'Skewered On Spikes' as - Miss Irene Clearmont

Skewered on Spikes
By
Miss Irene Clearmont
You put high heels on, and you change. Manolo Blahnik
One. Uppers and Downers.
Two. Sole Chance.
Three. Well Heeled.
Four. If the Shoe Fits.
Five. On One Foot.
Six. On the Other Foot.
Seven. Toeing the Line.
Eight. Well Spiked.
Nine. Down at Heel.
Ten. Balance and Poise.
Eleven. March in Step.
Twelve. Trodden On.
Thirteen. Throat and Vamp.
Fourteen. The Point.
Chapters.

One.
Uppers and Downers.
Frank Earnest Lye lived with his name in a love-hate relationship. There were
no end of jokes about being ‘frank and earnest’ and the surname was no great
help either! It had given him a fear of introducing himself that had resulted in an
introverted character and a definite fear of women that drove him into a lonely
existence.
Most of his teachers in school mistook his withdrawn demeanour as a sign of
thoughtfulness or perhaps shy intelligence, but the truth was that he was simply
a man that lived in the shadow of a name that had been given to him in some
obscure fit of jocularity by his father, while his mother lay in the hospital
recovering from her hard labour.
A thoughtless father that thought that Oscar Wilde’s best known play was a
good guide to giving his son a name!
So he left college under a cloud of disappointed teachers who could not
understand that he was not a quiet genius, but a man in whom great hopes had
been misplaced, a man destined to go nowhere and do nothing in particular.
Frank found solace on the Internet.
It was a shadowed space, a false world, a place where his name was of no note,
a locale where he could change his name and become Gary or Hugh with a few
taps on the keys on his keyboard. In the real world he was Frank Earnest Lye
and worked in a men’s outfitters and shoe shop as a sales assistant. On the net
he was Gary Ghent, a browser of porn sites and chat rooms where his nick name
was ‘Submeek’, a man who found solace in virtual sex.
He discovered quickly that all of the circle of people on the chat rooms were
probably also not at all frank and earnest about their lives. Men posing as
women. Women posing as men and others whose sex was concealed behind a
wall of fetishistic fantasy. Maybe they were not sure themselves and hesitated to
allow others the power to judge.

Submeek, a man who shied from women and avoided men homed in on his
personal fetish. Every variation of fetish sex was on offer, like a vast menu in a
restaurant that had no discernable limits. From submissive to aggressive, from
leather to lace, from men and women to every aberration betwixt the two. There
was no doubt that he was not a man whose sexual preference was women, but
inside this broad spectrum he drifted towards the pictures, films and stories
about women who made men their playthings.
He collected films and pictures of women who wore all the uniform of
dominance in all of its variations. There was a common denominator in all this
finery, this uniform of the dominatrix that attracted him; it was a focus of
similarity and the locus of his fetish. Women who told their men what they had
to do, always teetered on stilettos that were like the weapons of war between the
sexes. A war that Submeek hoped he would one day lose.
Shoes, spikes, stilettos and boots.
So he passed the day serving men who wanted suits and shirts with matching tie
and handkerchief and shoes. A world of brogues, dress shoes, casual sandals
and loafers. On his computer, at night, beyond the portal to that other world he
found women who slipped on boots, oxfords, stilettos, wedges and sling-backs.
He found that occasionally the two worlds collided and he could not help but
admire some woman’s legs or feet. He spent his time looking down at the floor
whilst others looked at faces, breasts and décolletages.
Life drifted on and Frank quietly moved from sales assistant to under-manager
with unintentional drift that was aided by the fact that no other manager thought
of him as a threat to their own ambition. Frank and earnest he certainly was, but
mild and compliant also. As he progressed by doing as he was told he became
ever more inverted, more introverted and more involved in a fantasy life that
hinged on his obsession with women’s footwear.
Two.
Sole Chance.
“I’m looking for something in linen, you know, casual and classy.”

Frank looked at the man that he was serving and made a snap judgement of size.
From the rack he pulled a jacket and passed it to his customer.
“It’s nice,” commented the woman who came up from behind Frank. “This is a
man with good taste!”
Frank smiled at the compliment and instinctively looked down at the woman’s
feet. He could not help himself really, he summed a woman by the shoes that
she wore and this woman did not disappoint. Blahnik’s of extraordinary grace.
The heels plunged downward to end in a red point that spiked the floor with
stiletto lethalness. The cleavage of the toes peeped out, half concealed by the
slick stockings.
Money and sex, that irresistible combination.
“So what shoes would you recommend with this?” she asked, ignoring his
interest in her feet.
“Oh,” said Frank with a small embarrassed grin at being caught by this
attractive wife of his client. “Brogues of course, in a slightly deeper tone,
preferably laced rather than boot.”
While the wife cross-questioned Frank the man slipped on the jacket and found
it to be a perfect fit.
“Perfect,” he muttered, “the fit is perfect.”
“It can be adjusted here and here to stop it pulling under the arms though,” said
Frank as he asked the man to stretch his arms out.
“I’ll take it, when will it be ready?”
“It takes just two days, but if you are in a hurry…”
“Katie, will you pick it up for me?” said the man to Katie as she browsed the
shoes that were on display.

“How about tomorrow?” asked Katie. “Otherwise it will be such a terrible
inconvenience…”
Frank almost blushed as Katie asked him. He looked at the line of her leg, the
perfect seam from heel to hem of the pencil skirt, he took in the stilettos at a
glance and he was in awe.
“Of course,” he stuttered, “after one you can pick it up. Would you like to look
at the shoes?”
“Of course! Brogues it is! Show me what you’ve got!”
*****
On the dot of one Katie entered the gentleman’s outfitters and sought out Frank
from the entrance. She behaved as though her presence was announced by some
unseen force that Frank should sense and react to by running to her attendance.
Frank saw her red hair over the racks of suits and glanced at his watch. Exactly
one O’clock, precisely. A woman who kept her promises, a woman who
demanded his attention. He picked up the jacket and shoes and made his way to
her with a smile.
Once again she was approaching his ideal of womanhood. Dressed and
manicured like an actress on the red carpet. He glanced down at the shoes, the
eternal focus of his yearnings and saw that Prada was the flavour of the day. A
small padlock on the ankle strap added a fetish touch to her exquisite feet.
She watched him with hooded eyes and then smiled when he looked up. A small
change of expression that was almost undetectable.
“Is it all ready?” she asked. “I am in a bit of a hurry, really.”
“Of course, the jacket has been altered to match your husband’s requirements
and the shoes are here too. We just have to spend a brief moment at the service
desk and you can take them with you directly.”

Katie smiled slyly.
“He’s might not be my husband, you know.”
“I apologise for presuming…”
“No matter!”
Frank led the way to the service desk wishing that he was walking behind her
and not leading the way. He needed to see those legs that took small steps in a
skirt that made her strut in small steps. He wanted to see if her legs were
defined by a seam. He wanted to see that rounded ass move and sway in the
skirt under the high and extended waist.
Most of all he wanted to look at those shoes that were locked onto her ankles
with tiny silver locks and fine looping chains that hung from the small buckles.
He turned and found that she was in his space. That zone of three dimensional
distance that was defined by closeness of relation. He tried to move back, but
the desk blocked him and allowed her to invade his senses with her presence as
she leaned forward a little.
“You are such a good salesman, a man with a natural touch,” she almost
whispered.
Frank could sense her perfume, the smell of her hair and the lemon breath that
made the words from those black lips seem almost piquant.
“Thank you, miss,” he answered as he tried to avoid his eyes. “That will be
eight hundred and fifty five pounds, please.”
The close proximity was making him dizzy and confused. Talk of money
normally made the customer get down to business. Why was he trying to escape
this woman of his dreams?
He so wanted to look down, but he dared not!

Katie smiled and pouted as if she were about to kiss him and chuckled inside
when he moved a little back as far as he could, as if unsure as to the correct
comportment in a case like this.
“Cash or card?” she asked.
“As you wish, we can accept both,” he replied with a slight relief as she fished
in her bag for her purse.
“Here,” she said as she pulled two notes from her bag and passed them to him.
He looked at what he had in his hand and realised that they were foreign
banknotes, Swiss Francs, thousands.
“One moment,” he said and slipped from between the counter and the female
presence that shook him to his core.
In the small office behind the service desk he checked the notes and calculated
their worth. Seven hundred pounds apiece, notes that were almost worth the
same as the negative balance on his credit card.
He returned to the desk and took a position behind it, safe and sound from this
overpowering woman. He passed the change to her, a mass of Sterling that
seemed so overstated in contrast to the simplicity of the bland Swiss notes.
She smiled and pushed the wad of notes into her purse and then pulled a visiting
card and toted with it for a moment before passing it to Frank.
“I own three shops, small boutiques if you like. Exclusive and expensive, but
well frequented and famous if you know the right people,” she said as he took
the card.
Frank turned it in his hand and saw the headline of the shop, silver etched on
matt black in florid letters. He looked at her questioningly.

‘Spiked Soul’ read the inscription next to a small gloss black stiletto shoe that
glistened on the matt finish.
“Don’t you recognise a job offer when it is held to your face, young man?”
“A job offer?”
“I need a manager for the shop in London and you may well have what it
takes!”
This is an extract from
Skewered On Spikes
Find the rest at
WWW.FemdomCave.Com