Under Red Heels

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Under Red Heels by Miss Irene Clearmont

Under Red Heels – Marius, a Russian speaker, a cold war warrior heads for Moscow to buy himself a wife! Dominant and ruthless, a seller of stolen goods that are smuggled from Russia, Marius needs more than just a pretty piece of arm candy, because his tastes are rather more selective than that. In the back streets of Moscow, Marius makes his purchase before outwitting the seller who tries to cheat him.

Book Details

Book Details

Under Red Heels – Marius, a Russian speaker, a cold war warrior heads for Moscow to buy himself a wife! Dominant and ruthless, a seller of stolen goods that are smuggled from Russia, Marius needs more than just a pretty piece of arm candy, because his tastes are rather more selective than that. In the back streets of Moscow, Marius makes his purchase before outwitting the seller who tries to cheat him.

And so it begins, abuse and domination as Marius’ new wife Ivetta becomes nothing more than a slave to amuse him. In his efforts to break Ivetta he hires a professional dominatrix and discovers a lover who revels in playing with Marius’ wife. But, there is trouble in store. The Russian Mafia outfit that Marius bought his wife from are upset that they were cheated. Ivetta herself hardens under her husband’s attempts to break her and the lover is not all that she seems.

As the walls close in, Marius discovers that his command of the situation is slipping, that he is falling into a place where the tables are turned and all that he has inflicted will rebound on him…

A harsh novel with much that is akin to terror and horror, a slight drift from my usual oeuvre.

Setting – Russia, Netherlands, Spain, Gibraltar, UK, Austria

F/m, FM/f, M/f, BDSM, Slavery, Petplay, Control, Grooming, Corporal, Humiliation.

Strength 9/10 – 64,000 Words

Written 2016 Re-edit 2022

Excerpt

Excerpt: Under Red Heels

Before The Concert – Tuning The Orchestra

Janine Van Vliet slipped off the fur coat with a small shrug of the shoulders for it to be deftly caught by the maid standing behind her. Her feet stepped from the high shoes for them to be reverently collected. ‘When?’ she asked the maid who now had the coat draped over one arm and carried the shoes in the other hand.

‘Jan Maes,’ said the maid. ‘In an hour, eight O’clock.’ Janine nodded acknowledgement and headed up the steep stairs. She had an hour to make the change, to transform from Janine Van Vliet to become ‘Miss Jasmine’ for her client. At the top of the stairs, Janine glanced down at the maid who was boxing the shoes after hanging the fur.

‘In twenty minutes, be in my room,’ she ordered, looking down. The maid curtseyed and then turned back to her task whilst her mistress glided into the bedroom and stripped for her shower. Stockings, corset and dress were casually tossed onto the huge bed for the maid to deal with later. A ritual cleansing, followed by the transformation where Janine became the business-woman who would rule a man’s life for the night.

She paused before the full-length mirror for a minute and admired the reflected image. From the inner thighs to her full breasts, an intricate pattern of climbing roses adorned the pale skin. Thorny stems that sprouted buds and roses in pink and red, the perfect symbolism for the woman whose life and living was one path of sexual domination. One way, two paths; a perfect single obsession that was her life.

Miss Jasmine, dominatrix to the wealthy, to those who needed to submit and were prepared to pay by the second. Janine Van Vliet, the middle aged sadist whose limits had never been reached. Janine walked into the wet-room and sighed as the hot water surrounded her from front and back. Pearls of sweet dew on the roses, a sluicing river over the savage thorns that calmed and set her mind for the evening ahead, because Janine Van Vliet and Miss Jasmine were two sides of the same coin. The one, Miss Jasmine, a dominatrix who explored the limits of her clients, watching for signs of pressing too far as the lurking Janine mischievously sought to take real control and make them suffer for her pleasure.

Miss Jasmine, elusive and sought after, usually traveled for her clients, making perhaps just half a dozen appointments in a month. She took her feminized maid to places as far as New York and Japan, rarely allowing engagements in her personal studio in Amsterdam. Just occasionally one of her devoted regular patrons visited, and Jan Maes was just such a man. A respected politician, married with three grown children, a man who occasionally needed to be used and abused to his personal limits.

By the time that Janine entered her bedroom her discarded clothes had been tidied away and her sissy-maid stood with downcast eyes waiting for her orders. She stood whilst the former client gently patted the last dewdrops of the shower from her with a soft towel and then gently dusted her with talcum.

Keeping the two sides of her character separated was so very difficult! Business and pleasure could never be allowed to truly combine. With a cane or whip in her gloved hand, there was always the danger that she would slide from Miss Jasmine to become the cruel Janine, so a simple rule had been conceived. Be tempted to fully own the man or woman at her feet.

The rule: consent. Of sorts… Paying clients set their limits, hedged themselves with signals and words that would indicate their boundaries. Those that became Janine’s toys never had that luxury. A single word of agreement was enough to assure their destiny and then they were hers to do with as she wished no matter what they decided later. The line was such a narrow one, walked with careful steps of her spiked heels. Miss Jasmine would never break her word, but woe betide a client who broke his!

Jan Maes lay in the province of Miss Jasmine. He understood the tension in her that made her such a perfect dominatrix and was never in danger of slipping into the world of the Janine that lurked in her mind. Tonight she would push him almost as far as he could bear, take him to the point where he could take no more and then retreat just as his lips were forming his safe word.

Sissy, the man who had long fallen into Janine’s world, moved to lay out the clothes that would adorn her. Miss Jasmine had a different aspect for each client, tailored to the obsessions and fetishes that kept them on the hook. Strict leather teachers, latex sluts, high-heeled, corseted dominatrices and evil nurses. Miss Jasmine played them all to perfection, teasing and punishing as she earned the money that made her life so sweet. Janine Van Vliet, the sadist, wore what she wanted, floral dresses in silk, spiked kitten heels and was all the more alarming for that contrast, dreaming of never being Miss Jasmine ever again!

Jan was a man that appreciated a classic style. A short rubber corset that barely supported her soft breasts, tight latex stockings worn with mules with polished steel heels and hair pulled into a tight knot that amplified the severity of her face. No whips, just a simple riding crop, the one with the silver hooked handle that he had presented to her years ago. He was not a man that wanted to suffer being flayed to the bone, he wanted to serve, to crawl and beg. He needed to be on his knees, be taken and used, kiss her toes and be humiliated as he climaxed. He wanted to see the intricate tattoo that he had paid for as a gift, feel that soft firm patterned skin…

The clothes were ready, laid by Sissy on the bed and Janine van Vliet was at last ready to take on her other persona and become Miss Jasmine.

The stockings were rolled on by the kneeling maid, ever careful not to touch the rose adorned skin that she coveted. The corset, from hips to breasts, boned and rigid, was held in place as the leather thongs that bound it were tightened to flare hips and narrow the waist before the ten dangling straps were stretched to meet the latex stockings at her thighs. As the kneeling maid adjusted the lower edge of the corset, she longed to plant a small loving kiss on the smooth edges of that beautiful pussy, but she knew that the punishment for such an indiscretion would be appalling. After years in helpless chastity and training there was never any hope that she would be rewarded for her selfless slavery with any such reward, that hope had long since passed away.

Sissy held each shoe as her owner slipped a foot down the curved runway of the shank and watched as the rubber-clad toes emerged from the vamp. Each foot settled in and then the moment was over. Miss Jasmine walked from the room with her hurrying maid following in her footsteps.

Each step of the stairs caused the hips to roll, the naked cheeks of ass to move, the calves to bunch and seem like perfection to the humble maid. The roses that patterned the broad expanses of pale flesh moved as if in a breeze and Sissy felt so grateful that she was permitted to even be a part of this woman’s life.

In the anteroom to the narrow Amsterdam street house, Miss Jasmine left the maid to stand patiently for the knock at the door whilst she descended to the basement to prepare for her client.

Excerpt from: Under Red Heels

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