Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  Now for one final detail, having covered all the major ones: make sure you have picked a day when the domestic only comes in of an afternoon, to pick up his suits for dry cleaning. She can be the one with the joy of discovering the body and alerting the authorities. I will be elsewhere, having a much needed, alibi-ensuring massage after humping a weighty bowling ball trophy in its special golden zipped carry-case, not to mention several kilos of frozen goose, up a ladder and onto the roof. Lucky I am no weakling. With the tools of despatch ready in place it is just about waiting and picking one’s moment.

  In theory it could be a two birds with one stone scenario but not even I’m kinky enough to kill a girl I masturbated over again last night. No, it’s all about him. He is the cheat; the conniving, arrogant cunt of a lie-spouter. Here I am feeling as sensual, as imaginatively experimental, as mentally sexy and strong as I have ever been in my life and he is only after girls half my age. It’s the utter conceit of the male species that boils my blood. Do the same to them and they would explode the world with their shattered macho ego. Their devastated pride would never recover from such a thing, so you simply don’t do it, even though you know you have only one life to lead and much that you yearn for could remain unknown. But they, they will forget you with impunity. And it does mean something, whatever they claim after. It means enough for them to put their mind solely to concocting plans and lies so that they can do their sneaky thing without being rumbled. If they only put as much mental effort into the one they are supposed to be thinking about they might end up in sexy situations too exciting to ever have them looking elsewhere.

  Anyway, she turned up in her own car - a racy drop-top in red for a racy girl - and that made it perfect. It meant she could leave afterwards without him, and that was a bacon-saver for her. He came back first. I heard him humming away to himself, happy about what was to about to happen, though not half as happy as I was. I sat quietly in the attic room, knowing that he didn’t know I was there or what plans I had for him, which was rather sexy in itself. It’s all part of the mental stimulation and the more there is of that and the more intricate, the better. I should really have stayed where I was but I needed to see them. Don’t worry - going back downstairs was not going to be the one crucial flaw in an otherwise watertight plan. I’m not so stupid or undisciplined for that. Being discovered would not have condemned me. It would just have meant babbling excuses and apologies I had no ear for. It would have meant unvented animosity, a divorce and merely half of everything. But I deserve it all for what he has done to me without a care in the world. I deserve my justice.

  So I crept down. Our house is a new-build and the carpets upstairs plush, so no floorboards creaked and my heels could not be heard. The door was open wide, no need for secrecy, no chance for a feeling of added security in a room so full of glass. I saw them in the giant mirrored doors of the sliding robe. It was meant as a way to reflect and bounce light to all corners of the suite, but I know he simply wanted to see our dirty business in it. Once I thought it was just me he wished this rude view of, but even Narcissus himself would go some to enjoy the sight of his own reflection as much as my husband does when on the job. Well, today will be the last time ever he gets the thrill of seeing himself.

  I got the shock and shiver, the delight and dismay, of seeing her all trussed up and tied. I got to see his straining cock reaching out towards her, swollen rigid with desire, as hard as iron. He has a fine cock and he knows it. Only once was there any hint of a failure to get hard and after that I suspect he turned to certain blue diamonds to ensure it never happened again to such a paragon of maleness as him. Funny, gemstones always get me feeling horny too. My breath caught as his erection was presented to her helpless, open body. Here was that golden moment. He should have made her wait; made the agony for him build and build. He could have slapped her wet pussy with it, stroked it up and down her swelling lips until she was begging for it, wiped it all over her body and face. He could have put it to her other hole, made her shudder with sweeping alarm mixed with dirty desire. He could have denied her it altogether - and think how aching, how desperate and divine a torture that would have been. It would have had her wailing and quaking.

  Instead, without even considering the erotic potential of holding all psychological power, with barely a pause at all, he drove it all the way up her in one go. It was a slide so sublime she could barely make any noise at all. I got to hear the slap of his swinging balls against her wetness. He fucked her teasingly, I’ll give him that. He ground against her and kept his pace slow when she was dying for depth and speed. Then he gave it to her in short spurts: a flurry of clapping, rapid thrusts almost too much for her. She couldn’t stop it. There was no way to wrap her legs around and constrict his movements, no way hands could grasp him and hold him in tight. She just had to wail and hope the bliss didn’t have her passing out.

  He has her on her side now, doing her slowly from the back, her bound legs ensuring her backside is stuck out at him. He is doing porn faces. She can’t see but he is grimacing, scrunching his too-large but somehow attractive nose, tensing that strong jaw of his, trying to look like a sex god. Every now and then he glances over his shoulder to get a quick view of his muscular buttocks looking all manly as they tense against her. If he took more time and looked more closely at the mirror at the far end he would see me reflected in it, my expression one of hatred, rage and burning helpless desire all in one. That’s quite a face!

  He puts his middle finger up to his mouth and makes it wet with tongue and lips. It is vulgar, but thrilling because of it. You never get your middle finger all spit-wet except for dirty business. His hand goes down behind her and she draws in breath sharply. I know the finger has gone in her behind, maybe all the way up. He has never done this to me. Why the fuck has he never done this to me? Does he think me too proper for such filth, not crude enough for such things? Does he really know so little about me? He leans over her, teeth gritted as he looks down on that pretty, gently moaning, eyes-closed face. I know he is wiggling that finger inside her. He takes it out so that he can grip her and pump her harder. He could order her to suck that same finger as he slapped home. Why the fuck does he not understand that she is in no position to refuse him anything? Why can’t he grasp that she might want him to command her to do whatever his dirty mind can conjure up - that the helpless subjugation makes everything a turn-on?

  He manhandles her onto her front and then brings her up so that her skinny knees are digging into the mattress. He has his hands under her ankles to help support her and grips them as he slides back inside her sopping puss. She squeals her joy again, her head coming back. I see her profile in reflection now, the sexy arch of her back, no hint of any paunch at her belly, just smooth young flawless skin. She is so gorgeous, which is why I know I will think of her again some nights. The little tits aren’t even a handful for him but the nipples are so pointed and sweet, so delicate yet hard. Her backside is so meatless it hides nothing, but that soft cunny will be stuck out at him between those thin thighs, all rude and inviting, so irresistibly smooth.

  He starts to slap against her as his pace increases, going in for the kill. He is sneering, this fucking cheat, so pleased is he with the sight of his cock stuffing her young body. He will still be smirking when I end him, and that thought gives me an urgent twinge between my legs, enough to finally have me dragging up my skirt to get a gloved hand down inside my knickers. The feel of the leather on me there is alien and slightly rough, but it is good for that, like someone else is doing it, like I am being made to watch him fuck her as someone unseen brings me off. Spank her, for fuck’s sake. She has no bum but spank her anyway, just because you can. Make it sting so much it hurtles her towards a humiliating, screaming climax. Put your thumb up her rude arse. Put your cock up her arse with nothing but spit to ease the entry. Get her phone and take pictures of her backside full of your fat cock and then force her to pick a girlfriend to send
the pictures to.

  He pulls her hair. That is the most I will get from him. It is sexy to see and it makes her gasp and takes her closer to a finish but I wanted more. He should make her talk dirty, however embarrassed she is to do this. He should reach around and pinch her nipples. He should pull out now that her wails signal the swiftly approaching onrush of her climax. He should leave her empty, her hips jerking and thrusting in a desperate effort to regain his cock to clench upon. He should leave her on the brink and take himself away from it so that he can do this again, over and over, driving her delirious with unquenched need, until finally giving her a release to die for.

  He is just going to keep at it, keep on pumping until he comes, taking her with him and getting it over and done with. Such power over her and yet it will come to this tame, predictable end. However deep my fingers are inside me from the sight of their fuck, I hate him for this shallowness, for not even bothering to have her any differently than he would have me, despite the ties that hold her at his mercy. He really is an unspeakably selfish, pointless bastard, despite that lovely cock. He starts to gasp and grunt and I know he is ready. Just as he is about to unleash he gasps out that he fucking loves her. It is a lie. The words jolt and burn inside and send me away towards the roof again, but I know he can’t mean them because he tells me the same thing every time he comes.

  I go back up the ladder and creep across the roof. The risky part is in looking down at him, my face looming at the skylight for anyone peering upward to spot. He is face down, head on his arm. I have seen this many times: his post-shag, leave-me-be pose. She is flexing her wrists having been untied and then sees to the tape binding her legs. There is no ceremony. It is unpeeled and left on the floor by the side of the bed, and then she rises and checks that her knees still work before heading off to the en suite. It’s going to be one of those hit-and-run fucks and that suits me just fine. She doesn’t even shower. She is a few minutes in the bathroom and then comes back out and dresses, picking up the discarded tape and stuffing it in her handbag. I think this is less as a memento and more out of mistrust that he will remember to hide the evidence properly.

  They don’t kiss. She waves over her shoulder but he barely lifts his head. That is him all over: above everyone; too self-important to be anything other than selfish. For all the love I’ve had for him I can also loathe his arrogance - and that was before I found out about his cheating ways. Right now it stops. I don’t have to see that sneer or hear that loud bragging self-righteousness any more. It’s a thin line between love and hate, and it has been crossed. He is right there as I want him. I would have preferred him face up but it won’t stop me. The golden bowling ball, of which he is so proud, is there waiting, heavy enough to be dropped through the glass and straight down onto him. He won’t even have time to move. I feel cold delight within me. My puss is still itching and insistent. My smile is set. The sound of her car engine fades into the distance. I take the ball and get on my haunches to hold it over the skylight and take aim. This is it. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can go wrong. It is a brilliant crime. I am going to rid myself of that bastard once and for all, and enjoy doing it into the bargain. And then, just at this very last instance, I have a change of heart.

  Not really! I have a decided un-change of heart and let loose the bowling ball. The crash is colossal but although I see him jerk at the shock of it the golden orb has already plummeted to its target. It strikes him before any of the falling shards do, landing with a horrible thud and almost stopping dead in the crater it must have made in his shoulder blade. I watch the rain of glass spatter all around, larger pieces slicing into softness or shattering into thousands of fragments to litter the floor like crystals. The ball does its own slow death, lolling about a bit upon him before inching to the edge and falling with another thud.

  There is no shrieking, jerking response to the shard shower that has left him like a gore-oozing pin cushion. This suggests the first impact did the trick. The goose is not needed but I dragged it up here for good reason. First, I need to make sure it goes through the hole it is supposed to have made, which it certainly will. Second, I want it to land as if it fell naturally, perhaps picking up a few fragments as it does so, to add to the realism. I have a strong urge to get down there and see him up close, but one needs to attend to the finer details first, so I send the goose on one last flight. It strikes exactly where the bowling ball did and then rolls to the side upon the mattress, all of which is just perfect. The impact doesn’t see him move.

  I collect the bags used to transport my murder weapons and head back down. The adrenaline-fuelled excitement is almost burning me up but still I enter the bedroom slowly, as if not wanting to hurry the treat. I go closer to the bed, scrunching the first few fragments underfoot, my heart quickening still. The deliciously shining, silken blood spills from him all over, some mere trickles, some faster gushes. The shards sticking from him sparkle in the flooding sunlight. There is one particularly nasty one like a six-inch dagger blade protruding from the back of his neck. This might have done for him on its own without help from the ball and the goose. Fortunately, his exposed backside remains unharmed. I wanted to remember it this way.

  I carefully cross to the robe and change back into the clothes I arrived in. The holdall used to carry the goose needs to go back to the garage. The carry case for the bowling ball should, by rights, go into the little cupboard by his side of the bed where I took it from. However, the glass fragments there are particularly numerous and it would be stupid to go treading through all that. I’m still deciding what to do with the case when I hear the hiss of breath from behind me. I turn to see him blinking slowly, his mouth opening and closing like a slow-motion goldfish trying to find some oxygen. I stuff the boots and bag I’m clutching into the robe and slide the door shut.

  If his eyes can focus then he will see me triumphant before him. That actually sends another hot rush through me. He won’t be able to fathom what is going on other than that he is in dire peril, clinging on to life. Perhaps he is thanking his lucky stars that I have unexpectedly returned to drag him back from imminent death. The power to save him rests with me. He would never recall that there were two impacts. Put the bowling ball back on its shelf as I plan to do and it would seem like the freak accident it was made to look like. I could call an ambulance and he might live, with me as his saviour. The indignity of almost dying from stray goose strike could be our little secret. I cross to the far side of the bed where he cannot now see me. All he will know is I am his only hope. I step in close, lightly stroking one cheek of that smooth and treacherous arse. I lean right over to look upon him and hear that weak wheeze of breath. My husband: the man I gave myself to for life - well, his life, at least. Fortunately I still have the gloves on. They will have to be thrown now but others can be bought. I reach down and feel at my palm the thin, flat upper edge of the shard sticking from his neck.

  He might not be able to work out much, but hopefully some part of his brain will be detecting the deadly pressure and gathering what I am about to do. Hopefully this man, so in love with himself, will realise that someone hates him enough to kill him - not just to say that they want to, but to actually do it. The cold delight fills me once more in a luscious tingling sweep, and then I am pressing down, one hand upon the other, and his wheeze turns to a croak and his eyes pop open, startled and petrified. The rush through me is exalting, matching the fresh spurts from his body, and then the hiss from his mouth ends and the light in his eyes goes out. He stares out towards the window, but he will never see anything again. And that, my friends, is how you rid yourself forever of a cheating, arrogant, overbearing bastard of a man.

  An Inspector Calls

  So, is he handsome? My cunt is itching to suggest so. He certainly has something about him. His keen slate eyes flit all around, gathering details in a millisecond. There is quickness to him, slyness even. Nothing would escape him easily. He is thin and sharp and
taller than average. The dark suit is crisp and spotless, the tie narrow with a small knot tight to the neck. There is some greying in the black of his hair, so I would put him at a little older than me. The angular jaw is clean-shaved but by late afternoon the shadow will be there again. He might not have the muscular build of my now dead husband but while the oh-so recently deceased favoured posturing and flexing with tiresomely macho bravado, this man would silently whip in and slit your throat with zero fuss whatsoever. He seems merciless in an exciting way. He looks like one of those policeman who could just as easily pass for a villain - and an expert one at that.

  It might have been disconcerting to be met by an investigating officer with such an apparently lively mind, but I’ve been contentedly going over it all and congratulating myself on how perfect a job I made. Not even Poirot himself, the waxy Belgian fuck-waffle that he is, would be catching me out on this one. The trip back to the spa went without a hitch. I had a much-needed play with myself in my private changing room as soon as I got there, to thoughts of seducing a naked Little Miss Supple, made even sexier by the thought that she is still blissfully unaware that her lover is no more. I smiled to myself throughout the sauna and massage, basking in the pussy- and mind-stimulating joy of my new-found potency. Over and over I had the vision of those shards burying into his flesh, and not once did I tire of it.