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There’s something about a woman in heels that just does something to him. The higher, the better. Bonus points if they’re the pointy kind. And if he still towers over the woman when she’s in the heels? Yeah, Dean’s all over that shit.
Which is what led him to his current predicament, lying prone on the dungeon floor with a face full of concrete, squirming to relieve the pressure from where little Dean is straining against the zipper of his jeans.
“Did I tell you that you could move?”
Dean bites his lip to keep from crying out, more from surprise than from the pain of it, as a tiny stiletto heel presses into the back of his neck. His hips don’t get the memo, though, and before he can stop himself, he’s rolling his pelvis against the floor. The heel digs deeper, the intense pleasure-pain of it setting off a chain reaction that he feels all the way down to his toes.
He wants to whine, to beg, to…to do something, but now she’s got her whole goddamn foot on him, forcing him to taste concrete, and he’s so goddamn hard he’ll do whatever the fuck she says if it means she’ll keep doing it. He takes a shaky breath or three to calm down, and concentrates on squeezing the muscles of his ass until his hips stop rocking of their own volition.
“Better,” Linda purrs, and Dean wants to preen at it, puff up his chest like a goddamn bird in the sunshine. Wants to give her more reasons to say nice things to him.
The pressure on his neck starts to ease up, but Dean breathes through his disappointment, because he wants to be good, to be worthy of her praise. He sucks the insides of his cheeks between his molars and bites down on the sensitive flesh to keep from doing or saying something stupid. The rough edge of the stiletto scrapes it way down his spine, and Dean can only imagine how awesome she looks as she’s doing it, balancing on one ridiculously tiny heel as she drags the other along his back, deep enough to leave a mark. Fuck, he hopes it leaves a mark.
The digging pressure stops just at the dip of his lower back, and Dean doesn’t complain, because he wants to be good, and she didn’t give him permission to talk yet. He breathes through his nose as he bites down a little harder on the inside of his cheeks. She starts to nudge her foot against the hem of his shirt, slow and teasing, until he feels the scuffed sole of her shoe on his back. The sandpaper-rough drag of dirt and grit sliding between it and his already too-sensitive skin. He wants to gasp at it, to cry out, but he doesn’t.
At least not until she digs that pointy heel into his bare skin just above his low-slung waistband, fast and hard and so unrelenting he’s gonna scream. He hisses, sucking in a harsh breath and willing his body to stay fucking still, goddammit.
She’s still doing it, pushing her heel in, and he doesn’t know how she does it, because she’s so tiny and he’s not and how can it hurt so good unless she’s got all her weight digging into the top of his ass? How she can be doing that at the same time as she’s leaning down to whisper against his ear?
“You can cry now, Dean. Be as loud as you want for me.”
And he does. He is. He cries out, wild and desperate, gulping ragged breaths between shouted obscenities, between a litany of fucks and yeses and thank you’s. He doesn’t even realize he’s grinding against the concrete, that she’s let him do it until she stops him, pushes her heel into the seam of his jeans at his ass crack and holds him down.
“Please,” he sobs, “please.”
“You can choose,” she coos at him, low and teasing, and he’s so grateful his face is still mashed against the floor because he knows he’s red as a tomato. “If you come now, like this, you’re done until I come back next week. If you can wait, though…” She trails off, the lilting promise in her voice coiling around his spine like a snake readying to strike.
“What do you want to do, Dean?”