Lure of the Killer Heels

by Ashley Hind

  Opening the robe reveals a surprise. A certain detective has already examined the interior and left three items atop the chest. First is what I imagine to be a pair of genuine police-issue handcuffs. There’s certainly no fluffy pink fur stuck to them anyway! Second is a long, very thin cane, in black. The sight of it has my skin shrinking and buttocks tensing. It has my heart racing faster still. Thirdly, already housed in a black harness that is bunched up beneath it, is a purple dildo. It has been liberally pre-smeared with clear lubricant and glistens invitingly. It is rather slim, not particularly long, and it’s not one of mine. He has brought all three items specifically. Here then, is him revealed. The red cloud does not billow at the sight of these objects, as it so often does when my toys come out. In truth there is a sense of something I didn’t expect. I want and need to put these to use on him, to dominate him absolutely, so why do I feel disappointment?

  The cane is incisive and deadly like him. I always was attracted to those wits of his, the sharpness. He is a breed apart from the men I have known. There is no brash arrogance with him, no talking loudly to get a point across, no hateful greed. His knowledge and brilliance comes from searching out the truth, from seeing and evaluating the evidence. He is all about external matters, about what is to be seen in others. He is not about himself. I know almost nothing about him other than his nights are generally as lonely now as mine, and that he is a pervert with a fetish for high heels. But I am also a pervert with a fetish for high heels, which pretty much means we would have been made for each other, if not for my grisly little secrets and the fact that he is a policeman.

  The cuffs mean he is giving himself to me, entirely. He knows what this might mean for him, what it must mean for him, but still he does it. The dildo in its harness is perhaps the biggest source of my disappointment. It is the sign of capitulation, despite the diminutive dimensions. To have a man this way is to have his total surrender, to own him completely. I don’t see him as someone who capitulates. I see him always there still standing at the end, unruffled and quietly victorious. It is the ultimate flattery that he has relented to me, fallen for my looks and my high heels but, in this man alone, I don’t feel my surge of triumph overtaking all.

  I take up the handcuffs and return to the centre of the room. Without a word he rises up from the leather chair, eyes on mine, still searching. He slowly removes his jacket and folds it neatly, placing it on the seat behind him. He removes his shoes one at a time. I like his shoes; so classy, so him. The black socks come off too. Even these are held up and folded in half before being put on the chair. The tie follows: thin and dark blue. Then comes the spotlessly white, crisp and creaseless shirt. He is particularly unhurried with this, with the removal and the folding. The wait has me trembling.

  The trousers and underwear stay on. I am glad about this. I didn’t want him all white and wirily naked in front of me. It would have stripped him of his potency. He comes to me, slowly. My heart bangs. He stops one pace before me and turns. His hands come behind his back, held out with wrists together for me to secure. He quietly instructs me how to snap the cuffs against his wrists to lock them. I’ve seen such things on TV before. I never thought I would be the one doing it in real life.

  So he is mine. I go back around to face him and he maintains his passive look, with that slight frown that always shows his mind to be active, evaluating everything so nothing is missed. I keep my eyes on his as I reach down to undo his belt. I should be wearing my most triumphant expression but for some reason the confidence just won’t fill me, even now. The hunger is rising though. I let the trousers drop. I run my hands lightly down his chest. It is no good. The gloves have to come off. I run my fingertips down his sides, down towards the waistband of his cotton briefs. I slide inside this last line of his defence and ease the underwear down. I don’t let them drop. Instead I take them all the way, slowly, going down to my knees so that I can release his ankles and feet from the restriction of his clothes.

  The nerves are fluttering in my chest, making my breath falter. His cock is right there before me, swollen but not yet rising. One cannot really tell but it may prove to be a little fatter than my husband’s was, perhaps a similar length. This is good. It means we will fit perfectly. I am glad it might not grow and engorge to be the monster of my dreams. By now the red cloud has usually got me guzzling on any cock so close to my mouth. For him I somehow manage restraint, just a slow tongue-tip journey along the underside of the head, up to flit once so lightly over the exposed tip. It gives me just a taste of him. It makes him sigh and sink just a little at the knees. This is how a goddess would do it.

  Back up I come to snatch the moment away from him. I know his heart is going now. I can see the swell beginning to lift him. I step back and remove the coat that belonged to one of the dead men buried out in my garden. I stand in my teddy and fishnets and boots. That is all I should give him for now. I can see his eyes full of desire for more. He looks more handsome now than ever before. I step in before silly games defeat instinct and I kiss him. It is passionate, although less so because his arms cannot go around me. The fire starts to burn me and I catch his tongue between my teeth; just a little reminder of how much control I have over him.

  I step back. Always leave them wanting more. I’m not sure who needs it most - him or me! I move in again, feigning to kiss him again but going instead to put my mouth at his ear.

  ‘I am going to spank you, Inspector,’ I whisper, then give his earlobe a quick sharp nip with my teeth, just for good measure.

  ‘Could I ask one thing first?’ he says, forgetting to address me as “Mistress”. ‘Could I kiss you, on your neck? I want to show you there is something of softness about me, before what is to come.’

  It seems only reasonable. I imagined there might have been something of a romantic in him, although buried very deep.

  ‘Kiss away,’ I tell him.

  ‘On your nape,’ he says. I shouldn’t allow him to dictate anything but my nape thinks it’s a brilliant notion and I’m already turning to face away from my captive. The feel of his lips there has me resting back into him and the breath in me escaping in a long sigh. He is gentle. I half-expected him to sink his teeth into me, vampire-style. The light, warm contact has the hairs rising up all over my body. I can feel the press of his crotch at my backside, the swell of him. He runs his lips up to my ear and whispers.

  ‘Hold me,’ he says. ‘Reach back and feel it grow.’

  Again I shouldn’t allow this but it is such a good idea I am doing it. My right hand goes back to find him. My heart races as my fingers encircle his girth and I feel the pulse of his swell on my palm.

  ‘Both hands, please,’ he whispers. ‘Feel how ready I am for you.’

  Well, he did say “please”, so how can I refuse? My left hand goes back too, and I crouch slightly to get down and gather in his smoothly shaven balls. I can feel the heat of them, the rise and fall. His lips are back at my neck, his cock growing wonderfully hard for me. I don’t even have to rub him, just hold him. Then there is a sharp contact at the underside of my right wrist, completely unfamiliar. My brain is whirring, processing the ongoing information. I don’t know how or when he released himself from his cuffs but that is the point: they are his cuffs and he clearly knows how to do these things. He also knows how to put them on me, quick as a flash so that I don’t even register exactly what has happened before it is done.

  I expect a whoop of triumph, a victory dance. Instead it is his mouth on my neck again, melting me. Then I am turned and our lips are together, and this time his arms do go around to draw me close. We stay kissing until I think my knees might give way. I don’t think I can remember such a connection. I have only vague panic that my wrists are secured behind me, but that just further enlivens my body. His hands run down my back to my behind and grasp it roughly, pulling me into him so I can feel his hardness.

  ‘You said you
were going to spank me,’ he says into my ear.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, but it is barely more than a breath.

  One hand is delving lower, right down behind me, the fingers rummaging, pulling. Then there is the pop of press studs at my crotch and the garment springs apart, baring me. He gathers the rubber up with his fingers, leaving my backside with just the protection of my netted tights. He kisses me, still with passion but never too much. He is pressing his hand to my open palm, forcing me to hold the rubber of my now-ineffectual garment clear of my bottom. He still kisses me but I know what is coming. His hand comes down sharply on my left buttock, causing me to yelp into his mouth.

  A new flurry of smacks land, all stinging. The sound cracks around the room. My legs buckle but he holds me up against him, not allowing our kiss to break. Both hands are behind me now, finding the hole in the crotch of the tights and ripping outwards from there, leaving my round arse totally exposed in one go. He digs his fingertips into the flesh, pinching hard. Then the smacks come again, all sharp, one cheek and then the other. I writhe and pant, press hard to him, and still our kiss goes on.

  He finally breaks free of me, his hands immediately at the V of my garment, nails and then teeth trying to rent the rubber. It tears so easily, just splits apart all the way down to have my breasts springing free. He is on them in a flash, sucking hard, gorging upon mouthfuls as if famished by desire. He pinches both my nipples, pulls me towards the bed by them, steering me around and pushing me backwards onto it. I bounce on the soft mattress and he regards me with that same look of utter sexual hunger, his cock upright and rigid - such promise for my begging puss. I think he is going to pounce but he does not. I can’t bear any break in our closeness but anticipation is, of course, the key.

  He goes to the robe and my heart bangs. He returns not with either of the items he placed in readiness, but a restraint from my collection, to hold both wrists at once from a single line that ties to the bars of my headboard. He means to swap the ties holding me and that gives me a chance. My legs and sharp heels are now in play to defend myself and strike out should I wish. I never even begin to struggle. He is already on me, hauling me up the bed, turning me onto my side to undo the cuffs that spring open with ridiculous ease. I’m sure I could have gotten free at any time. He puts me flat on my back again, already with one wrist secured in the new cuff.

  ‘Do you need that?’ I say, softly. He looks down at me and a grin flickers over that handsome, mean face of his.

  ‘You are a woman who keeps a crossbow in her wardrobe. I shall always need to restrain you.’

  So he does, and I do nothing to prevent it. I am held with wrists together and arms above my head, no scope to move them but able to be flipped onto my front should he wish. I am powerless but my heart is not racing through fear. This man is a pervert but no more than me. The dildo in its harness was no more than a ruse to make me feel in control. I already know, even before he is on me and kissing me once more, that the cane will not be used on me either - not today at least. He could do anything that he pleases but it is all about being close at last. When the time comes he will be an expert, I can already tell. He will use every dirty, wonderful trick in the book upon me. But for now it is all about building that one thing that binds us bondage freaks so unbreakably together - implicit trust.

  Down he goes on me and I almost scream with the joy of what is to follow. He splays my thighs apart. He takes in every detail of me there and I see those eyes of his ravenous with lust. Then his face is in me and he is feasting once more. The gentleness of his kisses is lost in favour of gluttony. The tongue laps long and wet, and delves deep. I see my juice smeared all over his face. I buck and writhe and press to him. The slight stubble of his evening shadow pricks and tingles at my delicate bareness. He has his hands behind my knees, forcing my legs up to get deeper into me. Those heels of mine that he so loves are at either side of his head. There is no Samson-like slavering over them, though. It is not so much the shoes that turn him on. It is me in the shoes. I am the one he cannot leave alone.

  He could make me come with his tongue but he flips me over, pulling my hips up off the bed and sinking his teeth into one buttock and then the next. He sucks in more huge mouthfuls. His tongue is everywhere, lapping and probing, causing me to whimper and my cheeks to flush. Fingers go into me and I am so, so wet. He bites and licks and frigs me as I writhe. Then more smacks are coming and I am flapping around but shrieking “Yes!” with every one that lands. There is no denying what I am. I might have the looks and the body and the power to slay but I would be on my knees for this man with just one glance from him.

  Then I am turned onto my back once more and he is not just on me but in me, slipping in and driving all the way home, filling me in one nerve-bursting moment. He doesn’t wait. He pumps me fast with hard, slapping thrusts that has my climax battering down the doors, threatening to pour all through me. Then he has stopped and is out of me, leaving me wailing and clenching upon emptiness and bucking my hips vainly upwards into thin air. I know how I must look but it is no matter. This is me now, new-defined: a wretched, desperate slave to him.

  Off he goes, back to the robe. Maybe it will be the electrodes he comes back with, maybe something to stop my breath. I am a problem he cannot ignore: a murderess he has failed to stop. Whatever, it will be an incomparable bliss that no amount of living could ever compare to. I watch his approach through bleary eyes but at least my mind is clear. The red cloud barely began to gather before he sent it away. He wears the dildo. I hadn’t studied it properly so I didn’t see the harness was built for him, not for me. The purple rubber prick sticks out just above his solid flesh one, held in place by a strap around his waist and a chrome ring around his cock and balls. I thought in fantasy I had envisaged every single bit of bondage equipment, every sex toy available, but this is something new.

  ‘Oh fuck!’ I hear myself saying.

  The whole of my body feels like I have been plugged into the mains. He is mounting the bed again, a measured approach this time. He wears a knowing expression, just the tiniest hint of a smile. He is above me, between my legs. I spread as wide as I can for him. My chest is heaving. I know my face is flushed with desire and I look like the most wanton, pleading bitch he will ever set eyes upon. Into me he goes, the slide so torturously slow this time. He goes to the hilt, so I can feel those balls of his, thrust forward by the chrome ring, pressed to me where my juices run so freely. Out he goes, just as slowly, making me quake. Then in again, every centimetre of the penetration felt, the wicked smile spreading across his face. The dildo slides over my lips and beyond, slippery with my juice and the lube he covered it in. It makes my clit fizzle, almost too much to take and still remain conscious.

  He won’t let my climax fully hit, although I feel almost delirious with bliss anyway. He moves me back onto my front, making me rise onto my hands and knees. I know what it is coming. It feels almost like it must be happening to someone else, or in a dream. I just stay still and quiet, waiting for him to do it, to give me this unique joy. I am about to lose my virginity, of sorts. This is something I have fantasised over so often. It was so easy for it to happen, as long as you had the right person. I didn’t but now I do. I am glad I waited for him. He will be right for me in every way.

  He does it expertly, slick hands allowing the twin penetration to occur without a hitch. He goes slow, easing in, opening me and sending the ecstasy all through me. There isn’t even the white pain I always imagine in my dreams. I bite my lip but it is all sublime, all the hurt immediately pleasurable as he opens and fills me, all the way. He lets me rest and relax before starting to move in and out again. One day he will fuck me there with that cock of his and I will feel that wonderful white pain and I will yell out for more, for him. Right now I just have to hang on and try to keep from collapsing as he builds and builds, faster and faster, giving me as much pleasure and possibly even more than Madam De
stiny ever managed to. I am screaming.

  When, I wonder, do you become the person you are supposed to be? Are you destined for all you do or will other influences shape you at every turn, melding with your own nature to form you seemingly beyond your will? Is someone else always due thanks or blame for every new chapter you begin? Since you do not choose what turns you on, can you ever fully have control over what shapes you? At least I have a semblance of my true self; the person I am most comfortable with. It is an odd mix - one that had me confused me for so long and still will. I cannot say I am nice or even deserving of a place in this world but I am what I am. I don’t think I even chose to be this way.

  In him I have a new beginning. In him I have foundations to build upon. He understands and doesn’t judge me. He allows me the freedom to work myself out, to be fulfilled by lust after all. I will always be a contradiction and complex, but aren’t we all, to a greater or lesser degree? He gives me a relevance that I could never truly say I’ve had in my life before. What an odd way to have it discovered! He knows my secret. That will be his power over me. He will come to me whenever he wishes and use me any way he chooses. Worse, he will allow my secret to grow. He is not stopping me from committing my sinful acts. He wants them to go on, to give him more power over me, more reasons to stalk me and spy on me at work and fuel his own depraved desires. He will use his position to keep me above suspicion. Maybe he will even give tips on how to leave no clues, how to become the best there ever was. We will be bound by this secret. I am a slave to him, he a slave to the incomparable lusts I can arouse. We are unique; joined by the darkest passions but joined indefinitely. He is the one who won’t leave me. He can’t - no one else could ever match me in this.

  So I am in one of the private rooms of the fetish club, waiting. I know how to do this now. Via the telephone I have told my amenable host, Mr Slick, to organise the sending of a gorgeous bitch willing to serve only me. It is high time my lusts spread to women as well as to men. Maybe there will be a different outcome this time, maybe not. The room is dimly grey with a couple of bright spotlights the only comfort. There is an upright rack, a spanking bench and a queening stool. There is one wall and a flat surface below it bedecked in apparatus for using on the defenceless flesh of enslaved bodies. There are no cameras in this room. What can go on here is bound only by the limits of one’s imagination.