“I lift my heel from your face, not to spare you—only to make you kiss it properly.”
You’re already on your knees when I enter.
Good.
You know not to speak. Not to shift. Not even to lift your gaze until I give you reason.
Tonight, I’ve laid them out—six pairs. Lined across the rug like relics in a sacred procession. Leather. Patent. Suede. Ankle-strap stilettos. Pointed boots. Sky-high platforms. All worn. All divine.
They gleam in the candlelight like trophies. But you know better.
They are instruments.
You belong to them now.
I approach without a word, my gloved hand selecting the first pair—scuffed black heels, toe-worn, heel-wobbled, the kind I wear when I know I’ll be pacing for hours while you whimper beneath me. I step close, set them on the floor beside you.
You don’t reach.
You open your mouth.
Wide.
And wait.
I lift one shoe and press the toe against your lip—not gently. You flinch as the dried sweat and scent of leather meet your tongue.
Then I say it.
Not loudly.
Not sweetly.
Just: "Hold."
And you do.
Your jaw tightens. Your lips tremble. You steady the heel in your mouth, eyes watering, as I walk away. Casual. Unconcerned. Because whether or not you drop it determines more than punishment. It determines place.
Tonight isn’t about pain.
It’s about posture. About proving that your mouth was made to serve. That the same tongue that used to beg for pleasure now steadies the shoes that deny it.
I return minutes later with the next pair—silver stilettos with red-wine stains on the sole.
You gag slightly when I swap them out. Good.
That means the taste is sinking in.
You carry each pair in your mouth for five minutes. No hands. No speaking. No relief. Just me, switching shoes like choices in a catalog. Watching you strain to stay still while your chin quivers and saliva pools beneath you like a quiet confession.
By pair four, you’ve begun to shake. Not from effort, but from knowing—knowing how utterly replaced you’ve become.
You’re not the object of my desire.
You are the stand for it.
By pair six—my black velvet mules—I lean down, finally.
My gloved fingers tip your jaw up and I murmur:
“You know you’re not here for pleasure... right?”
You nod.
Shoes still in your mouth.
Tears threatening the corner of your eyes.
I smile.
Then whisper:
“Good boy.”
And take the last pair…
with me.
Leaving you kneeling. Empty-mouthed.
But utterly, utterly full.