I love stiletto heels. I’ve got a hundred pairs. I’ve got them in shiny black patent, I’ve got them in silver, I’ve got them in scarlet. I’ve got them in leopardskin and lizardskin and zebra print. I’ve got them in velvet, satin, suede and leather. If you’ve seen a particular style in the shops, the chances are I have the exact same pair at home.
I like my stilettos to be sharp and pointy and high. I love the way they make me walk - the way they make my luscious hips wiggle as I teeter along the street. I love the way they make my buttocks tense inside my tight skirt, the muscles hard as tennis balls. I love the way they make my legs look long and slender, my calves firm and rounded, my thighs taut and sculptural.
I love the little imprints the heels make in bare floorboards, the way they stab through old linoleum like a cock deflowering a virgin. I love the way they get caught in the gutter forcing me to wait to be rescued by some passing hunk. That’s happened to me before - more than once.
The last time it happened I was wearing my newest red patent pair - the ones with the spiralling band that curled around my ankles to keep them in place.
Read on:
The Stiletto Heel USA
The Stiletto Heel UK
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