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  • Writer's pictureDarla Blake

In Praise of...High Heels

As anyone who has known me well (and, by ‘known me well’, I mean ‘shagged me’) for long enough will attest, my sexual proclivities - as solid and unchanging as they always feel at the time of exploring them - are, actually, rather fickle. Sure, there are the foundations - things I have always liked and will, in all likelihood, always like. Rough sex, anal sex, deepthroat, intensity, passion, exhibitionism, voyeurism et al; all permanent bed fellows that I have no desire to kick out or roll over from. However, new things - new…kinks? - pop up from time to time. Some take me wholly by surprise (who knew CGI monster porn could be so hot?!), whilst others seem obvious, like I should have known all along that of course I would be into them. Being told precisely what lingerie to wear before a date, dildo play, being someone’s fuck doll, even bondage (more on this for another blog!) - all SO obvious but heavenly and thank god I discovered them.


Many moons ago, I had just moved to London and was dating an outrageous German pastry chef who was, basically, into everything. EVERYTHING. A switch by nature, but also deeply kinky in the traditional sense of the word. Fetishistic - the perfect description. He was (unlike me) into latex, leather, whips, chains, cock rings, rubber - you name it. But, perhaps more than anything, he liked heels. Very high heels. ‘Come Fuck Me heels’, as he used to call them in his hot German accent. Throughout the duration of our (very short lived) dating life, he would ask me to wear heels in the bedroom (and out), but the tall girl in me wasn’t convinced. Why would I want these things on my feet? I’m plenty tall enough already for one, but also, fundamentally, I just couldn’t see the appeal. I seem to recall a couple of incidents where I donned bought-for-purpose stilettos for him but it was underwhelming to say the least and I suppose, really, out of a sense of duty rather than something I was actively interested in.




Fast forward many moons. I’ve dedicated YEARS, effort, energy and time, all to very important scientific research. The topic? What Gets Me Off. Like all good researchers, I conduct the vast majority of my investigations whilst watching porn (the genesis of all brilliant newly-discovered-kinks, naturally) and it is through this horny portal that I recently rediscovered (but in many ways discovered for the first time) the joy of sexy footwear. I was about a half an hour into my wank - errr, sorry, *research* - going further and further down the rabbit hole as usual, when a video thumbnail caught my attention. Not my usual fodder, this looked entirely vanilla, if it weren’t for her heels. She was on her hands and knees being fucked from behind - all quite straightforward - but all she was wearing was a pair of red stilettos and, for whatever reason, this utterly captivated me. So much so that I immediately clicked through and began watching, mesmerised. Like a perfect barbie doll that had been dressed up specifically for this moment, she was there showing me everything I’d missed out on before and, in no time at all, I was fantasising about getting fucked in heels myself. I realised that what was hot about them, for me at least (and, again, anyone who ‘knows me well’ likely knows why this works so exquisitely for me) was the thought of wearing them for someone - for you. Knowing that wearing them would transform me into the ultimate object of desire for whoever had requested it. Objectification; that fundamental part of my sexuality that underpins everything else, here again, lending itself to yet another avenue of pleasure. Looking back, I think it was always there. I remember the scene in American Psycho - you know the one - he’s fucking two women whilst looking in the mirror and one of them has her legs over his shoulders with beautiful black heels on her feet. I’d always enjoyed this scene but focused on him flexing his biceps to his own reflection, never her shoes. But now, perhaps they were always part of what made this scene so hot; her tiny ankles bouncing to the rhythm of his thrusts, her stilettos pointing up towards the ceiling. Hot, hot, hot.

There are ten minutes to go before you arrive. Usually I’d be fastening my bra, pulling up my panties, draping a fine robe over myself, ready to be unwrapped. Not today. Today, I’m removing every last piece of clothing bar one. My freshly showered skin is glistening as I massage nice smelling lotion into my legs, my stomach, my breasts. My feet, usually covered by the translucent black mesh of my stockings, are naked and ready to be adorned. I select my very highest heels for you, as you asked - sharp black stilettos with red details. I stand in them and they force my small feet into a beautifully exaggerated arch. My calf muscles stand to attention, and my legs look long and gazelle-like. I peer into the mirror, and looking back is a nude woman entirely dressed for nothing except for sex. All I can think about is your eyes running over me, examining every part of my nakedness and then settling on my heels, knowing that I’m wearing them just for you. I see in that mirror a powerful woman, completely ready to surrender and submit. The contradiction is everything. Is that a knock at the door? Are you as ready as I am?





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