She Asked Me to Keep My Heels On

I’d had that ritual for months. I’d choose one of those expensive bars, the kind with wine by the glass at prices that make you think twice, put on something that hinted without saying everything, and wait. I wasn’t looking for just anyone. I was looking for a woman who knew how to command.

That night I sat at the Mirabel bar in a black dress that hit just above my knees and stiletto heels that clicked when I walked. I ordered a glass of Malbec and drank it slowly, not looking at my phone, not leaning against the bar. Straight posture. That’s the bait.

It didn’t take long. I saw her in the mirror behind the bottles: a woman around forty, charcoal-gray suit, dark hair pulled up in a way that left her neck bare. She had a glass in her hand and her eyes locked on me with an immediate calm. The women I’m interested in don’t need to pretend they aren’t looking.

I settled into my seat and crossed my legs toward her side. It was subtle, just a slight turn of the hip, but we both knew what it meant.

A minute later, the waiter came over with a note written on a cloth napkin: “I’d like you to sit here with me.”

I took my time finishing my drink before getting up.

***

Her name was Irene. She told me when she kissed me on the cheek, slowly, as if checking something. She smelled like expensive perfume and that kind of confidence you can’t buy, even if the perfume itself can.

“Do you come here often?” she asked.

“When I want company.”

“And when you’re selective about that company?”

I smiled without answering. She poured both glasses and looked at me over the rim of hers while she drank.

We stayed like that for almost an hour. Talking about nothing, about work, about that long week you can see in people’s shoulders even when they try to hide it. All the while her hand brushed mine on the table, or her knee found mine under it. She was a woman who did things with deliberate slowness, as if she knew exactly how long it takes for someone else’s patience to break.

And she knew.

“You’re flushed,” she said, running a finger over my cheekbone.

“It’s the wine.”

“I don’t think it’s just the wine.”

I leaned toward her until our faces were only inches apart. I took her hand, which was resting on my thigh, and lifted it slowly. When she felt the heat between my legs—the dampness through the thin fabric of my underwear—she let out an almost imperceptible sound. A small sound that did more for me than any word.

“I live upstairs,” she said, without moving her hand. “Want to come up?”

***

The apartment was huge for being above a bar. White walls, few pieces of furniture, a long window looking out onto the wet street that night. Irene closed the door and didn’t turn on the main light. Just one lamp in the corner, leaving half the room in shadow.

She took me by the waist and pressed me against the door. She kissed me in a way that didn’t ask permission. I felt her hands moving down my hips, finding the hem of my dress.

“I want to see you,” she said against my mouth. “Take off the dress. But not the heels.”

I pulled away from her and stood in the middle of the room. I watched her as I slowly unzipped myself, letting her watch me. The dress fell to the floor. I was left in my underwear and heels, and Irene sat on the sofa with that posture of someone who has all the time in the world.

“Everything,” she said.

I took off my bra. My panties. I stood completely naked except for the heels, which clicked every time I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

“Turn around,” she said.

I turned around. I heard her open her pants. I started to understand what kind of night this was going to be.

***

“Touch yourself,” she said. Her voice, low and calm, came from the sofa.

I closed my eyes and started sliding one hand over my belly. I was so wet that the first touch made my knees give way. I started moving slowly, with my fingers, listening behind me to the sounds she made while she masturbated. That turned me on more than anything else: the idea that my body was taking her there.

I didn’t hear when she got up. I only felt her hands on my hips when my knees were already on the sofa and my face was resting against the back. She positioned me like that, on all fours, with my heels hanging over the edge.

“The heels stay on,” she said. “Understood?”

“Yes.”

She started massaging my ass with both hands, opening it, closing it. My wetness ran down the insides of my thighs and I could do nothing but grip the back of the sofa and wait. When she bit one cheek, I wasn’t expecting the pain, or the pleasure that followed it.

She went lower. First her mouth on my ass. Then her teeth. Then her tongue tracing the inside of my thighs without getting where I needed it. I moaned against the sofa and pushed my hips back to signal something, to ask without words. She laughed softly.

“Getting impatient?”

“A little,” I admitted.

“Good. You’ll enjoy it more that way.”

She was right. When I finally felt her tongue at the center of my wetness, my body answered with an intensity that caught me off guard. I pushed against her face, took her head in my hands to pull her closer. I was so close to coming that I barely noticed the movement.

Almost.

Her tongue went lower, slowly, tracing every inch until it reached my ass. I had never been this wet in my life. I stayed completely still, my breath catching, feeling her hands spread my cheeks to get closer. I started moving my hips on my own, searching for more pressure, when one of my heels slipped off.

Irene stopped dead.

“I told you the heels stay on.”

Before I could answer, a sharp slap made me jolt. My skin burned and I felt the wetness spread.

“Put it back on.”

I sat up awkwardly and buckled the heel while she watched me. Completely naked, hair mussed, thighs shining with moisture, trying to fasten a shoe with fingers that weren’t obeying properly. I must have looked ridiculous. That excited me more than anything else.

“Good girl,” she said when I finished.

***

“Crouch down. Open your knees. I want to see you.”

It was hard in heels. It took me a moment to find my balance, knees open and back straight. The cold air over my throbbing cunt was almost a relief, like a cold hand over a fever.

Irene kept looking at me from the sofa for a time I couldn’t have measured. Then she beckoned with one finger.

“Come. Sit here.”

I stood up and went to her. She pointed to her thigh and I understood. I climbed on top and started moving, using the pressure of her leg against me. It was exactly what I needed after so much waiting: friction, motion, something solid to grind against. She grabbed my hips and set the rhythm, speeding up, while she licked my neck from behind.

When I came, I did it on her leg. She squeezed me harder then, holding me there, kissing my mouth while I caught my breath.

“More,” I said against her lips.

“I knew it,” she replied, and got up to go fetch something from the bedroom.

***

When she came back, she was wearing a harness. I’d used one before, so I wasn’t surprised. What did surprise me was the way she looked at me: with a combination of desire and control that made something in my chest tighten in a way I hadn’t expected from a night like this.

I stood up and went to her. I kissed her hard, taking her face in my hands, wanting to erase that measured distance she kept. She kissed me back, but it was her who set the depth of the kiss, her who decided when to pull away.

“How do you want me?” I asked.

“Lean on the table. I want to see your breasts against the wood while I give it to you.”

The table was oak, cold, with a smooth surface my nipples felt immediately. I leaned over, legs apart, heels on the floor, ass lifted toward her. I heard her moving behind me.

First she ran it along the outside, slowly, tracing my wetness to moisten it. That simple friction, that back-and-forth movement against my entrance without penetrating me, had me moaning with my face pressed into the wood.

“Please,” I said.

“Please what?”

“Please put it in.”

She did. In one stroke, hard and deep, in a way that made me cry out against the table. She started moving with a steady rhythm that I matched by lifting my hips to give her a better angle, to feel it deeper inside. Her hand went down to my clit and started pressing it with her fingers while she fucked me, circular and relentless, without stopping.

The cold table against my nipples, the pressure of her fingers, the depth of each thrust. Everything came at once and I clutched the edge of the wood as the orgasm ran through me from the waist down, tightening my muscles around the dildo, weakening my knees.

Irene leaned over my back. I felt her rest her forehead between my shoulder blades as her breathing settled.

“Sit on the sofa,” I told her when I could speak.

“Now you’re in charge?”

“Now I’m in charge.”

She laughed softly and went to sit down.

***

I climbed on top with the harness still on. I started moving, setting the pace this time, looking her in the eyes as I did it. She looked at my breasts, then my face, then down to where our bodies joined, and that look made me so hot I sped up without meaning to.

She grabbed my hips when she decided to join in, pushing up at the same time I came down. It didn’t take long for me to get her wet again, this time harder, with an orgasm that left me frozen on top of her while I shook.

When I got off, my legs could barely hold me.

I sat beside her on the sofa. The apartment was silent except for our breathing. The street below gleamed wet through the long window.

“Can I take off my heels now?” I asked.

Irene looked at me with a half smile and gave me a brief, calm kiss.

“Now you can,” she said.

I took them off and set them on the floor. I rested my bare feet against the cold wood and stayed there, still, feeling completely emptied out in the best possible way.