Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  The current inside me is the gentlest her machine will supply. It is no more than the feel of the champagne bubbles within me that day Samson met his end. It has me shaking and wailing and begging for, well, for anything.

  ‘I told you to stay silent, Anoushka,’ she says, like I am a naughty child.

  ‘Please let me have it,’ I say, my self-discipline shot, not even knowing what “it” is. I know somewhere in my mind is the vision of the Queen of Pleasure.

  ‘What - you want my husband’s cock? You want to feel all of him up inside you?’

  That does silence me. I can’t shriek my objections because my mouth simply won’t let me. Although it cannot bring itself to say yes, it also refuses to say no. I almost cry at this, with the desperate need I have for a release and the mortifying thought that it might be Drummond that makes it happen. Imagine him hearing how hard he has made me come. I could never look at anyone again, not least myself. It is going to happen though. She has gone to him with a blindfold. She is leading him across to me, his eyes covered and looking ridiculous in vest top and naked below this apart from grey ankle socks. Ridiculous apart from that monster prick, of course.

  She guides him right to me, has him step within the under-frame and slide in to perch upon the lower struts designed specifically to hold the weight of a person, for just such eventualities. I am suspended above him in my seat, legs held apart and pussy open. He will be able to smell me. His cock stretches up from his lap, so great in length I might be able to feel the heat of its head on my puss if I wasn’t already like a furnace there.

  ‘This chair is fitted with hydraulics, Anoushka. At the press of a button I can make it fall to its lowest level. It will drop you right onto my husband. All of his prick will go inside you at once. You are too wet and slippery to stop it. Imagine him filling you in an instant, more than you have ever taken in your life. It is big, isn’t it, Anoushka? I did warn you but you just would not stay away. Other buttons make it rise and fall, more slowly. It is designed for this. I can make you fuck my husband even if it is the last thing in the world you think you want. When I am satisfied you have taken enough in your pussy I can have him fuck your bum too. Can you imagine all that meat filling your tight bum, Anoushka? You might never walk again. Something has to make you stay away and leave us alone. This will break you. Once you have been made to take my husband inside you there is no way you could muster any pride to think of yourself as a goddess. I am going to finish you, Anoushka, in all senses. I am going to count down from five. Five...’

  Alarm is all through me, vying with my desire.

  ‘Four...’

  I don’t know what she wants me to do. All I can see is Drummond there, his face not much below mine - that stupid face and that ridiculous vest that will never leave my mind once that cock has been inside me. That cock!

  ‘Three...’

  Am I supposed to beg for freedom? She hasn’t asked, or told me my choices. She has just started to count. She is just adding that expectation as she always does, so that when the time comes you are at your limit of endurance.

  ‘Two...’

  Just say no! Just make your mouth work and say the word! I’m paying for this so if I don’t want it I just have to let her know!

  ‘One...’

  Too late.

  I close my eyes. The burst comes right at my clit and I almost scream, such is the joy there. I buck and wriggle and the orgasm racks my body, buoyed by the current passing through my most sensitive place. The chair did not drop at all, of that I am dimly aware. A large chunk of me feels robbed by this. My insides are screaming to be filled but the climax goes on nonetheless, enough to have me wracking with joy and shame. For maximum cruelty she could remove the wand now and leave me still needing more but, ever the professional, ever one to want to be unforgettable, she keeps it pressed to me, keeps the pulses coming, keeps me coming. For the most incredible feeling ever she could drop me onto her husband now, whilst my empty puss clenches and contracts. The shame would burn briefly but it would be no matter because the bliss would kill me anyway. Death solves so much.

  I am left in the chair for I know not how long. Not more than mere minutes because this is Drummond Time and her attention needs to be put back on him, especially since he thought he was to have his cock engulfed by my lovely puss. I was, yet again, little more than a passing distraction to aid her husband’s teasing. I was, yet again, left speechless with pleasure and totally beholden to her. She really is good, I can’t deny it. I am already untied and thus free to zip myself up and leave, assuming my legs will work. I feel bitterness and massive gratitude, all rolled into one. She possesses my mind and has me coming with the slightest of touches every time. I love her for it. I hate her absolutely.

  ‘I do not want you to come here again, Anoushka,’ she tells me. ‘There is no more I can do to help you. It is time you found your own way.’

  I nod, weakly and meekly. I have found my own way, as it happens. It is a way that produces confusion and red clouds in me, and cuts the life-expectancy of certain men dramatically. This is why I came to her in the first place, to show me a precise direction. But all she does is confuse me more. She teaches me nothing about being a goddess and everything about being a slave. She sends me away so humiliated and wretched that all I can think of is lashing out to try and regain some self-worth. She uses me and mocks me and has me masturbating furiously to thoughts of gorging upon her. Worse still, she has me masturbating to thoughts of taking pleasure from that worm of a husband of hers - and that, Madam Smug Bitch Destiny, will never do at all.

  I am going to press a vibrator to your clit whilst you suck my balls and lick my arse.

  That is the text message awaiting me from Mr Anonymous when I get outside. I am close to shrieking with my outrage and frustration and desire. It isn’t just the text message, or even this latest rejection. It is everything from all the years. It is all the bullying and abuse and the being cast aside and the fighting and the sexual restrictions and heart-aching missed opportunity and the shattered dream. Nothing seems capable of giving me a release. If I could just cry now maybe that would help, but I haven’t done that since I pulled my mother up off her knees having watched my father drive away.

  Mr Anonymous is clearly Bertrand. The reference to pressing buzzing sex toys to me is just too obvious, what with me having made him do it to me so recently. To think I let that scumbag in. I let him see me as I am, share in me. I should let all my ire crash over him but he is part of my secret now and needed because of it. He knows how to excite my dark side, as unthinkable as letting him closer is. I need him though I hate him, just like with Madam Destiny. Her rejection of me has pulled my insides out. I thought we would revere each other as goddesses, with her as the teacher at the start but always a little in awe of me.

  I thought I would become essential to her. I imagined us ruling over our own little kingdom, sating our dirtiest desires within our dungeons and then retreating back to each other’s arms. I thought she would show me how to collect slaves who knew only devotion to their Mistress, and I would eventually be able to pick the one I loved best and return to something like normality, except with the knowledge that I would not be let down this time. Instead she wants me nowhere near her or her husband. They are probably smirking now, thinking of how easy I am to play and dupe and humiliate. He is laughing at me. She hurts me and I go back to her and she hurts me again, then she casts me adrift. It’s maybe just jealousy on her part but it feels like cold indifference. Can’t she appreciate what I could have been for her? Why is my value always so invisible?

  I pull into the blackness of the drive, only one long rectangle of light cast over the gravel from above the door. It is cold and the house is unwelcoming emptiness. My head is a maelstrom. I am going to burn everything, just for the light and warmth it will throw over me. I might kill the next person I come acro
ss. I don’t even see the BMW parked there since my eyes have no focus. I let out a weird shocked warble as I walk straight into the solidity of him. His height is a clue but I know him as much by the smell of his cologne as from anything else. We have not quite fallen into each other’s arms, more tried to avert this happening, so our hands rest on each other’s forearms, mine gripping tight with the residual shock.

  ‘Mrs Van Peer?’ says my detective in a tone that shows he realises all is not well with me. It feels like all this inside me might burst out simply from the comfort of being near him. I imagine all his suspects feel similar just prior to confessing all.

  ‘I’ve had another text!’ I exclaim, as if that is the reason behind my woes.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he quietly assures me, ‘I will make them stop.’

  If I could cry now, surely this hold of ours would be converted to an embrace? He would take me into his comforting arms and hold me tight. But I cannot. My eyes can well up but the dam won’t burst. That part of me is broken. Instead I am being led towards my front door and instructed to search my bag for the keys. He hasn’t asked me why I am dressed in a skin-tight catsuit and wobbling on the highest of high heels. It’s like he knows this should be normal for me. Then I have been sat upon a chair in my drawing room and handed a whisky so large it might constitute an eighth of a whole bottle.

  He sits opposite me, suited and booted and handsome as always, that face showing the warmth of concern. He could take me either of two ways at this very moment. He could use dominant action to take advantage of my befuddlement, seizing the initiative and issuing commands I have no ability to refuse. It would have me bending to his will before I had a chance to clear my head. Or he could ease me into him, soothing me, making my guard slip, making him my saviour. Either way would see me under his rule, unable to regain the higher ground. I must hold out, hold out. As much as my dreams of him increasingly have me as his slave, I cannot see how this can tie him down. I cannot see how it would stop him from walking away.

  But I can’t stop myself from wanting it. He sits there leaning forward towards me, as if ready to gather me in if I start to crumble, and all I want him to do is take out his stiff cock and order me to guzzle upon it. I want him to put me on all fours and spit me upon it, in whichever hole he chooses.

  ‘Can you tell me about this last message?’ he says, still quietly.

  ‘No, no - it is too rude!’ says me in my catsuit.

  ‘I can find who is doing it but I need your help.’

  I know who is doing it. That horrible handyman/gardener/henchman who spies on me at night whilst I have my fantasies is doing it. I could tell all if not for the fact that the accused could simply point at the trench he is digging outside and tell them to have a proper look in it.

  ‘I can’t help,’ I say, truthfully.

  Forget the texts. Think of now, think of what we could be doing. Think what I could mean to you.

  ‘You can help. The phones used are different and essentially untraceable but that doesn’t mean you don’t know who is sending these foul messages. We know they have your number. It is too specific to be someone who doesn’t know you well enough to at least talk to you from time to time. Plus it started recently. That means it was either spurred on by your husband’s death or, more likely, because you only gave out your number at that time. So think. Think who you have given out your number to recently.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything like that at the moment.’

  No, all I can think about is you taking me, doing whatever you want with me. Why can’t you see this?

  ‘Look, Mrs Van Peer,’ I am sorry to leave you like this but I have to go. Other duty calls. Please try to think. It is vitally important.’

  Don’t leave me. Stay and fuck me. Forget that calling of other duty; never put anything above me, ever. We have had our first almost-embrace so it has started. I am too mixed up at the moment to make it happen so I give you your chance. Don’t lose this moment, make it go on. I have no defences to stop you. I am in fetish-wear that can unzip to expose me in a second and my pussy is wetter than you can imagine. Take me and do with me whatever you will, just don’t leave me.

  So he does. I want to leap up and grab him but my legs won’t work. I am still shell-shocked and trembling inside, all this frustration and aimless desire, this injustice.

  ‘Anything you can remember will help,’ he says, although I am barely listening. ‘Concentrate and cast your mind back. Think of who has had your number since your husband died.’

  Then he has gone and I am rooted to my seat, unable to follow because of weak legs and the part of me that resists capitulating to him. I try to think of any way I could have used this brief time to bring him under my control, but it is always him forcing the thoughts. Even now I am still pondering his last instruction although I already have an answer for him: Bertrand. Well, that’s not exactly true. I had my horrible handyman’s number stored in my phone but I’d never used it. My husband did all that. I couldn’t bring myself to get involved in a chat with him, even in text format. My husband died so I had to. That first text would have given him my number. He has been snidely responding since, helping make my nights feverish. I rarely give my number out to anyone except close friends, not even those add-ons to our social circle, so I know the truth. Since my husband died I have not given my number to anyone except Bertrand.

  Hold on. Yes I have. No, wait - that is also not entirely true. I didn’t give it out but somehow had it anyway. The memory is suddenly clear, dug out by Stark’s prompting. I recall trying to work out how my number had been found. I needed to think very clearly at the time as all details were vital. There were few people who knew of what had happened, so few people my number could have been gleaned from. My conclusion was that my newly dead husband’s phone had been looked at, and my number found stored there. I remember wondering if it was just for this reason the snooper had looked, or whether it was just a by-product of a search for evidence. I didn’t give the person my number but he obtained it anyway, through crafty means. And that person, who is now seemingly intent on having me remember this, was none other than Detective Inspector Stark.

  Make Mine a Double

  There is nothing else for it but to attempt to regain the ascendency. There is nothing for it but to go clubbing. My head won’t stop spinning. There is the all-consuming anger and bitterness at the way I’ve been rejected by my Mistress tutor, not to mention my failure under her to ascend to any kind of status as a dominatrix. Then there are all the questions. Why would he send me the filthy texts? Why would he want me to know it was him? How could it have been him when the messages were often so specific to me? The more all this whirls around my head the less I think I can even begin to focus and try to find the answers. I need gorgeous people in wonderful fetish-wear to distract me. I need loud music with heavy bass beats to make me feel youthful and hopeful and to drive this turbulent mish-mash of thoughts away.

  I resent the texts because they confuse me with thoughts of submissiveness. They give me torrid nights when I am a slave to my own fingers and wild imagination. If it is him behind them he has already practically defeated me. I could accept it when I thought it was Samson. It was just the kind of pervy trick I would expect from him. Even when I thought it might be Patrick I could find some acceptance. I was always sure a man like him would not make do with a semi-nutcase wallflower like Pippa. It almost gave me a buzz of warmth knowing I had been chosen over her, even if the seduction was as vulgar as one could imagine.

  Bertrand too - when it became obvious it must be him I absorbed the shudder-inducing enormity and didn’t allow it to wither me. I understood that the whole thing surrounding my horrible henchman - the almost helpless displays to him and the intimacy I’ve allowed - must be some form of self-loathing that I must recognise and defeat if I am to become a goddess above all. For Stark to be be
hind it he must have seen things he couldn’t have seen. I mean that literally. I spent time searching my bedroom for tiny cameras he might have secreted whilst here on the pretext of examining the scene of my husband’s death. How could he possibly do it unseen and how could the pictures get beamed remotely to somewhere away from here for him to watch? I don’t know the technology but it was surely impossible.

  And yet the message about using the vibrator on me was too close to home to be a coincidence, too soon after it had happened for real. Only Bertrand could have known. So, unless Stark has some hold over my handyman, enough to have him spilling the most secret of beans, then no detective work, no lucky guesses, could have led to that text. He would have to be doing more than just detecting. He would have to be spying on me. But that would make no sense whatsoever because the harness would also have been seen and in it was a Swiss businessman now so missing he has made the news. There is no conceivable way a senior police officer could have failed to notice this. None of it was adding up anymore.

  I have been back to the club a handful of times. I can’t claim any of these visits have been anything like a resounding success in terms of putting myself out there as a goddess to lie down for. I have stayed on the fringes and observed. I have dipped my toes but have never been close to fully immersing myself. Not once have I been here and come out with a slave in tow to do my bidding for the night. Part of it is because I want control over that slave but do not know if I can retain control of myself for them to still be breathing in the morning. Part of it is just simple trepidation about getting it wrong, about shooting my bolt before I am ready for such things, thus spoiling everything. Madam Destiny would spot a target and know exactly how to bring them instantly under her spell. I do not posses that power as yet, much to my bitter frustration.