Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  For just a moment I don’t think he can possibly take the toy at my waist but he does. I let him rest once it is all the way in, watching him take shocks here and there on his body to bring the whole of him alive. I know he is enraptured. His shame at his weak betrayal will make his blood bubble. For as long as he lives he will know that he had me give him this bliss. I am the Empress behind the Queen of Pleasure. I fuck him and exalt in my mastery, wondering why, in this day and age, there is no female equivalent of that word. I reach around and find his swollen cock, even harder now than when inside me, swollen fit to burst. The slippery lube smothering it allows my hand to become a blur upon it without bringing him off. I tell him quietly not to come and I know he will obey.

  I slide the toy from him and ease in a slimmer probe, designed for electro stimulation of the prostate, or so the box claims. Well, stimulate this gland it surely does, much to Drummond’s whimpering delight. I can feel the pulse of his pleasure in my grip. The thing about electricity and humans is that the former has a tendency to kill the latter, especially when way too much is applied at once, and certain safety measures are by-passed. Just like Samson before him, he dies with his erection as rigid as it has ever been - a lasting and unequivocal testament to the rapture I have given him. It might be that his death is seen as a tragic accident; just one more wanking mishap of a desperate fellow searching for greater kicks. The ties that hold him suggest he did it all himself. Then there are the power boxes set to random, as they would be for one getting their shocking thrills alone. The Queen of Pleasure carries his fresh fingerprints and no other. If I took it from its harness and left it on the trolley it would seem like it was just part of his solo games.

  But I don’t. I leave it in its harness and put it back on the table away from him, still smothered in lube. I want her to know. I want her to know every inch of his betrayal. I want her to see that rock hard erection and know it was given to him by someone other than her. Maybe a detective as clever as Stark would spot the Queen and realise that it would not be in a harness unless someone else had been there, fucking him. Maybe Pauline Destiny will end up as the chief suspect, especially since her business card had been found in the wallet of another recently deceased gentleman. There will be nothing she can say to stop the spotlight falling on her. I leave no clues to my involvement. I slip from the scene of the crime as easily as the electric probe that helped kill him slipped into the grateful arse of her husband. I predict jail for that bitch - years to regret not simply doing for me what I asked, not falling for me. To think she thought herself above me!

  I drive home hot, my pussy still not sated. It’s as if, after all, it is emotion and not just sensation that can satisfy me. I feel dirty but elated and I can’t quite determine the root of either. I know I have defeated Madam Destiny. I said all men would cheat if given the chance and I have been proved right. Perhaps I was secretly wishing he would prove me wrong, to give me hope and put an end to this. I do not know if this triumph means I can stop now or whether the red cloud will just keep on coming, fuelled by the thought of betrayal in every man I meet. I do know that I had Drummond at my mercy, a man who would truly do anything I asked, take whatever I gave, and yet still the reality had nothing on the promise of my fantasies. I have no idea what will make it so.

  I feel empty. I even did when I had Drummond inside me. I will go home, run straight to my bedroom and try to satisfy this torturous itch. I will masturbate frantically and noisily and rue the fact that Bertrand isn’t out there somewhere to see me. Then I will sleep alone, telling myself I am glad I don’t have to share a sham life with anyone, although I am not sure if all of me will be convinced. I flick on the light in the hall and clunk up the stairs on these ridiculously high heels, sashaying for nobody. I switch on the lights in my bedroom and emit a very un-goddess-like yelp because sat in the leather chair in the corner, just as he sometimes does in my fantasy, is Detective Inspector Stark.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion,’ he says before I have a chance to demand how the hell he got in. ‘I needed to see you. The door was open when I arrived.’

  Oh no it wasn’t. Why would he be sat in the dark in my bedroom if this were so? The last anonymous text I received declared that soon it would be time. This, presumably, is time. I’m still shaking and my thoughts are scrambled, which is no state to be in with him present. I am raging with hot desire after my trip to the Destiny household and now this.

  ‘What did you need to see me about?’ I manage, as if it is perfectly acceptable to find him lying in wait in my room. It cannot be a police matter. Drummond is still warm and the 80’s Twins are safely interred in my back garden, not even making the news. No, this time it is the long-awaited visit for personal reasons. He is going to tell me he has come to offer his body up. If he had wanted to ravish me he would have hidden behind the door. I am going to get him tonight, now. My heart races faster still, my head clouding to almost have me swooning.

  ‘I am investigating the disappearance of one Lionel Bossard, a Swiss businessman,’ he says. ‘I have information that suggests you spoke to him on the day he died. Perhaps you were even the last person to speak with him.’

  My heart sinks and my head spins faster. I am almost incensed that he has come for this. For this! Who gives a shit about Lionel now anyway - he’s dead! What the hell has brought him to me about this? Who told him I had any dealings with Lionel at all? That fuck-face Patrick, I don’t doubt. I’m going to kill him when I see him.

  ‘I hardly know the man,’ I reply. My voice cracks as I say it.

  ‘You don’t have to know someone well to kill them, Mrs Van Peer.’

  I try not to bat an eyelid at his accusation.

  ‘Who says he is dead?’

  I reckon that’s quite clever of me, not falling into his trap of assuming the worst when the body has yet to been found. Still, my nerves are running free.

  ‘Perhaps you spoke to Samson Kyle the day he died too. You never could tell me of your whereabouts that day. Perhaps in my mind I should be calling you not Mrs Van Peer but Mrs Vam Peer, the Night Stalker? I know you are keeping secrets from me.’

  ‘And I know it is you,’ I snap back. It is my only form of defence. He has me rattled when I thought I could not be so. My eyelids do now flutter and I cannot stop them. My heart bangs, although this isn’t the first time this has happened in his company. I try to keep up my strong exterior but my insides are already packing up ready to flee.

  ‘You know what is me?’ he replies, calm as ever.

  ‘The filthy texts. You are sending them.’

  He studies me, always unflappable, taking time to consider his answer.

  ‘You think I would do that, just as an excuse to keep seeing you? I guess I wasn’t to know all these murders would keep cropping up which I would need to speak to you about.’

  He is feeding me his motive for doing it without admitting his guilt, like I should be so honoured that he wanted to keep seeing me I should overlook the dirty methods for doing so.

  ‘I think you are a pervert.’

  I say it with disdain but inside the fizzing adrenaline spikes on the last word.

  ‘No, Mrs Van Peer. I shall tell you what would have happened if I was truly the pervert you think me to be. I would have visited the scene of your husband’s death. I would have thought it odd but not necessarily suspicious. Then I would have seen the picture of you by his bedside. Being a pervert I would have been instantly smitten, you being such a strikingly beautiful woman, those eyes of yours telling of hidden dark thoughts. Perhaps I would wish to know more about you, get a feel of you. I might have wanted to know how such a woman dressed, since this would be such a turn-on for me. I might have had a particular weakness for women’s footwear and wondered what shoes she wore when dressed up. If I was the pervert you say I am, what would you imagine I would do next?’

  ‘Check my unde
rwear drawer for a look and a sniff.’

  My eyes are blazing at him but inside I am melting away, all power seeping.

  ‘Or I might simply slide back the wardrobe door. I imagine I would see all sorts of things to swell my pervert heart, not least pair after pair of the most fabulous stiletto-heeled shoes, all neatly placed in rows, so adored by the owner, so alluring for the viewer. I would notice the gold handbag apparently idly thrown onto them. It would seem a little out of place against the neatness of the shoes but I would think nothing more of it, distracted as I am.’

  ‘Well, that shows how wrong you can be,’ I crow back at him, glad of his mistake, ‘I don’t own a gold handbag, Inspector Columbo. Do I look like the kind of woman who does?’

  ‘Then I would meet you in the flesh, spiked boots and all, even more captivating than in your photo. I might be even more enchanted, my mind raging with dirty thoughts of you in just your curves and those stiletto heels. Perhaps my kinky, black heart would contrive to pretend you were under suspicion, just to give me another chance to make more enquiries and see you again.’

  ‘My husband was killed by a goose, Inspector, as you well know.’

  ‘Then maybe I would sense mutual attraction, despite the circumstances. No doubt this would make me think that keeping you under suspicion was cruel and unfair. I would accept that you had a right not to regret the death of a husband you had found to be a cheat. I might decide I must find another way to see you again. Maybe it would cloud my concentration and keep me from seeing the details - the gold handbag, for instance.’

  ‘I’ve told you I don’t own...’

  ‘Because it would only be afterwards, when I was long gone, that it might find a way back through my pervert thoughts and seem strange to me, the odd way it alone had been so un-neatly thrown down upon such neatly laid out shoes. And the look and shape of it - oddly baggy and gaudy, which was so totally unlike the woman I had met. Then it might dawn on me: it was not a handbag at all but a carrying case, for that hideous gold bowling ball trophy I saw sat upon a shelf in your bedroom. It belonged to your husband, so why was the case hidden in your wardrobe?’

  Oh fuck - the bowling ball case! I barely remember throwing it in there but I must have done. Shut safely behind a wardrobe door away from prying eyes, although not, it seems, safe from a pervert’s eyes. Trust my luck to get the kinkiest detective on the force! I am trying to look defiant, disinterested, aghast, innocent even - anything that won’t make me look how I feel inside, which is standing on the very edge of panic. Keep calm, don’t go to pieces as he expects.

  ‘Would it have been hidden, Inspector, or might the cleaning lady have put it in there, not knowing where else it was to go?’

  I might be clutching at straws but it sounds like a rebuttal worthy of any brilliant lawyer.

  ‘But why, thinks any perverse-minded detective, would it be out in the first place, other than to carry the ball? Maybe it was used to carry the ball up some stairs, or a ladder. I would wonder if I had thought to look outside up on the roof on the day of the tragedy, I might have seen heel marks in the bitumen that would arouse my suspicions. Perhaps the ball was intentionally dropped through the skylight onto an unsuspecting sleeper in the bed below, who was fresh from making love to a mistress? Maybe he was even watched in action before he was killed. Now that really would excite my kinky mind, if I was as you think me to be. Of course, without a warrant I could not now go back upstairs and check the roof. I could not seize the bowling ball and check for fragments of glass upon it. But maybe my suspicions would be aroused to the point where I thought I must delve deeper, even if just the thought of seeing you again was not enough. I would probably think I needed to follow you.’

  ‘It would be a twisted mind, Inspector, that could dream up all this out of nothing.’

  ‘I might follow you at night, all down country roads for nearly an hour. Imagine my pervert delight when I saw you were visiting a fetish club, dressed to kill.’

  ‘Then I would have seen your headlamps behind me and realised you were following me.’

  But I did. I am trying to look like his game is not fazing me but the more he reveals, the deeper into the pit I fall. I remember the headlights, the similarity in shape to the ones I saw on his car outside my house. That is how come he knew he could visit me so late that night. I was too wrapped up in my own lusts and red cloud to think more of it and to ponder implications. Nerves are turning to dread. Coldness is all through me.

  ‘Maybe I would imagine a scene,’ he goes on, still without any sense of crowing victory in his voice, ‘knowing now that you also had a kinky secret, along with the ability to slay men’s hearts with ease. I might imagine that you had gone to the hidden cabin by the side of the fishing lake with Samson Kyle the day he died. I could picture him walking in with a hold-all of yours, containing all the new toys to ply your dirty deeds.’

  He has been following me! He’s fucking-well got me! This crafty, sneaky bastard has me on the hook! The freeze is still inside me, the sickening lurch of dread, but there is admiration too. I thought I was way above him but he had me pinned from the start.

  ‘That is quite some flight of fancy, Inspector.’

  ‘Maybe I would picture you coming out all alone, carrying this hold-all which hid the evidence, taking it home as Samson Kyle hung dead upon the back of the door. The pervert policeman would know that if he could find this hold-all it would still have the fingerprints of the deceased upon it, which would be hard for you to explain. So, twisted as I am, I would go to your house to look for a chance to get in and pry. I would go in through the rear, so as not to be seen. But imagine if this were so, what I might come across? You, lost in dark lusts, naked but for heels, parading at your bedroom window, going further, even though it seemed you had spotted me there, displaying to me.’

  Hold on - I thought that was Bertrand! I am so gobsmacked I almost say this out loud. I opened up to my handyman after this, thinking it was him. I let him into my world, let him see me at my rudest.

  ‘What kind of twisted bastard would spy like that?’ I say, but there is no conviction in my voice now.

  ‘The worst kind: the kind that would come again on other nights to see you there. The kind that might witness bodies strapped into harnesses or hanging bleeding from crucifixes if you were indeed the black heart he took you for.’

  He has seen it all. Nothing was missed, and I thought I was being so clever. It is like being hit by a train. There is nothing left for me to do except unravel. And yet he is here, with me, not facing me across the desk of an interview room. He is not reaching for handcuffs. In fact, now I come to realise it, he is sharing with me his own culpability. He knew and yet he let me go on. He has even given me pointers on certain evidence I might now get rid of, before warrants can be arranged. Most of this evidence he gathered illegally or at least through motives that would see his reputation and career in jeopardy.

  ‘So why would this pervert detective not arrest me, if he had such damning evidence?’

  ‘Maybe he would think prison no place for a woman who wore high heels so well. Maybe he didn’t want to waste her beauty and her darkness. Maybe he wanted to experience it for himself.’

  It has come down to simple blackmail but my heart still soars. The heat starts to flood back through me. I can have him where I want him after all. He has gone for the lure of my killer heels and didn’t run once he had found me out completely. There is nothing for me to hide so nothing we need hold back on. It could be a match made in heaven. The crush of it is that he knows too much - way too much for me to ever be safe. I cannot ensure my secrets are not spilled, however much I rule over him. Even the staunchest of men can be easily broken, as big-cocked Drummond proved. But the thought of big cocks still has me thinking that this is a moment I mustn’t lose. I won’t be able to stop myself from making this happen, now that the dr
ead has subsided and the red cloud starts to form. I will have him, I know that. I simply have to, even though I know what will come over me and how it will end. I will tie him, spank him and fuck him. I will make him mine and have his big cock inside me and then I will silence him for all time. The loss might well be the heaviest I ever have to bear.

  ‘I think it is time, Inspector,’ I say, ‘that we put this bedroom dungeon of mine to its proper use.’

  A Beginning and an End

  So I nonchalantly cross to the sex wardrobe. He remains seated, watching me with those eyes that miss nothing. He is probably thinking that everyone should have a sex wardrobe, and he’d be right. Mine is in gloss black with an ornate curved top, and opens out to reveal hanging space and a rack for whips and such like, plus a chest below for all the sex toys a budding Goddess of Discipline should need. It is totally at odds with the other sleek, square items of furniture in the room but that is the point. I had Bertrand put in for me before I had to kill him. Strange, I have no such urges now. It must happen though, as emptying a feeling as this is. Where is the red cloud now I need it to obliterate all other thoughts?