Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  Not really! I’m hitting that “More Please!” button faster than lightning and cursing every moment that elapses before the hatch opens again. Back comes my view. It is like looking into a dream, the way the action glares in the centre and the peripherals merge to darkness. In those wasted seconds she has sprayed his crotch with foam and now stands astride his head with glinting razor in hand, primed. He can only look upwards due to his constriction, up at that bare plump puss of hers. I wonder if the delicious sight can drive the trepidation of the razor from his mind. Together they rotate, like they are on the slowest fairground ride in history. The excitement and anticipation are palpable, however.

  Down she goes, her pussy now just above his face. Without the clutched razor you would think his cock was to be sucked. All her movements are deliberately slow, as if to prolong my agony. She lifts his still soft prick by the foreskin and stretches it up. The blade is offered to the crotch and my heart goes ten to the dozen. Her strokes are light and careful but still the crimson images flash through my mind. I am almost salivating. I feel feverish. The lather is taken away bit by bit and wiped onto the rubber clinging to his thick thigh. Lord knows what is going through his mind each time he sees the blade going back towards his cock. I know what is going through mine! You know, they used to shave the necks of those to be beheaded before they did the cutting.

  The hatch shuts again and I’m banging the button over and over to make it reopen. I’ve never called something you press such filthy names before. After what seems like an age my view is returned. Disappointingly, the girl is away from him and over by the metal stand, having apparently finished her task. At least the razor is still open and sat upon his chest. She pours lubricant from a bottle into a cylindrical clear plastic pump designed for enlarging cocks. My heart starts off again. She goes to him, quick to fit the pump and not see all the oil run out. She presses at the rubber bulb joined to the pump by a tube. Out comes the air and I see his cock swell and press at the plastic. He is almost too big for the cylinder but I’m not sure if he is even semi-erect.

  I am ready to punch the hatch if it decides to close before she has finished but mercifully I get to see the reveal. She stops squeezing the bulb and breaks the air seal at his crotch to allow the pump to be eased off. His prick is engorged but still not hard. Just a few taps from her fingers sees it rear with an extra flow of blood. I have seen pussies puffed up fit to burst with such apparatus and have wondered at the extreme sensitivity it must give. His foreskin looks swollen as she peels it back. The whole of his prick glistens with the oil, growing massively, not just long but fat too, until my eyes are wide at the sight and pressed at the hatch for a closer view.

  My mind swims with more possibilities but clouds before the visions crystallise. My legs are open and my hand is up my dress now, fingers thrusting in where I am molten. I have to suppress my gasps. She keeps tapping his shaft; two finger spanks that see it pulse and jerk. I can hear his moans but he cannot move. The vast, mesmerising erection looks like it might explode, quite literally, at any minute. The balls are fatter still, ready to go if only the ties were removed. Surely any attention from soft lips would be a bliss so great as to be agony for him. Imagine that monster inside you, stretching you so that you felt as sensitive as it did. Imagine having the potential for that monster to be in you, just as she now has. Think how hard those balls would unload at the slightest touch after they were released. Think of holding that razor with him unable to move.

  My head is swirling with lust and darkness. I don’t know what that nun bitch plans to do with him but it won’t be quick enough. I want it. The rage almost ignites when the hatch closes again. I feel possessed. It doesn’t even feel like my hand lifting the phone.

  ‘How may I serve you, Mistress Black Widow?’ says the voice.

  ‘I want to buy that cock,’ snaps the voice coming from my mouth.

  There is a short silence.

  ‘But that cock is not for sale, Mistress.’

  ‘Then fucking-well make it so. Three thousand and you take out whatever you think you deserve for your troubles.’

  Another short silence, which sees my teeth gritting.

  ‘One minute please, Mistress.’

  The hatch remains shut and I am about to start pounding fists when my cubicle door swings open and Gimp Hunk signals with a hand to follow him. I am led past two doors to a third: the one Teasy Nun must have entered by, because as it swings open I see her still tapping away at that gorgeous huge cock. The bitch looks to Gimp Hunk and he beckons her to leave. I can feel my breath coming almost as a snarl as the door closes to leave me alone with that cock. My mind swims. It must be a dream. His eyes swivel towards me. There is light in them but I cannot tell if it is dread or excitement. I can’t tell in my own head what his expression ought to be.

  There it is, iron hard and full of blood, the biggest I have seen. It is completely at my mercy and yet the focus won’t come to my brain to let me know what to do with it. I don’t want to be in awe. I want to control it. The lust within me is threatening to burn me up. My cunt drips hot juices down my thighs. I stand astride his head, just as she had done. The pussy he sees now will be the hottest, wettest, most swollen with desperation that he will ever lay eyes upon. I squat down, pressing it to his nose. I grind, trying to apply pressure to my almost overwhelming throb. A plunging tongue might have helped but his mouth is covered. The cock is in my line of sight. The razor is on his chest, open. I could reach out and hold him from here.

  I bend forward. My vision is clouded, my head feels too light. One hand encircles his pulsing length. It is hot in my stretched grip. The juice is dripping out of me at both ends. I hear behind me the noise of a hatch sliding open, then another to the side. I am suddenly reminded that this room is not private. My backside is stuck right out with no knickers to cover it. In twenty years no one but me and my dead husband has seen it bare outside of a birthing suite. It should have me jumping to my senses but all I do is feel a wave of electric excitement bursting through me and I reach back to pull my dress up higher and put myself on view for all those unseen eyes.

  I am ravenous for it. My right hand slowly strokes the cock up and down as we revolve upon the mattress. It’s a torture of sorts but not one I envisaged dealing out as the Queen of Pain. It draws me in. My mouth wants it. My left hand is searching beneath me, like it has a mind of its own, gingerly locating the handle of the razor. I am grasping it, grasping him, my open lips getting ever closer. The jumble in my head blurs faster, threatening to take away all culpability. With my last reason I quickly toss the razor away to the side and sink my mouth down onto him. My moan of joy is as loud and brazen as any I have allowed myself. Hatches slide open all around. My lips stretch as I try to take him in further, my fingers with their painted black nails still grasping and pumping him.

  Torture him, I think, but I can’t. I want to put on a show for those pervert eyes but what should I do when I need the cock so badly? It is almost enough to make me come knowing that other hidden erections will be getting manhandled at the sight of my naked arse and fat pussy. It’s no good. I have to have it in me. I take it from my mouth, stringing thick saliva all over the shining rubber of his covering. I reposition myself, holding up my skirt and squatting above him despite how fucking rude I must look. Then I lower down, still grasping the shaft to guide it to my greedy lips. I should pause to drag out the tease but I cannot. Down I go, forcing myself open upon him, gasping and squealing and even yelling out as he opens me up beyond anything I thought I would feel again.

  The blur is persistent; the near-crazed thoughts. I was hoping for clarity once I had this bliss. I wanted images to come clearer, but they don’t. I picture the eyes all on me. I hear the succession of hatches reopening as the unseen occupants get off on the sight of my rudeness. I see his eyes closed in bliss and know that this is no punishment for him at all, apart perhaps from the
degree of sensation I am making him feel. I don’t know who is in control - him or me. I certainly couldn’t bear now to slide off him and postpone my rapture. I could try and speed my own finish and leave him desperate but I need to feel his spurts inside me. I need that unequivocal show of adoration. So I ride him like a wanton bitch, impaling and stretching myself wide open, feeling rapturous yet wretched and spoiled too, pouring my desire onto the rubber sheet, slapping down hard into the pools that I have made. And with my climax rushing up upon me I reach down and pull the knot holding his balls and we both cry out as his searing come sprays and mixes with my own.

  Midnight Caller

  The day has officially finished when I eventually get home. On the journey back my head clears only slightly. Still the fire inside me burns. I feel no less desperate than before and confused as to what I need to sate the flames. The mental images sent excitement sweeping through me despite them not being clear enough to isolate and focus upon. I had felt powerful and wonderfully nasty but not necessarily in control. Something was missing despite the huge intensity. I wanted to be worshipped like never before but the shrink-wrapped form couldn’t speak or move and showed me no adoration except in the hardness of his cock - and all I could do was lose myself and sit upon it.

  Oddly, there are more lights on in my house than there should have been and I pull up alongside an unfamiliar dark-coloured car. It is a BMW but a classic; an example from the early seventies when the marque was rarer and coveted in a world of Cortinas. On the back it says 3.0 CSi. Crime Scene Investigation? It is gorgeous even in this partial light: black or dark blue and dripping with chrome; sporty but sleek and borrowing more from graceful Italian design than the bullishly macho models of today. Who the hell do I know with enough style to own such a car? Esmerelda comes hurrying out of the front door as I walk up the drive, flapping her arms and looking almost panicked, telling me that she was sorry but he wanted to stay, that it was important he saw me. My senses are too addled for this so I just allow myself to be led inside.

  ‘He has put himself in here, Madam,’ says Esmerelda apologetically. And so he has. He sits in the same chair he sat in on the day I killed my husband, looking every bit as sharp. The sight of him brings sudden clarity and a cold burst within. There was surprise in the mix there, alarm too, maybe even some gladness. He has taken it upon himself to turn on the Bang & Olufsen and select some cool jazz. Perhaps the impression he had in mind was like a chance meeting in some late-night club, with him stock still at his table and backlit by spots from the stage as the sax man played, barely visible through the plume of cigarette smoke being languidly expelled. But he won’t be a smoker, this clinical Inspector Stark, because it is seen as a dirty, smelly habit these days, and is proven to dull the senses. That would never do for him. I steel myself for another battle of wits and summon my game face. He has caught me when my guard is down but I know I can regain the advantage.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector Stork,’ I say, a mix of condescension and breezy impatience practised by all suspects when the supposedly affable detective comes a-calling unexpectedly. The name thing scores me the first point. I come before him so that he can see me, and see me he does, his hard demeanour wavering just visibly, the eyes widening ever so slightly at my fetish costume, which he takes in all the way down to my heeled boots. I notice the muscles in his jaw twitch. I bet something inside his underwear twitched too. Things have already shifted in my favour.

  He doesn’t rise as a gentleman would. It’s mere pretence at being too superior for such instincts, and I know that such things are done to get my goat and send my mind off on tangents away from what I should be concentrating on - all the better for catching me out. However, he needs to remember who he is and who he is dealing with. Arch and suave he might be but he is still a policeman and thus a server of the public. I’m not sure I want a servant - not one who thinks himself better than me anyway. I’m not a snob but I am rich and have been for a long time. Plus policemen are snoopers by nature, and that’s not a nice nature. They delight in using the law to sate their kink for prying into secrets, for sticking their nose into your business, searching cracks and crannies for the type of horrible things decent people want to keep away from. They, by choice, delve into the seediest of seedy worlds and then pretend they are doing you a favour, as if they aren’t getting off on every nasty second of it. Detectives are, by definition, perverts. And if I wanted a pervert servant lecherously poring over my tits and high heels, I’ve already got handyman Bertrand, thank you very much.

  ‘The name is Stark, actually, Mrs Van Peer.’

  ‘It’s late, I know that. Who sent you out at this time?’

  His eyes try to be on mine, to give me his steely glare, but they cannot stop dropping down to my costume and heels. His chin carries a shadow of stubble at this late hour but otherwise he looks as crisp as a man who has only recently dressed. I catch the scent of fresh cologne too, a superior variety, perhaps only recently applied - no doubt for my benefit. He looks more handsome than that first time. His is not a welcoming face as such, but a part of me inside is nonetheless glad to see it.

  ‘I’m a D.I., Mrs Van Peer. I don’t tend to get sent by anyone. I do things of my own volition. As it happens I have a duty to follow up on those people I come into contact with during tragic circumstances, like your good self. This is me following up.’

  Bullshit. No one comes at this time unless someone has died, and that bit has already been taken care of. What the hell does he really want with me?

  ‘And you chose this late hour to do it?’

  ‘I was in the area. Plus it wasn’t quite this late when I arrived. You were out.’

  He gives me another once over with his eyes, as if my sexy outfit demands some explanation.

  ‘Does everything you say sound like an accusation?’ I enquire, coolly. ‘I have been to a party if you must know. There is a whole houseful of people who could verify this for you if you wish to check.’

  He gives a little sniff but his expression doesn’t change. He’s not going to try and pretend it wasn’t his intention to pry. His eyes tarry on my naughty footwear.

  ‘It must have been some party,’ he says, drily.

  ‘Fancy dress. Tarts and vicars,’ I lie, since my pirate clobber is no longer on me but in the boot of my car. ‘I decided to go as a vicar. I’m going to have a nightcap. Would you care to join me?’

  There is a flash of amusement in his eyes at my vicar quip and try as he might he is struggling to keep up the ice-cold front. I move to the table where the good stuff sits in cut glass decanters on a silver tray - this might be called the “drawing room” but in truth there isn’t much drawing ever getting done in here; it’s simply a place to sip fine spirits whilst relaxing to music. Getting there necessitates turning and walking directly away from him. I intentionally go slow to give him a longer view of my behind in this tight skirt. It’s hard not to sashay in these heels. I pour two large cognacs, easily big enough to put him over the drink/drive limit but he doesn’t speak up. As I hand him his glass there is contact. It is only light brushing of his fingertip against mine, but the effect inside is far greater. Frisson is the word, I think. Our eyes meet and hold for just a moment before I turn away and sit on the sofa with as much grace as this skirt will allow.

  I take a sip and deliberately look towards his crotch. Two can play at that game. I wonder if he is stirring in there. How big will he be? Big for sure, judging by his unflappable self assurance, but could he match the one I have had inside me tonight, that has left my pussy aching? Why does size suddenly matter when it never did before - is it one final nail in my no-good husband’s coffin, a way to send him off with the knowledge that he wasn’t God’s perfect gift to me as he thought? And why do these carnal feelings keep surfacing in the presence of this detective, in the face of his coldness and the danger he represents? He tries his drink and his expressi
on displays a silent appreciation. I only serve the best stuff to guests, even ones who choose pervy jobs.

  ‘I trust you were happy that the coroner did not wish to hold on to your husband’s body to do a further post mortem?’ he asks. ‘You are satisfied with the outcome?’

  ‘Inspector, I am not satisfied that I have been left husbandless, no, but I am satisfied that further stress was avoided by the quick confirmation that the large dead goose found alongside him was indeed the obvious cause of his demise.’

  ‘Quite,’ he says, knowingly. ‘And the sombre formalities thereafter have been sorted? I trust the will was properly executed and you haven’t been left in financial difficulty? How are you in yourself now that family members have been and gone and left you on your own at this time? It is encouraging to see that you already feel strong enough to go to parties.’

  There is a hot burst of animosity inside and I flash him a warning glare. I’m not sure who the fuck he thinks he is to presume how long my grief should last.

  ‘My husband died, Inspector,’ I remind him. ‘I did not.’

  He retains that same knowing look, not even remotely apologetic. His eyes just drop back to my cleavage, then off once more down my legs to my boots. He wants me to know he sees right through me. Inside that ever calculating brain of his he’s got me down as a remorseless, dirty bitch. Can he tell I’ve had hot cock inside me tonight? Can he smell it? Does he want his turn now, regardless? The realisation hits me in that moment that I actually want to fuck him. It’s a big surprise considering I know what a kinky sneak he must be by nature. I don’t know if it’s his looks or demeanour or the danger of him; maybe all and more. More surprising still, my head is unsure as to whether I want to be taken or be the one doing the taking. One flashing mental image sees me atop him, grinding and riding him with teasing control, breasts spilled out, his slim tie removed from under his collar and put directly around his neck, held in my clenched fist and twisted to cut off the supply of oxygen. The next image has me on my knees, face flushed and pressed to the carpet, bare backside stuck up in the air - and him behind me, still suited and with compassionless twitching jaw, a whole eight inches of him just like Samson claims to own, but slender and smooth and beautiful, and every single inch of it being forced deep and without first seeking consent, right up into my tight virgin arse.