SPIKE

Rachel Kramer Bussel

 

 

 

 

 

The minute I see the shoes, I know I want them. Scratch that—I need them. They are practically talking to me, curving their lips into a gleaming, gooey grin that makes my feet itch to try them on. Their siren song lures me across the store until they are all I see. I pick them up, fondle them, tracing my fingertips along the smooth, supple leather, imagining them on my feet, my feet caressing Jack’s cheek, Jack’s tongue licking the edges. Their black surface is sleek, shiny, and perfect, crafted to look like a gorgeous piece of art, the kind you might hang on your wall and draw stares for miles, but it’s the spiked heels that really do it for me. They are sharp and pointed, like a knife; they could do real damage, both to the wearer and to anyone standing in her way. They are also high; when I try them on, I feel like I’ve been gifted with those extra inches I’ve always considered my birthright. I stare down at my feet, not in the mirror, but live, right before my eyes, and know they are right. I march over to the counter, take one off and hold it up to be scanned, then slide it back on, feeling the power wash over me, slowly but quite surely. They hurt when I slip them on, I won’t deny it, but it seems a fair trade-off: I’ll suffer some pain, he’ll suffer more.

Jack was my new lover. We’d only been together once but he’d immediately dazzled me with his ability not only to submit, but to make me want him to do more, to go further into our role-playing until it became less playing and more simply being. Dominance is something I innately warm to, but only under the proper circumstances. I don’t walk into a room and instantly want to see every guy there down on his hands and knees. No, it doesn’t have mass appeal for me. But when the right guy comes along, watch out. Jack had started the typical macho bullshit with me at some overly hip bar; I wasn’t even sure why I’d wandered into the place. He’d teased me about my hair, acted like he’d never seen someone who looked like me: almost goth with my pale skin, jet black hair, tattoos, and piercing gaze. I don’t look like the kind of girl you mess with, and when I grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the hallway he started to get the picture. I pushed him up against the wall, my face inches from his. “You don’t talk to me like that; nobody does. I think you’ve just been waiting for a woman to put you in your place. Well, consider me that woman,” meaning every single word. He cowered before me, seeming to grow smaller as he saw just how serious I was.

I wormed my fingers under his tight shirtcollar, letting my knuckles press against his neck, the backs of my fingers hinting at what they could do to his chest. I grabbed one of his hands and thrust it under my latex miniskirt, the kind I manage to pull off as saying “fuck YOU” rather than “fuck me.” I rubbed his fingers along the very sheer fabric of my expensive lace panties, then maneuvered them under that veneer, sliding those callused stubs along my wetness. I pulled his fingers back out, then shoved them into his mouth. “You better get used to the way my pussy tastes, because you’re going to have my flavor on your tongue for quite a while after tonight.” I took a step back. “Say your good-byes and meet me outside in five minutes. I’ll be in the red Porsche. If you’re not ready, you’ll be sorry.” And then I did the thing that always throws them off, lures them into thinking that underneath all that gruffness I’m really a nice girl. I winked at him, smiled sweetly and planted a very soft, tender kiss on his big red lips, then pranced back into the bar. I knew that kiss, that sweet, soft mere taste of my lips on his, was enough to make him need to try it again, and try it we did. I spent the entire night teaching Jack a very important lesson about respecting women—specifically, respecting me.

We saw each other several more times before the shoes entered the picture, and each tryst served to cement Jack’s position in my life—on his knees, or across my lap; in a word: subservient. It took hardly any time at all to train this tough-talking, macho man into the perfect slave, grateful to do my bidding and getting off on my power over him.

On the date that follows my shopping expedition, armed with my new purchase, we don’t waste any time with social niceties. Both of us know exactly why we’re here, and that the best way for us to communicate isn’t with endless talking, but with his face buried in a pillow or crammed full of my cunt. That might sound cold, but with Jack, it’s amazing how much we each manage to say solely with body language. A sense of calm and strength comes over me the minute I hear him say, “Do whatever you want to me.” I feel those words travel from the ends of my hair to my razor-sharp spiked shoes, emitting their own kind of pheromones that quickly swim through my bloodstream, sharpening my resolve. To say I feel maternal toward Jack wouldn’t be totally wrong, but the feeling is a combination of so many things. I want to teach him a lesson, but I want it to be my lesson, my way. I want him to walk away from our dates not only with a raw, stinging bottom, his back scraped raw—me having left my mark, as it were—but also knowing that I know what’s best for him, because clearly I do.

It takes him mere moments to fully undress and lie down along the length of the couch. His cock is already hard, trying to worm its way between my legs as he wriggles against me. My pussy is wet, but a new kind of wet; not that urging, throbbing hole-needing-to-be-filled-immediately kind of wet, but a wetness that percolates, waiting until the moment is ripe. This kind of wetness could wait, could withstand the slow buildup, could hold out for something better. When I had time to think about it, I considered it a more mature, superior wetness, befitting a woman of my stature.

When he splays himself across my lap, the position feels as if he were meant to fit in the palm of my hand, his little bubble butt poised in the air, just waiting for me. Every babyish quality he possesses surges forth to the surface, his voice going higher, his body seeming to shrink just so, his eyes looking back at me with raw need and hope and urgency, as if I am the only one in the whole wide world who can meet his most visceral desires, and in that second, it’s true. I feel like the queen of his world as I run a hand over his face, sticking a finger in his mouth, tracing my nails along his neck, while my other hand tickles the bottom of his foot, then lightly trails up his leg, needing to touch every inch of my newfound domain. I kick out my leg, admiring the way the shoe conforms to my foot, squeezing it just so, the tip darting out in a delicious point. Then I raise my right hand and bring it down across his sweet asscheeks in a way befitting a woman wearing that shoe, befitting a woman with a man splayed across her lap like a baby.

“Unh,” he moans, a guttural groan; he’s kicking and squirming in delight. I raise my hand again, then land it on one cheek, then bring it up higher, wanting a louder, harder smack. I hold his cheek steady with my other hand, flattening that perfect curve, then bring my hand down again, while he nuzzles his face into the pillow. I keep going, enjoying the sting as it travels up my hand, then, when his sniveling gets to be too much for me, I shove two fingers in his mouth to shut him up. He bites down on them, while I keep increasing my pace, admiring how quickly his ass turns a perfect shade of red. His ass remains what it had been, two perfectly symmetrical rounded cheeks, and yet it also transforms into something else, something softer, subtler, sexier, hard and firm yet open, yielding. I marvel not only at his stamina, but also at his giving, granting me this opportunity to take over, fully and completely, no questions asked, a rarity in our highly regulated world. I stamp my feet on the ground, simply because I can, because right now, I can throw my own temper tantrum, and indeed get what I want, what we both want.

I make him get on his knees, wrists behind him. As I fasten the pink rope—bought especially for him, because despite the firm breasts, red lipstick, and spiked heels, I am clearly the man tonight—around him, he moans again. I love when he reaches that point of no return, where anything I do, any decadently dark suggestion I make, is okay. At his finest, I could bind and gag him, naked, and string him to a telephone pole, and his cock would be sticking straight up, begging for more. With his wrists secured, I place him on his hands and knees in front of me, returning to my throne. That final twist of the knot has made my pussy twinge, made me start to feel that more familiar ache that can only be filled in one of a few ways. I raise my skirt enough for his head to fit underneath it, and he dives right in, his tongue immediately going to work. He presses that fast-moving organ deep between my folds, then brings it back up to mash it against my clit, swirling in circles and then pressing deep, using his teeth. From his muffled grunts, I know he’s enjoying it, and I look down at the skirt-covered head between my legs and pat it before leaning back and closing my eyes.

For once, I let myself truly relax, practically feeling my body unravel, starting with my head. I let my mind go blank, releasing every ounce of tension and worry in my head, then doing the same from my shoulders on down. Once my precious feet are loose, hanging in the air as my heels sway, I can suddenly enjoy his tongue all the more. “Harder,” I grunt, because the truth is, I prefer fingers or dildos or cocks to tongues, but today, I want his tongue, want him to savor exactly what he’s doing to me. I lift the skirt, pulling it up around my waist until his mop of hair appears. I beam down at him proudly, knowing I have trained him well; he will only look up at me when I touch his head and grant him permission.

Under my watchful gaze he works even harder, and best of all, I know for him it’s not just work. He enjoys the taste of my twat; truly wants to get me off, and not just because once he does I will very likely allow him to slide his fat cock inside me. He has his own reasons for tasting me, for diving in with boundless enthusiasm, for making his tongue everything I want it to be. He can tell that I’m getting close, and he brings his hand, which has been clasped around my hip, up to my cunt, sliding three fingers in while continuing to torment my clit. I dig my carefully grown, manicured, just-sharp-enough nails into the back of his neck, pressing urgently against the spot I know will make him squirm, then wrap my legs around his back, letting the spikes of my shoes graze his backside, sliding down toward his pert little ass. His fingers slam into me, work overtime, curve and press frantically while his teeth nip at my clit. By unspoken agreement, I buck back against him, thrust upward even as my nails drill his face into my hole, both of us working toward a mutual goal. When I simply can’t stand it anymore, I lean my head back, throw my legs wide in the air, and he slides a fourth finger into me, the additional one that makes it a tight squeeze, a little risky, the signal that we’ve arrived. I scream as my cunt clamps down on him, grit my teeth as my climax races through my body, a comet that burns brightly before its sparks start to fade, leaving us both slightly shaken.

Finally, he looks up at me, the lower half of his face smeared with my juices, his eyes wide and wanting. I slide off one shoe and hold it out to him, and he opens that precious mouth once again, taking the heel between his lips as reverently as one might slide a guy’s hard cock between her lipsticked lips. I hold the shoe, don’t fuck him back with it, but let him savor the heel that now seems made just for him. I let my bare foot wander to his dick, slide it up and down, fondle his length with the tender, sweaty ball of my foot.

I keep on going, wishing I could tease him all night with the power of my feet alone, no longer needing the threat of the spikes to control him. I’d love to flaunt my power by making him go home with his cock still hard, but I can’t do it—not for his sake, but for mine. I want his come, and as I slide both feet now over and around his cock, toying with the head, playing with his balls, my breath comes fast, harsher, in sync with his. He knows this is his reward, but I’m not sure if he knows it’s mine as well. I give him my fingers to suckle as he gets closer, and when he’s about to come, his sharp teeth come into play, grinding into my fingers, but I don’t mind. It’s worth a little pain to feel his hot come shoot out over my pedicured toes. He gets another treat when I raise my feet to his lips and let him lick his own come off of them, every last drop. Before he can clean up, he has to massage my feet, then soothe them with lotion before easing them back into the shoes, with which I make my exit. I look down at the heels as they click along the pavement, my clothes only slightly rumpled from our encounter. Definitely worth every penny, I think, and give the guy staring admiringly at my shoes a dazzling smile. When I get home, instead of snugly storing them in a box in the closet, I prop them right on top of my dresser, a permanent reminder of just how far I’ll dare to go, but only with the right guy—and the right shoes, of course.