The Red Pumps? Or The Black?


I sat and stared at the reduced selection sitting on my refectory table, my heart pounding as I internalized the gravity of that which was before me. Two choices tonight, and two only. My impending fate scribed in leather. Frozen now but formed of potential, and seeking. Always seeking.

Aside from my limited options tonight had begun as it often did. Anathema arrived at my door, silent and foreboding until I let her pass, which I did quickly to avoid her arrival being spotted by the neighbors. They were fine people, my neighbors. In the way that jesters and clowns are fine people, whose mission it is to wear their masks and to entertain the downtrodden. No one wants to see a clown once the mask is removed though, and my dalliances with Anathema would smartly knock the suburban masks from those fragile husbands and wives.

Once I served her cup of matcha, she placed her bag upon the table and carefully extracted its contents. She aligned them before me, handling them with the same care she would afford any dangerous treasure.

Only two pairs to choose from tonight. The red pumps, or the black. It seems that she has decided upon my graduation from the gold. Not the gold of the sun, nor the gold of a wedding band. Now they would be the gold of ages past. I would have missed them deeply, those gold pumps, had it not been for the trepidation that overtook me in regard to my remaining choices.

There was only fire and darkness from me now. The light had fled, as it always did eventually. The sunrise, a torment of it’s impending setting. Only a fleeting and querulous invitation towards inevitable darkness.

The black then. It was only right, now that the sun had set.

I reached out and placed my two fingers on the table before them and the decision was made. Anathema showed no sign of approval, nor rejection. She simply lifted and replaced the red pumps back into her bag and closed it off. They were no longer an option, my fate was now sealed.

Her eyes never left mine as she lowered herself to finish her tea. I tried to stand up to her magnificence, but as always it soon became impossible. Nothing escaped her gaze. Certainly not my feeble attempt to share her space, as if I had any license to do so.

When her cup was empty, I made my way into the side-room to undress. The room was designed for this purpose and this purpose only. I had little to offer Anathema, but even wild men in caves would stack stones to their Goddess. I was no different.

The smell of the bamboo mat filled me with longing and my chest pounded against the floor in a mix of fear and lust. Never do I feel quite so alive as during my evenings with Anathema. Even more so tonight given those midnight black pumps.

I do not raise my eyes to behold her naked form when she enters. I have never once done so. It would be a heresy a thousand times shit-christ-fuck could fathom in the pews of his own dead and empty houses of light.

But when those heels break the skin on my back for the first time, my eyes do open. Wide and teary, leaking in ecstatic anguish. Flowing with liquid desire and fiery presence. The clean and clear ejaculate of what little I can offer her. And it is hers, fully and truly.

Yet I still fear, love and desire what is to come. This little dance is no different than the Gold or the White before them. Foreplay, teasing and leading to the mysteries of the Black pumps which have yet to unfold for me. All will be revealed.And it is time.

Anathema leaves the room, to return a short time later. This is new. This is the start of what is to come. My heart soars as I remain attentive to the marks she has already graced me with.

Anathema kneels before me and with a light and gentle touch lifts my chin to behold her raw and naked radiance. I weep as I have never wept in my life at this gift. I treasure every soft movement of her body as she removes the black pumps. And watch in awe as she unscrews the bottoms of the heels revealing this final mystery. First only bare threading. Then replaced with two-inch long spikes of wrought iron.It feels like hours as I watch her slowly draw the pumps back over her smooth and delectable feet. I soak all of it in. Draw the entire visual experience inward, filling my heart. I know the sun is setting but to bear witness is an honor worthy only of kings. For just a small moment, I must be a king.

Before she stands, she lays out a bolt of handmade paper before me. Taking a brush from her small case, she dips it across my back causing ripples and spasms of excitement to wrack my whole body. Once laden with my blood she presses the instrument into my hand and speaks.

“You will sing me a song. Write me a story. Or paint me a picture. This. This will be your final prayer to me.”

I have always been a literalist. Unrefined in the creative process. But there is beauty in truth, I think. So this is what I have written to honor her. As a wild and beastly animal in his cave stacking stones, I have written this. My final prayer to Anathema.

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D.M. Blackwell

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By D.M. Blackwell

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