Dance to My Song

The early morning traffic was starting to build up on Park Avenue as Ian unlocked the door of his shoe store and entered. Mark, whom he had employed for the past year to manage the shop, was already there, intently polishing the heel of a patent leather pump with his white silk handkerchief, and barely seemed to notice the owner's arrival. Ian had all the papers ready and, without ceremony or conversation, handed Mark the documents and fired him on the spot. The delicate tinkle of the door chime seemed to mock the young man as he left the premises for possibly the last time.

Ian glanced at his expensive classic style Swiss watch. He would soon have to open for business. He had just had to fire the young man for consistently ordering expensive shoes for which there was no demand. It was most inconvenient for him to visit the store today but Ian felt compelled to act, after Mark had ignored his warnings. As a perfectionist, and successful businessman, Ian could no longer tolerate Mark's carelessness.

Mark was keen and with some exceptional talents, and Ian certainly had no desire to squash his enthusiasm. However, the boy's seemingly fatal flaw was costing Ian a lot of money, and was simply bad business, so he had no choice but to fire him. Everyone must face the consequence of his actions, no matter how painful this could be. That was how Ian rationalised his own action to himself, for he could not in conscience act without reason.

But, secretly, in his heart he knew that his drastic action had a deeper root, hidden away in the darkness. He felt it had something to do with the younger man's unselfconscious way with the female customers, which he could never quite emulate. Seeing Mark in action, serving a lady in the shop, always made Ian conscious of his own inadequacy, his inhibition. And this was not, Ian felt, how the boss should be made feel in his own shop.

As the rising sun shone shafts of liquid silver light, transforming the sombre tranquillity of the shop, Ian allowed his eyes to linger lovingly on the brand new display of shoes that the young man had so eagerly pointed out to him, and tried to defend. It was these that had caused the problem. 12 pairs of glistening polished leather 4-inch heel stilettos in black, red and a combination of the two colours, resting on high atop white acrylic shelves, with all sizes in the storeroom. There was a tango festival in town and Ian figured the assistant had hoped to raise himself in his boss's estimation by making a killing on these items.

But not one pair had been sold, and the festival was nearly over.

This was not the first time Mark had made an error of judgement, forgetting that they weren't an exclusive specialist shop down in SoHo or the Village, and that their clientele bought much the same conservative kinds of footwear over the years.

These elegant shoes were not cheap, being hand made in Argentina and shipped from a distributor in Basel. Ian winced at the cost. However, he couldn't help but harbour an admiration for the young man's exquisite aesthetics in finding and ordering such shoes.

Confronted with their magnificence, the dull conservatism of his clientele saddened his heart. He regretted that so few of his genteel up town customers purchased what they would regard as extreme styles, or even anything that was a cut above the expensive but ordinary. Least of all to achieve a sale were shoes of such striking and bold design, made with loving care and attention, as these shoes from Argentina obviously had been. The finesse of the stitching, and the fineness of the leather, was evident even from a distance. But sadly he couldn't allow these personal considerations to stand in the way of his business acumen.

Ian saw too the open toed red suede strappy 6-inch heels waiting forlornly for a customer: another attempt by young Mark to innovate. Picking up this particularly elegant pair, he gasped when he could barely feel their weight in his palm. And the shoes were perfectly balanced, a work of art. With a sigh born of long repressed sensuality and suppressed eroticism, he placed them back on the shelf.

A low tone drew his head around toward the still locked front door and away from his musings. He hoped that Mark had not returned to make a scene. He had got what was coming to him and that was all there was to it. But it wasn't him, instead a woman stood framed by the glass door, her finger on the buzzer. Ian frowned and tried to wave her away. Could she not see the store was closed?

'We are closed!" he mouthed through the glass.

She frowned and made no move to leave. She must not have understood he thought to himself.

'We are closed!" he barked.

His voice sounded too loud in the sunlit silence of the empty shop. He was still a little angry and feeling uncomfortable after dismissing Mark. It had been a long time since he served a customer. He merely came to check on the shop from time to time. He was speaking at a conference later that day on how to market shoes and luxury consumer products on the internet; this was the work he now engaged in, motivating others to build a successful business. He didn't really have a reason to keep the shop on at all, but for some reason, perhaps nostalgia, or perhaps something a little more personal, he hadn't felt capable of parting with the business, despite what it was costing him in losses that pleased only his tax accountant.

Ian looked up in response to movement. The woman had begun to pace impatiently along by the shop window. It was a walk of such perfection, panther-like in its grace and power, with seductively swaying hips, and a perfectly aligned stride. Maybe she was a dancer, he thought, and as he considered this possibility, his eyes dropped inevitably to her feet.

She wore classy black leather ankle boots with what he estimated was a four-inch spiked steel heel. Ian's knowledge told him they were very expensive, and absolutely timeless. The lady's boots conceded no reference at all to the currently popular, graceless and self consciously ironic, chunky styles. In contrast, they were all smooth lines, elegant curvature and exquisite arch. Some said that the eyes were the windows to the soul. Ian had never felt this. Shoes and feet expressed everything. The woman's ankle boots announced she was commanding, sexy and rich. And she was clearly not going to go away. He felt a tremor in his chest, and an erection building, as he opened the door and granted her entrance.

'Are you refusing to.... serve Me..."

A red manicured fingernail plucked at his identification tag,

"...Ian?"

The voice was authoritative, British with a seductive edge. He had totally forgotten he had donned the badge in readiness for the conference, and he realised that she must think he was an assistant.

"No Ma'am!"

To his horror his voice lurched upwards. He stepped aside, flushed.

"I will need to lock you in though Ma'am."

His eyes lifted to her face.

"Shop rules..."

His eyes fell, his voice floundered. It was him that should be locked in, locked up and he'd said it in reference to her! He felt totally idiotic, what did he mean shop rules, he instigated the protocol around here didn't he? He could make any rules he damn well liked. Yet it seemed, suddenly as if the many strictures he had previously lived by were redundant in her presence. If she couldn't see that he was the owner of this shop then he was less self-assured than he should be, less confident than his prosperity and experience ought to allow.

This startling lady, after all, had no hesitation in addressing him according to what she perceived as his natural place, quite evidently far beneath her.

She nodded before dismissing him with a slight flick of her long fingers, which ended in exquisite red nails, and strode into the shop. Ian slammed the door and fumbled with the latch. Flustered by this beautiful woman's attitude, his fingers struggled with the lock. Finally he gave up and hurried after her, panting noticeably and with a flush of nervous perspiration on his brow.

He was consumed with the knowledge that he was keeping her waiting, and she was perhaps observing his every movement. She was treating him like a lowly clerk but he hadn't corrected her to let her know he was the proprietor of this establishment, and not the manager or one of the assistants. Why was that?

The woman was at the far end of store, where the sunlight had not yet reached, dragging an expensive leather belt from the display through her hands. She picked out a second one and as if sensing his attention, and turned to face him.

She was wearing a tailored pinstripe suit. The skirt was high at the knee and the jacket was fitted tightly to her curvaceous form. The cut was glorious, expensive. A white silk blouse with a purple tie completed the ensemble. The masculine apparel of the tie suggested a sensual barely contained power with a sexually ambiguous edge. Ian felt himself weakening by the second, his will fading fast.

He wanted to ask her if she danced tango and was here for the festival but something told him that she asked the questions not he. Unnervingly, as if reading his mind, she spoke:

'I am attending a festival. I dance Argentinean tango and was attracted to your selection of shoes in the window. It is rare to see a regular shoe shop carrying them. I have worn out My dancing shoes whilst attending the milongas and will need a new pair. However, I am also interested in some of the other styles you carry.'

She was giving him personal information but he learned nothing superfluous about her; only what she wanted him to know. She was attending the festival, but was she a teacher, or did she participate only as an enthusiast?

America was a long way to travel purely to dance, nearer if she was coming from England, than Latin America.

'The red pumps, open toed, size six!"

Her voice conveyed the crisp, precise cut of the whip. It demanded instant obedience, piercing his reverie. It reminded him of a governess he had seen in an old black and white British period film. He had like the sound of those types of voices then, and he liked it now.

Ian raced to the storeroom, to the special shelves. With trembling fingers he lifted the black box and, carrying it like a priceless jewel, he gathered his wits and re-emerged into the store. The lady had taken a seat, one fabulous stockinged leg crossing the other, her toe tapping impatiently.

He dragged the store stool over before her, only then risking another look into her face. She was not only beautiful but also arresting, powerful, with a streak of cruelty in her glance. Golden bobbed hair, penetrating blue-green eyes, mischievous lips. She was remarkable.

Her eyes observed him coldly, as if chastening him for his effrontery in openly viewing her. Ian's eyes fell as he made himself busy. Kneeling atop the low stool, the precious box open at his side. He couldn't help but notice the perfectly straight seam running up the back of her calf and into the secret underworld beneath her skirt.

'Remove my boot!"

The crossed boot lifted to graze and lift his chin, forcing Ian to look up at the woman's proud face, into her eyes. He could sustain eye contact for only a moment, savouring the delicate fragrance of leather, and something else less tangible, rising from her boot, before bowing his head and hastening to obey. His hands caressed the fine leather lovingly, an old classic style that few women could wear with panache. He unzipped them, smelling deeply now the heady intoxicant of leather and warm female foot. His cock strained hard now against his trousers.

The boot slid easily away from the lady's black silk stocking. Her foot was curved in exactly the right places; toenails manicured and painted the same red as her fingernails. His hands couldn't resist caressing the magnificent shape of her ankles.

"The other boot!"

She ordered imperiously.

Ian watched in fascinated arousal as her thighs opened marginally when she shifted position. His pulse rocketed as he saw the lacy tops of stockings just under the edge of her skirt, and the telltale clip of a suspender belt. Women rarely wore the real thing anymore but he had known that she would and her seams had suggested it. Were all English women like this he wondered? If they were he might just decide to relocate the business to Mayfair!

'Now!"

Her voice hardened, commanding his attention.

Ian lifted her booted foot reverently, hastening to remove the boot while trying to contain his growing desire, which lingered uncomfortably near the surface. He wondered if she intuited the suppressed obsession that she had so easily inflamed? Could she really read his thoughts?

He had barely admitted it himself until now. His taste in exotic shoes was long submerged by the dreary styles his clientele had forced him to stock. The very idea that she might know about his repressed tastes humiliated and excited him terribly. He found himself massaging her foot before placing it carefully on the stool.

"The shoe...Ian!"

He fumbled at the irritation in her voice. He tried to hurry to please her but the truth was he now rarely fitted footwear to a customer's foot. The stiletto filled his hand, the sharp curve of the high pump felt erotic in its utter simplicity of form. He drew her foot into his palm, delighting in the slight dampness of her sole, the full weight of her lithe leg, and slipped the divine shoe onto her lovely foot. It fitted to perfection. He pulled the strap into the closure and adjusted the tightness. Her toes wriggled as she delightfully showed her toe cleavage, beneath the black silk. Ian began to feel very hot. His free hand reached up to loosen his tie, and fiddle with his top shirt button.

She pulled her foot free of his hands, pivoting her ankle to view the shoe. Ian swallowed hard.

"Do you enjoy delaying Me, Ian?"

Her voice lowered.

She reached out for his tie. He could feel himself turn crimson as she tightened it back about his throat once more, tugging it with a flourish so that he almost choked.

Ian flinched, his eyes lifting once more to her face. Her gaze was icy stern.

"No Ma'am!"

His voice faltered again miserably.

Her knees parted, offering several more inches of mystery to his lowered eyes. He wanted to hide in a corner, and climb up her skirt and lose himself in those hidden delights at the same moment. Ian began to pant.

His eyes followed the red majesty of the high heel pump as it lowered. It descended further toward the stool. He was mortified that she wouldn't like it. He wanted to tell her that it was made for her. He didn't quite dare. The point of the stiletto lifted off the rubber surface climbing slowly higher toward his open exposed crotch. Ian watched in fascinated horror. It descended painfully onto the bulge of his straining cock. He moaned aloud. He lifted his face to tell her that she had missed the mounting area only to see full awareness in her eyes as they watched him calmly.

"I am still waiting, Ian!"

The words were accompanied with pain as she pressed the sharp point of her heel into his compressed mound of desire.

"Yes Ma'am!"

Ian moaned again as pain took hold. His hands flew to the other pump, shaking as he leaned forward to clasp her heel. He pulled. Her foot refused to budge. The pressure on his cock increased.

"Ma'am...please!"

His plea escaped. To his surprise he heard her laugh, a cruel uncaring response to his suffering.

Her foot lifted easily. Ian didn't dare look up at her again; his entire world had narrowed to serving her feet. The pump slid against the softness of her foot, nestling in its rightful place. Ian took great care in adjusting it to perfection. When he had finished he withdrew his hands once more. Again the shoe lifted, her knees parted, and a warm wave of sweet but maddening fragrance mingled with the scent of leather and foot. Then the foot dropped to rest on the floor.

"Barely adequate, Ian."

Her tone held disapproval.

Ian's head dropped.

"Yes Ma'am!"

"Is that the best service you can provide...?"

There was a tiny pause at the end of the question.

"N...no Ma'am!"

Ian replied.

"So, you admit that you failed to serve Me properly?"

She continued.

"Y...yes, yes Ma'am!"

The pressure on his cock increased, eliciting another deep moan from within him. She was speaking to him in such an imperious manner, he couldn't believe he was taking it. But more than tolerating it, he found he liked it. In fact he craved more.

She reached into the adjacent seat and lifted a heavy black leather woven belt. It was one of the pair she had handled earlier. Finely stitched crocodile skin, from Egypt. Her hands caressed it gently. Ian watched the movement of leather slip through her fingers in absolute fascination. Then she snaked it around his bent neck. His eyes widened in shock. He froze. Manicured nails grazed the skin of his neck as the belt laced through the loop. Then it was snug about his throat. In an instant she had reduced him to a lowly animal. Her abject pet.

The pin slipped through the weaving very effectively, collaring and leashing him. The heel pinning his cock lifted. The sudden release of pressure brought a sigh of relief from his lips.

"Pull your trousers and underwear down!"

There was no escaping her command. Ian crawled off the stool, straining against the improvised leash, his range limited by the length of the belt in her hands. He pulled down his pants and underwear, utterly humiliated.

"Bend across the stool... your 'ass' as you term it here, toward the door. You'd better hope this is quick before any passers-by peering in see you receive your discipline, Ian."

Her voice drove him to his knees across the stool. Her words brought him harshly back to reality. He realised just how exposed he now was. His freed cock hardened further. Her right foot slid under his body to poke against the throbbing tip of his cock. He almost came at her rough touch.

The collar tugged him down in front. The lady's left foot lifted. Ian felt the sole and high heel come to rest against the back of his neck. The heavy pressure of the lady's weight drove his face into the floor, and he twisted his head to breathe. Just in time, he remembered the second belt she had held. There was a whoosh in the air and the sudden impact of hard leather hitting his ass. Ian moaned and bucked.

'What do you say...Ian?"

She asked quietly.

Ian panted through the pain. His muddled mind could only think of one thing to say,

"Thank you Ma'am!"

His voice reflected his utter surrender to her. The belt sang in the air, and for each blow Ian thanked her. With every impact his desire to release increased until he felt he must cum.

"Please...please...Ma'am...please."

He begged desperately.

"Not yet, Ian!"

She seemed to know he wasn't simply referring to her beating him. The belt whipped him again. He felt his ass burning. Ian moaned deeply.

"Please Ma'am...please. I will do anything to serve you Ma'am. Please!"

Ian begged with increasing desperation. His ability to control his approaching orgasm nearly gone.

"Cum wretch!"

Her curt order penetrated his mind, trailing glory, like the early morning sunlight in the shop.

Cum squirted out of his cock, over the top of the fabulous red pump. Somehow Ian knew that he would be forced to clean it thoroughly using only his mouth, to lick her silky stockings and finally to suck any remaining residue from her exquisite toes. He had been released at last into a realm of submission only glimpsed in his past life.

"Oh thank you Ma'am, please let me fit you for your tango shoes and if you like them you may take one in each colour, no charge'.

A soft tinkle announced someone else had just entered the shop. The noise made Ian jump as surely as any whip. He tried to jerk his head up to see who had entered, but was held firmly in place by a combination of the leash and foot of this mysterious woman. If only he had locked the door!

"Ah, Mark! You're back. Did you fetch my things?"

"Yes Ma'am"

Ian recognised that voice. To his amazement it was that of his newly unemployed shop manager. The next thing he registered in his disorientated mind was that the pair obviously knew each other.

"You know what to do".

"Yes Ma'am. At once Ma'am" Mark replied.

From out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see Mark place a soft exquisitely made leather bag at the lady's side. He saw her reach down into it and pull what looked like a Polaroid camera out.

Ian struggled against the leash, feeling the spiked heel digging in his soft flesh. He was going nowhere. Held fast in this powerful woman's grip, he would have to meekly await whatever was coming next.

Flash! The camera caught him forever in his rather compromising position.

"You look like You were born to kneel at a lady's feet"

she laughed coldly.

In shock, Ian's mind was blank. He had no idea how to reply. What on earth was going on?

He felt her left foot kick him awaiting a response.

"Thank you, Ma'am"

he stammered.

"Good boy"

She laughed openly, her uninhibited voice a cascade of contrasting but complementary tones, like a complex wine, or a string quartet.

He could see Mark out of the corner of his eye, his young body well-defined beneath his suit. Ian had always noticed that Mark had moved with a certain grace, as if he had received some sort of formal dance training. He had even wondered if this is where Mark's obsession with tango shoes had come from.

The camera flashed once again. Ian could hear the whirr as the image was printed. She showed the picture to Mark.

"Is this the man who fired You, Mark?"

"Yes Ma'am"

The lady laughed, before tugging at the leash to get Ian's attention.

"Now Ian, while I couldn't care less about your tawdry little business, I do think that was rather rash of you."

"Yes Ma'am"

Ian gulped. The leash seemed impossibly tight as she held him in place with her weight, pinioned beneath her sole and sharp heel.

"You see, it is not that you have left this poor boy without an income. You have also slightly reduced my own, for he works for me."

"I- I had no idea Ma'am"

Ian gasped.

"Apparently not. You really think a man could have chosen such exquisite shoe designs by himself?"

"I suppose not Ma'am"

"Of course not. I did and he simply followed my orders."

"I will give him back his job Ma'am. Immediately."

"That would be fine if you had not caused such distress Ian. But I need to make some big changes around here"

"Yes Ma'am"

he whimpered.

"Mark, prepare the documents."

Mark, remaining on his knees beside the woman, pulled a sheaf of paper and an ivory pen from the leather bag. He proffered them to her on open palms.

She handed Ian the pen and held the papers to his nose.

"Unless you relish the thought of these lovely pictures becoming common property throughout New York, and on the internet, you will sign where you see my insignia."

"Yes Ma'am".

To hell with consequences, he thought. He could deal with them later. He scratched his signature in four places, as indicated by the red painted fingernails of this strange and beautiful woman. A curious insignia, a sort of sideways figure of eight, like the mathematical symbol for infinity had been placed where she indicated he should sign.

"Excellent. You have now signed over your entire business to me. The shops, the consultancy, the internet company, the whole thing. I am now your employer and I appoint Mark, as your manager."

She allowed herself a feminine giggle at the ingenuity of what she had done.

Ian's head began to spin. What had he done? He was pulled back to reality by a sudden jerk on his leash.

"Pay attention. You will receive a small allowance to cover your living expenses. You may approach me, through Mark, if you need anything extra. But be warned, you had better have a good reason."

"Yes Ma'am."

He was desperately trying to hold back a sob that had come from nowhere. He couldn't tell if it was one of relief or anguish.

"You will sell your house, which is now also my property and come and live with Mark in my servants' quarters on Central Park West. Is that clear?"

Ian couldn't speak. He couldn't take it all in.

The harsh swipe of the belt across his naked buttocks soon clarified his mind.

"Yes Mistress"

Thwack!

"You are not to address me as Mistress until you have earned the privilege to do so."

Thwack!

"Am I understood?"

Thwack!

"Yes Ma'am. Absolutely Ma'am"

"Now cover yourself up and get ready for business. Mark will leave you a card with my address. There is much for you to learn. This is a new beginning for you slave. A chance to prove your worth."

The lady freed Ian's neck, and presented her right foot to his face, the foot over which his cold semen was splashed. Eagerly, Ian licked it clean, lapping the gooey mess off the shoe leather, and sucking it from the dark silk of her stocking.

Then, as abruptly as she had entered his life, this elegant imposing lady, with her commanding predator's grace, walked out of the shop, the gentle tinkle of the door registering her departure.

The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment. Sheepishly, Ian lowered his head as Mark proceeded to tenderly unbuckle the belt from around his neck. Ian wiped his cock clean on his shirt, before pulling up his clothes, and doing up his fly. He saw a customer, one of the slim elegant Park Avenue residents, peering in through the window, and looking as if she was about to enter.

Ian looked at Mark, waiting for his instructions.