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Tall. Black. Impossibly sharp. Her shoes carve authority into the stone with every step. The hallways seem to narrow around her, bend themselves around her presence.
Vellioth crawls naked behind her, as he has been bidden, dragging his angry, neglected cock down the cold corridor floor between his legs. Little more than a hound called to her heel. Drooling into his own mouth, like a starved pup offered a treat, at the privilege of being allowed to exist within the sphere of her presence.
As her heels click, he gets that fleeting flash of red. Blood red soles, red like the forbidden rubies of her eyes, red like the fever that burns inside him.
She stops at the end of the corridor.
Will she lead him left, down the hallway leading to her chambers, where he might hope in his wildest fantasies for the privilege of looking upon her body?
Or will she lead him down, down the staircase to the dungeons below, where he might lose himself in the glory of her torment?
She taps her sole sharply on the stone, a rhythm of disdain, somehow sending pulses through his dead body, the sensation hammering into the weeping, pride-stripped tip of his hopeless arousal. He wants nothing more in this world than to lean forward and press his lips to the mirror-perfect patent leather; to worship at the altar of the floor beneath her feet; to be allowed, even if just for a moment, to slide his tongue over those red-bottomed stiletto points.
Lolth, how he despises himself for it.
The black lines of her shoes are like compass needles, trying to drive his gaze up, up, up the long lines of her legs and into the untouchable, most sacred place between them. That jewel he craves to worship with his tongue, that place he yearns to fill with every last drop of his hate-fuelled lust. Yet he knows, fuck, he knows he would not be permitted such an unthinkable thing.
So he keeps his eyes low, fixed on the only places he is allowed to look; on the towering points of her heels. He gropes his gaze under the deep arch of her foot, drinking in the way the smooth leather stretches taut over the bone and tendon. His eyes cling to the place where the red stripe underneath disappears up into her instep and flares again as she turns, and his cock bobs hard and heavy on the floor.
“Such a pitiable creature,” hisses her voice from above. “I have seen desperation. But I have never seen such an embarrassing state of affairs as this.”
As she speaks, she slides her foot between his legs, bracketing his swollen, aching shaft between her heel and toe. Close enough he can almost feel the red leather on the underside of her shoe sweeping over him. He screws up his eyes with the effort of keeping his cock still, knowing the insult of getting his precome on her shoe would be one he regrets bitterly.
A wet string of his own fluids dribbles from the tip, pooling below.
“You insult my floors with your filth, hound,” she snarls, withdrawing her foot abruptly.
Vellioth does not need instruction.
He knows.
He shuffles backwards, lowering his head to the place where his pearly white fluids have fallen, and extends his tongue, lapping at his own salty precome. The stone is faintly gritty against the sensitive muscle as he polishes the surface, working his tongue over the drops of his own shame, wiping it up from the floor, leaving behind only a damp trail of spittle.
For a single, foolish second, he thinks he has satisfied her.
The point of her heel descends without warning.
The tiny stiletto drives down into the tip of his outstretched tongue, piercing the flesh, and white-hot agony explodes through his jaw. He tries to pull away – more fool him – the movement only tears at the muscle, sending another wave of searing pain down into his throat, dragging a choked, strangled sound from his lungs.
“I know, dog. This is what you crave. Such a treat, to be allowed a taste of my shoes.” She shifts her weight ever so slightly, and the pressure increases, grinding the slender heel deeper. “Did you not always yearn to be the ground beneath my feet?”
Yes. The answer roars inside him. Words of worship race through his mind even as he melts into the bitter anguish, of course, it is all I think of, the fantasy suffocates me every moment of my pathetic undeath.
Yes, Mistress
The words try to flick themselves free from his trapped, skewered tongue, fervent and worshipful, but all that emerges is a broken, keening, insulting sound.
“Y- Yaa ya-aa–”
He strains to form the words he so desperately needs to give to her, but they dissolve into shameful, breathless whimpers around her shoe.
“Not very grateful, it would seem.”
She twists her heel cruelly down into his tender tongue once more, and then releases him. He collapses forward onto his hands, grimacing as he drags the bruised flesh back into his mouth, pulling it from side to side, testing it, wincing as he tries to coax sensation back into the numbed tip. The metallic taste of his own blood fills his mouth.
He feels his flushed head smear yet another fresh bulb of precome onto the stone, betraying him once more.
Mistress gives a sharp intake of breath, and then her voice cuts through the air.
“Again?”
Insane with lust, fingertips buzzing with hatred, he begins to crawl backwards. His sweating palms slip slightly over the stone, knees protesting as they drag across the surface. Then, his toes find the cold, sharp edge of the top step of the staircase.
She steps towards him, pressing him backwards until his knees drop to the step below.
As she towers over him, he craves permission to slide his eyes up her body, press his gaze up her tiny waist, under her ribs, touch her eyes with his, bear witness to the cold blaze of her cruel radiance.
But he cannot. His gaze belongs on the glistening evidence of his own weakness, waiting before him on the floor. He poises his face over the fresh mess, stretches out his bleeding tongue once more–
“Stop.”
He freezes.
“If you are so desperate for my touch, you will beg for it properly.”
She gestures with the point of her toe to the top step between his legs. He understands. He obeys. Lays his throbbing, weeping erection out on the top of the staircase, shuddering with need. Tries – fails – to resist driving his hips into the air in an empty attempt to sate his overwhelming thirst.
“Now,” she growls.
“Please, Mistress,” he hears himself whimper, “I am nothing. I deserve nothing, not to lick the ground beneath your feet, not the privilege of gazing upon you with my eyes… But my desire for your touch is the only thing I feel…”
As he humiliates himself, his hips rut the air without his permission, beating angrily into nothing, unable to tolerate the frustration a moment longer.
“I beg you… to look upon my desperate flesh and grace me with a touch, stamp me beneath your feet, crush my pathetic body, Please, I beg you, Mistress, ruin me beneath your shoes, break me apart–”
“Is that all you have got?” she mocks.
Then, she stamps her foot down. Hard. Sound echoing like a gavel around the halls.
But her shoe does not make contact with him.
She slams it down a mere inch from his cock, teasing the broken promise of her precious touch in that miserable, starved place between his legs. His cock jumps anyway, palpitating with a savage frustration. He stares at the shining leather encasing her slender foot, so close, so infuriatingly close to his slit, and he whines, so pathetic – and fuck he’s shaking – his mind going numb, eyes pulling back into his head–
“You want my touch?”
Fuck. Yes. He mashes his hips, dragging his frenulum over the floor, chasing for the tiniest scrap of friction, anything for her touch– “Yes, Mistress, please Mistress” –he ruts shamefully towards the edge, his balls draw up into his groin, the muscles in his stomach knotting violently as the threat of release tightens into a blinding knot at the base of his spine…
“Then have it.”
Before he can even process what is happening, she has planted her foot squarely in the centre of his chest, and with a powerful, contemptuous kick, sends him tumbling down. The blinding pressure in his spine snaps. He convulses mid-air, his spill lost in the chaos.
There’s no sense of falling.
Only of being struck, over and over again as he writhes through the unstoppable, agonising implosion in his groin, smashing pieces of his body into the sharp edges of the steps. Shoulder. Spine. Hip. Shin. His vision erupts in white as his head strikes stone. He is just a mass of spasming limbs in freefall. Something cracks inside him. Bile scorches his throat.
She touched him, he smiles to himself as he crashes into a haze of bloody shadow.
She touched him.
The last thing he sees is her red eyes, burning with delight, far above.