"Heels desire" - now open

[chauderlos]

Wednesday, 5:50…..

5:55……..heart pounding, sweat running down my temples ……..

The delivery man, large brown parcel. Tearing the paper open. Here they are, at last, beautiful as I had dreamed. Rich smoothness of burgundy leather. Exact balance of the heel. Desire.

5:57……… she won't show………

Nervous all day. A débutante the day of her débuts…

5:59…… yes, she will, I'm sure of that, I can feel it……….

Alice's Beauty parlor. All hair removed. Smooth as silk

6:00………6:01………6:02……..forget it, boy, you're already out of her memory………

The shopping mall, early afternoon, French delicacies. Veuve Clicquot vintage, chilled. Truffled foie gras. Opéra chocolate and coffee dessert. Fresh figs.

6:03….. my heart stops beating, a car door slammed shut, down the corner……..

The bed room, upstairs the shop. My garments, spread on the bed. Large black lacy garter belt, covering my waist. Seamed stockings, light as cigar smoke. Varnished leather pumps, 5", chromed, heels.

6:05... nope, drop your gear and go home…….

A plaster Corinthian column, right side of the foot mirror. Her shoes on top of it. Adjusting the light.

6:06, may be she's been delayed, her meeting lasted longer than expected, her car wouldn't start…

Getting dressed. Light touch of lavender. Checking the seams in the mirror, straight line down my legs.

6:07…..

Nervous. Stomach upside down. A shot of hard liquor, to soothe the angst

6:08...

The shoes aren't right. Boots, knee high, would be better. No, strap sandals.

6:09. Nope, look at yourself, you're ridiculous.

6:10. The doorbell. IT'S HER…. She's here. My heart stops beating. Weak knees while I walk down the stairs.

Hello, Ms Ellis, how nice to see you again.

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

A quandary, indeed… and a game of possession, too. Choosing who possesses who, deciding where the power lies. A game of power, too. Do you think the possessed has less power than the possessor?

While I talked, I walked around the shop, hips swaying. My limp cock dangled between my legs, its tip brushing the hem of the stockings. I made a show for her, allowing her to look and peek at every part of me, showing my legs and half covered ass, my cock, my lean hips. I moved up and down the store, pretending it was the catwalk of some private, weird fashion show. When I reached the part of the floor that was not covered by the Persian carped, my heels click-clicked on the tiles. Stopping near the low stool, I rested my foot on it, leaning forward, caressing my ankle and calf, following the line where silk ended and leather began.

You noticed these spiky heels, Ms Ellis, and I choose them purposefully. They look fragile, long and thin, yet they are not, for these are made of steel. You can see it as a metaphor, a symbol. Fragile, yet strong...

She was still looking at me, and the contrast between my slutty attire and her black business suit made me hard. I stated walking again up and down the room; stopping in front of the mirror to stroke my cock teasingly. I knew she was watching me, and it increased my excitement. I masturbated for a while; her eyes still focused on my cock, my clean shaved balls, my stockinged legs. I stopped this game and went back to the facing armchair. The cold leather on my bare ass and thighs made me shiver. I sat, legs crossed, playfully letting my shoe dangle, heel pointing towards her.

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

So, Ms Ellis, you've chosen to play along your own rules… I'll play along, to a certain extent…, I thought to my self.

I look at her straight in the eyes, playfully stroking my now hard cock, before kneeling down in front of her. The spiky hells of my extravagant shoes are biting my buttocks, but this is part of the game.

With great care, I remove her conservative shoes, the right one, the left one. Her feet are gorgeous, her nails painted the exact match of her burgundy lipstick. With deliberate slowness, I let my hands slither upwards, under her skirt, until I reach the hem of her stockings; and slide down, and up again, rubbing her legs, light caresses like feathers. I can feel her flesh shiver; tiny little goose bumps appear under the silk. When my fingers reach the limit between the fabric and her skin, I hook my thumbs under the hem. Without warning, I slide her stockings down, tearing the fragile silk. I pull and shred, until her legs are bare, her stockings rumpled rags. She didn't whimper.

Getting up, I move behind her, unzipping her skirt. I pull it down, removing her panties along. Her white, round ass is centimeters away from my cock; I so dearly wish I could rub it against her cool flesh. But the time has not come, yet.

The buttons of her jacket, one by one, fumbling with the buttonholes, one is rolling away on the carpet. Her skirt, ripped open, no longer caring about undoing the nacre buttons. Her white bras comes last, full breasts swinging free, pale pink areolas, her nipples already erect.

She is fully naked now, my hands run along her body, probing, kneading her tits, light slaps on her ass cheeks. Frenzy has taken hold of me, I want her pleading, I want her begging… Her lips are searching mine, while her hands too are running along my body, she presses her groin against mine, her short cropped hair scratching my cock. It's no more frenzy, it's the deep call from the flesh, the cry of desire and lust. Her hands are sliding between our skins, reaching for my cock.

But I decide otherwise. Pushing her away, I take a full look at her magnificent body, her pearly skin glowing in the afternoon sun. Her heavy breasts are heaving as she breathes hard. I too breathe hard, I have to gather all my will not to take her again in my arms, to part her legs and fuck her, on the spot.

Ms Ellis, I say in a husky voice, still breathless form our wild embrace; are you ready for the fitting? It would deem appropriate to put this gorgeous dress of yours before you try the slippers, don't you think so?

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

I remain still and silent for a while. The panniers are framing her hips and thighs so nicely. My eyes are focused on the curls that overview her puffy lips. How direly do I feel the urge on darting my tongue there and tasting her sweet juices. But, yes, the corset.

I slide carefully the heavy construction around her waist, her hips. She's right, lacing the string, hole after hole, is a long process. At each turn, my bulging cock brushes her buttocks, sometimes just grazing, sometimes pushing hard against her white flesh. As she tires to get hold of my shaft, I grip her wrist, and, with a loop of the string, tie her hands to her corset. When the last round is completed, I pull on the string, until her hips are bulging from the bodice.

Take a full breath, Ms Ellis, I order her, while pulling harder on the strings. A tight knot, and, turning her by the shoulders, I watch the result of my restrain work. Her waist is compressed, her hips are bulging, so is her ass, from the stiff constriction. Her breasts, pushed upwards, are bursting, stiff nipples pointing like dark diamonds.

Now, Ms Ellis, I tell her as I push her towards the mirror, what do you think of it?

Her cheeks are blushing, as she stares at the sexy creature the corset and the tying of her hands has created.

But one thing is missing, dear Ms Ellis, I add, while I look for the rococo slippers. I put them on the floor and help her sliding inside. I watch intently as her smooth skin brushes along the polished calf skin. Her sexy feet fit perfectly this creation of leather and lust. Just perfect.

I remain silent and motionless, a blissful moment. This incredibly sexy woman, tight fitted in her sexy corset, her wrists tied in her back, wearing those crazy shoes… My mind goes on overdrive, crazy images running through my mind, she kneeling in front of me, sucking my cock, she on all fours, my dick deep in her ass, she whipped, red stripes on her buttocks, she humiliated, she begging for my cock to fill her, she offering her asshole to my swollen dick…..

But reason and will overtake power over my dark desires.

And now, Ms Ellis, would you like to try the overdress?

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

Un petit jeu à jouir….
Challenging Ms Ellis…. I remained silent for a while, weighting the pros and cons of her offer… Let her fall, and you'll be able to fuck her brains out… try and keep her upright… and your brains will be blown… your brains and the rest…. Wondering which option to choose, hands resting on her hips, warm buttocks pressed against my urging cock

Ms Ellis, you shouldn't dare me, I whisper, lips close to her ear, you shouldn't behave like this… Your offer might unleash the evil beast that lies beneath my civilized appearance…

Grabbing her discarded stockings, I tie them tight around her head, blindfolding her. Slowly, with deliberate tease, I turn around her offered body, whispering with a low and coarse voice:

Look at yourself, Miss-business-woman-Ellis… Corsetted, tied, blindfolded, your tits protruding, your hips bulging, your parted legs, offering your slit like a wanton slut, dipping and wanting… And these heels, these wonderful bitchy heels that turn you into a horny whore…

At each word, I brush her skin with my finger tips, her shoulder, her hip, her offered breasts, her bulging nipples; I stop behind her and slide my cock between her buttocks. She moans softly, each time weaker…My hands wander over her breasts, teasing her nipples, softly, and, without warning, pinching them hard… and harder… until they swell like miniature penises. And then my lips, cool after the burning pinch, soft tongue over her flesh; followed by a sharp bite… Soft/hard; cool/burning…

While my mouth plays with her breasts, my fingers are roaming near her mond, fingers playing with her auburn curl. Uncontrollably, her hips move forward, trying to meet my fingertips. But I do not allow this, she is, for now, under my control. One step forward, slightly brushing her protruding clit, two step back, retreating on her corsetted belly. Tease, probe, and tease again. And, always, whispering low words to her ear:

Humm, Ms Ellis, can you feel how horny you are, offered like a piece of livestock, of blazing flesh… Can you feel how direly your clit wants attention, how dearly you want to be touched, finger fucked, licked…Humm, I'm sure you would beg me to fuck you, to impale my cock inside your burning slit…

While I murmur there words of lust, I suddenly slide two fingers inside her. I have to grab her by the shoulder, so impetuously her whole body reacts to this intrusion. Standing behind her, cock bruised against her, her head resting on my shoulder, I search and probe, her wetness coating my fingers. Her mindless moans are turning me on and on and on…

But desire and lust are urging me to move forward… Kneeling once again in front of her, imperial goddess, I dig my face between her parted legs. Her scents are intoxicating me, blurring my mind. Nose rubbing against her curls, tongue probing, tasting her salty fluids, juices running down my chin. Hands grasping her ass cheeks, sucking at her folds, licking, rubbing, burying. Getting lost in the intricate patterns of her womanhood. And finding myself again. And loosing me, loosing everything to gain her pleasure. Deep, deeper, searching for a forever lost Graal buried between the columns of her female temple. Investigating every millimeter of her flesh. Here and there. And here again. I wish I could have thousand fingers, and thousand tongues, just to please her, to fuck her with my soul, to have her beg for mercy…

And, coming from the darkest ages, a cry rises, and grows, and explodes. Sprays of sea weeds all over my face. Hips rocking like a mad spinning top. Shivers. Weakness all over her body.

She rocks and sways on her high heels. Fumbles. Looses balance. Save her equilibrium, and looses it again.

I get up, and watch, and hope... Will she fall, will she remain upright….. Will she …..

***********
W.A Mozart, Requiem, K. 626. Dies ire, dies ira…
Ultravox, Dancing with tears in my eyes
Bandol blanc, Côteaux du Cagueloup 1999

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

The customer is always right… Thanks Goodness, all the customers aren't like her… And even if they were, something tells me it wouldn't work the same way… Ok, she won… But I'll let her wait a bit before untying her, just to let the anger boil a little more…

How beautiful she looks, legs open, her pink nipples dark against her ivory skin, sweat shining on her soft skin. Her panting is so erotic…

No, no, Ms Ellis, you lost. You're the one who is laying, tied and blindfolded. You lost. And I'll take every advantage of your body… While I nag her, I play with her nipples, until they are hard as rubies, teasing, gently pinching, casually licking her. I have to hold her by the breasts firmly. She fights struggling to get free of my hold, until my grip leaves deep fingers imprint on her soft skin, and my teeth bite her knoll harder. Her struggle becomes softer, her groans of anger become moans of pleasure…

After having enjoyed the situation for a while, I grab her by the wrist and, with a gentle pull, help her to her feet. She stumbles a bit on her heels, swaying and stumbling, unable to catch her balance with her wrists tied in the back. I have to hold her by the waist, taking the opportunity, once again, to rub my shaft against the warm skin of her front, this burning spot beween her thighs and the lower rim of her corset. Shh, shhh, here, calm down, I whisper as she pulls at the string out of rage, shh, I'll untie you, just wait… I untie the blindfold; she shakes her head to loosen her hair. Her eyes meet mine, anger flaring, disdain, too. And, just at the corner, a tiny sparkle of amusement. May be.

When I feel she is steady enough, I release her hands, kissing the pink lines the sting imprinted on her wrists. Tying the sting again, fastening her corset. Not too tight, something tells me she will wish to be free of her movements…

With due respect to this work of high craftsmanship, I present her garment. She slides her arms inside the short sleeves, and waits, with great impatience, until I have buttoned it in the back. This dress is a marvel of imagination and expertise. Madame de Merteuil revisited by a Hollywood portstar.

She walks briskly, as briskly as her heels allow her, around her shop, her moves brusque with anger. The silk petticoats hiss at each step, her rococo heels clicking the wooden floor fast and hard. At each turn, I catch a glimpse of her legs, as her garment swirls around her waist.

To smoothen her mood, I offer her a flute of champagne I had chilled for her visit. She accepts it without thanking me and, after a sip, throws its content across my face. The cold liquid dribbles down my cheeks, washing her taste away. Droplets are running down my hairless chest, my belly, meandering in my pubic hair.

Licking my lips, I kneel before her and, with a half fake, half real submissive voice:

Merci, Madame Ellis. A votre service.

*********
R. Wagner, Tannhauser Ouverture
Joy Division, Round and round

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

The rules of the game are stronger than any rope.

A wave of frustration and pain washes over me when she gets up, leaving my hard cock still wet from her lips. And the sweet pressure of her fingers on my ass… Her lips burning my nipples… I grunt, disappointed.

A votre service, Madame… My voice is hoarse with anger, but I try not to show my dissatisfaction.

Placing the bottle at her side, I pour her a glass of chilled champagne.

Getting to the bathroom upstairs for a moment, I come back, holding the required ingredients on a silver tray. Kneeling for the third time in front of her, shifting position so she can enjoy, in the mirror, the view of my back, the black lace stripe of the belt, the lines of the garters, like whip marks on my skin, the hem of the stockings. Votre pied, Madame, s'il vous plait. No mocking arch of the eyebrow, no hint of amusement in my voice. I feel tense, with excitement, with desire. While she places her heeled foot between my palms, I got a splendid outlook of her slender legs, far up to the delta of her pussy, puffy glistering lips. How good it would be to bury by demanding dick in there, to immerse me in the pond of her secretions… A light slap on my cheek brings me back to reality. I have a task to fulfill.

I lick the delicate pattern of the silver embedded motives of her slipper, until I reach the tip of the shoe. Then, with delicate moves, I remove the shoe, tasting the wonderful perfume it exhales, bee wax, hot leather, light sweat, a hint of cinnamon… Eyes closed, holding her delicate foot, a floating moment… Delicately, I trace intricate motives on her skin, following her veins, her tendrils, sucking at her toes.

Parting my lips, I take her toe inside, sucking on it. She pushes her foot forward, as if she wanted to fuck my mouth. Stretching my lips, I take as much as I can, feeling like if I was sucking on a cock. She slides inside my mouth, foot fucking it, alternatively fast and slow moves, until I can no longer stand it. And she continues, even if I'm grunting, for the rules of the game are that strong… I feet no need to massage ma cock, I'm hard without touching myself, the sensations are so hot.

When she stops, my lips are out stretched, my lips dry. Placing her feet in the basin I brought, I bathe them in lavender oil scented water, gently massaging them, soothing the abrasions the leather had imprinted on her tender flesh. She purrs with contentment. I slide my fingers between her toes, down her arch, behind her heels, wrapping them with tender care and attention. After a while, I place her feet in a smooth towel, drying her with slow movements. Then came the massage oil, mint and lavender, freshening, astringing smoothing her already smooth skin.

Slowly, as if not daring, my massaging fingers leave her foot, moving upwards to her ankles, slow, very slow, massaging, adding more oil then and there… She doesn't object, is it an illusion or did she part her legs a bit wider? I dare move a little more upwards, her calves, her knee, the tender soft part behind her knee… Sometimes, my lips or my tongue follow my fingers; her legs and feet are in complete adoration and care. Her long muscles are tensing and relaxing, her skin is shiny with oil and saliva.

Soon my hands are reaching the fork of her thighs, coming closer and closer to her parted lips. Glancing up, I see approval and anticipated pleasure in her gleaming eyes. She lets some champagne dribble from her glass, down her belly, the golden liquid is meandering into her hair, auburn and gold, water and fire. I take it as permission, and I start eagerly to drink at the source. My tongue laps like a hungry kitten, the taste is incredible, Veuve Clicquot and juices, ambrosia… She places a foot on my lap, rubbing my dick as I lick her. She pours more and more, cold liquid flowing over her knob, drenching her puffed lips. I lick and suck as fast as I can, but some escapes my reach and dribbles on her thighs. I lick it, down to her knees, but her husky voice centers me on focus quickly. My tongues probes and goes deeper inside her folds, her fingers are tightly knotted in my hair, she moves my head left and right, pointing me towards the tender spots she whishes me to explore, to tickle or to tease… This game last long, enchanting moments, I get intoxicated by her juices, and the vine… Her breathing becomes heavier, she straightens her legs around my head, I can hardly breath, but I pursue my assigned task, I lick, and suck, and bite, and bury my face… Until she explodes, loud moans, claw like nails in my shoulders, her juices drenching me face.

I go up, unsteady for I've been kneeling so long. My hard cock is pointing forward, facing her.

Et maintenant, Madame, qu'y a-t-il pour votre service?

********
Carl Philipp Emmanuel Bach, Hamburg concertos

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

I want you to fuck me until you come

For a brief instant, the temptation of closing the shop hovers around my thoughts. Leaving her, her wide spread legs and the temptations she's offering. Very business like, Madame, ces souliers sont-ils à votre goût?... What does she think she is? The average business woman who enjoys some cheap thrill, having fun with the anonymous shop owner. The freakish creature, disposable sex-toy she can use and then drop in the garbage can? Against all the anger and frustration she created inside me, I can't prevent but think, or may be hope, that there is something else.

She knows what she's about, the need to cum is too strong than all my will. But my weakened will is still strong enough to refrain me from jumping on her and fuck her right away. I'll cum, eventually, but I'll do it my way.

I grab her lipstick smeared glass and drink some champagne. The cool drink freshens my mind and clears my ideas. I watch intently at her. Her beautiful body lays, ready and horny, at my feet. She looks beautiful in her costume, the corset thightly enhancing her curves, the fullness of her breasts, the shape of her hips. Her long and slender legs, encased in silk, black against her white skin. And her eyes. I can't get my eyes off her eyes, that wanton look, that sparkle that arouses me more than everything.

My mouth full of vine, I try to kiss her lips, but she turns her head swiftly, so my kiss lands on her cheek. Some drops of vine fall on her chin, dripping down between her breasts. Tempting breasts, I think to my self, while I lick at her nipples, bathing them with champagne and saliva. They are hard and lovely, dark pink rubies than gleam on her ivory skin. Standing up, I rub my cock against them, asking her to squeeze her breasts together. She understands what I wish, and after a few slow moves, precum is oozing from my slit. I coat my finger with it, and we share that tasteful nectar… Champagne and cum…

Leaving her breasts for a while, I rub the swollen head of my dick against her wet folds. Up, until it brushes her turgid knob. Down, reaching her ring, and up again. Rubbing, wandering, up and down, never entering more than a few centimeters, just the head; swiftly moving out, rubbing again… This game of tease lasts until she bucks her hips, moaning and grunting. She reaches her hand and grabs my cock, trying to get me in her. I resist, just for the fun of it, a few moments, before thrusting all my length inside. It's soo good, so intense… I have been waiting for soo long… I remain immobile for a long while, enjoying the sensations, feeling her pulse beating inside her, her juices dribbling on my shaved sac. Grabbing her by the hips, right under the hem of her corset, I start pounding long powerful back and forth moves that send quivers of pleasure along my spine. Her full breasts are shaking in rhythm, lovely sight that encourages me to move faster. Her moans are louder, her hand goes down between her thighs, thumb on her clit, fingers rubbing my cock each time I move inside her.

All of a sudden, I stop. Get out of her heavenly pussy. I get up, uneasy on my heels. My stockings are torn where my knees have rubbed against the carpet. My cock is swollen red, glistering from her juices.

And now, chère Madame Ellis, would you please be so kind and turn around?

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

Will this do?

It will, dear Ms Ellis, it will.

I move the foot-mirror from its original place to where she can look at me while I'm behind her. Coming back, I bend down, taking her freckled face between my hands. And dive in her eyes, deep and deeper.

Are you sure you want to … offer my this present?

Her reply is a barely audible whisper. Before she could turn her face, my lips brush hers, a light kiss, moment of tenderness before the thunderstorm…

Going back behind her, I carefully lift the petticoats of her dress, revealing her hourglass shaped ass. Take a step back, just to admire this beautiful sight, her black stockinged legs, the paleness of her skin, the fullness of her cheeks. And, below, the purple splash of her heels.

My fingers wander along her body, from the hem of the corset to the ribbon of her stockings, as if counting the freckles. I enjoy the feel of her incredibly soft skin, her full and firm flesh, the perfect shape of her bosom. My short mails scratch her back, leaving light rosy marks on their way. Marks that are a tiny reminder of the marks I would leave, if… I look at her, in the mirror, her face resting on her crossed hands, hairs spilled around her shoulders, as if sleeping.

Slowly, I spread her buttocks, revealing her smooth crack and tiny hole. More than the view of her most secret intimacy, it's the idea of it that leaves me breathless. The idea of this perfect stranger showing her asshole to an other perfect stranger. And allowing it to be fucked.

I slide my fingers in her slit, then massage her hole, wetting it with her own juices. I can feel her muscle relax, slowly, until I can insert the end of my finger. I see her shoulders shiver, her eyes are closed, her whole face is tense, in the mirror. Gradually, I push my finger forward, until it slithers easily inside her. Still moistening her with her juices, a second finger finds his way inside.

When I feel she's ready, I place the head of my cock against her entrance, and try to hook her eyes. Emeralds ablaze shoot back at me, but she grunts her approval. With a motion that lasts an eternity, I enter her tight and burning hole. It feels so good I'm unable to move, unable to think. After a while, I start moving again, easy back and forth motions.

Fuck me, you bastard, fuck me harder, she shouts, face distorted, eyes wide open, looking straight at me with fierce rage.

Her words are like a finger depressing the trigger of a loaded gun. Loosing control, grabbing her by the waist, I pound her, hard, and harder, grumbling incoherent words, vision blurred, head empty of coherent thoughts.

Giant fireworks explode in my head, lightning strikes the base of my spine. Hands clenched on her hips, groaning and moaning, semen blasting in long shots, I come, and come, and come again...

Exhausted, dizzy, breathless, I fell on her back, the laces and bones of her corset imprinted in my flesh.

Ohh, I wish I could kiss her…

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

A very good time for a drink

One more kiss
before we die
Face to face
and dream of flying
Who are you?
who am I?
Wind in wings
two angels falling
To die like this
with a last kiss
It's falsehood's flame
it's a crying shame
Face to face
the passions breathe
I hate to stay but then I hate to leave
And you'll never know
You'll never know . . .
Siouxie Sioux​

Laying on her back, with my full weight on her body, I shiver with exhaustion in the aftermath of the tension, and its sudden release I just felt. I could just have let my mind sink in a purple fog of dizziness and tiredness. But it's time to go up again, to face real life again. To face her.

Her words are coming like a blow, and a relief. so you'll have neither the obligation nor the ability to track me down. Odd who she can be two persons at the same time. But then, am I so different, Philipp the elegant shop owner, and a mad creature perched on high heels, driven by hidden desires? How different is the business woman, strapped in her power suit, that entered my life one week ago, from the horny female who urged me to fuck her ass like a wanton slut? How different is the careful and polite shop owner from the submissive sex toy who licked her shoe heels? Aren't we all different, all driven by secret desires, hidden urges that we try to suppress but who are living, underneath, deep inside the dark folds of our minds?

I gesture vaguely in the direction of the staircase. There is a bathroom, upstairs, if you wish… While she moves upstairs, I go back to the back store, changing my underwear into my usual suit. As I tie the knot of my tie, I cross my eyes in the mirror. I wonder what will come next. Do I want her to leave? Do I wish to see her again?

Coming back into the store, bringing in a new bottle of champagne in its icy bucket, some foie gras toasts. Her slippers are discarded, so is her dress, crumpled on the floor. Carefully, I fold it neatly, trying to avoid looking at the stains on the folds. The slippers go back on their stand, the leather still hot from the warmth of her feet. Absentmindedly, I let my finger tips wander along the curve of the shoe, images of what just happened moments ago flashing in my mind. Me, in my female attire, kneeling until my face reached her toes. She, spreading her ass wide, urging me to fuck her. Her hands, tied in her back. The quick bruise of her lips against mine. The drumming of her heartbeat, after she climaxed.

I feel like one can feel, after a party, when all the guests have left. The high spirit you felt are dying away, and you remain alone, amidst the empty bottles and torn paper banners, remnants of a festive atmosphere that evaporates in the air like ghosts. Night has fallen, the only light comes for the lone lamppost ouside, casting shades through the drawn curtains. I do not wish to turn on the lights, feeling comfortable in the half darkness. Glancing at the empty streets, I whisper Elisabeth… or Madame… Madame Elizabeth…

Her footsteps startle me out of my reverie. She is her public self again, so decent and proper in her business suit, her low heels, her hair wet from the shower. Her make up cannot hide the ochre rings under her smaragdine eyes. She smiles sadly as she notices the rococo slippers, on their stand again. Wordlessly, I hand her a glass of wine, we remain silent, while we drink.

After a long moment, we both start speaking at the same time

Please…

No, you first…

And the silence falls again around us, thick and palpable, like a veil of invisible sadness. I pour her more campagne, she thanks me with an imperceptible nod.

Will you come back, Elizabeth?


******
Patti Smith, Because the Night

 

[UNREGISTERED]

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[chauderlos]

Is there -- is there somewhere else we could sit for a little while?

The leather armchair... too soon, of course, no many souvenirs. Gesturing towards the staircase, I answer:

There is a lounge, upstairs. If you please will follow me… Unconsciously, I have regained the stiff and somewhat affected speech of the polite shop owner.

The lounge isn't really a lounge; it's a mix of library, study and lounge. One of the walls is covered with books, shelves upon shelves of books, some rare leather-bound art books, really mixed, from rare leather bound art books to novels in cheap paperback copies. Opposite the door is a large oak desk, scattered with drawings, drafts, papers of all sorts. And, in the middle of the room are a sofa and a matching pair of armchairs, with a glass coffee table in beween. I do not swich the chandelier on, only lightning the small lamp that shines over the gilt framed reproduction of Boucher's Portrait de la Baronne de Blanchepierre.

Please, have a seat, Ms… err, Elisabeth. I'm not accustomed yet to call her by her first name. Would you like some more champagne, or may be would you opt for something stronger? I could handle a scotch, or maybe a single malt?

Single malt will be fine, thank you, Philipp.

While I pour the amber liquor in a crystal tumbler, I notice how overly polite and contained we are now.

Warming my glass, I stand for a while in front of the window, gazing outside once again. The empty street looks like an Hopper painting, all matte colors, the lone lamppost at the corner casting shadows over the empty sidewalk. Without turning, I start talking, my voice echoing in the silence of the night.

As you may have guessed, I'm French. Born and raised in Paris, where I attended the Ecole Nationale des Arts Décoratifs. I worked after graduating for various shoe making companies, drawing new models for each season. Gradually, I climbed the ladder, from the cheap brands to the upper market, haute couture houses. And one day, I got a special request. A male customer asked me if I could copy a model he liked, but in a larger size. His size. I agreed, and completed the task. And I wondered… what would it feel like if I tried it myself… and it felt great. I felt powerful, sexy, very feminine and yet virile. A feeling of exhilaration I can't explain. After the heels came the lingerie. I never felt attracted to other men, I remained attracted by woman. Over the years, I got a reputation in the small underworld of heels fetishists, both women and men. I design and create small series, or unique models for them, on request or out of my own fantasies.
In the course of my business, I did a lot of historical research. Acquired a certain taste for Rococo. That's the reason why it was such a pleasure to vreate your slippers.
For reasons I don't want to explain for now, I left France a while ago and settled here. You know, With Internet, being here or there doesn't really matter, nowadays.
And I live alone. I have seldom met women who are likely to cope with such a fantasy. And you are the first person I made love, well, I fucked since I came in this town.

I turned away from the window, facing her. Is this you wanted to know?

She had remained silent during my whole speech, quietly sitting on the large sofa, her legs modestly crossed.

I gulped my glass down, shrugged. Because, I don't think that knowing I like Flaubert, C.S. Friedman or Botticelli isn't that relevant, is it, Ms Ellis?

 

[UNREGISTERED]

* * *

 

[chauderlos]

Ukyo-e… Images of the floating word, yes. Did you know that, at the beginning, ukyo was written with an other ideogram, same pronunciation but different meaning. It meant images from the suffering world. Buddhist inspiration, meaning that, as long as one hasn't freed himself from the temptations and desires of this world, he will suffer, and suffer… Free from temptations and desires…I chuckled, I'm afraid it's a state of mind I shall never reach…

I left the window, sitting on the armchair facing her, still holding my glass. Care for an other one?

She nods in approval. While I refill our glasses, I look at her closely, not as a satin and leather doll, but as a person. The grace of her arm, when she raises her glass. The tiny wrinkles, at the corner of her eyes, when she smiles her toast to me, like some one who like to smile often, and who did it.

I start to relax, untying the knot of my tie, opening the upper shirt button. Mind if I smoke? Just an other bad habit…

I like your history; I can portrait you as a young girl, entering for the first time inside a museum. The first enlightment, the first painting that touched your heart… the way it changed your life. I can clearly remember the first time I was touched by art… I was around 15, our teacher gave us an essay to write. Choose any subject you like, she instructed, as long as it's written in French, and at least thousand words long. For next week.. Pfff… at the time, I hated writing, hated art, hated everything and everybody, for that matters. The very last day, I went to the school's library, wandering helplessly along the shelves. It was towards the end of semester, and I would have preferred to roam around with my mates. But I had that bloody essay to write. Books, books, books were for sissies and girls. Tough boys played foot ball, wanked browsing girlies mags, lifted records, fought with other boys, smoked stolen cigarettes and lifted the skirts of the girls. And I was a tough boy. Wanted to be the toughest boy on the block. Secretly expected, and enjoyed the idea of, being some day or an other expelled from school, The librarian, an old balding man, saw me hapless and asked if I needed his help. I would gratefully have told him to go to hell, but I needed something to write about. He listed to me, and handed me a large book. Renaissance paintings. What do I care about Renaissance, you old fart. But I took the book, without thinking him, of course, and went to the far end of the room. Browsed through the pages. And there. There it was. Full page, black on white, bam, hit my eyes, my heart. Albrecht Dürer. The Four Horsemen. Cooler than Batman. Scarier than Redbeard the pirate. This drawing is so … violent, though, hard boiled. These horsemen are here to destroy, to burn everything to the ground, to rape and to slaughter. The oldest one, on his worn-out hack, ready to scythe everybody. The one in the middle, holding his scales like a mighty club. I stood there, flabbergasted. I later realized that I had, at the time, discovered that you could express anger, fury and despair by other means than the violent acts I did the whole day. Yeah, rage and despair… exactly what I felt, at the time.
Frantically, I wrote my essay on Dürer's life. 1,243 words, I had counted them. Got a B + mark. Good idea, but your grammar… I still have the paper, somewhere around.

The cigarette smoked in the ashtray, swirls of blue smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

Art saved my life, of sorts. From that day, I spent my free time with the old librarian. He showed me treasures. He helped me I always went for the maddest, the most violent painters. Bosch. Dali. H.R. Giger. Bacon. It took me time to enjoy the calmer and soft painters. Italian Renaissance. Baroque…
Paintings lead me to literature. For me, reading was a waste of time, with the help of the old librarian I discovered that I was a key to a marvelous world. I discovered that others had suffered, hated, and, ultimately, loved, before me. It was endless wealth. Unlimited free travels through time and space.
Yes, from that day, my life changed. My former friends despised me. I was opening to the world. I was free, at last. Of course, dark days came and went, old ghosts still haunted me at night, temptations where still there. But I had the key to a world where pain, hopelessness and suffering couldn't reach me. Thanks to the old librarian. He must be dead, by now. We lost touch, when he retired, a few years afterwards. I never took the time to thank him.

See, Elizabeth, no caring Aunt Clarissa for me. And, speaking of Madame de Merteuil, if I should be Valmont, I hope to meet a better fate…

We both remained silent for a long while. Our glasses were empty. The Japanese art book was still on her lap. I glanced at my watch: 1:30 am. I hadn't seen time passing by.

I smiled at her, a shy, half confident smile.

And, yes, I wish to see you again. As a person. And as my whore, sometimes.


*******
Keith Jarrett; The Köln Concert.

 

[UNREGISTERED]

* * *

 

[chauderlos]

Ah, the moon's too bright
The chain's too tight
The beast won't go to sleep
Leonard Cohen, I'm your man.​

Her letter was on the desk. I had been staring at it for a long time. Wondering. Pondering. Choosing options, and discarding them. Seeing her again. As a person.

Did I really want to see her again? Or did I merely wish I could fuck my brain out one more time with her, and nothing more?

But there where those moments of… was it intimacy? Of bliss, shared moments after the climax, of … tenderness.

And this discussion, later. I could still picture her sitting here. Her words echoing in my mind. The ukyo-e book was still on the table, open at the page showing a gracious geisha dancing. Her scent on the towel she used.

I couldn't make up my mind, nevertheless I switched the computer on and wrote:

From: philipp@heelsdesire.com
Sent: 09 August, 2005 10:35 PM
To: ms_ellis@_______.com
Subject: Waiting for You
Importance: High

Dear Elizabeth, chère Madame

Your letter was a surprise, and a pleasure. How rare, a real letter, and such an elegant, precise and yet feminine handwriting.
As you gave to return address, you'll have to do with this electronic message. I would have preferred, too, to use ink and creamy paper, but it's your choice…
I will, be delighted to have you at dinner next Saturday ~ at dinner, and longer, of course. When you arrive, the shop will be closed, but the door will be unlocked.
And I accept your conditions. Or, at least, follow their spirit if not their letter. You flatter me by assuming I will do an excellent job for you; so I presume that the changes I may chose will be of your taste.
Then, I hope you'll accept my condition, in return.. It is not really a condition, it's more a rule I wish we could follow, when we see each other. Please, accept the fact that some questions will remain unanswered. Accept my silences the same as I accept your anonymity.
I haven't chosen anything yet, nor the menu, neither our outfits. And even if I had, I wouldn't tell you. Where would the surprise be if you knew everything in advance?
Je reste, Madame, de vos désirs le très humble, très attentif et très impatient serviteur.

Philipp

That night, when I turned out the light, a framed photograph was laying on the desk, face down.

The next day, I went to the cellar, hauled an old trunk upstairs. It took me long to open it, wondering if I should, after all these years, stir the past. Once opened, I stared for endless moments at it contents, before finally searching it and carefully removing the objects it hid.

Deciding whether I would wear chrome heels or double-soled Church's was, surprisingly, the easiest decision. After all, didn't her letter imply that there should be other nights? The menu was a completely different matter. I wanted it to be rich yet light, refined yet not intimidating… Besides, having this is mind is far more interesting than, say… A Finance committee meeting…

Days came and went, hours passed. I followed my usual routine, running the shop as usually. At night, I spent hours reading Les liaisons dangereuses. Over the years, I had forgotten how dangerous indeed some liaisons can be.

Saturday night…

The table was ready. A round table, covered with white linen tablecloth. Fine china plates with celadon borders, and crystal glasses, silver cutlery, copied after the one the Thomas Germain designed for the Régent. A champagne bottle was waiting in its ice bucket. On her plate, an oblong box, glossy cream cardboard with a burgundy ribbon. Silver Rococo chandeliers, with white candles where, with the lone lamppost outside, the only light source in the room.

In the small kitchen adjoining the main room, dinner for two was ready. Lobster and melon salad. Fresh oysters. Raw salmon, marinated in lime juice and dill. For dessert, rich, smooth, perfumed vanilla cream.

I had taken out a long forgotten book, Le langage des fleurs, to compose the bouquet that adorned the table. Chestnut leaves and orange roses.

Low, just above murmur, Glenn Gould played the Goldberg variations on the stereo.

On the low table, objects I had selected for that evening. A black leather Hermès whip. A silken scarf, the color of fresh blood. A length of rope. A jade dildo carved with phoenix-and-dragon motives. A pair of varnished leather pumps, 5", chromed, heels and fishnet stockings


Downstairs, on the leather armchair, lay the outfit I had prepared for her. A long, sleeveless black cocktail dress, cut low over the breasts, with a long slit on the right side. Thin, black silk stockings. A pair of black lacy panties, covering yet revealing. A pair of black leather 5" heel pumps with double ankle straps. Black. Black. Black, bright contrast with her pale skin. Inside an indigo velvet box, a diamonds and pearls necklace, with matching ear pendants.

At 6:50, I was ready for her, a bit anxious, but confident at the same time. I wore a white shirt, with deep green enamel cuff links. A black pin-stripe suit. A black tie. Black Oxfords. A light touch of lavender Cologne.

I knew that, after this night, things would never be the same again.


****
Diana Krall, Boulevard of broken dreams