by Kate Bolin

This is what you like:

She's on her hands and knees, her body perfectly posed, just the way you've taught her. Her hands splay out against the carpet, nails painted a rich deep metallic wine color that contrasts perfectly with her skin and the cream color of the carpet. Her back is arched, not painfully, but elegantly, the curve of her back emphasized beautifully. Her breasts are full and delicious and her nipples ever-so-slightly graze the carpet, adding to the sensation. Her ass is in the air, begging to be whipped or stroked or eaten like a succulent piece of fruit. Her garter belt is slim and black and slides down the sides of her thighs to meet with the silk stockings you've purchased for her.

They were $100 per stocking. You hope she appreciates them.

Your fingers trace up and down those stockings, your perfectly French-manicured nails denting her skin, but never damaging it -- or the stockings. You curl your fingers up the back of her calves and she shivers, just a little, just enough to make you do it again.

She's beautiful. You could tell her, see her smile and whisper her thanks, but you'd rather just watch her, see her squirm slightly as she realizes the intensity of your stare. You've seen many beautiful women in your life -- it's one of the perks of the job, in-between the competitive salary and the semi-immortality -- but there's something about Cordelia Chase, even as she's spread out on the carpet of your Wolfram & Hart office, that makes her more pure, precious...


Maybe if she allowed herself to be fucked good and hard while she's lying on her back, there would be something dirty about her, but you couldn't ask that of her anymore than she could ask you to put your head near an axe.

But it still drives you mad with frustration. You could do anything to her. You could humiliate her and abuse her and do all the things the Marquis de Sade only dreamed about, and she would still have that beauty. That "I was a higher being and all I got was this lousy life back" purity that puts you and your Jezebel ways into a fury.

But it's a controlled fury. And despite your inability to completely break her, despite your love/hate relationship with your love and hatred of the inherent goodness in her, you do have her remarkably trained.

She said she was always good at remembering routines.

It's like cheerleading, almost.

Turn here.

Bend there.

Count one,




She's on her hands and knees in front of you, and you stand above her like the queen you always knew you were. You're still wearing the outfit you wore to the last meeting, a perfectly tailored black suit, cream shell, black silk stockings that match hers, and a nearly-lethal pair of black patent leather pumps with a stiletto heel. Not too high, of course, because there's a fine line between being a ball-breaking lawyer bitch and being the porn stereotype of the ball-breaking lawyer bitch, but more than able to punch holes through anyone's head.

That's not what you're planning on doing tonight -- or, ever, really, it'd be terrible to clean up -- but it's always good to know.

You study her for a bit longer, smiling as you see her squirm again, then, firmly, set your foot down between her shoulder blades, the heel indenting her skin. "Put your head down," you say. "Rest your arms and make sure your ass is as high as it can go."

She only looks up for a second, just to see your eyes before she complies, then slides down effortlessly, months of physical therapy putting her into complete control over her body. She's delicious when she's on her hands and knees, but when she's posed like this, breasts pressed against the carpet, face down, her entire body posed purely for your pleasure...oh, you can barely stop yourself from just keeping her like that as you sit on your couch and ride your Hitachi Magic Wand for days.

But this isn't just about you.

For once.

You take your foot off her back and watch her some more, walking around her and studying every angle. The sun tattoo on the small of her back smiles up at you and you smile back at it just before you set your foot below it, the pad of your foot pressing against the curve of her ass.

She stiffens, a little, and you stop there to whisper "Relax..." You've prepared for this moment, and, in the pocket of your suit jacket, there is a small remote, no bigger than a cigarette lighter. You pull it out and slowly turn the dial.

One of the hardest things to talk her into was getting pierced. It took you most of a month, and she nearly broke the bones in your hand when it happened. But the delight you get out of playing with it far outweighs any possible damage, and the greater delight you both discovered when you brought home the small vibrator that easily attached to her clitoral hood ring...well...

Her body arches high and she moans, pressing her skin against your shoe, adapting quickly to the feel of the cool sole against her flesh.

It is a beautiful sight. You could spend hours watching her, and, in fact, you do dally for a few minutes, turning the knob higher and higher, watching her hips flex involuntarily.

But your patience can only go so far, and the visual effect of your shoe on her ass is far too powerful. You slide it down just a bit further, twist your foot a certain way and then, slowly, carefully, put the heel of your shoe inside of her.

She gasps, and tries to fuck it, her hips backing onto it, trying to press it further into her body.


Your voice is firm, and she listens, freezing instantly, pinned by your shoe like a butterfly on a pin. You look down at her, down at her soft delicious skin, the sweat gathering on her sun tattoo, the tension in her thighs, and your shoe -- your perfect patent leather shoe, with the heel inside Cordelia Chase. If you had a mirror in front of you, you could see her face, flushed red with need and frustration, see the look on her face as you turn the vibrator up higher and higher, see the pleading want in her eyes as you drive her closer and closer to orgasm but refusing to let her come...

Instead, you imagine it, your own hand sliding down between your legs, under your skirt and slip and between your stockings, and you rub your clit as fast and as hard as you can, your nails pressing into you painfully (but in that good pain) as you squirm and twist and moan above her. You manage to turn the vibrator on high with your thumb as you continue touching yourself, and her ragged gasps and faint whimpers turn you on even more and you've pressed your shoe in as far as it can go, you've got your heel against her cunt, and she turns her head just enough to look you in the eye and it's that look that sets you flying as you come all over your hand and she comes all over your shoe.

You're so going to punish her for ruining your shoe, but that will come later. Right now, you're slowly lifting your foot and staggering to the couch, collapsing onto it in a heap of melted bones and heated skin. She crawls over to you and rests her face against your calves, rubbing her cheek against your stockings.

You know you probably shouldn't be fucking her. But how can you resist?