Here we are at Round 3! Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Take off your stilettos. Or put them on. We're all friends here. Waiting for you are eleven entries based on the theme "stiletto." Please read the pieces and vote for your favorite before the poll ends (Wednesday the 28th at midnight).
The majority of the writers preferred the anonymous posting. So I'll reveal the names after the poll ends. As an added bonus, this time, the first-place winner will be chosen by Beijo Flor—who is donating a fabulous prize to the winner! (I'll have an extra prize for the readers' favorite as determined by the poll.) The author with the lowest ranking story will be eliminated. Good luck to everyone—and congratulations to the writers. You've all impressed me!
Entry #1: Tango
She never puts her shoes on until they’re waiting in the wings. As he watches her slip into the suede stilettos, he remembers last night’s rehearsal.
They were the only ones still practicing. She’d become bored dancing the same steps over and over, so she started to tease him - fingers opening a shirt button, a nip on the neck during a lunge. The breaking point came when, during a leg crawl, she let the tip of that sharp heel nip his crotch. The pain was extraordinary, the immediate erection undeniable.
He guided her over to the ballet barre in the corner, ripped the ribbon out of her hair and tied her wrists to the cold metal rod. Then he removed his belt, delivered seven blows across her waiting ass. She’d be sore the next day, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d competed - and won - with welts.
She could barely keep her balance, pitched forward on those fragile heels, as he slid aside her panties, slid his cock inside her cunt. He spanked her every time she stumbled or shook, setting off her orgasm, making her wail with the combination of pain and pleasure. When she finished, he delivered one final blow, shot cum inside of her.
Her shoes are buckled and she’s barely wincing from her sore ass. Unfortunately, he has an uncomfortable erection moments before it’s time to dance. But this isn’t the first time he’s competed - and won - with a hard-on.
Entry #2: WEREN'T THEY HAPPY?
"The only women who wear those during sex are ones you have to pay," his wife said.
He knew this wasn't true, but for him it was true enough. It was this way with many allures that snaked through his mind, only reaching his mouth when they were abed. Her response was always, Why? Weren't they happy? And what could he say? They were. And then she'd fuck his brains out.
When he reassembled his brains, however, stiletto-clad footprints still covered his amygdala.
He found himself unlocking a room that charged by the hour, listening to the clicking heels of the blonde who followed him in. He took her coat, finding it had covered a lot: A corset so low-cut her nipples protruded. Torn fishnets clipped to the corset. Crotchless panties. Each was a tick off his wishlist; the checkmarks mirrored the angle of his erection.
Was he supposed to think about his wife? He wasn't sure. Fondness for her lovely legs and rump was overwritten by this hypnotic creature with stems that supported an ass like a flower abloom. He buzzed.
She tuned the crappy clock radio to '80s metal, and he received his first lapdance.
Two hours later, the blonde a sunny heap on the bed -- and still in stilettos -- he produced some folded bills.
She smiled. "Fortunately, one of us withdrew money for the babysitter.
Happy birthday, dear."
He paused. "The itch this scratched will still itch."
"Well," she mused, "do we have plans for my birthday?”
Entry #3: Louboutins
I noticed them straight away. Those red soles were like a beacon, trapping my gaze. Louboutins. Just that name was enough to give me shivers. I sped up a little. I wanted to see the shoes better, instead I made the mistake of looking at her.
She had the perfect body: long legs, a high butt and hips that rolled at every step. I couldn’t see her front but I was certain it matched the rest.
I watched as she stopped to talk to a nice-looking man, the imprint of her painted lips staining his bristly cheek a second later. She looked far too good. She had the shoes I’d always yearned for.
I was jealous.
The thought stopped me short. I traced her curves with my eyes, wondering how she would feel underneath me. Would she welcome my hands on her, pinching her nipples into submission? Would she like my tongue inside her? Would she want me to suck her clit? Oh, yes. I’d make her come so she moaned my name loud enough the neighbors complained.
I snapped back to the present when I heard the tap-tap of her stilettos fading away. She turned a corner and was gone, just like that.
Now every time I walk down that street, I can’t help but scan the crowd, hoping for another glimpse of my one-time fantasy. I wonder if she likes women and if she’s the same shoe size as me. Because wouldn’t that be…just perfect?
Entry #4: Misericorde
They say the stiletto was a knight's weapon, used to deliver the coup de grace to the fallen opponent. It was strong, pointed, designed to find its way through the smallest gaps in armor, to pierce the vitals, the heart, and end the battle once and for all.
I'm no knight. I don't fight chivalrously or fair, but the stiletto is still one of my favorite weapons. I can see it on his face as he comes to my door, proud, haughty, polished armor in place, eyeing me top to bottom as just one more pretty conquest to notch his swordbelt. His gaze lingers down, just a moment, as I take his hand and my first step, the sharp tick of my heel on the stone of my stairs his first warning.
We spar; we eat, watch the show, talk. He's smart, suave, smooth, even devilish - a seducer. I'm all those things in equal measure, and the contest is joined. We dance. My steps thread with his, my points tap the beat of the music, staccato behind the drums, and he almost flinches with it.
Then, later, nearly all our clothes scattered on the way to his bed, he leans back, smiling as I crawl to him, kneel before him. I bring one foot up, plant the tip of my spike over his heart, toes just under his chin. In that instant, his smile changes; the battle he'd thought won, lost. It is his mouth that utters the plea:
Entry #5: TROPHIES
Father taught me young to hunt. He stressed the dominion of man over all creatures.
“God took away our claws and gave us minds, boy. This ain’t about food. We don’t pick off the sick and injured. We take the ones in their prime. That’s how we know our worth.”
He would not admit the wolf within him. With rifle and mind he would cow his senses.
I have left the woods, and my father, behind. In the cold swarm of the city, my mind and body make peace. I hunt for pleasure, guided by movement and sound.
The click of stilettos on concrete almost has a scent. It summons the wolf, the beast that still hunts from need, not for validation.
Yet the mind God gave me sees a trophy to adorn my wall. She will take pride of place as I mount her against it.
She is young and tender, still finding her footing. Her heels scrabble at the street. She totters, a stricken doe. Her hair taunts like a tail. Thighs like throats pulse against each other, and beg for my teeth.
God may have taken her claws, but the ones on her shoes will leave trophies all over my back.
She is in her prime.
And I know my worth.
Entry #6: 'Well Heeled'
Sitting in my club booth, sipping my lite thru a straw, checking out talent. Or lack of. A guy drought tonight. Must be another footie evening. Little chance of scoring.
I don't know her but she's been glancing a while. Then she's all intent... beeline for me, confident on high stilettos.
"All alone?" she asks, settling opposite. I nod, still sipping. "Me too." Shared sighs.
Wide-eyed, I'm suddenly aware of her foot sliding seductively up my leg. I meet her gaze, mid-sip, breath bated. Her eyes say everything without words. She licks her red lips, signalling desire. Need.
The tip of her stiletto is under my skirt, at my thigh. In the dimness, no-one sees, no-one knows, except us.
The pointed tip is nudging my panties aside. She's an expert, done this before surely. In awe of her deft presumption, my legs quake apart. She finds the edge of my own need.
I lift my foot, trace her leg all the beautiful curvy way up. Match her daring. Toe to tip.
A swift sleight-of-foot. Sole settling, rocking, on my muff, her thin heel digging through me instead. My hands, resting on table, claw air. Her fingers entwine mine for support.
The sharpness of her heel dipping in, new painful sensations. Subsides into different pleasures. My cunt, shock recovery, grips it. Quivers. Wets it naturally so it slides. Relishes the experience.
Shared smiles. Tentative kisses becomes enthusiastic snogging. Hands, bodies, held tight.
Fuck the guys. They can keep their ball game...
Entry #7: Dressing Up
Rob walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but a hard-on and it dripped with his excitement. John beamed, reaching over to trail his fingernails along the smooth balls and up to the tip. He glanced up and said, "You shaved?"
"For you," Rob's lips parted with a smile. "Help me dress?"
They started with a red silk thong. John slid it up his lover's legs, running his palms on the glassy skin. Reaching Rob's hips, John held the cock with one hand and nestled the wrinkled balls into the fabric.
A droplet rolled down the hard member and John used his tie to capture it.
A pair of garters, with black mesh and roses. John knelt down to ease them up Rob's thighs. He brushed his lips over the tented fabric, invoking a moan from Rob's lips. He already looked forward to taking them off later.
John's cock ached as he stood up and picked up Rob's black evening dress. Rob lifted his arms and John drew it down and breathed in the flowery perfume.
John pulled out the box underneath the dozen roses scattered on the bed. Opening it up, he pulled out a pair of black stiletto heels. Kneeling on the ground once again, he cupped Rob's foot and slid the soft leather heels onto the delicate foot. John felt Rob trembling as he set down one foot, then picked up the other one. Slipping it on, he buckled it and set it down.
He admired Rob.
Entry #8: Size Sevens from Heaven
‘Made for pleasure.’ Ian thought to himself as he crouched at her feet. His eyes stroked a pair of caramel coloured long legs lovingly as they stood in front of him. His mouth watered at the sight of ten tiny toes, perfectly painted in a practical plain polish.
Ian’s prick pulsed as he opened the shoebox in front of him. He tenderly lifted the contents out. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, but the eyes above him stared straight ahead. Surreptitiously he ran his lips across the smooth material, longing to lick the lace at the peek-a-boo toes. The size seven scarlet satin stilettos were made for him to worship, to suffer under.
He knew how the smooth sole would feel as it pressed his scruffy cheek into the ground. He knew that with just enough pressure, those delicious spiked heels would threaten to tear open his sac. He knew the bruise that would be left when it stomped on his chest. He shifted his weight, and bit back a groan as his jeans rubbed against his full, aching cock. He needed to cum, wanted to, right on the insole of that fuck me shoe.
“Hey Ian.” His boss stood in the open doorway. “Finish the display and go home. This ain’t the movies kid. She’s not coming to life.” He smirked, and closed the door.
Slipping the other shoe into his bag, he winked at the mannequin. “You can have this back in the morning.”
Entry #9: A Deal is a Deal
I sat still, mouth suddenly dry as toast. He was dangling a bag off two fingertips and grinning at me, something steely flashed behind his eyes.
“Well?” he asked, knowing I couldn’t resist a secret.
“You won't tell me? I have to agree to this before I can look?” I needed clarification, before my brain hit rock bottom and betrayed me altogether.
He nodded and extended his arm, knowing that I would take his bait, as always. With my brain screaming, I took it. Untying the cord, I watched as his grin faded and became something far more hungry and carnal.
“Oh. My. God.” Breath eluded me for a moment as my hands delivered his torment to the light.
Shoes. Stilettos to be precise, in blood red patent leather. The heels, oh lord, the heels. Six inches of crafted steel, each a wicked-looking stiletto knife. Padlocks dangled from the wide ankle straps. These shoes were made for fucking, I was instantly wet.
“I had them made for you.” I sucked in a breath.
He knelt before me, fastening each strap with a snick, running his hands up my legs as he sat back and admired his gift. The straps felt as though he still held my ankles.
“They don’t come off until I get you off, right?” I reached for him, ready to start my evening.
He backed away. “Of course, but how you get me off when you can’t touch me is your problem. Isn’t it?”
Entry #10: The Dinner Party
The night of their first dinner party as a couple, he told her in no uncertain terms that she was to behave herself. "You're not everyone's slut anymore," he reminded her. "You're mine." The box he handed her was plain, more punishment than gift. "You're to keep your legs together unless and until I say otherwise." She removed the contents - pencil skirt, stilettos - swallowed the wisecrack (so literal, he!), grinned with more bravado than she felt. (He knew as well as she did that she was a disaster even in flats.)
She did her best to mingle, teetering slightly, trying to keep in line. But everyone was so witty and charming and beautiful and it was, at bottom, just her nature to flirt. (He knew this about her, too.)
At the first girlish giggle, he had her over his knee before she even knew what was coming. Ten short, sharp smacks and she wasn't sure which was redder, her face or her ass. Some guests stared. Others smirked.
When he detected some hidden innuendo in her "Anyone need a refill?", he hauled her into the bathroom and refilled her mouth twice over, door still ajar. No one would admit to watching, but some did.
And when he caught her winking across the room (at her own reflection, she confessed later), he laid her out on the coffee table, bound her, scissored right through that skirt, her panties, and ordered, "Now. Open."
She opened, smiling.
And then they ate.
Entry #11: Trapped by an Edge
I waited behind black satin. Somewhere he watched, spider pondering prey, his gaze palpable as a touch.
I evaded him, avoiding his traps, all attempts to capture me. Still, here I waited, bound and blindfolded.
"You've eluded me long enough, little dove," a metal snick jerked my head, "I'm going to enjoy this."
A cold line traced my spine, fabric sighing apart, exposing my skin. The touch paused at my hips; the shiver following suffused my whole body with heat.
"Ah, that's better." The flat of the blade swept lines across my back, along the curves of my ribs. With each pass the steel warmed, each touch sent a ripple down my body.
He dissected my negligee until it hung, shredded, about my frame. My chest froze with sharp touch. Drunk on fear my nipples tightened, my skin flushed.
"Perfect," he exhaled, dragging the stiletto's point in a spiral on my soft stomach. "Would you like to see?” His breath teased my lips; I nodded, mute.
"Hold still.” A blade traced my cheekbone, another my jaw. In unison they slipped under the satin I froze; the fabric rent with deft twists of his blades.
Sight returned my eyes devoured him. I licked my lips; he grinned. With a knifepoint he tipped my chin, dragging my gaze from his erection. "It won't be that easy," he teased, flipping the other stiletto in his palm; pressing the handle to my lips. "Show me," he growled, " how much you regret evading me."