Pause. A reprieve of sorts. Breathing out, silently. Cannot show fear.
Scarlet stilettos systematically stabbing stained cellar surface. No escape from the tinge of blood. Fleeting silence again. It’s the silence I fear the most. Because it ends, invariably, in another click-clack, closer and louder. And here it comes.
The sound pierces my eardrums, penetrates through my mind’s futile defenses, and right into the unprotected core. Images well up.
Have you ever noticed how a stiletto heel looks from down below, as you see it coming down, as you focus your eyes on the very tip of it? The rest of the shoe can be immaculately clean and shiny, but the tip betrays the ugly truth. Motes of dust, specks of dirt, bits of hair. All held together by what looks like dried up blood stains. In stark relief and in slow motion. Closer. Now the tip is all my blurred vision can focus on, while the sole and the sides are a splotch of ominous redness around it. The tip is close, I can smell it.
Leather. The smell of warm leather, heated by the nylon-covered flesh inside. The faint odor of the nylon, and of the foot inside it. And another smell, even fainter but still distinct, the one that keeps me going. Even closer now, out of my field of view. The odors are all-consuming to my heightened senses. And then I feel it, the touch I had longed for.
Deceptively soft and gentle at first on my face. Hard round edge of a sharp heel slowly sliding down, between my lips and into my mouth. Deeper and deeper. The rubbery outsole pushing down on my lips, my nose and my forehead. Harder and harder. Painful now. Sweet crushing pain. Droplets of my blood sliding down the heel deep in my throat. I can taste it.
I feel it with my tongue, the exquisite bouquet of liquid rust, salt and iron on leather, her gift to me, mixing her taste with mine. I savor it, treasure every tiny droplet as it slides down my throat, making me swallow reflexively.