she gets home at 5:34 and i know because i’ve been listening for the elevator since 5:15. she’s wearing the red stilettos. i know she’s wearing them because i can hear them on the tile, the exact sound of them, click click click across the kitchen floor, and my whole body goes tight.
the office manager thing means she dresses a certain way. she wears heels to work every day. pencil skirts. stockings. tailored blazers. at the office she’s very professional, everyone calls her miss adams, very formal, very put-together. at home she’s a different person. or maybe she’s the same person but she lets herself take up space. she lets herself be wanted. she lets me worship her the way i need to.
“hi,” she says. she’s put her bag down. she’s looking at me from across the living room in the red stilettos and sheer stockings and a cream blouse that’s unbuttoned at the collar. she has that look. the one that means she’s been thinking about this at the office. thinking about me. thinking about what she’s gonna do. her assistant probably annoyed her (they always do) and she spent the afternoon staring out her office window deciding how she was gonna take it out on me.
“hi yourself,” i say, but my mouth is dry.
“come here,” she says.
i come. she lifts her foot up and rests it on my thigh, the heel pointing down, this sharp line of red leather and the thin stockings covering her arch. up close i can see the weave of the nylon, the delicate pattern, the way it catches the light. this is my favorite part. not the sex. this. the quiet worship part. the part where she knows exactly what she’s doing to me by doing nothing at all.
“take it off,” she says. “with your teeth.”
i lean down. the heel is this sharp point and i have to be careful not to get my eye poked but she knows that, she’s done this before, she’s very clear about angles and safety even when she’s being cruel. i get my teeth on the back of the heel where the leather hooks around the back of her foot and i pull. it’s awkward. she’s not making it easy. she’s keeping her foot pointed down so i have to work for it, have to grip with my teeth and pull and feel the weight of her foot against my face. the stocking smells like her, like a little bit of her perfume (chanel, always chanel), like work and skin and the faint scent of lotion.
finally the heel comes loose and the shoe drops to the floor. i can feel her watching me.
“the other one,” she says.
i do the same thing. teeth on the second heel, pulling harder now because i know what’s coming, my cock already responding to the anticipation, and when it comes off she presses her bare foot (the stocking still on, she’s very specific about the stocking staying on, says it’s sexier that way) against my chest and pushes me back onto the couch.
“on your knees,” she says.
i’m on my knees between her legs and she’s sitting on the couch with one foot up on the cushion beside her and one foot pressing into my thigh, heel pointing up toward my face. she’s still wearing the stockings, the sheer ones you can see skin through, and i can see the pale skin underneath the nylon, the delicate bones of her foot.
“kiss it,” she says.
i kiss her arch. the stocking is soft and thin and underneath it her foot is warm. her skin is smooth. i lick along the arch, long slow strokes, and i can feel the delicate bones underneath. she sighs. she has beautiful feet. that’s not a casual observation. i think about her feet when we’re not together. i think about these stockings.
“use your mouth. worship it,” she says.
i do. i kiss every inch of her foot. the heel impression, the ball of her foot, the arch, the inside of her ankle where the nylon is especially thin. my tongue slides over the weave of the stocking. she’s got her hand on my head and she’s not pushing, just resting there, letting me do this, and my cock is already hard in my pants, straining against the zipper. she can see the bulge. she’s absolutely looking at it.
“you like this,” she says. it’s not a question.
“yeah.”
“you like being on your knees for me.”
“yeah.”
“beg,” she says.
i stop kissing. i look up at her.
“what?”
“you heard me. beg for it.”
“please let me keep—”
“more,” she says. “mean it. i can tell when you’re not serious.”
“please,” i say. my face is burning. my heart is pounding. “please, i’m dying, i need to, please let me—” i’m running out of words because i’m actually running on fumes. she does this to me. “i need this so badly. please. just let me worship you. let me—” i can’t think. “i need this. please. please.”
she smiles. a small cruel smile that means she’s enjoying this. and then she pulls her foot back and presses the sole against my chest and pushes.
“on your back,” she says.
i’m on my back on the couch and she’s positioning herself over my face and she’s still wearing the stockings and the blouse is fully unbuttoned now and i can see her breasts and her nipples are hard and i’m about to lose my mind.
“tongue out,” she says.
she lowers herself onto my face and i’m tasting her and she’s sighing and she’s using my mouth like she owns it (she does), rolling her hips, grinding down, and my cock is so hard it’s painful, straining against my pants. my hands come up to grip her hips and she doesn’t stop me. she’s riding my face and her hands are on my chest and she’s saying my name and saying how good i am and she comes like that, grinding down, her whole body tightening, a small moan escaping, and i’m barely breathing and i don’t care. i could do this forever. i would. if she asked.
when she gets off me she’s breathless and flushed and very organized about what happens next. she always is. she’s a manager. she manages everything including my pleasure and my suffering.
“stand up,” she says.
i stand. i’m shaking a little. she’s looking at my pants, the tent in the front, the dark spot where i’m leaking, and she smiles that smile again.
she picks the heels up off the floor. the red stilettos. she hands them to me.
“put these on me,” she says. “then you can have what you want.”
i’m on my knees buckling the red shoes back onto her feet, my fingers clumsy with need, and when they’re on she stands and the heels make her taller, they arch her foot, they make her legs look endless and she is the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen. i want to cry. i’m not going to. i keep that part secret.
she undoes my pants. pulls me out and she’s looking at me and she says “what do you want” and i say “you” and she says “all of me?” and i nod because i can’t speak. my cock is hard and dark in her hand.
she’s on my lap in the armchair and she’s sinking down onto me and the heels are pressing into the sides of the chair and she’s riding me slow and i’m gripping her hips but barely moving because she’s in control, she’s the one moving, she’s taking what she wants. my cock is inside her and it’s wet and hot and perfect and she’s looking at me with that expression that says she knows exactly how crazy she’s making me.
“is this what you needed?” she says.
“yes. yes, oh god—”
“are you gonna come?”
“not yet, i don’t want to, i want to stay like this—”
she laughs. the sound of it is cruel and perfect. “you don’t get to choose.”
she’s riding me faster now. her hands are on my shoulders. one of her heels slips a little and she adjusts with perfect balance and the other heel digs into my thigh, the point of it pressing into muscle, and it should hurt but it doesn’t. it feels like belonging. like possession. like ownership. like i’m hers.
“come on,” she says. “come inside me.”
i do. i come hard, deeper than i’ve ever felt anything, her body tight around me, and she’s riding through it, getting hers again, shaking a little, and she’s still wearing the red stilettos and those stockings and my face is into her neck and her hand is in my hair and i’m home. i’m so far home i might never leave.
afterward she stays sitting on my lap. the heels are still on. there’s a small tear in the nylon on her right calf where it caught on something. she notices and she doesn’t care. she’s just sitting there with me inside her, soft now, and her hand in my hair and she’s telling me she had a good day at the office but she’s better now. much better. that her assistant finally got fired which she’s been wanting for months. that everyone at work respects her but nobody worships her. that i’m the only one.
the heels stay by the couch for three days before she picks them up. she walks past them every morning. i watch her watch them. sometimes she picks one up and holds it like she’s remembering.
i’m always remembering.
