Your Neck Was Made For My Heel (4k)
The peach stilettos caught the light as I turned them this way and that—golden heels sharp enough to leave an impression, to make him feel every step. And he would. Oh, he would.
He was already in position when I walked in, flat on his back, hands splayed at his sides like the worthless offering he was. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. The first press of my heel against his sternum said enough, squeezing the air from his lungs in a satisfied rush. His ribs dipped beneath my weight, his breath hitching as I shifted—slowly, deliberately—onto his throat.
—Stay still,* I murmured, more for my own amusement than his benefit. His pulse jumped beneath my arch, his skin already warming with the promise of bruises. I leaned in just a little harder, watching his lips part, his chest struggle for air that wouldn’t come until I allowed it.
Then I stepped higher.
His skull was harder than the rest of him, but not hard enough. I balanced there, one heel planted just above his ear, the other resting lightly on his collarbone—because I could. Because he existed to be used like this. His fingers curled into the carpet, but he didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
—You take this so well,* I mused, stepping down again, this time onto his stomach. The gold heel dug in, not enough to break, but enough to hurt. Enough to make sure he’d feel it tomorrow, when he tried to sit up straight and remembered who put him there. —Almost like you were made for it.
I gave him a moment—just one—to drag in a ragged breath before I moved again. This time, my heel found his thigh, then his hip, then the soft flesh of his stomach, each step measured, each press a little deeper than the last. His body tensed beneath me, but he didn’t fight. He never did.
When I was done—when his breath came in shallow, trembling gasps—I finally stepped off. But I wasn’t finished.
I slipped the stilettos off, letting them thud to the floor beside him, then rolled the sheer stockings down just far enough to expose the damp nylon. His eyes followed the movement, desperate and pathetic. He thought this was his reward. It wasn’t.
—You’ve been so patient,* I lied, pressing my stocking-clad foot against his cheek. The nylon snagged against his stubble as I dragged it down, over his throat, his collarbone, his sternum. His skin reddened beneath the friction, his breath hitching as I ground my heel into his ribs. —Let’s see how long you can take this before you whimper.
I gave him five minutes. Five long, deliberate minutes of stocking-clad torment, my foot tracing paths over his body, pressing into the spots where the stilettos had already left their mark. By the end, his skin was flushed, his breath uneven, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying still.
—Good,* I said at last, stepping off him entirely. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just lay there, waiting for the next command. —Now clean my heels. And when you’re done… we’ll do it all over again.
(4K)
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