Lure of the Killer Heels , livre ebook

Title Page
THE LURE OF THE KILLER HEELS
by
Ashley Hind



Publisher Information
The Lure of the Killer Heels
published in 2014 by House of Erotica
an imprint of Andrews UK Limited
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Ashley Hind 2014
The right of Ashley Hind has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



An End and a Beginning
My husband once broke wind in the kitchen with such a protractedly loud, rippling intro and stomach-turning flumping finale, that from afar I thought he must have prised open our large, well-suctioned fridge and tipped a massive casserole out onto the marble floor. In my startled disgust I remember thinking: he needs to die. No, really .
‘Better out than in!’ he snidely declared, more mitigation than excuse, but it was just another lie. To see that same naked, butter-wouldn’t-melt backside now you wouldn’t believe it capable of such horror. Studied reflected in the large mirror designed for such things it is undeniably a nice rear; a smooth rear. It is all grab-able soft innocence one second and then driving taut muscle the next. It is waxed and tended and toned. It is a very rich arse, used to sinking daily within the leather sumptuousness of a Maserati’s interior, and the ergonomically designed, swivelling, high-backed comfort that only the very successful financiers at his company are given. The dimples give it a perpetually youthful cheekiness. Surely this backside could do no wrong? And yet here it is now: pump, pump, pumping away, sodden-slap hammering into me even more humiliating, inside-ripping dismay than that wind-breaking incident aroused. He thinks I just have to take it but boy, is he wrong.
So, anyway, the other day a frozen goose hit the house. I kid you not. I actually saw it land. I was lying in bed, idly playing around, staring up at the ceiling because that’s what you do if you have a bed positioned specifically for looking up through the snazzy pyramid-shaped skylight above. Then a bulk flashed through my vision and landed with a thump. I simply had to go up for a look, even though I don’t normally do ladders. Not in high heels anyway. But I couldn’t risk falling through the roof and finding myself too broken to crawl to my shoe cupboard to swap safer jogging pumps for my signature stilettos before the emergency services arrived to scrape me off the floor. Got to look one’s best, especially in such moments. I even put a puff of Love in Black behind each ear in case I died up there and wasn’t found until I’d started to turn a little gamey.
The goose wasn’t looking quite so spattered and sorry for itself as it would have done if not frozen. It was reasonably in one piece. I’m no scientist but I’m shrewd enough for a fair deduction and it was this: it was flying along happily until it hit a cold front or got swept upwards in a therm or something, causing it to freeze and plummet. I don’t think it was shot out of the back of a poulterer’s refrigerated truck. Most worrying was its final position in relation to the skylight. I think it might have glanced off the adjacent domed vent, which could easily have deflected it straight through the glass rather than safely across it. A fall one microsecond earlier or a breeze just a fraction stronger could have sent it straight through and down onto me below, wiping me out before I had finished playing with myself. Not good. Wankus interuptus plus certain death, courtesy of plunging stiffened meat. What a thought!
And it would have gone through too. The skylight might be made of hugely expensive, thick, heat-reflecting, UV-shielding reactive glass, but touch it in the right place and it just goes. I know this because having spent half a day carefully installing it, one of the clumsier glaziers gave it an accidental tap with the handle of his hammer and it blew, falling in foot-long shards that shattered to smithereens on landing. It meant a new everything: skylight; floor; bedding; mattress. It took them days to clear it all up and made me wonder at the wisdom of moving our bed right underneath it. So, Mr Frozen Goose, landing just half a foot short might have spelled curtains for Yours Truly.
‘You beaky bastard,’ I snarled at the stiff, very dead form, giving it a dig with my spiked heel. ‘You could have fucking killed me!’
It just gave me that same bleary-eyed stare through half-closed icy eyelids. I didn’t know what to do with it. I suppose I could have got handyman Bertrand to remove the carcass - and it probably wouldn’t have been the first lifeless bird that slimy bastard had put in a bin bag. But I couldn’t stop those visions of hurtling wildfowl and falling shards of deadly glass, and so I decided to put it in the freezer, you know, just in case...
He thrusts in hard again and I see in reflection the clench of his buttocks. This time he holds himself tight there, slowly gyrating and grinding. He smiles down - well, more of a confident sneer really. A new tune comes on and he reaches for the remote control to turn it up, singing along in a cringe-worthy accent as Jay-Z informs us that, as regards to his almost three-figure problems, the bitch ain’t a contributing factor. Yeah, well, that’s what he thinks. He likes to play such music loud. He is going to fuck to it, using it to drive his rhythm. He thinks it helps show that at age 42 he is still a player and a super-cool young dude. It is a reminder of how quickly he ascended the ladder in comparison to his peers and how much wealth he has accrued in such short time. However, he carefully reminds no one that so much of it is down to his father’s influence and nepotistic generosity. His boastful misplaced self-adoration can make the rage flash white behind my eyes.
Despite my revulsion his rump is still a mesmerising sight: all tanned and nicely rounded and the dimples prevalent now he holds himself in tight. Delicate, painted-nail fingers should be on it, stroking it, clasping the flesh and digging in, but her hands are tied. He has never done this with me. He has used my silk stockings to bind her wrists to the chrome-barred headboard but he has never thought to put me in such a position. Maybe he thinks me too strong. I always was more than his equal which is why he married me. I am the real show of all he is. He wants people to see his power and class and so he could never do trophy bimbo or dumb blonde. I am sleekly raven, curvy and smouldering. Think passionate vampiress, with the most porcelain of skin. I follow no one, obviously, but think Morticia Addams if you must, or early-era Nigella. Picture formidable intelligence and cheekbones, plus the darkest brown eyes enhanced with cloudy shadow. Think bright red lippy and a preference for black attire. Think sultry and deadly, and never, ever think ordinary .
The big question, indeed the eternal question when it comes to cheating men, is why her when he has me? It sends my head spinning with incredulous ire and mortification. It is the hugest blow, dealt with apparent indifference and frivolity. I’m reasonably sure I could seduce a vast swathe of the male population at the drop of a hat but I choose not to because of promises made and vows taken. So imagine my anger when I saw the stray text. I don’t usually examine my husband’s phone but the arrogant fuck-monger had left it lying around and there it was buzzing away like an insistent sex toy demanding attention. I declined the incoming call, since I don’t care for anything that isn’t for me, but there I saw the message, arrived sometime that morning and so carelessly not deleted.
It was a lunch date. The text gave the time and the place so obviously I went along to spy. I wanted to see in the flesh the person who affectionately signed off as “Your Little Miss Supple”. She was young; a whole late teenager’s worth younger than me. You’d think this would give him some excuse but I wasn’t seeing it that way. She was pretty, unquestionably, and essentially my opposite: blonde, tanned, and basically a stick - devoid of the T and A he always claimed crucial in a woman. I had seen her before, of that there was no doubt. She was the girlfriend of one of the team of hand-picked, fresh from top university graduates they put under the tutelage of my know-it-all hubby, there at the shindig to mark the end of their induction. That was the same day my husband won the gold bowling ball trophy he remains so ridiculously proud of. He was a golfer for recreation so this was a real victory. Having thrashed the graduates over eighteen holes they challenged him to some ten-pin bowling, something he claimed he hadn’t even played before. He thrashed them at that too, winning the ludicrously heavy, full-sized trophy he’d had made, proving what a master he was at anything he put his hand to. He put the ghastly thing on a special shelf in our bedroom he was that proud of it. He hasn’t yet noticed it is missing.
‘Not my type,’ he had lied that night, in reply to my assertion that she was very pretty. He’d even given my backside a secret squeeze to reinforce the point. Well, she was my type. I fantasised about her three days in a row after seeing her that first time, which is how I knew for sure it was this same girl. Now my husband, as is his wont, has taken it upon himself to go one better.
She is bound effectively rather