A killer pair of heels takes one couple’s relationship to a higher level.
I found them on holiday in Los Angeles – a stripper friend of mine spotted them across the tacky Hollywood Boulevard store and squealed with excitement. ‘Oh these are am-ay-zing,’ she drawled, fingering the tiny black ribbon laces.
They were astonishing items of footwear. Called ‘The Highest Heel’, the shoes measured five and a half inches from heel to floor. An almost impossible looking shape for a human foot. Wearing them, I imagined, your feet would be angled wildly, just your tiptoes and the very balls of your feet touching the floor, like a ballet dancer en pointe. Each shoe encased the foot in glinting black patent leather, laced tightly up the entire foot corset style. The heel itself as pointed and slender as a dagger. The toes ended in a deadly point. I swallowed hard. Oh my, I thought, I’m in love.
‘Not very practical,’ I found myself uttering, breezily. ‘How the hell do you walk in them, let alone anything else?’
‘Oh my poor sweet child,’ she laughed. ‘These aren’t for dancing. These are the kind of shoes that never touch the bedroom floor – you get me?’
I caught her drift but it turns out she was wrong in one aspect – I’d wear these shoes, and stand in them. I bought them that very minute. You see, I adore high heels. I’ve never been daunted. The higher the better. My man loves it when I have a business meeting at work or a formal do to attend. It’s when I strap on my giddiest footwear. He wouldn’t have a clue who Christian Louboutin might be but he knows a sexy shoe when he sees one. He also loves how much taller than him they make me, and I love how strong and powerful they make me feel. I’ve never slipped. Other women gawp enviously as I stride along in four or five inchers, feeling my bum wiggle and my legs tighten as I clip clop along. I’m 100 percent in control in my heels. I have them tamed.
But these Highest Heels were something of a challenge. One I was looking forward to losing. When I brought the shoes home and told my bloke about my fantasy, he was more than happy to oblige. Now it’s a regular thing, a little power play between us. First I shower, slather my skin in handfuls of body lotion, then step through to the bedroom and slip on the shoes. Nothing else. I have to lie flat on the bed to thread the ribbons, and make two trembling bows. Feet on the floor, it takes a moment to stand up, my ankles at first wobbling like jelly. I find my balance. Standing next to the bed, my back to the door, I make minute adjustments to my stance, straightening my back, slightly parting my legs, a miniscule tip of the hip left or right, ankles locked solid, balls of the feet pressing hard into the ground. When I finally feel steady as a rock, I let out a gentle whistle. Summoning him. My willing slave.
It’s all part of the game that I don’t look around to see him crawl in, shaking, on hands and knees. He tells me later, whispering in my ear, that it makes an awesome sight. The lethal, cruel shine of the shoes, my legs stretching miles above him, towering, my back straight and proud, the line of my neck curving up into my hair, head high, eyes locked away from him. Like a statue. Impervious. With utmost trepidation, the game begins. He starts with his face pressed low into the bedroom carpet, the tip of his tongue testing and tasting the sheen of the patent leather. Shaky little kisses up and down the length of each long, spiked heel. Worshipping them. I blink, once, twice, not even a hint of acknowledgment. Miles above him. His head lifts and, cautiously, damp lips are placed on each ankle. The first feeling of breath on my skin.
As I gaze at the ceiling (and sometimes, sneakily, I angle the bedroom mirror so I can watch him, though I never tell him this) I imagine my legs are made of steel rods, unshakable. He unfurls his tongue and makes long, slow laps up and down my calves. He sucks and wiggles his tongue against the back of my knees, tasting my skin. The faint prickle of his stubbly face against the most ticklish, most delightful spots behind the knee. I press my lips together but make no sound. I push down with my toes, steadying myself, the arch of my foot feeling slightly unsteady now, though to him I am still as unwavering as a statue.
The white ceiling starts to swim gently before my eyes; I’m desperately seeking something to focus on, so I can ignore the exquisite sensation. More kisses, wet and bold now, urgent, up my thighs. He groans and moves his body so he is kneeling up, pressing himself into the backs of my thighs. The shock of unexpected heat on my ankle as the tip of his cock brushes against me. At this point, I know, he will be looking up at my back again – nothing has changed, though my mind is raging, aching, willing myself not to tumble, but not yet.
The smoothness of my back unchanged, only now my shoulder-blades shake slightly. My legs, my ankles, my thighs are still stiff and unmoving, though they ache and heat shoots through them, yearning to yield to him. I must stand tall. I must show these shoes, this man, who is the boss. No matter how marvellous and knee-trembling my man’s kisses might feel.
His hands, finally, placed on my body, creeping round my hips and roughly grasping the hipbone so he can pull himself up further. His tongue darting out and tracing a line under each arse cheek, wiggling in the fold of the flesh, his head cocked to right, then left. A little gasp and moan and he rubs his face against the flesh of my arse. I hate him then because he can cry out and I can’t, I must bite my lip and keep my legs straight and strong. For now. Just a little longer. His fingers slide round my hips and down, grasping my arse cheeks and yanking them apart. His breath so warm and ticklish against my c**t, I hear him snuffling, breathing my smell in. I can’t take it. Finally I allow myself to move, imperceptibly, a tiny tilt backwards to press my c**t into his face, a meek gasp finally parting my lips. I’m immediately thrown off balance, and sway wildly, but I don’t care. He greedily buries his face between my thighs, squirming his fat inelegant tongue into me, his nose squashed against my clean pink arsehole, chewing and lapping at me with moans of pleasure.
Bolts of excitement shoot down each thigh and my ankles start to quiver. The slender heels tremble against the bedroom floor and my toes start to curl inward. I’m melting. His hands rock me, pumping my hips backwards so I can push myself harder and harder into his greedy face. My knees quake as a red warmth spills over my face and chest, flushing. Goosebumps break out down my arms. I don’t even have a choice now. My legs start to buckle. My ankles give way and the beautiful shoes fly out from under me. Always, always he is there to catch me, my body crumpling onto his. He grabs me with strong arms, looks into my defeated eyes and then, shockingly, shoves me away from him. I fly backwards onto the waiting bed. Sprawled. Aching. Broken. I draw my legs up to my body so the shoes press cold against my thighs.
He smiles, cockily. He’s bested me. My knees are still knocking and firing off bursts of adrenaline – my body melts into the bed. I’m a puddle. Waiting. Feeling the life flow back into my aching thighs and calves. My toes still numb. And he watches me. Standing at full height now, he looks down at me, his face beaming with desire, his cock stiff, angry, pointing straight at me. He approaches, cock bobbing. He crawls across the bed, and presses his mouth into mine – a long, hard kiss that melts me further into the mattress. He pulls back and looks at my naked body, the hard nipples, the dark, wet V of my c**t – he’s pleased. Taking one ankle in each hand, he lifts each shoe-clad foot onto his shoulders and, without hesitation, slams himself into me. Burying his dick deep inside me. My arse slamming against his thighs as I’m lifted by his thrusts. My ankles frame his face, my toes point to the sky, the useless shoes jabbing at the ceiling as, in just a few thrusts, I’m screaming his name, kicking at the air and hurling myself into him, flailing my legs and arms as waves of joy and release burst through my body.
As I lie there, gasping and wriggling, exhausted, he always runs his large, warm hands down my legs, feels for the laces, and unties each shoe. Then he slips them off, rubs my toes between his fingers and rises to put the shoes on the bedside table where we can look at them. Before he lies down next to me, he always, always takes my feet in his hand and kisses me along each toe, and smiles.
‘’
