Flash Fiction: Under My Heels

The few friends I discuss my writing with occasionally say, 'Why don't you write the next Fifty Shades and make your fortune?' and I have to explain that I don't write like that (so many reasons it's beyond this blog post to explain). But since there is so much excitement over billionaires in swanky offices and so many books in which the heroine seems to literally stumble into the presence of these hunky chunks of Alpha male, I thought I'd give it a go. So, in a mere 500 words, here's my romance between an uber-rich industrialist and a lowly freelance designer:

Under My Heels

I shifted my booted heels on Samuel’s back. He gulped back the groan that built in his throat, beneath the black leather collar I had given him. He had the obedience on his hands and knees of a man who had spent many thousands on the most discreet dominatrixes New York could offer. I was surprised he’d never crossed my path before.

We started off like some kind of corny romance. I fell at his feet. Literally. I’d landed a meeting to discuss freelance opportunities at his firm in my day job as a graphic designer. I stumbled on a loose corner of carpet in front of his desk. Okay, so it wasn’t so much like a corny romance; his swanky offices were sorely in need of a refurb. Anyway, he rushed round to help, dropping to his knees facing me. I got up without his aid, but he stayed there, developing a glazed look as he eyed my shiny, spike-heeled boots. I mostly dress conservatively for my day job, but I can’t give up the footwear.

I knew that glassy look. Here was a man who fantasised about being on his knees at the feet of a cruel and beautiful mistress. Fortunately for him I was both.

‘Enjoying yourself down there, Mr Monton?’ I asked, shifting my toe to beneath his open mouth.

‘Um, I was admiring your boots. Sorry, Ms Anderson. You are Ms Anderson, I presume?’

His uncertainty was amusing. The billionaire founder of Monton Industries, stammering over the pointed black leather of a woman’s shoe.

‘Yes, I am Ms Anderson.’ I offered a hand and encouraged him to rise. ‘And I’m here about the design work.’

I got the contract. And an invitation to dinner. Normally I kept business and pleasure, or should I say business and my other business, separate. But Samuel Monton fascinated me. His need to submit bubbled so close to the surface it took only a woman’s stumble to have him grovelling on his worn, grubby carpet. The right woman, of course. But he could pay for the best so why was his desire unsatisfied?

I ordered the most expensive fillet steak, rare, and a bottle of vintage Barolo. He ate a very restrained Caesar salad and sipped water as though we had already entered into an arrangement of mistress and slave. He seemed to have forgotten his need for utmost secrecy, to keep his deviance out of the newspapers.

‘There’s something about you mistress,’ he said. ‘Something sensual and powerful that I’ve never experienced before.’

He wanted me to give up my other clients and work only for him as his Domme, set up in my own penthouse apartment. I refused. I refused to give up clients who relied on me and who allowed me to express myself in a way I find particularly satisfying. But I also refused his money, his apartment, gifts of clothes and diamonds. That’s how I knew. I was falling in love with this slave.

© Tilly Hunter