feeling too empty. His gasps are barely audible, the bliss and the lack of oxygen combining to send him towards unconsciousness. I pull up his blindfold to see his disbelieving eyes, wide and wild. He can no longer form words. The downward pressure of his body is melting the ice quicker than the heat of the room alone does. His feet are barely in contact with the box. They struggle to get purchase against the door but just slide off - should have taken your socks off, Dumbo! He has maybe only a couple of minutes. I know I have to undo his collar right now. The game has gone beyond the extremely pleasurable and into the realms of the very, very scary. In the nick of time I reach up and release him, the poor baldy.

  Not really! I did say I would give him his ultimate sexual experience, and who am I to break my word? After all, killing solves so much, does it not? No shame for me. No need to worry about what happens when I remove his cuffs. Who knows I am here? Only him. Who knows what a dirty desperate bitch I can be? Only him. And I am not sated yet. That prick of his refuses to die, even after his massive release.

  ‘Do you know, Samson,’ I say, ‘that a third of all men who are hanged die with an erection?’

  I can’t help but hold it, kiss it, suck it. I can’t help but wish it were bigger. I lie there on my back, legs spread apart, seeing his wide eyes upon me, his toes desperately wiggling in thin air now as the pool beneath the box spreads. I can’t help but thrust my fingers in. He could still be saved but I have more important things to think of. I have Inspector Stark on my mind; that cruel stare of his, that cruel, hard cock at least a third bigger than skinhead Samson’s here. He spanks me, that nasty detective. He fingers my tight hole. He spits me and pierces me to my belly. The champagne floods me, the bottle neck forced inside and used like a dildo. The cold bubbles fizz within and have me jerking and wailing. His prick bobs, still stretching out pleadingly towards me, but it is too late for it to get in amongst the bubbles. My fingers are a blur, a mind of their own as they rub the next huge climax out of me and leave me quaking and whimpering and leaching champers. What a treat for any man to behold. I wonder how much of it Samson saw.

  So, I pack the bag carefully, returning the now sodden box with the brand new toy still unused inside it. Next time, surely. He stares at me silently, the brightness gone from his eyes. His hair definitely looks better like that. I will need to take both champagne flutes and throw them in the lake. Other than that I am traceless. When he is found they will see four champagne bottles but nothing to drink them from. They will find much of it spilled on the floor. Maybe they will find traces of water where the cubes have melted. It won’t explain how this man came to be hanging off the back of his door and why his hair had been shaved off first. It looks like some kinky practice gone tragically wrong.

  I find his wallet in his trousers and empty it of cash, swapping it in my purse for a few of the business cards of whores that I have been collecting from phone boxes on my trips to town, along with one of the ones I took from Madam Destiny’s house. If there needs to be suspects I don’t see why the police shouldn’t look here.

  ‘That will teach you to send me dirty messages, Samson, old boy,’ I say as I leave. And then, as I’m driving home with a wide smile across my face and a delightful buzz between my legs, who should text me but Mr Anonymous!

  I am going to scald your throat with my spunk says his message.

  Well bugger me - it wasn’t silly Samson after all! Oops!

  Heidi Hi!

  Guilt is for the guilty and those who secretly crave defeat. That’s not me. For three days I’ve been rather basking in the thrill of what happened. Patrick might be next. I don’t see why Pippa should have to put up with him, not now I know how easily he is prepared to cheat on her. Maybe it’s him sending me those filthy texts. Bertrand got a bit of a show last night. I couldn’t help myself. I saw the shadowy form hunkered behind the bushes where he still hasn’t finished excavating for the pond yet, the useless twattleship.

  I get a surprise phone call from Inspector Stark and the fizzling, thrilling adrenaline unloads through my veins. At first I think he is going to crack and tell me he needs me and will do anything to serve me, but actually he is only ringing on business.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news to deliver to your friend,’ he tells me, sounding neither seductive nor like one who wishes to become my human property. ‘You might wish to be there to comfort her when I do so. I shall be at hers by ten.’

  Strange that he specifically asked me to be by Heidi’s side, and that by doing so he has effectively told me of Samson’s demise before revealing it to her. Perhaps he is trying to gauge whether I am already aware of it. Strange too that he has set a time for going round there, rather than rushing to put her out of her misery, since she has been utterly beside herself since her husband went “missing”. Still, I suppose ten o’clock gives him time to get a quick coffee first, maybe scan some of the morning headlines - and it’s all priorities, isn’t it? I forgot to sound too concerned on the phone. I was trying to sound enigmatic instead, hinting that I might indeed be there for my friend when he calls, just to keep him guessing and hoping.

  I choose a pair of electric blue ankle boots with a sexy buckle design and nice sharp heels to go with my skinny wet-look jeans. I don’t want to go overboard given the circumstances but then I need to give the inspector something to focus upon and keep his mind on me. Naturally I don’t tell Heidi of the impending police visit. I go there as if coincidentally, merely showing up to lend a friend some support. She looks a bit ropey, as it happens. It will be much harder to fantasise over her like I did last night now I have seen her like this. Most inconsiderate!

  We are silently sipping tea in the conservatory when the housekeeper shows the detective in. Heidi turns even paler at the sight of him. He has an “I’m afraid it’s bad news” face on. Yes, the more I see, the more I am convinced he could indeed be classed as handsome. Perhaps the manner and bearing add to the sharp looks. He shows fleeting delight at seeing me in my boots but he is a pro and quickly gets his serious face back on. Heidi doesn’t take the news of her husband’s demise well. I do offer a consoling arm around her shoulder but I would be lying if I said I was concentrating on this more than on the folds of trouser at Inspector Stark’s crotch. What is he hiding in there?

  It transpires that Samson was spotted by a fisherman on the far bank of the lake, who was doing a bit of bird watching whilst waiting for the trout to bite. His binoculars “accidentally” scanned past the large front window of the cabin and he realised with a start that the bulky overcoat hanging off the door was in fact a naked human body - one sporting a blue face and an erection, no doubt. I chew on the inside of my cheeks to suppress a smile at this thought. Heidi literally screams. It’s rather embarrassing as it happens, a bit off-putting, and goes on long enough for me to have time to cast Inspector Stark a bit of a “what the fuck?” look.

  He has the difficult job of informing her, while she is still on her knees on the floor wailing in an undignified fashion, that although his cause of death is known, the circumstances leading up to it remain a mystery, very possibly suspicious. However, certain enquiries are already being made. It gives him no pleasure, or so he claims, to have to inform her that these lines of enquiry involve call girls who specialise in bondage practices. I smirk inwardly at the thought of Pauline Destiny being led away in cuffs - oh, the irony! He manages to ascertain that Heidi did not know of her husband’s whereabouts that day, or indeed even that he owned the cabin he was found in. He has a knowing expression for me. I too had a husband who kept similar dirty secrets from me, and look what happened to him. Tellingly, he doesn’t ask if there is anything he can do for her, as he did for me. He doesn’t seek to imply that they have any other business beyond this. Such extras are clearly reserved only for me, the thought of which instils warmth inside.

  ‘May I have a word in private, Mr
s Van Peer?’ he says, rising from his chair to signal me towards a corner. Ah, our little game is back on now this new death has come to light. He is going to try and grill me. He will use words like “coincidence” in a sarcastic manner to try and smoke me out. I will tell him that coincidence is not something I have much time to ponder whilst trying to cope with the loss of a partner of twenty years. He steers me out of earshot of the blubbing Heidi. Strangely, I like the feel of being gently impelled by his hand at my back. I don’t dig my heels in. Imagine him doing it right here, regardless of present wailing company, just forcing me over in the corner and using his hand on me, roughly pulling down my jeans and knickers despite my protests.

  He leans in and I smell him, that same cologne. My brain flashes comfort and gladness at its recognition. He seems to be closer than he needs to be, since my friend will hear nothing over her own tiresome sobs. He speaks and the words breeze across the tiny hairs at the side of my face and ear, making them stand up. Grill me then, you big-cocked detective. If you want information then pump away and see how I yield.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he says, ‘that I am not making much headway finding the sender of your abusive texts. Difficult when different non-contract phones are being used - difficult but not impossible, so give me time.’

  The last bit is said with his mouth almost at my ear and it makes me a little weak-kneed.

  ‘I will,’ I say.

  ‘That is, if the problem still exists.’

  ‘It does. I received another message just the other day.’

  ‘Then it is best I see all messages. I shall call upon you sometime soon.’

  Will you now? How presumptuous of you to assume I will let you in! I particularly like the fact that he seems more concerned with my little problem than that of the distraught woman clawing at the carpet of this very room.

  ‘And what of her?’ I ask, still in low tones, nodding towards my friend. ‘Do you think you will get to the bottom of her husband’s death?’

  The simple word “bottom”, said between me and him, gives me a thigh-clenching tingle between them.

  ‘We may never know if it was an accident or if foul play was involved. Another person or persons were most likely there on or around the time of death. The scene was awash with different sets of fingerprints, none of which we have yet to find a match for on file. If it was murder, and the murderer was known to him, we have a chance of finding that perpetrator. If it was a random killing, those chances lessen dramatically.’

  That is the second time he has made this point. Perhaps it is something all murder detectives trot out to those known to the victim, just to dim the expectations of anyone ever being brought to justice, but it almost seems like he is trying to tell me something.

  ‘So she just has to live with the uncertainty?’

  ‘Killers always leave traces, Mrs Van Peer. The question is whether we have the time, the resources and, most importantly, the clues to know where to look for those traces. At the moment those clues are very thin on the ground. At the moment, the person most conspicuous in all of this happens to be you.’

  Another adrenaline burst erupts within but he made a mistake: he was too close to my ear to see my eyelids flicker at his words. Here we go - this is where he talks about the link between the two recent deaths of cheating husbands in the neighbourhood, how I seem to be the one common denominator. Does he really think I can be flushed out this simply?

  ‘And why is that, Inspector Stark?’ I say in challenging tones, my voice back at normal volume.

  ‘Because, Mrs Van Peer,’ he says, still close, ‘as her friend, it will be up to you to get her through this most difficult time. No one will know of her pain quite as well as you.’

  That is his parting shot. He likes to leave with things still expectant, with thoughts flying around the mind. I go to poor Heidi and scrape her off the floor. In all the years I have never held her so tightly outside of fantasy, felt her hot breath at my neck, had my lips on her skin. She really will need me now, this crumpled friend of mine, so I still can’t quite fathom why less than two hours after Inspector Stark left I find myself not with Heidi, but sitting with Madam Destiny in her front room. Perhaps it was just to see if Stark was there, grilling her over the business card found in the possession of the deceased. I must have phoned her almost immediately. In truth I rather insisted upon the emergency appointment, since she said she would be busy with clients. She hesitantly agreed to let me be a part of it.

  ‘Bondage is about restraint, Anoushka,’ she informs me. Well, whoopee-do, thanks for that bombshell! To think I’m paying cold, hard cash for this. ‘I don’t just mean physical restraint. More important even than this is mental restraint, of the Master or the Mistress.’

  I see, tell me more. She is all in red today, all in latex, apart from a fishnet body stocking that goes beneath tiny hot pants and a zip-fronted top not much larger than a bra. Chunky platform-soled boots give her height. On her head is a Catwoman-style mask, but in bright red and with horns instead of ears - and devilishly gorgeous she looks too. She speaks of tempering one’s desire, of building slowly as an artist builds paint on a canvas. Never concentrate on one area for too long; never rush to finish that bit when the rest of the canvas remains blank.

  It is hard to concentrate on her words with the others in the room. One is Drummond, head bowed and of zero consequence. The other two males are more interesting. They are maybe mid-twenties. They are tall and slender, pale, smooth-faced and attractive in a pouty way, like models can be. At first they look like clones but longer inspection shows differences. They are leather and rubber-clad, one with chaps that expose pertly muscular, smooth buttocks and a studded, nicely bulging codpiece. The other is bare-chested but for thick chrome neck chains under his tailored jacket. Both have heavy eye make-up and jet-black, wedge-cut hairstyles like those beloved of New Romantic electro groups of the 80’s.

  Indeed these boys are in a band, although that is all Madam Destiny says on this matter so I don’t know if they are globally renowned or most likely to be seen playing in front of half a dozen misguided devotees in some grotty church hall.

  ‘This is Castor,’ says our host, signalling only vaguely towards the one with the codpiece, so perhaps she is also unsure, ‘and this is Pollux. They are the only men outside of my marriage that I will let inside me. Sometimes my husband needs to be reminded how easily he can be cuckolded.’

  Drummond squirms in his seat at this but I rather think it is less out of distress and more out of keen anticipation for what is to follow.

  ‘They might look like brothers,’ Pauline Destiny continues, ‘but they are related only by marriage, their wives being identical twins. Castor is also the second cousin of these twins.’

  She says the last bit with raised eyebrows and an enigmatic half-smile, as if the fact equals some kind of mystic eroticism rather than simply sounding plain kinky bordering on the incestuous.

  ‘If they are married,’ I say, maybe a tad coldly, ‘then why are they here?’

  ‘To serve their Goddess,’ snaps Madam Destiny. ‘To give her what she wishes.’

  Well, I can’t say I would never wish for such things. My puss feels empty. It niggles me always, calling for attention. So often now it yearns for something to fill it. It drives me towards this excitement. I have no way to stop it. Once there were other duties and assumed satisfaction to keep my mind off kinky thoughts. Now that my husband has gone it is like my puss insists on making up for the loss - not just the immediate one, but the years it lost knowing only him when he did not deserve that loyalty. The hot, demanding rushes from my naughty hole come from anger and vengefulness as well as lust. The sight of two youngish sex-minded males, albeit strange and white-skinned ones, is therefore beyond welcome. This potentially has “fantasy of a lifetime” written all over it. Never once after putting on that wedding ring
did I believe my existence would include such moments in reality rather than in dreams. No need for that ring now - that’s what I keep telling myself in order to not feel the void.

  ‘Mental restraint, Anoushka,’ she reminds me. ‘If you wish to stay you will have to do as I ordain. You may leave at any time. There are no binds other than your own force of will, your own self-discipline. You will position yourself as I tell you. There will be no touching - of either us or yourself. There will be no talking. Do as I say and I shall reward you at the end. Finished painting or partially blank canvas; you decide.’

  I must say, she does the dominatrix speeches very well. I almost can’t wait to find out what my reward will be. I could well do without Drummond’s unnerving presence but there are two young cocks here and their owners look coldly self-assured in that detached way artists of any medium can, like they are masters of the world. There’s no way they aren’t going to be packing outsized stiffies. Seven-inchers, I reckon, minimum. I’m salivating again.

  ‘We shall begin here and then commence to the dungeon,’ Madam Destiny informs us. I’m not sure I’m the type to “commence” anywhere but I will gladly go along with whatever she has to say right now. Drummond and I are instructed to remain in our seats and keep our hands at our sides. The guys are told to join her on the wide leather sofa. They sit flanking her and she parts her thighs. I assume she will put each guy in turn across her lap but instead they get kisses: hungry, open-mouthed ones with swirling tongues and bitten lips.

  Back and forth she goes between them, leaving her chin and cheeks glistening. Surprisingly, I find it no less of a turn-on than a spanking would have been. Two handsome studs to sit between; the thoughts of what they could do once stiff and raring after this wet passion - what is not to like? Without instruction, almost telepathically, they both put hands that squeeze to her breasts. She does not baulk. There is no censure at all, no interruption of the kissing. Castor, he of the codpiece, slides a sneaky hand down, right between her open thighs, and presses his middle finger against her tightly-covered crotch. I immediately want pressure at my own. My hands almost do it of their own accord but I remember rewards and the stupidity of losing them over such trifles.